“Didst now?” asked Fuller, unctuously enjoying the young man's discomfort. “What might it ha' been about?”
“I wrote to ask her if she would marry me,” said Reuben, with desperate simplicity.
“Ah!” said Fuller. “And what says her to that?”
“I can't believe that I have had her answer,” returned Reuben, with much embarrassment. “I found a letter in the book, but I think—I am sure—it is not meant for me.”
“You'll find Ruth i' the gardin,” said Fuller, puzzled in his turn. “Her'll tell you, mayhap. But wait a bit; her's rare an' wroth this mornin', and I ain't sure as it's safe to be anigh her. Miss Blythe's been here this mornin'—Aunt Rachel, as the wench has allays called her, though her's no more than her mother's second cousin—and it seems as th' old creetur found out about Ruth's letter, and went and took it from wheer it was and marched it off. Her was here this mornin' t' ask me to open it and read it along with her. Theer's no tekin' note of her, Reuben, poor old ooman. Her's got a hive in her head. 'Do you know this young man's character' her says. 'Why, yis,' I says; 'it'd be odd if I didn't,' I says. 'Well,' her says, 'he's a villin.' 'Rubbidge,' says I; 'theer's no moor esteemable feller i' the parish,' I says, 'onless it's his uncle Ezra.' Then her fires up and her says, 'His uncle Ezra is a villin.' Then I bust out a-laughin' in her face. Her's flighty, you know, lad, her's uncommon flighty. Six-and-twenty year ago—it was afore thee couldst toddle—her left the parish because of Ezra.”
“Because of my uncle?” There were so many things to be amazed at in this speech of Fuller's that the youngster hardly knew which to be surprised at most.
“Didst never hear o' that?” asked Fuller. “It's been the talk o' the parish ever sence her come back to live in it. Your uncle used to be a good deal at her mother's house from thirty to six-and-twenty 'ear ago, and used to tek his fiddle theer and gie 'em a taste o' music now and then. Her seems to ha' let it tek root in her poor head as he was squirin' her and mekin' up to her for marriage; but after four or five year her got tired and hopeless, I reckon, and went away. Then I expect her begun to brood a bit, after the mode of a woman as is lonely, and has got no such thing as a man around her, and that's how it is, lad.”
“My uncle!” Reuben fell to pacing up and down the room, talking aloud, but as if he addressed himself rather than his sweetheart's father. “Manzini was the last man whose works he played—the last man he ever handled bow and fiddle for. His own words. He left the book open when he went away, and closed it when he came back again.” He drew the discolored note from his pocket, and stared at it with a look of tragic certainty.
“Be we all mad together?” said Fuller. “What's the matter with the lad, i' the name o' wonder?”
“I'll explain everything, sir,” answered Reuben, like a man awakening from sleep. “And yet I don't know that I can. I don't know that I have a right to explain. I could ask Ruth's advice. It's hard to know what to do in such a case.”