Colin, the grass was grey and wet the sod
O’er which I heard her velvet footfall come;
But heaven, where yet no pallid crescent rode,
Flowered in fire behind the bloomless plum;
There stirred no wing nor wind, the wood was dumb,
Only blown roses shook their leaves abroad
On stems more tender than an infant’s thumb—
Soft leaves, soft hued, and curled like Cupid’s lip—
And each dim tree shed sweetness over me,
From honey-dews that breathless boughs let slip
In the orchard by the sea.
ELINOR SWEETMAN.
‘YE bain’t sich very good company to-night, Richard,’ remarked Mr.
Sharpe, laying down his knife and fork, and gazing critically at his
nephew. ‘Nay, I can’t say as ye be. You have n’t opened your mouth
since we sat down, except just to put a bit into it now and again, and
not too often neither. Ye bain’t eatin’ nothing to speak on, an’ ye have
n’t a word to throw to a dog. What’s amiss?’
‘Why—nothing,’ returned Richard, rousing himself with a startled look
from the brown study into which he had fallen. ‘I suppose I am tired,’
he added, as an afterthought.
‘Ah, very like ye be,’ agreed the farmer commiseratingly. ‘It just
depends on what a man’s used to how soon he gets knocked up. You be used
to town, an’ travellin’, and that, and when you come back to the
ploughin’ it tries you a bit to start wi’. ’T is just the other way wi’
I; I’m used to the country, d’ ye see, and when I do have to go to
town—to Dorchester, or Weymouth, or any big place like that—Lard, I do
get mortal tired! Walkin’ them streets, now, and lookin’ in at the
shop-winders—dear heart alive, it makes me so weary as I could very nigh
drop down in the middle of ’em! As for travellin’—goin’ in trains an’
sich-like—it do make me so stiff I can scarce lay legs to the ground when
I do ’light from ’em. But I dare say you found it a hardish bit o’ work
turnin’ up the big field yonder?’
His nephew made no response, and Isaac bawled out the question afresh.
The young man, who had been absently balancing a fork on his fore-finger,
started, and replied hastily that he had n’t found it at all hard—at
least—yes, perhaps rather hard, but very pleasant; and he liked the work.
Isaac took a farewell pull at his pint mug, set it down, and pushed his
plate away.
‘Draw up to the fire, lad,’ he said, ‘and smoke your pipe quick, and then
turn in—ye bain’t fit for nothin’ but bed.’
‘No, no,’ returned Richard hastily, as he rose, ‘I could not go to bed
yet—it is not much past eight. I don’t think I’ll sit down by the
fire—I’ll go out for a stroll to stretch my legs.’
‘Stretch your legs!’ commented his uncle indignantly. ‘Ha’n’t ye
stretched them enough to-day already? You’ve a-worked hard enough for
two men.’
‘No remedy so good as a hair of the dog that bit you, you know,’ said
Richard. ‘A brisk turn will take the stiffness off, and it is a lovely
evening.’
‘Lard, how restless these young chaps do be!’ ejaculated Isaac, as he
scraped his chair across the tiled floor to the hearth; ‘a body mid think
he’d be glad enough to set down for a bit. I’ll engage he’ll find it
hard enough to turn out to-morrow morn.’
When Richard had proceeded a little way he paused, and drew a long
breath; then, wheeling round swiftly, began to retrace his steps, brought
himself to a stand-still for the second time, his hands clenched, his
eyes fixed; finally, crying aloud: ‘I will do it—I must do it!’ He
turned once more, and pursued his former course.
The sun had set some time before, but the heavens were still luminous;
the rosy glow which lingered at the horizon merging into soft primrose,
which in its turn melted into an exquisite ethereal green. Against this
lambent background the hills and woods stood out darkly purple, while the
little copses scattered here and there upon the downs, and the hedge at
the further end, appeared to be almost black. Little parties of his
uncle’s sheep scurried out of Richard’s way, a bell tinkling here and
there among them; birds flew almost into his face as he passed the groups
of trees before alluded to; when he forced his way through the hedge a
trailing tendril of honeysuckle, wet with the heavy dew, flapped against
his face; every now and then a rabbit crossed his path, its passage
scarcely noticeable in the dusk save for the flash of its little white
tail. There must have been thyme growing on or about those downs, for
its fragrance was strong in the air. Richard did not, however, pause to
inhale it—it is even doubtful if he noticed it; yet, when by-and-by
entering Rosalie’s fields he skirted a bank overgrown with primroses,
their perfume for a moment turned him almost faint.
Here was the house at last—how quiet at this hour! Nothing seemed to be
stirring; no one was about.
Susan appeared in answer to a somewhat tremulous knock, and informed him
that her mistress was in the garden.
‘I’ll soon call her,’ she added.
‘No, no,’ he returned quickly. ‘I will go to her—I only want to see her
for a moment.’
Who knew? She might refuse to obey the summons; it was best to come upon
her without warning.
‘Round to the left,’ explained Susan; ‘the path leads you up to the
gate.’
Following her directions, and passing through the little wicket, Richard
presently found himself in the walled enclosure which had once been the
Manor House garden, for Littlecomb had been the dower house of a noble
family; along the straight prim paths stately ladies had loved to pace,
and the lavender hedge which was Rosalie’s pride had been the pride of
many a titled dame before her. It was more of a pleasant wilderness than
a garden now, having been neglected by Elias and his predecessors on the
farm; but Rosalie was endeavouring to reclaim it, and already had made
progress with the work. Richard, walking slowly onward, glanced
anxiously down the dim alleys, and peered into various overgrown bowers.
At length, amid a mass of distant greenery, he descried a moving figure,
and, quickening his pace, advanced towards it. The afterglow had now
almost faded, and the moon had not yet risen; here beneath these high
walls and amid this dense growth everything looked shadowy and unreal.
He would scarcely have distinguished which was path and which was
flower-border had he not been guided towards the spot where she stood by
a double line of white pinks. Now a blossom-laden apple-bough barred his
progress; now he passed beneath an arch of monthly roses, brushing off
the moisture from leaf and bloom as he went.
All at once Rosalie’s voice called through the dusk:
‘Is that you, Susan? Come here for a moment; I want you to hold this
branch.’
Richard made no reply, but hastened on. The shadowy figure turned, and
he saw the pale silhouette of her face. She was standing beneath a great
bush laden with white blossoms, which from their size and perfume he
judged to be lilac; she had drawn down a branch and was endeavouring to
detach one of the clustering blooms.
‘Who is it?’ she said quickly.
‘It is I,’ he returned.
She loosed the branch, which flew rustling up to join its fellows, and
made a step forward; he could see her face more clearly now; the gleam of
her white teeth between her parted lips; he even fancied that he could
detect an angry sparkle in her eyes.
‘Why do you come here?’ she said. ‘Here at least I supposed myself
safe.’
‘I came,’ replied Richard, in an unsteady voice, ‘to beg your pardon most
humbly, most sincerely, for my conduct to you to-day.’
‘It was inexcusable,’ she said, after a pause. It seemed to him that she
was breathing quickly—perhaps with a just and natural anger.
‘I do not attempt to excuse it,’ he murmured.
‘I cannot even understand it,’ she pursued. ‘What had I done to you?
How do my private concerns affect you?’
There was a long silence, and then Richard said, almost in a whisper:
‘I can make no excuse—I think I must have been mad! When I came to
myself I felt—as if I could kill myself for my brutality to you. All day
the shame of it has been eating into my soul—I feel branded, disgraced!
I cannot rest until you tell me you have forgiven me.’
There was silence again, broken only by the faint warbling of a thrush
singing to his mate in the warm dusk.
‘You ask a great deal,’ said Rosalie at last. ‘I scarcely know how I can
forgive you.’
She saw the dark figure sway a little, but he spoke quietly:
‘I can only say that I would give my life to recall those insulting words
of mine.’
‘Words!’ she repeated. ‘Words count for little! That you should think
of me thus—that you should judge me so harshly!’
He said nothing; the thrush sang on, the liquid notes rising and falling
with almost unendurable sweetness.
Then, ‘I entreat you!’ he pleaded once more. ‘I entreat you to forgive
me!’
She stretched out her hand in silence, and he took it without a word; it
was cold, very cold, and it trembled.
She drew it away almost as soon as his fingers had closed upon it, and he
turned and went away, his footsteps falling with unaccustomed heaviness
on the little path; and presently the gate swung to behind him.
Isaac was sitting by the dying fire, a foot resting on either hob, and
surrounded by a haze of tobacco-smoke, when his nephew entered. He
looked towards Richard with an aggrieved expression as he crossed the
room.
‘Well, them there legs o’ yourn should be pretty well stretched by now.
I was wonderin’ whether you were comin’ back at all to-night. Where have
ye been all this while?’
Richard hesitated, and then, throwing back his head, answered
deliberately:
‘I’ve been to see Mrs. Fiander.’
‘What! to Littlecomb at this time o’ night! What ever took ’ee there so
late?’
‘Why, to tell you the truth, I went to make an apology to Mrs. Fiander.
She came across the top field to-day when I was ploughing, and I said
something which hurt her feelings—in fact, I offended her very much, and
I felt I could not rest to-night without begging her pardon.’
‘Oh,’ said the farmer, and then paused, eyes and mouth round with
astonished concern. ‘Well,’ he continued presently, ‘I’m glad as ye
’polygised. I’m very glad as ye ’polygised, Richard. ’Ees, that was
very well done of ’ee. But what did you go for to offend her for?’
He leaned forward, anxious wrinkles still furrowing his brow, and
puckering up his mouth as though he was going to whistle. By-and-by,
indeed, he did actually whistle under his breath and without any regard
for tune. Richard, meanwhile, stood looking down into the fire as though
he had not heard the question.
‘Eh?’ hinted his uncle at last.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon! I can’t think, I’m sure, how I came to forget
myself so. I was out of temper, I suppose.’
‘Ah,’ commented the farmer. ‘Well, I can say truly as she and me ha’
never had a word, not since I knowed her. Nay, not so much as one word!
We did al’ays get on wonderful well in ’Lias’ time, and now I do really
think as we gets on better than ever.’
‘So you ought to,’ said Richard, a trifle irritably; then he added in a
softer tone: ‘I don’t believe anyone could quarrel with you, Uncle
Isaac.’
‘Well, d’ ye see,’ explained Isaac, waving his pipe impressively, ‘even
if I was a quarrelsome man—which I bain’t—I never should ax to quarrel
wi’ she. I’m oncommon fond o’ Mrs. F.!’
To this Richard made no rejoinder. Stretching out his foot he pushed the
logs together, and then stood looking down at them again.
‘I’m sorry, Richard, as ye should ha’ hurt her feelings,’ went on the
farmer, after ruminating for some time in evident distress of mind. ‘Ah,
I be very sorry for that, but ye could n’t do no more nor ’polygise; nay,
ye could n’t do more nor that. I’m glad ye did ’polygise, Richard.’
‘So am I,’ said Richard huskily; adding, with the same irritation which
he had previously displayed: ‘Not that it makes much difference one way
or the other.’
‘’T is a bad thing,’ went on the farmer, ‘for to hurt a woman’s feelin’s
in the beginning of acquaintance; it makes a bad start, d’ ye see? It do
rouse up notions as they’d maybe never ha’ thought on if they was n’t
crossed in the beginning. Now my poor mother—your grandmother,
Richard—she did have sich tender feelin’s there was no livin’ in th’
house wi’ her. And my father—ah, I’ve heard ’en tell the tale many a
time—he did always set it down to his not havin’ been careful to keep the
right side o’ her when they was a-coortin’. ’Twas this way, d’ ye see?
My father was a bit of a buck in his day, an’ a’most up to the time when
he had his banns put up wi’ my mother he liked to have his fling, d’ye
see? He’d walk o’ one Sunday wi’ one maid, and the next maybe he’d go
along wi’ another; and the third maybe he’d go a-fishin’, and there’d be
my poor mother wi’ her best bonnet on all the time a-lookin’ out for ’en
so anxious. And she got that upset in her feelin’s, and that nervous, ye
know, that she was n’t the better for it all her life after. Ah, I’ve
heard my father say often when she’d scratched his face for him, or
thrown his hat into the wash-tub, “’T is my own fault,” he ’d say, “I did
n’t use to consider her feelin’s as a young ’un, and her feelin’s is
a-comin’ agen me now.”’
Isaac shook his head slowly over this affecting reminiscence, and
restored his pipe to its favourite corner. Richard said nothing for a
moment, but presently turned towards his uncle with a smile.
‘Don’t you be afraid, Uncle Isaac. Mrs. Fiander’s temper is perfect, I
am sure. I was entirely in fault to-day, and I will promise most
faithfully not to do anything which might disturb your peace of mind in
future.’
Though he spoke with assumed lightness, there was an earnest look in his
eyes.