‘Uncle, I—it is n’t fair to reproach me like this. I kept away from Littlecomb as long as I could; you know that.’
‘’Ees, I do know it, Richard—I know it very well; you would n’t come with me when I did ax ’ee that Sunday. You would n’t come along o’ me to Littlecomb; nay, but you went out by yourself that night, and when you comed back ye would n’t so much as sit down and smoke a pipe like an honest Christian; and next day you must get up and go off wi’ yourself before ’t were light. And what did I do then—what did I do, Richard, though you ’d gone off and left me wi’out so much as a line? I did n’t give up hopes of ’ee yet. I went and wrote ’ee a letter and told ’ee to come back, and all ’ud be forgive and forgot. There now, and what do ’ee say to that?’
His face was working with emotion, his voice tremulous for all its strength. Never in his life, probably, had Isaac Sharpe put so many words together, and every one of them came from his heart. To the young people it seemed as though all their struggles had been futile, their good desires vain, their great sacrifice useless: for all their days they would be branded with infamy. They had, indeed, stopped short of the breach of faith to which both had been so strongly tempted, but they had nevertheless violated trust.
‘And even now,’ said Isaac—‘even at the very last, when you were for cuttin’ off wi’out no explanation, I did give ’ee one more chance—and you would n’t take it.’
‘What in Heaven’s name do you want to say?’ cried Richard, goaded to desperation. ‘Do you want me to tell you to your face that I love the woman you are going to marry?’
‘Nay now,’ returned his uncle in an expostulatory tone, ‘I would n’t go so far as that. I bain’t onreasonable. All I did ever think o’ axin’ ye was for you and Mrs. F. to see if ye could n’t take to each other. That were my notion. Ye might ha’ gived each other a fair trial—a fair trial!’
The young couple stared at him blankly, hardly believing their ears; then Richard cried out with a gasp: ‘Rosalie, do you hear—do you understand? He wanted us to love each other!’
‘Nay,’ interrupted the farmer, in a tone that was at once dignified and explanatory, ‘I did n’t expect so much straight off—Love! No, no, not love—but ye mid ha’ jist tried to fancy one another! Ye mid ha’ had a bit o’ consideration for me, I think. Ye knowed, both on ye, as materimony would n’t come easy to I; and seein’ as you did tell me plain, Richard, the very first night you come home, as you was on the look-out for a wife, why not Mrs. F. so well as another?’
It was Rosalie’s turn to gasp now, and her face bloomed like a rose in the evening light; but neither she nor Richard spoke; both were so suddenly brought down from their heights of heroics that it was natural they should feel somewhat dizzy and confused.
‘I’m a man o’ my word,’ said Isaac, ‘and if ye have made up your mind and fixed your ch’ice on I, Mrs. F., why’—drawing a deep breath—‘I’ll keep my promise, my dear. But if Richard ’ud do so well as me ’t ’ud be a deal more convenient, d’ ye see? It ’ud seem a bit queer to change my state at my time o’ life, and to leave the old home where I was born and bred. And Richard, he has a very good notion o’ farmin’, and he ’d be willing to carry on the work in the old way, and to take advice from I, d’ ye see? Ah, the notion did come to I soon arter he comed here. Thinks I to myself, I wonder if Richard ’ud do—’t ’ud be a deal more suitable, thinks I; and more satisfactory to all parties.’