There was no one about the Down Farm when she approached it, but, on entering, she almost fell over a strapped portmanteau that had been placed just inside the doorway. As she recovered herself Bithey appeared at the kitchen door.
‘I thought you was the carrier,’ she remarked. ‘Master did say as he ’d sent for him to fetch that there box o’ Richard Marshall’s. ’T is to go to Liverpool to-day.’
‘Is Mr. Sharpe in?’ asked Rosalie falteringly. Somehow the sight of that portmanteau made her turn suddenly faint.
‘Nay, he bain’t. But I’m expectin’ him back every minute. He be gone some time now, and he said he ’d just catch the carrier. I had a hard job to get all packed and ready, but ’t is done now.’
It was all packed, the straps fastened, the lock made secure. Rosalie was too late after all; the important postscript which was to supplement the letter could not, as she intended, be slipped among Richard’s effects. Her heart gave a sudden throb that was not altogether of pain. She had honestly tried, but fate willed otherwise.
‘I don’t think I’ll wait,’ she stammered, scarcely knowing what she said. ‘I shall see Mr. Sharpe to-morrow, and I should only be in your way. I dare say you are busy.’
‘Nay, not that busy now, ma’am. I’m just a-makin’ a parcel of a big thick coat o’ Richard’s. ’T would n’t go in the box nohow, and I’m tryin’ to pack it in paper, but ’t is that heavy it do slip out at one side so soon as I get t’ other wrapped up.’
‘Let me help you,’ said Rosalie. ‘Four hands are better than two.’
She had never seen Richard wear this coat, yet the mere sight of it—the mere consciousness that it was his caused a recurrence of that strange wave of faintness.
‘We want a little bit more string, Bithey,’ she said with the quaver in her voice which had been noticeable before.