[Picture: Music score from Hayden’s Surprise symphony]
WHEN Richard emerged from the shadowy hollow where he had left his
mistress standing as if turned to stone, he found all the land about him
bathed with the rosy glow of sunset. The long ‘rollers’ of newly-cut
grass over which he stepped were touched here and there by arrows of
light, and the twigs of the hedge towards which he made his way were
outlined as by fire.
He saw none of these things, however; but when, climbing the low bank and
passing through a gap in the hedge, he descended into the road, he was
suddenly recalled to actualities by the unexpected appearance of a
colossal figure which seemed to be mounting guard over his bicycle.
As Richard started back Farmer Sharpe rose from his seat on the bank, and
stood square and determined before him, the ruddy light playing upon his
rugged face and shaggy hair and glorifying his white smock. One great
hand still rested on the saddle of the bicycle, which it almost entirely
covered. As Richard remained dumbly gazing at him, his fingers began to
drum an impatient tune on its smooth surface.
The young man gazed desperately first at him and then at the bicycle,
filled with an insane desire to possess himself of it and ride away at
full speed. But whether because his courage failed him, or because
nobler and more manly feelings gained the ascendency over this momentary
cowardice, he did not put the design into execution.
After gazing steadily at his nephew for what seemed an interminable time,
Isaac removed his hand from the bicycle and pointed in the direction of
the little dell.
‘I seed ’ee there, Richard,’ he remarked in a sepulchral tone. ‘I seed
’ee there with Mrs. F.’
Richard braced himself, and looked him full in the face, but made no
rejoinder.
‘’Ees,’ said the farmer, ‘I seed ye both; and I’ve been a-waiting here
for ye, Richard.’
Still silence. Richard, indeed, felt that it would be useless to enter
upon either explanation or apology.
Mr. Sharpe’s hand crept back to the saddle and resumed its impatient
tune; he planted his legs a little more widely apart, continuing the
while to stare unwinkingly in his nephew’s face.
When the tension had become almost unbearable, he spoke again.
‘I thought I ’d wait for ’ee here,’ he said. ‘I thought ye ’d very
likely have summat to say to me.’
The young man bit his lip and clenched his hands; he could scarcely brook
the expectant look in those eyes.
‘What am I to say, Uncle Isaac? I—what can I say? I’m going away at
once.’
The combined effect of sunshine and emotion had already intensified the
farmer’s usually healthy colour, but this announcement caused it to
deepen to a positively alarming extent. For a moment he seemed in danger
of suffocation; he raised his hand mechanically to the loose collar of
his smock and clutched at it; his eyes seemed ready to start from their
sockets, and, though he opened his mouth and rolled his head from side to
side as though about to fulminate against his nephew, no words came.
‘Don’t,’ cried Richard, much alarmed—‘don’t be so angry, uncle—you really
need n’t be so much upset. I tell you I’m going away at once—to-night.’
Farmer Sharpe sank down on the bank, sliding his legs out before him
rigid as a pair of compasses; his head continued to roll threateningly,
and his eyes to gaze fiercely at Richard, but it was some time before he
could find voice.
‘Ye can’t go to-night,’ he said at last, in husky, suffocating tones:
‘there bain’t no train to-night.’
‘Not from Branston, I know; but I mean to ride to Wimborne, and catch the
night train there.’
Somehow this catching of the night train at Wimborne seemed to be the
culminating point of Richard’s depravity. Isaac positively groaned
aloud; the fierceness went out of his eyes, and to Richard’s infinite
distress they filled with tears.
‘What more can I do?’ he faltered, torn with remorse and grief as he bent
over him.
‘I did n’t think it of ’ee, Richard—nay, if anybody had told me ye ’d go
for to do such a thing I would n’t ha’ believed ’em. To go off wi’out a
word to I—me as has been a father to ’ee—nay, not so much as a word!’
He paused, choked with emotion, and fell to wiping his eyes and shaking
his head disconsolately; while Richard, slowly straightening himself,
stood looking down at him.
‘When Job Hunt did call me, and did p’int out as you was standin’—you and
Mrs. F.—hand in hand: both hands in both hands,’ he added, correcting
himself, ‘I didn’t let on to take no notice. I did send Job about his
business, and I did say to myself, “I’ll wait,” says I. “My nevvy ’ull
tell me all about it jist now.” And I did go and sit me down here. Says
I, “I’ll not interfere; I’ll wait,” I says; “Richard will out wi’ it all
to I—he’ll act straight,” I says. “He’ll tell me.”’
He spoke almost appealingly. Richard’s face, which had turned from white
to red, was now white again.
‘I wanted to spare you, uncle,’ he murmured at last, falteringly.
Isaac groaned, and shook his head; then drawing a long breath, and
peering anxiously at his nephew, he whispered pleadingly:
‘What was you a-sayin’ to Mrs. F. when you was a-holdin’ of her hands,
Richard?’
‘Oh,’ groaned the other impatiently, ‘there are some things that can’t be
talked about! I should n’t have held her hands—I scarcely knew that I
was holding them. What does it matter now? We have said good-bye to
each other for ever; we have made up our minds never to see each other
again.’
Isaac’s jaw dropped; he brought down his fist heavily on the bank beside
him.
‘Well,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘I’m danged! I can’t get no
satisfaction. Not a word!’
‘You know enough,’ said Richard fiercely. ‘Be content with what I tell
you—I will never darken your doors again.’
Isaac brought down his fist once more on the bank, and then slowly
hoisted himself on to his feet.
‘If ye have n’t naught to say to I, I’ve summat to say to you,’ he
announced, speaking very slowly. ‘I bain’t a-goin’ to let ’ee go off
like that. ’T is my way to be straightfor’ard. I’ll speak my mind plain
to ’ee this night, and I’ll speak my mind to Mrs. F. Where be Mrs. F.?
Come along of I, Richard, and find her.’
He had squeezed through the gap in the hedge while still speaking, and
Richard had no choice but to follow him. A few strides brought them to
the dell, and, looking down, they descried Rosalie standing in the same
attitude as that in which Richard had left her.
‘Mrs. Fiander,’ called Isaac, bending over the brink, ‘will ’ee oblige me
by stepping up here? The sides be a bit steep, and I bain’t so young as
I were—I can’t very well go down, but I ’d be obliged if you ’d step up.
I ’ve summat to say to you and my nevvy here.’
Rosalie had started violently at the sound of his voice, and now obeyed
his summons in silence; but she trembled so much, and the wet grass had
become so slippery, that she stumbled often, and it was some time before
she completed the ascent. Meanwhile both men stood watching her,
motionless, and in silence. Once or twice she had raised her eyes
towards the great white figure which awaited her on the brink, and it
seemed to her that Isaac’s face was grave and stern like the face of a
judge. She did not dare once glance at Richard, but she felt, even
without looking at him, that their secret was discovered.
The farmer backed a little away from the edge of the dell when Rosalie
came forth, and stood looking from one to the other; then he spoke very
solemnly, and with some hesitation.
‘Mrs. Fiander, as I was a-sayin’ to Richard jist now, ’t is best to be
straightfor’ard—’ees, ’t is best to speak out, even when it be hard to
speak out. I can’t get no satisfaction from Richard—he did acshally tell
I to my face as he had made up his mind to go straight off wi’out a
single word to I. He comes wi’out a word and he goes wi’out a word!
Now, Mrs. F., I did see you together jist now, and I did think as you ’d
have summat to tell me.’
There was a long pause. Isaac looked once more from Rosalie’s graceful,
shrinking figure to the other culprit, who stood with bent head, awaiting
the storm of reproach and vituperation.
‘From the very first,’ pursued Isaac, still in that solemn and somewhat
stern tone, ‘I did tell ’ee my mind plain, Mrs. Fiander. I did tell ’ee
straight out, did n’t I? as I had n’t never fixed my thoughts on
materimony. ’T was you as was set on it—’
‘Oh, I know,’ interrupted Rosalie. ‘I know it too well. Do not throw it
in my face now!’
‘Throw it in your face, Mrs. F.! Who’s a-throwing o’ what in your face?
All I do say is I did al’ays do my best for ’ee—don’t you go for to blame
me, for blame I do not deserve.’
Both raised their heads and looked at him, astonished at the change of
tone, for now the old man seemed to speak more in sorrow than in anger.
‘I did al’ays do my best for ’ee. I did al’ays think and act as kind as
I could, and you did never once think of I. ’Ees, I did never
interfere,’ he went on, more emphatically; ‘I left ye both to
yourselves—did n’t I? I never comed in your way. But ye mid ha’ given
me a thought.’
The penitent heads drooped again. What need had they to be reminded how
guileless he had been, how unsuspicious, how chivalrous in thought and
deed!
‘’Ees,’ went on Isaac, ‘I did leave ye to yourselves—I did ax ye to make
friends. Do you mind how often I axed ye to be friends?’
True indeed; only too true! They had taken a base advantage of his
confidence; they had profited of the opportunities he had given them only
to be more and more unfaithful to him in their hearts.
‘I thought you ’d be different to what you do be,’ he continued, with
increasing severity. ‘When Sam’el Cross did tell I as you ’d snap up
Mrs. F., Richard, what did I say? Says I, “My nevvy bain’t a snapper!”
D’ ye mind? I said the same thing to you. Well, I thought maybe you ’d
say summat then—but not a word!’
‘Uncle, I—it is n’t fair to reproach me like this. I kept away from
Littlecomb as long as I could; you know that.’
‘’Ees, I do know it, Richard—I know it very well; you would n’t come with
me when I did ax ’ee that Sunday. You would n’t come along o’ me to
Littlecomb; nay, but you went out by yourself that night, and when you
comed back ye would n’t so much as sit down and smoke a pipe like an
honest Christian; and next day you must get up and go off wi’ yourself
before ’t were light. And what did I do then—what did I do, Richard,
though you ’d gone off and left me wi’out so much as a line? I did n’t
give up hopes of ’ee yet. I went and wrote ’ee a letter and told ’ee to
come back, and all ’ud be forgive and forgot. There now, and what do ’ee
say to that?’
His face was working with emotion, his voice tremulous for all its
strength. Never in his life, probably, had Isaac Sharpe put so many
words together, and every one of them came from his heart. To the young
people it seemed as though all their struggles had been futile, their
good desires vain, their great sacrifice useless: for all their days they
would be branded with infamy. They had, indeed, stopped short of the
breach of faith to which both had been so strongly tempted, but they had
nevertheless violated trust.
‘And even now,’ said Isaac—‘even at the very last, when you were for
cuttin’ off wi’out no explanation, I did give ’ee one more chance—and you
would n’t take it.’
‘What in Heaven’s name do you want to say?’ cried Richard, goaded to
desperation. ‘Do you want me to tell you to your face that I love the
woman you are going to marry?’
‘Nay now,’ returned his uncle in an expostulatory tone, ‘I would n’t go
so far as that. I bain’t onreasonable. All I did ever think o’ axin’ ye
was for you and Mrs. F. to see if ye could n’t take to each other. That
were my notion. Ye might ha’ gived each other a fair trial—a fair
trial!’
The young couple stared at him blankly, hardly believing their ears; then
Richard cried out with a gasp: ‘Rosalie, do you hear—do you understand?
He _wanted_ us to love each other!’
‘Nay,’ interrupted the farmer, in a tone that was at once dignified and
explanatory, ‘I did n’t expect so much straight off—Love! No, no, not
love—but ye mid ha’ jist tried to fancy one another! Ye mid ha’ had a
bit o’ consideration for me, I think. Ye knowed, both on ye, as
materimony would n’t come easy to I; and seein’ as you did tell me plain,
Richard, the very first night you come home, as you was on the look-out
for a wife, why not Mrs. F. so well as another?’
It was Rosalie’s turn to gasp now, and her face bloomed like a rose in
the evening light; but neither she nor Richard spoke; both were so
suddenly brought down from their heights of heroics that it was natural
they should feel somewhat dizzy and confused.
‘I’m a man o’ my word,’ said Isaac, ‘and if ye have made up your mind and
fixed your ch’ice on I, Mrs. F., why’—drawing a deep breath—‘I’ll keep my
promise, my dear. But if Richard ’ud do so well as me ’t ’ud be a deal
more convenient, d’ ye see? It ’ud seem a bit queer to change my state
at my time o’ life, and to leave the old home where I was born and bred.
And Richard, he has a very good notion o’ farmin’, and he ’d be willing
to carry on the work in the old way, and to take advice from I, d’ ye
see? Ah, the notion did come to I soon arter he comed here. Thinks I to
myself, I wonder if Richard ’ud do—’t ’ud be a deal more suitable, thinks
I; and more satisfactory to all parties.’
Here Isaac was interrupted by a sudden burst of laughter from his
nephew—laughter which was indeed the outlet of such an extraordinary
mixture of emotions that they had nearly found vent in tears. The
exquisite sense of relief, the unhoped-for joy stirred his very heart’s
depths; but, on the other hand, the humour of the situation struck him
with almost equal force. After the overwhelming remorse, the bitter
sense of shame which but a few moments ago had tortured them, to discover
that their contemplated sacrifice had very nearly set at naught good old
Isaac’s dearest wish!
‘Oh, uncle, uncle!’ he cried as soon as the first ecstatic outburst of
mirth had subsided, ‘why did you not speak before?’
‘’T would n’t ha’ been very becomin’ for me to speak,’ returned the
farmer, still with great dignity. ‘I knowed my dooty to Mrs. F., and I
were n’t a-goin’ to say nothin’ as mid hurt her feelin’s. But I did try
and bring ye together, Richard; and I did try to give ye so many hints as
I could. D’ ye mind how often I did say what a dear woman Mrs. F. were,
and what a good wife she ’d make? Ah, many a time I did. And d’ ye mind
how I used to tell ’ee it was bad to hurt a woman’s feelin’s? And you
would n’t take a bit o’ pains to be friendly and pleasant wi’ her! I did
look for some return from ’ee, Richard, and I were disapp’inted. And I
did expect at least as ye would tell me straight whether you could take
to the notion or whether ye could n’t. ’T was the least ye mid do, I
think. I were that anxious, and that upset—I don’t see as it’s any
laughin’ matter,’ he continued with gathering wrath, for Rosalie’s face
was now dimpling all over with smiles and Richard’s hilarity seemed to
increase rather than diminish. ‘Come, I’ll have a straight answer one
way or t’ other. Will ye give up this here stupid notion o’ going out o’
the country, Richard, and bide here and see if you and Mrs. F. can’t make
it up between ye? And you, Mrs. F., my dear, will ’ee jist think over
this here matter, and see if Richard would n’t do as well as me?’
Richard suddenly ceased laughing, and stepped to Rosalie’s side.
‘Will you, Rosalie?’ he said, very gently and tenderly. ‘Will you try to
like me a little?’
And, without waiting for an answer, he took her hands and laid them
softly about his own neck, and stooped and kissed her.
‘Dear heart alive!’ exclaimed Isaac, clapping his hands. ‘That were n’t
sich a bad beginning, Richard, I will say! You bain’t very slack once
you do make a start.’ He paused to laugh, long and loud. ‘Well, I
never!’ he cried. ‘Nay, Richard, ye don’t do things by halves. Well,
Mrs. F., my dear,’ he added, more anxiously, seeing that Rosalie did not
speak, ‘what d’ ye say?’
‘I suppose,’ returned Rosalie faintly, with her face half hidden on
Richard’s shoulder, ‘I suppose I’ll have to try.’
‘Do ’ee now, my dear,’ cried Isaac, much relieved. ‘Ye’ll find ye won’t
_re_-pent it. And ye’ll not lose nothing by it neither,’ he added as an
afterthought. ‘Richard be jist the same as a son to I—he’ll have all as
I ’ve a-got to leave when I be gone. I don’t want for to seem unkind,
but it ’ud be a very great comfort to me if ye could make up your mind
to’t.’
‘Oh, I think,’ murmured Rosalie, ‘that I can make up my mind to it.’
‘Well, then,’ cried Isaac, chuckling and rubbing his hands, ‘all’s well
as ends well! ’Ees, we may say that—all’s well as ends well! We’ll be
the best o’ friends as ever; but I do think as Richard ’ull be more
suitable as a husband, my dear. Ye mid as well see Mrs. F. home now,
Richard. I think I’ll go back to my bit o’ supper; ’t will be cold
enough by now, I reckon.’
With a nod and a broad smile he left them, and pursued his homeward way,
pausing ever and anon to look backwards at the two lithe young figures
which moved slowly along above the dark irregular line of hedge—the bent
heads, very close together, outlined against the lambent evening sky.
Once, after one of these backward glances, he began to chuckle.
‘They’ve a-took to the notion nicely,’ he said. ‘’Ees, I reckon they’ll
do!’
* * * * *
THE END