‘She told him, I suppose, that she was a good hand at dairy-work,’ commented Marshall. ‘Yes, I understand the matter now. She is, as I say, a practical woman.’
‘She is—she is,’ agreed Farmer Sharpe warmly. ‘She be a wonderful good manager. Many’s the time I’ve said that. Ah, I reckon I can say I’m in luck.’
Richard murmured something inarticulate and returned to his chair, re-lighting his pipe and beginning to smoke without further remark. On the opposite side of the hearth Isaac ruminated contentedly, without appearing to notice his nephew’s preoccupation, and tumblers and pipes were emptied in almost unbroken silence.
When Richard sought his room that night—the familiar little attic-room which had been his in childhood—his first act after a cursory glance of recognition and approval was to set down his candle on the little deal table and to draw carefully from his pocket a large envelope. Opening this, he took out a print, evidently cut from some illustrated paper, or collection of ‘Pictures of the Year.’ Holding it close to the light, he looked at it intently. Underneath were the words, ‘A Sleeping Beauty,’ followed by the artist’s name. The picture represented a cornfield with a large ‘shock’ of sheaves to the front, beneath which lay the outstretched figure of a girl asleep. Even in this rough reproduction a certain likeness to Rosalie was discernible, and Richard’s fancy supplied the rest. Indeed, as he gazed, he contemplated not only the glowing and highly-finished work of art which had haunted him persistently since he had first beheld it, but the vision of that afternoon—the exquisite face, the lithe, graceful form which had suddenly appeared to him against its background of bloom and sunlit green. He seemed to hear again the blithe young voice which had thrilled him as it prattled at his side; he seemed to see the large eyes lifted a little shyly to his, and then modestly dropped because of his too evident admiration.
He had deemed these things the outward indication of absolute womanly perfection. His young imagination, fired by the unexpected meeting with Rosalie, and further stimulated by his uncle’s chance remarks, had created a marvellous romance before Isaac had pronounced the name of his own future bride. Now the golden glow had vanished, all was flat, and dull, and grey; and, what was worse, he knew his ideal to have been delusive. Young bloom and beauty and fascination meant nothing—Rosalie Fiander was a calculating, mercenary woman, devoid even of feminine reticence. Not content with ‘setting her cap’—odious phrase!—at the man whom she considered best likely to protect her interests, she had actually offered herself to him, haggled over the prospective bargain, weighed with him the gains which must accrue to both. When she was little more than a child she had angled for old Elias Fiander. Well, she was homeless and penniless then, and might from her extreme youth be supposed to know no better, but now in the ripeness of her womanhood, with wealth, liberty, all that she could desire, at her command, she must needs sell herself again! Pah! such a nature must positively be depraved.
With an impetuous movement he held the paper over the candle, but as suddenly snatched it away again, extinguishing the flame with his finger and thumb, and rubbing the burnt edge ruefully:
‘This at least is a thing of beauty,’ he said; ‘why destroy it?’
Then, hastily restoring the print to its wrapper and thrusting it into his pocket again, he muttered: ‘I wish I had never seen her.’
CHAPTER III
Butter? rolls o’t!
Cream? why, bowls o’t!William Barnes.
Come, come away,
Or let me go;
Must I here stay?
* * *
Troth, lady, no!Herrick.