Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met, or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.
BURNS.
THE cutting and making of Rosalie’s hay had been proceeding briskly in
the Church Meadow; the last swathes had fallen, and every available pair
of hands had been called upon to assist in the work, for experienced
weather-prophets had foretold gloomily that the actual ‘fine spell’ could
not be expected to last.
Towards evening on the second day Farmer Sharpe stood alone in the centre
of the field; mopped, for the hundredth time, his perspiring brow, and
cast a contemplative look round.
’T was past seven o’clock; the men had gone home some time before, but he
had remained to take a final survey of the scene of their labours.
‘I don’t think it’s so very like to rain,’ remarked Isaac, looking up at
the sky, where, indeed, no trace of a cloud was to be seen. ‘Nay, I
don’t hold wi’ Job—’t will keep up for a bit yet. Mrs. F. ’ull ha’ gone
home by now, I should think—she’d begin to find it a bit damp in the
dell. The dew be falling very fast. Well, I’ll go home to my supper.’
He passed through the gate at the further end of the field, and had
traversed more than half the distance which separated him from his home
when the sound of heavy but rapid steps behind him made him halt and turn
round.
Job Hunt, who had evidently been hastening in pursuit of him, paused too,
his great red face wearing an appearance of unusual excitement, and his
sly blue eyes positively goggling in his head. Owing to the unusual
press of work, and the need for accomplishing it in a given time, Isaac
had persuaded Rosalie to consent to his engaging this unwelcome addition
to her forces, and she had agreed with a meekness that sufficiently
indicated her spiritless condition. Job it was who had been most
energetic in foretelling a coming storm, partly in order to render his
services the more valuable, and partly because of a natural pleasure in
predicting disaster to Mrs. Fiander’s crops.
‘Well,’ said Isaac, gazing at him in astonishment.
‘Have ’ee seen what be goin’ on yonder, sir?’ was Job’s counter-query.
‘What be a-goin’ on where?’ inquired the farmer.
‘Why, there,’ returned Hunt, with a significant jerk of the thumb in the
direction of the Church Meadow.
‘There bain’t nothin’ at all a-goin’ on there,’ returned his employer
sternly. ‘I be just come from there—the field’s empty.’
‘Nay, Mr. Sharpe,’ returned Job, half closing one eye, and assuming a
very knowing look. ‘Nay, it bain’t empty. Jist you step back and see.
If you was to step up to the dell very cautious—I’d advise ’ee to go very
cautious, sir—you ’d maybe see summat as ’ud surprise ’ee. Jist you come
along wi’ I, Mr. Sharpe—I’ll show ’ee where to look, and I d’ ’low ye’ll
be astonished.’
Isaac surveyed him for half a minute or so without speaking, and then
slowly jerked his thumb forwards.
‘Cut away,’ he said briefly. ‘’Ees, I don’t mind if I do come, but I
don’t expect to see nothin’ surprisin’ at all.’
Job grinned derisively for all rejoinder, and led the way as requested;
walking with exaggerated caution, and turning his malevolent red-bearded
face over his shoulder every now and then to make sure that Isaac was
following. The latter shambled along at his usual pace and with a
perfectly imperturbable face.
As they drew near the dell, a small cup-shaped pit surrounded by bushes
at the upper end of the field, the sound of voices was distinctly
audible—two voices, a man’s and a woman’s—speaking, however, so low that
even when Isaac and his companion were close to the brink they could
distinguish no words.
‘Jist step for’ard, Mr. Sharpe, sir,’ whispered Job excitedly. ‘Jist
look down through the bushes; I’ll bide here till ye come back.’
Sharpe paused for a moment or two, staring at him with evident
displeasure, and then went forward. Presently his tall form towered
above the bushes, and he looked down into the pit beneath.
After a long and steady gaze he returned to Job, took him by the
shoulder, and propelled him to a safe distance from the tantalising spot.
Job, when finally released, examined him with great curiosity; but the
farmer’s face, though a little redder than usual, in consequence probably
of his recent exertions, was stolid as ever.
‘Well?’ he said in answer to the man’s inquiring gaze.
‘Well, sir, did ’ee see who was there?’
‘Of course I did. Mrs. Fiander was there, where I left her, and my nevvy
was there. He ’ve comed home, I see, as I axed him.’
‘Oh,’ said Job, much disappointed, ‘I didn’t know you were expectin’ of
him.’
‘Did n’t ’ee, Job? I ’ve been expectin’ of ’en all this week. I’m glad
he’s come.’
‘It seems a bit queer as he should be in Mrs. Fiander’s hayfield, instead
o’ goin’ straight to your place,’ urged Job almost plaintively. It was a
little disappointing to find that his great discovery had been
anticipated. ‘When I did see ’en b_i_-c_y_cling along the road I made
sure he must be going straight to you, and then when I did see his
b_i-_c_y_cle leanin’ agen’ the hedge, I jist thought I ’d see where he ’d
got to—and there he were in the dell.’
‘And a very nat’ral place for ’en to be,’ returned Isaac in his most
matter-of-fact tone. ‘I did tell ’en most pertic-lar we was cuttin’ the
Church Meadow, and when he saw Mrs. Fiander in the dell ’t was most
nat’ral he should go and speak to her. I don’t see nothin’ queer, Job
Hunt.’
‘He was a-holdin’ o’ both her hands when I see ’en,’ muttered Job.
‘Ah,’ commented Isaac. ‘Well, he’ll be a-holdin’ both mine soon. I be
main glad he be come back. Now I’m a-goin’ home to my supper, and I
think you ’d do well to go back to yours, Job. I’ll expect you early in
the field to-morrow; so the sooner ye get back to look arter your own
business the better. I would n’t advise ’ee to go interfering wi’ my
nevvy. He bain’t so very fond o’ folks axin’ questions or pryin’ about.
Ah, I ’ve known ’en take his fists to a man once as he thought too
curious. ’T is the way wi’ young chaps.’
He nodded, fixed his eyes impressively on Hunt, as though to make sure
that the meaning of his words had penetrated to that somewhat dull-witted
gentleman’s consciousness, and finally rolled homewards, to all
appearance placid as ever.
He had not proceeded very far before he paused, however, shook his head,
and finally stood stock-still.
‘Two hands,’ said Farmer Sharpe reflectively. ‘Two hands!’
* * *
It now becomes necessary to ascertain what passed before Isaac Sharpe,
looking down through the willow-bushes, descried Richard Marshall in such
close proximity to Mrs. Fiander.
Nothing certainly was farther from Rosalie’s thoughts when she had taken
refuge in that sheltered spot from the glare of the afternoon sun than
the expectation of the advent of this companion. She had, in fact, quite
decided that he was by this time out of the country, and had, indeed,
made up her mind to erase his image definitely from her memory.
Henceforward, as she frequently told herself, she must think only of
Isaac—Isaac, who had always been her friend, who was so soon to be her
husband. Her husband!—she must face the thought though she unconsciously
shrank from it. Oh, would—would that this sweet cup of forbidden love
had never been held to her lips! She had dashed it from her, but the
taste of it remained and had taken all the savour out of her life. It
had been to her a poisonous cup, containing as it did wine from the fruit
of the tree of knowledge. ‘_You know very little of life_,’ Richard had
said to her once. Alas, alas! she knew now more than enough.
‘Oh, Elias—poor Elias,’ she groaned to herself sometimes, ‘why did you
die? If you had lived I should have known nothing—I should have guessed
at nothing. I might have gone down to my grave without knowing that
there was any other love besides that which I gave you.’
As an antidote to the rebellious longing of which she was too often
conscious, Rosalie had recourse to the panacea she had hitherto found
unfailing in times of affliction: hard work. Since the writing of that
letter to Richard, and the subsequent battle with herself, she had
resumed her old energetic habits. Once more she rose with the dawn, once
more she passed hours in toil no less arduous than that allotted to her
servants. She avoided solitude as much as possible, and strove by every
means in her power to tire herself out.
So tired was she, indeed, on this particular afternoon, that, having
sought the friendly shade of the grassy nook already referred to, she
acknowledged herself to be incapable of further effort. Even when the
great heat had somewhat abated, and the retreating voices and heavy tread
of her labourers as they trooped homewards warned her that it was growing
late, she sat on, her hands clasping her knees, her eyes gazing vacantly
on the ground, too weary even to think.
A footstep sounded in the neighbourhood of her retreat, but she did not
raise her eyes: it was some straggler, probably, hastening to rejoin the
others. She could hear the bushes rustling, as though brushed by a
passing form, and kept very still; she wanted nobody to speak to her,
nobody even to look at her. But now the step faltered, halted—there was
a pause; and then rapid feet began to descend towards where she sat. She
raised her eyes, first in surprise and a little irritation, then in
incredulous wonder, then—oh, what was it that Richard saw in them?
In a moment he was bending over her and both her hands were clasped in
his.
Was it that particular moment that Job Hunt chose to pursue his
investigations, or did the acknowledged lovers remain thus longer than
they knew? Rosalie could never afterwards tell, nor could Richard. They
felt as if they were in a dream; time, place, circumstances, were alike
forgotten; a vague undefined bliss—the intangible bliss of dreams—haunted
them both, and in the minds of both lurked the same dread of awakening.
It was Rosalie who was first recalled to life. Her eyes, which had been
fixed on Richard’s face, dropped gradually to his hands; gazed idly,
first at those hands, then at her own which he was holding; then the idea
gradually took shape in her mind—those were her hands, Rosalie Fiander’s
hands, that were lying in Richard’s clasp; and they had no right to be
there!
She snatched them away instantly, and the charm was broken.
‘You have come back!’ she cried. ‘Why did you come back?’
‘I came,’ said he, ‘because I received your letter.’
Her face was white with anguish; his, on the contrary, flushed, eager,
triumphant.
‘But did you not find the note which I put in your pocket?’ she murmured,
gazing at him with frightened eyes. ‘I thought you would be sure to find
it. The other was not—was not really mine. I had to write what he
wanted.’
‘I know,’ he answered blithely. ‘I could see it plainly enough. It was
not that which brought me home. It was your own precious little note—the
little line which laid bare your heart to me. I had already sailed
before I found it, but we touched at Queenstown and I landed there and
took the first boat home. I have travelled night and day since.’
She was shaking like a reed in the wind. ‘But—I begged you not to come,’
she whispered.
‘You begged me not to come, sweet, and so I guessed, I knew—you betrayed
your secret, my dear love, and I felt my own power.’
‘No, no,’ she gasped; ‘you must not speak to me like this, Richard—I will
not listen. You know quite well that I cannot listen. I belong to
another man!’
But Richard bent nearer still, his face alight with the same inexplicable
triumph—a triumph that was almost fierce.
‘You belong to me,’ he said; and his words were perhaps the more
passionate because spoken so low. ‘You have belonged to me from the
first. Even from the moment when I saw you in the picture I said to
myself—’
‘Oh, no,’ pleaded Rosalie, in tones as passionate as his, but infinitely
piteous. ‘Do not say it, Richard—do not—do not put it into words!’
Her hand flew out involuntarily as though to stop his mouth: he caught it
and kissed it though it fluttered in his grasp.
‘Why should I not say it—why should I not be brave enough to put into
words the thought which has been in both our minds so often? When I saw
your picture I fancied myself standing beside you, bending over you—’
‘Oh, hush, hush!’
She had withdrawn her hand, and was covering her face.
‘I said to myself,’ he persevered, his words coming brokenly because of
his quick breathing. ‘I said to myself, “If that woman lives she shall
be my wife—I will search for her until I find her!” And then when I
found you—I thought you were free.’
‘But I was not free,’ she interrupted, dropping her hands and looking up
with eyes fierce and wild like those of a hunted animal. ‘I am not free
now, neither are you free. You are bound to him as much as I am—your
duty stares you in the face—’
‘It is too late to talk of duty! I ought never to have seen you. Do you
suppose there is anything which you can tell me that I have not told
myself a hundred times? He is my uncle—yes! He has been my benefactor
always—more than a father to me—yes, yes! He is the kindest, the most
warm-hearted, the most guileless of men. It would never enter his
honest, innocent mind to suspect me of trying to supplant him; in acting
as I do I am a traitor, a liar—vile, ungrateful, dishonourable,
dishonest—Oh, there are no words strong enough, or black enough to paint
me as I am! I know it and I agree to it; but I love you, Rosalie, and I
will not give you up!’
Some of his words were scarcely audible as they came in gusts from his
quivering lips; the veins on his forehead stood out; there was no
mistaking the bitter contempt with which he stigmatised his own conduct,
but there was even less possibility of misapprehending his deadly
earnestness of purpose.
‘I mean to have you,’ he went on; ‘I mean to let everything go—except
you.’
She was so much taken aback at the suddenness of the onslaught, so
confounded at the quickness with which he had forestalled all she had
intended to urge, that she stood before him for a moment absolutely mute;
trembling, moreover, with the growing consciousness of her own weakness,
and at his confident assumption of mastery over her.
Meanwhile he, with his eyes fixed upon her face, read it like a book.
His own suddenly changed.
‘It is useless to struggle, love,’ he said, speaking very gently and
tenderly. ‘We have both done our best—we have tried to do right, but
Fate has been too strong for us. We must just make up our minds to let
ourselves go with the tide—and be happy.’
Rosalie was, as has been seen, very impressionable, very emotional—in a
word, very womanly; but for all that there was at her heart’s core the
little kernel of strength which is to be found in the hearts of most good
women—an instinctive sense of rectitude, the love of duty for duty’s
sake, even when the accomplishment of it involves great sacrifice. She
looked Richard full in the face now.
‘No,’ she said; ‘I will not take any happiness that has to be bought by
doing wrong. I made my own choice and fixed my lot in life before I knew
you, and now I will abide by it.’
The very severity of the struggle gave her courage, and Richard, all
passion-swayed as he was, had in him a certain element of chivalrousness
that responded to the effort she was making.
He was silent, and Rosalie, quick to perceive her advantage, went on
eagerly:
‘I ask you to leave me, Richard; I want you to go now. It is quite true
that you have a kind of power over me, and that if you’—her voice
faltered for a moment, but she steadied it—‘if you go on urging me and
persuading me you will very likely make me give in in the end; but I ask
you, _because_ you love me, not to do this. We could not be really happy
if—if we came together through being dishonourable and ungrateful. It is
better to do right at all costs. As for me, I mean to keep my word to
your uncle. I will try my best to make him a good wife and to forget
you.’
‘And have you thought,’ returned he, with a bitterness which he could not
control—‘have you thought at all of what is to become of me? The whole
thing is absurd,’ he went on with increasing irritation. ‘Do you think
for a moment that my uncle could suffer a tithe of what I shall suffer?
You know very well he is not capable of it. Besides—’ He broke off.
‘I know what you mean,’ said Rosalie, colouring faintly. ‘He would not
have thought of marrying me if I had not first suggested it. But I did
suggest it, and he is very fond of me now.’
‘Fond!’ echoed the young man scornfully.
‘Yes, as fond as it is in his nature to be. He has been faithful to me,
and I will be faithful to him. I will do nothing that could pain or
humiliate him. Some day you too will feel glad that you have not injured
your benefactor.’
‘Then what do you want me to do?’ said Richard, still half sullenly,
though she saw by his face that her words had struck home.
‘I want you to go away now—go quite away as you intended—as fast as you
can—before—before anything happens to make us change our minds.’
In the words, in her pleading eyes there was that same piteous confession
of weakness which had before touched Richard, and which now roused afresh
his most generous instincts.
‘I will do what you wish,’ he said. ‘You are a good woman, Rosalie;
I—will go.’
‘To-night?’
‘Yes; now!’
She glanced at him quickly, opened her mouth as if to speak, and then
turned away without carrying out her intention.
Thus they parted, without another word or a clasp of the hands. Richard
climbed up the bank and disappeared from view, and Rosalie remained
standing where he had left her.