CHAPTER VIII
Your own fair youth, you care so little for it,
Smiling towards Heaven, you would not stay the advances
Of time and change upon your happiest fancies.
I keep your golden hour, and will restore it.Alice Meynell.
One September day Rosalie betook herself to the little churchyard where Elias lay at rest. Three months had elapsed since he had been taken from her, and she had not let a week pass without visiting and decorating his grave. She thought of him often, and her affectionate regret was in no way diminished; yet, though she was now on her way to perform this somewhat melancholy duty, she advanced with a bright face and a rapid bounding step.
She was young, full of vigour and elasticity, and on such a day as this—an exquisite golden day, full of sunshine, and yet with a tartness hinting of approaching autumn in the air—every fibre of her being thrilled with the very joy of life.
When she knelt by her husband’s grave, however, her face became pensive and her movements slow. Taking a pair of garden shears from the basket which she carried, she clipped the short grass closer still, laid the flowers gently down on the smooth surface, placed the dead ones in her basket, and, after lingering a moment, bent forward and kissed the new white headstone.
As she rose and turned to go away, her face still shadowed by tender regret, she suddenly perceived that she was not alone. At a little distance from her, ensconced within the angle of the churchyard wall, a man was sitting, with an easel in front of him. Above the large board on the easel she caught sight of a brown velveteen coat and a flannel shirt loosely fastened with a brilliant tie; also of a dark face framed in rather long black hair and shaded by a soft felt hat of peculiar shape. From beneath its tilted brim, however, a pair of keen dark eyes were gazing with intense curiosity at the young woman, and, though he held a palette in one hand and a brush in the other, he was evidently more interested in her than in his painting.
Rosalie, vexed that her recent display of feeling had been observed by this stranger, walked quickly down the little path, colouring high with displeasure the while, and assuming that stately carriage which came naturally to her in such emergencies.
The gentleman turned slowly on his camp-stool, his eyes twinkling and his dark moustache twitching, and watched her till she was out of sight.
Rosalie was clad in her morning print, and wore her wide-brimmed chip hat, so that her attire gave no indication of her station in life. As her tall figure disappeared the man rose, stepped past his easel—which supported a canvas whereon already appeared in bold firm lines a sketch of the antiquated church porch—and made his way up the path and across the grass to Elias Fiander’s grave.
‘Let us see,’ he murmured; ‘that kiss spoke volumes. It must be a sweetheart at the very least; yet when she came swinging down the meadow-path she certainly looked heart-whole. Here we are—a brand-new stone. Funny name—Elias Fiander! No—aged sixty-two. Must have been her father, or perhaps her grandfather—the girl looked young enough—so all my pretty romance has come to nothing. I wish she had stayed a few minutes longer—I would give something to make a sketch of her.’