CHAPTER IV
An’ o’ worken’ days, oh! he do wear
Such a funny roun’ hat,—you mid know’t—
Wi’ a brim all a-strout roun’ his hair,
An’ his glissenèn eyes down below’t;
An’ a coat wi’ broad skirts that do vlee
In the wind ov his walk, round his knee.William Barnes.
All the forenoon was passed in butter-making, and in the afternoon Rosalie betook herself to the mead to superintend the operations of James and Robert. It was not until after tea that she had leisure to change her dress and make her way, by the well-known little footpath that skirted the cornfields and wound across the downs, to Isaac Sharpe’s farm.
She found that worthy standing contemplatively in the middle of his yard. There had been sheep-shearing that day, and the master had worked as hard as any of the men; now, however, the naked, ungainly-looking ewes had returned to their pasture, the newly-taken fleeces lay neatly piled up in a corner of the barn, and Isaac was at liberty to straighten his weary back, relax his muscles, and smoke the pipe of peace.
Tall, massive, and imposing was this figure of his, ever at its best in the smock-frock and serviceable corduroys and leggings of weekday wear; his wideawake, turned up at the back and projecting in front in the orthodox shovel form, was decidedly more becoming than the Sunday beaver. He started as the yard-gate creaked upon its hinges, and Rosalie’s black-robed figure passed through.
‘Why, Mrs. Fiander,’ he cried, hastening towards her, ‘be this you? I’m glad to see ye. Is there anything I can do for ’ee?’
Rosalie could hardly have defined the motive which prompted her visit; her desolate heart felt the need of sympathy; in this strange new life of hers she yearned to find herself once more, if but for a moment, in touch with the past. ‘No, Mr. Sharpe,’ she said with a little gasp, ‘I don’t think there’s anything you can do for me. I only came because I—I—oh, Mr. Sharpe, everything is going wrong!’
Isaac Sharpe took out his pipe and opened his eyes very wide.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘come—tell me what be the matter.’
‘Everything’s the matter,’ returned the widow in a shaking voice. ‘Oh, Isaac, I can’t get on without Elias!’