For some time after Isaac’s apparently successful peace-making the friendly relations between the parties concerned remained unbroken. Richard was frequently sent on messages to Littlecomb, acquitting himself on these occasions in a strictly business-like manner; and when he accompanied his uncle thither he made such strenuous efforts to appear at his ease and to entertain its hostess that Isaac was delighted beyond measure.
‘How th’ chap d’ talk!’ he would say sometimes under his breath, with an admiring nod and wink. ‘Bless me, he d’ talk like prent! I d’ ’low there is n’t very much as my nevvy don’t know.’
Richard, indeed, in his desire to avoid those terrible long silences which had so much discomposed him during his first visits to Littlecomb, embarked upon wild flights of fancy, related at length his past experiences, and delivered his opinion upon men and things with a fluency which frequently surprised himself. The fact was that he was afraid to pause; were he to come to a halt when those blue eyes were fixed upon him, could he ever take up the thread of his discourse again? Even as it was, the mere consciousness of that intent gaze made him sometimes falter; but, recovering himself, he would go on with a rush, knowing that he was making many wild statements, but persevering nevertheless. He was bound to do all the talking, if talking there must be, for Rosalie was very silent, and his uncle was at no time garrulous.
But the harmony of these relations was rudely broken by an unexpected incident.
One warm afternoon, early in June, Farmer Sharpe chanced to be standing by his own gate, gazing abstractedly up and down the lane. Presently he descried an undersized, narrow-chested figure making its way towards him, and, as it drew near, recognised Mr. Samuel Cross.
‘Fine evenin’,’ remarked Isaac, nodding sideways in his direction, and expecting him to pass on.
‘A very fine evening, Mr. Sharpe,’ returned Samuel, pausing, and leaning against the gatepost, with the evident intention of entering into conversation. ‘The very evenin’ for a quiet walk.’
‘Walkin’ bain’t much in my line,’ returned Isaac. ‘Nay, not without I’m obliged to—seein’ after the men and goin’ round the fields, and across the downs to look after the sheep; but walkin’—meanin’ goin’ for a walk jist for pleasure—it bain’t in my line at all.’
‘It’s in other people’s line, though,’ said Samuel; and he shot a cunning glance at the older man out of his little red-rimmed eyes. ‘I met your nephew strolling up towards Littlecomb just now.’
‘Very like ye did,’ agreed Sharpe. ‘He do often go up there on business.’