Now they had entered Rosalie’s demesne. These wide fields were hers; yonder were her cattle grazing by the river; and here, peeping through the trees and compassed about by a goodly array of stacks, was her house with its bodyguard of farm-buildings.
Richard, who had not spoken much throughout the walk, became altogether silent as he crossed the well-kept yard, and even lagged behind when his uncle approached the open milkhouse door. Through this open door the sound of female voices could be heard, raised, one in voluble excuse, another, whose tone Richard recognised with a little shiver of inexplicable anguish, in vituperation. But Isaac Sharpe boldly advanced into the building, and beckoned to him to follow.
‘Why, what’s the matter here?’ he inquired good-humouredly. ‘Fine mornin’, Mrs. F. I’ve brought my nevvy to see ye.’
‘He’ll find us rather in a mess, I’m afraid,’ returned Rosalie’s clear voice, still with a distinct note of sharpness in it; ‘but I am very glad he has come; I want to thank him for his kindness to me yesterday.’
Peering over his uncle Richard descried the mistress of the establishment stooping over the large cheese-vat already alluded to, one white arm, bare almost to the shoulder, vigorously kneading and stirring a huge mass of curds. Her buff print dress appeared to imprison the sunshine, and attitude and movement alike showed off her supple figure to the very best advantage.
Most lovers, thought the young man, would have been unable to resist the temptation of putting an arm about that inviting waist for the morning greeting—the arm of the future husband had surely a right to be there. But Isaac Sharpe stood bluff and square in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his hat on his head.
‘You’ll excuse my shaking hands,’ said Rosalie, looking up with eyes in which the angry light still lingered, and a puckered brow. ‘Everything is upset, and I can’t leave the curds for a minute. Indeed, as it is I fancy the whole of this batch will be good for nothing.’
A hitherto imperceptible dimple peeped out near her lips when she spoke—such red ripe lips! Such a bewitching dimple! Isaac, however, merely thrust his hands a little deeper into his pockets, and again inquired with increased concern:
‘Why, what’s wrong?’
‘This morning I happened to be late,’ said Rosalie, uplifting her voice, evidently for the benefit of the culprit, Jane, who had suddenly melted into tears; a fact which was betrayed by her heaving shoulders as she stood with her back to the visitors.