‘Mr. Sharpe!’—and her eyes positively blazed—‘do you mean to tell me that people know me so little as to gossip about me and that low fellow?’
‘Ah, my dear,’ cried Isaac, catching the infection of her excitement, ‘there’s no knowing what folks do say—they be ready to believe any scandelious thing. Why, Bithey did actually tell me ’t is common talk o’ the village as you and me be a-goin’ to make a match of it.’
Rosalie, who had been leaning forward in her chair, suddenly sank back; she drew a long breath, and then said in a very small voice:
‘Well, Isaac, I believe it will have to come to that.’
Not even Sam Belbin, withering under his mistress’s scornful gaze, had stared at her with such blank dismay as that now perceptible on Farmer Sharpe’s face.
Rosalie covered her own with both hands, but presently dropped them again.
‘Everything points to it,’ she said firmly. ‘You see yourself things cannot go on as they are. I find I can’t manage the men—’
Here her voice broke, but she pursued after a minute: ‘Even the work which I am competent to undertake has not succeeded. Elias would be sorely grieved to see everything going wrong like this, he who was such a good man of business—always so regular and particular.’
‘Ah,’ groaned Isaac, ‘I d’ ’low, it ’ud very near break his heart.’
‘There must be a master here,’ went on Rosalie. ‘Even you were forced to own just now that I ought to marry again.’