‘No.—Oh, don’t make me write that, Mr. Sharpe—I don’t want him to think me unkind.’
Isaac clicked his tongue in desperation.
‘Lard ha’ mercy!’ he ejaculated, ‘this here letter ’ull never get wrote. Now, my dear, jist put down what I d’ tell ’ee—and don’t flurry me. When I do get flurried I can’t for the life o’ me think o’ nothin’. Jist be a-puttin’ o’ that down, and I’ll go on thinkin’, d’ ye see. It’ll come right—ye’ll find it’ll come right.’
Rosalie reluctantly set down the required sentence, and found at its conclusion that Isaac had already inflated himself in preparation for a further effort.
‘Mrs. F. d’ wish ’ee to come back too, as is nat’ral, but she thinks it more becomin’ not to say so.’
He fixed his eyes sternly upon her as he enunciated this statement, and in sheer desperation Rosalie set it down.
‘Now ye have n’t nothing to complain of, I don’t think,’ he remarked triumphantly. ‘Now we can get on. Well—what next?’
After deep reflection the following words came forth:
‘’T is most onconvenient for ’ee to be a-leavin’ me at such short notice. I—wish—’ee—most—pertic’lar—to—come—back—to-week. We be a goin’ to cut the church meadow, and every hand be wanted. I do feel a bit hurt in my feelin’s’—Here Isaac paused to brush his coat sleeve across his eyes, and continued brokenly—‘hurt in my feelin’s to think as you have a-left your old uncle like that. ’T war n’t well done o’ him,’ he muttered, parenthetically, ‘nay, I can’t say as it were well done o’ Richard.’
He wiped his eyes again, sniffed, drew an immense breath, and started off afresh: