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.