‘Yes, mum,’ returned Mrs. Greene, with every feature and line of her countenance expressing disbelief, ‘I hear. P’r’aps I better begin by lettin’ them two chaps know what called here to-day. I do ’low they’ll be disapp’inted!’
‘I wish you would n’t talk such nonsense, Mrs. Greene,’ cried Rosalie almost pettishly, though the colour rushed over her face, and a startled expression showed itself for a moment in her heavy eyes. ‘Go away! I don’t want to be worried any more; remember what I have said, that’s all.’
Nothing coming, nothing going—Landrail craking, one cock crowing;Few things moving up and down,All things drowsy.North-Country Song.
Nothing coming, nothing going—Landrail craking, one cock crowing;Few things moving up and down,All things drowsy.
North-Country Song.
Rosaliepassed a very unquiet night, and woke from a troubled sleep shortly after dawn. The dead-weight of grief, ever present to her since her bereavement, was now, as she dimly felt, supplemented by something else—something irritating, something unpleasant. As her scattered faculties returned to her she gradually recognised that this state of feeling was produced by several small causes. The two visits which she had received yesterday, and which she had supposed to proceed from mere officious goodwill, had, as she now acknowledged, been prompted in all probability by aspirations as unjustifiable as they were unseemly. Her subsequent interview with Mrs. Greene had disagreeably enlightened her on this point, and had also made her aware of the kind ofgossip to which she must expect to be subjected. Then—all through that long, lonely, heavy day Isaac Sharpe had not once put in an appearance. He, her husband’s faithful friend, the only real friend whom she herself acknowledged, had not thought fit to look in for so much as five minutes to cheer her in her desolation. As she thought of these things hot tears welled afresh to her eyes. Oh, how desolate she was! No one really cared for her, and, what was almost worse, no one seemed to believe in the sincerity of her affliction.
As she lay tossing uneasily on her pillow, and as the light grew and brightened, and the birds’ jubilant songs mingled with the distant lowing of cows, a new sense of disquietude came to her, proceeding from a different and very tangible cause. It was broad day—Monday morning—a morning of exceptional importance at the farm—and no human being seemed yet to be afoot. Reaching up her hand to the old-fashioned watch-pocket which hung in the centre of the bed, she took down Elias’s heavy silver repeater and pressed the spring.Ting,ting,ting,ting,ting! Five o’clock. Sitting up, she sent the two cases flying open and gazed almost incredulously atthe dial beneath. Ten minutes past five—no less! She sprang out of bed and flung open her door.
‘Jane! Susan! What are you about? ’t is past five o’clock, and churning morning. How did you come to oversleep yourselves like that?’
There was a muffled murmur, a thud upon the floor, apat,patof bare feet across the room above, and a door overhead opened.
‘Was ye callin’, mum?’
‘Was I calling? I should think I was calling! Have you forgotten what morning it is?’
‘Nay, missus, that I haven’t. Lord, no. ’T was this day se’ennight as poor master was buried. Dear, yes, so ’t was.’
A lump rose in Rosalie’s throat, but she steadied her voice and said coldly:
‘I am not talking of that. It is churning morning, as you know very well. You should have been up and about an hour ago. Make as much haste as you can, now, and come down.’
She closed the door with just sufficient noise to indicate the condition of her feelings, and hastened across the room to the open window. Drawing the curtains apart, shelooked out. A glorious summer’s day. Not a cloud upon the pearly-blue expanse of sky, the leaves stirring gently in a fresh breeze—a breeze laden with all the exquisite spicy scents of morning: the fragrance of dewy grasses, of sun-kissed trees, of newly-awakened flowers. The monthly rose-tree climbing round her mullioned window thrust its delicate clusters of bloom almost into Rosalie’s face, but she pushed it impatiently aside. Her eyes cast a keen glance on the homely scene beyond. Above the time-worn roofs of the farm-buildings, where the green of the moss and the mellow red and yellow of the tiles were alike transfigured by this mystic glow, she could see last year’s ricks shouldering each other, their regular outlines defined, as it were, with a pencil of fire; the great meadow beyond, which sloped downwards till it reached the church-yard wall a quarter of a mile away, broke into light ripples, tawny and russet, as the breeze swept over it.
Surely these were sights to gladden a young heart—even a heart that had been sorrowing—yet the expression of Rosalie’s eyes grew more and more discontented and displeased, and a frown gathered on her brow.
The fowl were flocking impatiently aboutthe gate of the great barn-yard; yonder, on the further side, from beneath the tiled roof of the line of pigsties she could hear loud vociferations; turning her eyes towards the stable-buildings which ran at right angles to them, she could see that the doors were fast closed, and could hear the rattling of chains and stamping of heavy hoofs within. The Church Meadow ought to have been cut to-day—the grass was over-ripe as it was; men and horses should have been at work since three o’clock. No figures appeared even in the neighbourhood of the barn; and looking beyond to the barton proper, she could see that it was empty. No wonder that the lowing of the cows had sounded distant in her ears: they were still in their pasture by the river. Poor creatures! crowding round the gate, no doubt, as the fowl were doing close at hand, all clamouring alike for the attention which was evidently withheld from them. What was everyone about? Why had not the men come to their work as usual?
She performed her toilet hastily and somewhat perfunctorily, and when at last a sleepy-looking red-haired man came slouching up the lane which led to the farm, he was surprised to see a figure in rustling print andbroad-brimmed chip hat standing in the midst of a bevy of cocks and hens, scattering handfuls of grain with wide impetuous sweeps of a round, vigorous arm.
‘Hallo! What’s the hurry, Sukey?’ he inquired pleasantly.
But the face which was flashed upon him was not the rosy and somewhat vacant one of Susan, but belonged to no less a person than Missus herself.
‘What’s the hurry, Job?’ she repeated severely. ‘I should like to know why there is n’t a little more hurry? What has become of all the men? Has anybody gone to fetch the cows? What is everyone about, I say?’
Job tilted his hat a little sideways on his red locks, the better to scratch his head, and gazed at his mistress with a puzzled and somewhat scandalised expression.
‘Ye must expect things to be a bit onreg’lar for a bit, mum,’ he remarked. ‘Seein’ the loss we’ve had, and us all bein’ so upset like about poor master, we ha’n’t a-got the ’eart to go about our work as if nothin’ had happened. It bain’t to be looked for. Nay now,’ he continued mildly, ‘an’ we did n’t look to find yerself a-goin’ about this way—we did n’t, sure. It scarce seems nait’ral. If I maymake so bold as to say so, it do seem’—here Job fixed an expostulatory glance on the angry young face that was confronting him—‘it d’ seem scarce right, mum.’
‘Job Hunt,’ returned his mistress haughtily, ‘you are not called upon to make remarks upon my actions; but I will tell you so much: it is my duty to see that the work in this place is properly done, and I intend that it shall be properly done. Go and call the other men at once. Tell them if they are ever again so disgracefully late they shall all be fined. Call them quickly,’ she added with an imperative tap of the foot, ‘and then go and fetch the cows.’
As she turned to re-enter the house she caught sight of Susan, who was evidently exchanging astonished and depreciatory grimaces with Job, while Mrs. Greene, in the background, was raising hands and eyes to heaven.
‘Come, get to work,’ she cried sharply. ‘Skim the cream, Susan; and you, Jane, get the churn ready. Well, Mrs. Greene, what are you staring at? Have you never seen me work before, that the fact of my turning up my sleeves need astonish you so much? I suppose you can find something to do aboutthe house. Give me that other skimmer, Jane.’
‘Ho dear, yes, mum, I can find a plenty to do about this here house. I wur but a-lookin’ at you, mum, because it do really seem a’most too much for flesh an’ blood to be a-takin’ on itself as you be a-takin’ on yourself now, mum. Dear, yes! but it’s to be hoped as ye won’t overtax your constitootion, Mrs. Fiander.’
‘Go and clean the kitchen grate,’ said Rosalie, beginning to skim with great rapidity and decision; ‘and see that you blacklead it properly.’
‘Ho yes, mum,I’llblacklead it,’ returned the elder matron, without, however, attempting to move from the spot where she stood, and continuing to fix her eyes mournfully on her mistress—‘I’llblacklead it right enough,’ she repeated, with a kind of groan, after a pause, during which she had meditatively polished first one skinny bare arm and then the other with a not over-clean apron.
‘Well, why in Heaven’s name don’t you go, then?’ cried Rosalie impatiently, for she felt Mrs. Greene’s sorrowfully disapproving gaze right at the back of her head.
‘I be going, mum, I be going. If I midtake the liberty of remindin’ you, mum—’t is yourhatas you’ve a-got on your head.’
‘Well?’ inquired Rosalie, reddening ominously.
‘Well, Mrs. Fiander,’ returned the char-woman with an insinuating smile, ‘would n’t you like me to run upstairs wi’ it now and fetch you down your cap?’
‘No,’ replied her mistress very shortly; ‘if I had wished for it I should have sent for it. You need not be so officious. The strings would get in my way while I worked,’ she added a little inconsequently. She felt she was lowering herself by making this explanation, yet she could not bear that even Mrs. Greene and the two maids should think her wanting in respect to Elias’s memory.
Mrs. Greene withdrew, murmuring under her breath that it was to be ’oped as nobody would n’t chance t’ look in that morning, which was not, indeed, very likely, the hands of the old-fashioned clock in the kitchen beyond just pointing to the quarter-past six.
For some minutes nothing was heard but the clinking of the skimmers against the sides of the vats as the rich cream, clotted and crinkled and thick, was removed therefrom. The scene was a pretty one; indeed, such adairy on such a summer’s morning must always hold a charm and a picturesqueness of its own; and now that the angular presence of Mrs. Greene was removed there was absolutely no discordant element in this cool harmony. The dairy itself was a wide, pleasant room, its buff walls and red-flagged floor throwing out the exquisite tints of the vast tracts of cream, each marked off by its own barrier of glancing tin, and varying in tone from the deep yellow of that portion destined for the morning’s churning to the warm white of the foaming pailfuls which Job poured from time to time somewhat sulkily into the vat nearest the door. Then there was the green of the gently swaying boughs without, seen through windows and open door, the brilliant patch of sunlight creeping over the uneven threshold, the glint of blue sky between sunlit green and sunlit stone. The brave array of glittering cans on the topmost shelf added their own share of brightness; the great earthenware crocks and pans, some the very colour of the cream itself, some ruddy in tone, some of a deep rich brown, lent also valuable aid; then there were tall white jars containing lard, carefully-packed baskets and smooth wooden vesselspiled high with eggs, little squares of filmy gauze hung out on lines in readiness for the golden rolls of butter which they were soon to enfold. The figures of the girls themselves—for the mistress of Littlecomb Farm was no more than a girl in years—gave the necessary and very delightful touch of human interest. Susan and Jane, in cotton dresses and large aprons so immaculate that the mere sight of them was sufficient to recall that it was the first day of the week, were not without a certain rustic charm of their own; as for Rosalie, standing in the foreground, with her sleeves rolled up on her white arms, her print dress fitting so closely to her beautiful form, the hair hastily rolled up escaping into such exquisite curls and tendrils round brow and ear and shapely neck—Rosalie was as ever what her admiring old Elias had once called her—the leading article.
When the churn was fairly at work, the skim-milk duly meted out to the pigs, and the long procession of dairy cows were sauntering back to their pasture under the guardianship of Job and the three ‘chaps’ who had till then been busily milking, Rosalie removed her hat and sat down to breakfast.
The flush of annoyance still lingered on herface, and, while she ate, her glance wandered through the window to the premises without. She could hear Robert Cross and James Bundy leisurely leading out the horses, inducing them with many objurgations to stand while they were being harnessed to the rattling, creaking mower. How slow they were! They should have been in the field hours ago, and yet they slouched about as though the beautiful golden morning were not already half over. Now, at last they were starting—no, here was James coming back for something they had forgotten. Rising hastily from her chair, she leaned out of the open window, tapping impatiently on the pane. ‘What are you about, Bundy? Why on earth don’t you try and make a little more haste?’
‘Mum?’ gasped Bundy, turning round a vacant, weather-beaten countenance adorned with the smallest fraction of a nose which it was possible for the face of man to possess.
‘I say, why don’t you make more haste when you have lost so much time already?’
‘I be making so much haste as ever I can,’ responded James, much aggrieved. ‘I be just a-comin’ to fetch the ile-can. ’T would n’t be no use to get to work without the ile-can.’
‘Why did n’t you think about the oil-canwhile Cross was harnessing the horses? ’t is nearly eight o’clock—you have lost half your morning’s work.’
Bundy looked up at the sky; then, still in an aggrieved manner, at his mistress.
‘We was all so upset,’ he was beginning, when she interrupted him fiercely:
‘Don’t let me hear another word about your being upset! If I can attend to my business, you can attend to yours, I should think. ’T is but an excuse for disgraceful laziness.’
‘Wewasupset,’ asserted Bundy with much dignity, ‘and, as for bein’ behind, if it comes to that we can keep on workin’ a bit later this a’ternoon.’
‘You must certainly work later this afternoon; but how long will this fine weather last, think you? Besides, you know as well as I do that it is much better for the horses to work in the early morning. There! get started now, and try to make up for lost time.’
She returned to her breakfast, and James rejoined his companion at a slightly accelerated pace. But, by-and-by, her attention was caught by the sound of voices, apparently in placid conversation. Back to the window again flew she: the village carpenter, who was supposed to be repairing the yard-gate, hadjust arrived, and was leaning negligently against one of the posts, while Abel Hunt, Job’s brother, a large bucket of pig-food in either hand, was leisurely talking to him.
‘I will give them a few minutes,’ said Rosalie to herself. ‘After all, I must n’t be too hard on them.’
Once more she went back to the table, finished her egg, and drank her second cup of tea, the trickle of talk meanwhile continuing without ceasing.
Pushing back her chair, she returned to the window impatiently. The carpenter had remained in the same attitude, without even unfastening his bag of tools; Abel had set down his pails, and propped himself up against the other gate-post; the pigs were wildly protesting in the background.
Rosalie recrossed the room hastily and went to the door.
‘Do you intend to gossip here all day?’ she inquired with flashing eyes.
‘We was jest a-talkin’ about the melancolly event,’ explained the carpenter.
‘You will oblige me,’ said Rosalie, ‘by keeping to your work. Abel, take those pails across to the sties at once. Remember, I will have no more dawdling.’
Abel took up his pails, and the carpenter unfastened his tools, the expression of both faces alike shocked, wounded, and astonished.
‘If this goes on,’ murmured Rosalie to herself, ‘I shall not only break my heart, but go out of my mind. Oh, Elias, you were clever as well as kind—everything seemed to go by clock-work when you were here—oh, why did you leave me?’
An’ o’ worken’ days, oh! he do wearSuch 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 vleeIn the wind ov his walk, round his knee.William Barnes.
An’ o’ worken’ days, oh! he do wearSuch 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 vleeIn the wind ov his walk, round his knee.
William Barnes.
Allthe 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 straightenhis 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!’
‘Can’t ’ee now, my dear?’ returned Isaac, blinking very hard. ‘Well, I’m sure ’t is nat’ral.’
Rosalie gave a little sob, and the farmer, stretching out a large brown hand, patted her arm soothingly.
‘Don’t ’ee take on, though,’ he said. ‘Nay now, don’t ’ee take on, my dear. Cryin’ never did nobody no good.’
‘I’m so lonely,’ went on the girl brokenly. ‘I miss him at every turn.’
‘Ye’d be like to do that,’ responded Sharpe judicially. ‘Dear, yes—ye’d be like to do that.’
‘Everything is at sixes and sevens,’ she pursued plaintively. ‘The men think they can do just as they like; it was eight o’clock before they began their mowing this morning.’
‘Well, I never!’ ejaculated Isaac. ‘Eight o’clock! What be the world comin’ to?’
‘The very maids won’t get up,’ continued Rosalie. ‘This was churning morning, and it was after five before anybody moved. None of the men came near the place untilsix; the cows were left in the pasture, none of the beasts were fed!’
‘Shockin’! shockin’!’ commented the farmer. ‘Dear heart alive! I never heard o’ sich doin’s!’
‘When I speak to them,’ cried Rosalie, her voice rising with the recollection of her wrongs, ‘they turn round and tell me they are all too much upset to think of work.’
‘Do they now?’ in tones of deep disgust. ‘Well, an’ that’s a pretty story!’
‘Yes. And you know, Mr. Sharpe, ’t is the last thing Elias would have wished—that the work should be neglected and everything allowed to go wrong like this; yet they seem to think me heartless for expecting things to go on as before. And the worst of it all is’—here poor Rosalie began to weep hysterically—‘they don’t any of them believe that I am sorry for Elias, and they think I’m going to marry again; and, and—two hateful, odious, impudent young men have already come to court me.’
Her sobs well-nigh choked her as she made this last announcement; and Isaac, full of concern, fell to patting her arm again.
‘Don’t ’ee now, my dear, don’t ’ee. Well, ’t is very annoyin’ for ’ee, I’m sure. There,don’t ’ee cry so. Well, well! to think on’t! Started coortin’ a’ready, have they? Well, they mid ha’ waited a bit! But come in a minute, do ’ee, Mrs. Fiander, and sit ’ee down. Dear heart alive! dear heart alive! poor Elias ’ud be terrible upset if he were to see ye a-givin’ way like this.’
He half persuaded, half propelled the still weeping widow across the yard and into his kitchen, where, sitting down near the table and covering her face with her hands under the heavy crape veil, she continued to sob until her host was nearly distracted.
‘Here, my dear, take a sup o’ this, ’t will do ye good.’
Rosalie threw back her veil and took the glass which he offered her. Raising it to her lips, she found that the dark decoction which it contained was excessively strong, unusually acid, and unspeakably nasty. Fresh tears, not prompted by sorrow this time, started to her eyes as she set down the glass.
‘Thank you, Mr. Sharpe,’ she said; ‘I am better now. I don’t think I’ll finish it. It seems very strong.’
‘Ah, it’s that,’ agreed the farmer with some pride. ‘Sloe wine Bithey d’ call it; she do make a quart every year. Wonderful goodfor the spasms, or sich-like. She do get taken that way sometimes in her in’ards, pore old soul! an’ she says a drop o’ this do al’ays set her to rights. Sloe wine! ah, that’s what it be called; ye’d scarce think ’twere made o’ nought but the snags what grows in the hedges—jist snags an’ a trifle o’ sugar. But I do assure ye ’t is that strong ’t will sometimes lift the cork out o’ the bottle. Now, Mrs. Fiander, ye’d best finish it; ’t is a pity to let the good stuff go to waste.’
But, as Rosalie gratefully but firmly declined, the worthy man appeased his thrifty conscience by draining the glass himself.
‘Well now, Mrs. Fiander,’ he resumed, as he set it down, ‘I be trewly sorry that ye be so vexed an’ ann’yed wi’ the men comin’ so late; but, if I may advise ’ee, be a bit stiff wi’ ’em; don’t ’ee let ’em fancy they can impose upon ’ee because ye be a woman.’
‘I assure you, Mr. Sharpe, I showed them very plainly that I was vexed this morning. I spoke as severely as I could.’
‘Lard, my dear, them chaps don’t care for words; more pertic’lar a woman’s words. Bless you! they’ve all got women-folks o’ their own, an’ they be well used to scoldin’. ’T is different wi’ us men; when we be angrywe candanghere and there, and use a bit o’ language. Then, d’ ye see,’ said Isaac, leaning forward confidentially, ‘the chaps understand as we be in earnest; but ’t ’ud be no manner o’ good your tryin’ to do that, my dear; ’t would n’t come nat’ral to ’ee, and they would n’t think a bit the better of ’ee for it. Nay, nay,’ he repeated mournfully, ‘they wouldn’t think the better of ’ee.’
A faint smile hovered round Rosalie’s lips, but Isaac remained quite serious.
‘A woman must show by her deeds that she be in earnest,’ he went on after a pause. ‘’T is the only way, my dear. Deeds and not words for a woman!’
Here he paused again, shaking his head reflectively. It was possible that his thoughts had travelled back to that memorable box in which his erring father had enshrined the riven locks that testified to his own transgressions and the vigorous retaliation of his wife. Isaac’s late mother had certainly been a woman of action.
‘That’s it, my dear,’ repeated Sharpe, emerging from his reverie, ‘ye’ll be forced to turn to deeds. Next time them chaps comes late, jist you up an’ fine them. Says you, “Short work desarves short pay. Bear in mind,” saysyou, “that accordin’ to the work shall be the wage.”’
‘Yes, I might try that,’ agreed Rosalie. ‘But the worst of it is they lose so much time and do their work so badly when they do come.’
‘Then, jist make a’ example o’ one o’ them—that’s your best plan. Give the worst o’ them the sack, and ye’ll find the others ’ull settle down like—like lambs,’ said the sheep-farmer, bringing out the simile triumphantly.
‘Thank you very much for your advice, Mr. Sharpe. I’ll take it. And now—’ she paused a moment, blushing—‘what would you recommend me to do with regard to my other difficulty? How am I to make people understand that I don’t mean to marry again?’
‘Well, a body ’ud really think they need n’t be so pushin’,’ remarked Isaac. ‘It be downright ondacent for ’em to be a-hangin’ about ’ee so soon—’
‘They have no business to think of it at all, Mr. Sharpe,’ interrupted the widow fiercely. ‘I shall never,neverput anyone in my dear Elias’s place!’
‘That’s very well said, my dear,’ returned Isaac, looking at her with real kindness and emotion. ‘’T is the proper spirit. I myself,as you may have heard me say, was never one to set up for wedlock. Well, ye’ve had a husband, and a good ’un, an’ you be in the right o’t to be satisfied wi’ that, just as I be satisfied wi’ havin’ no wife at all. Dear heart alive! when I were a young chap the maids did use to be castin’ their eyes at me, but I never took no notice, and when I grew more staid there was one very perseverin’ woman, I do mind—very perseverin’ she were. Ah, she come to house here, time and again, wi’ one excuse or another, and at last, so soon as I did see her comin’ I did use to shut door in her face.’
‘Why, that’s what I shall do,’ cried Rosalie, laughing, and clapping her hands—‘that’s the very thing I shall do. Thank you for the hint, Mr. Sharpe. That again, you see, will be deeds, not words.’
Isaac looked kindly at the bright face and sparkling eyes, and nodded cheerfully.
‘That be the way to take ’em.’
‘I only wish I had thought of it on Sunday,’ she went on. ‘Those two men sat and talked so long, that I was wishing them anywhere. I expected you on Sunday, Mr. Sharpe,’ she added, in an altered voice, while the smile vanished from her face.
‘Did ’ee?’ said Isaac, abashed, and guilty.
‘Yes, I did, indeed—I thought you would have come if only in memory of old times.’
‘Why, to tell the trewth, I could n’t a-bear to go nigh the place,’ blurted out the farmer. ‘Nay, nay—I’ve been a-goin’ to Littlecomb Farm Sunday after Sunday for nigh upon five and twenty year. I don’t know how you could expect me, Mrs. Fiander, to go there now as he be gone.’
He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his smock-frock, and at this tribute to Elias’s memory his widow forgave the gruffness of Isaac’s tone, and almost, but not quite, the slight to herself.
She gazed at him for a moment in silence with a quivering lip, and he wiped his eyes again and heaved a sigh.
‘You do not think of me at all,’ said Rosalie, at last. ‘You don’t consider my loneliness, or what I feel when I sit there, looking at the two empty chairs, and thinking of how I used to sit between you, and how happy we used to be. Is n’t it worse for me to see his empty place than you? You might have come—even if it did hurt you—you might have come to bring me a word of comfort. I think you were very unkind, Mr. Sharpe!’
‘Don’t ’ee now, my dear,’ stammered Isaac, almost purple in the face, and with his usually keen eyes suffused with tears. ‘I do really feel touched to the ’eart when you look at me so pitiful and say such things. God knows I’d be main glad to comfort you, but what can the likes of I do?’
‘You could let me feel that I had still a friend,’ sobbed Rosalie. ‘You might come and sit in your old chair, and we could—we could talk about Elias.’
‘That’s trew, so we could,’ agreed Isaac in a choked voice. ‘Well, next Sunday—if I live so long—I’ll not let nothing hinder me. I’ll come, my dear. I d’ ’low I should ha’ thought of you yesterday, but I could n’t seem to think o’ nothing but how ’Lias war n’t there.’
‘Well, I shall be very glad to see you,’ said Rosalie, rising, and tremulously beginning to pull down her veil. ‘And I am very grateful for your kindness. Perhaps,’ she added hesitatingly, ‘you might be able to look in one day during the week?’
‘Nay,’ returned the farmer, ‘nay, Mrs. Fiander, not before Sunday. I be very busy to-week—we be shearin’, d’ ye see, and there’s the big mead to be cut. Nay—not before Sunday.’
‘Oh, very well,’ she responded a little stiffly; and she went out of the house and across the yard without speaking again except to say Good-bye at the gate.
The downs were now all bathed with the light of the sinking sun, and the topmost branches of the hedges which bordered the cornfields seemed turned to gold; while the banks beneath had begun already to assume the deeper tint that spoke of gathering dew—dew that the morning light would turn to a very sheet of silver; but Rosalie could only see the beauties of the world without through a mist of crape and tears.
‘I have not a friend in the world,’ she said to herself, ‘not one! Isaac would n’t even take the trouble to walk a quarter of a mile to see how I was getting on after following his advice. He is only coming on Sunday as a sort of duty, not because he wants to. Well, never mind, I will show him and everyone that I can look after myself. I want nobody’s pretended pity since nobody really cares.’
And she held up her head beneath its heavy veil, and went on her way with a stately carriage and a firm step.
He drow’dHizzelf about, an’ teäv’d an’ blow’d,Lik’ any uptied calf.* * *An’ mutter’d out sich dreats, an’ wrungHis vist up sich a size!William Barnes.
He drow’dHizzelf about, an’ teäv’d an’ blow’d,Lik’ any uptied calf.* * *An’ mutter’d out sich dreats, an’ wrungHis vist up sich a size!
William Barnes.
Onthe next morning when the men came slowly sauntering to their work they were surprised to see Mrs. Fiander, clad this time not in homely print but in ceremonious black, standing by her own door, with a severe expression of countenance. She held a note-book in her hand, and as each arrived she jotted down some memorandum therein. When the last straggler had appeared upon the scene, she summoned the entire band before her.
‘Men,’ she said, speaking calmly and very distinctly, ‘since you seem to pay no attention to what I say, I must show you that I am not to be trifled with. I shall fine every one of you this morning for being late. I shall continue to fine you each morning that you are late, and I shall deduct from your paya certain amount for every hour that you wilfully waste. In fact, for the future your wage shall be in exact proportion to the work you do.’
The men stared, gaped, and looked sullenly first at one another and then at their mistress.
‘Do you understand?’ she inquired sharply.
Job Hunt, his red-bearded face even more glowing than usual, answered in surly tones for himself and comrades.
‘Nay, missus, us can’t say as we do!’
‘Well, then, I’ll make it clear to you,’ rang out the brisk young voice. ‘You are paid for the work you do during certain hours, and if you don’t come here punctually, or if you waste any of those hours, I shall deduct from your weekly wage the value of the lost time—I shan’t pay you, in fact, for work you don’t do!’
‘Nay, now,’ responded Job, rolling his head from side to side, and assuming a bullying air. ‘I don’t hold wi’ these here reg’lations. Us don’t want no new rules, do us, mates?’
‘Nay, that we don’t,’ came the answer in a chorus of growls.
‘Whether you want them or not, I mean to keep to them,’ returned Rosalie. ‘That will do; you can all go to work now.’
She turned, and went into the house; her heart was beating very fast, and she was rather white about the lips, but she had borne herself bravely, and no one would have guessed the difficulty she had found in nerving herself to take this stand.
She could hear the men’s voices murmuring together discontentedly, but by-and-by the sound of heavy slouching steps moving away in different directions warned her that the group had dispersed.
It being the morning for cheese-making, she presently went upstairs to change her imposing black robe for her working dress, and, chancing as she came downstairs to look out of the window, she observed that Job Hunt was standing, arms a-kimbo, by the pigsties, in close conversation with his brother. Now, Job should at that moment have been far on his way to the pasture; Abel ought to have been feeding the pigs: this was palpable defiance.
‘Deeds, not words,’ said Rosalie to herself. ‘They think I am merely threatening—I must show them I am in earnest.’
She went across the yard, note-book in hand.
‘It is now half-past five,’ she remarked.‘You, Job, are two hours and a half late; you, Abel, an hour. I have made a note of the time. Moreover, if I find that you continue to disobey me I shall not keep you in my service.’
Job made an indescribable sound, between a snort and a groan, and slowly walked away. Abel, however, continued to stare darkly at his mistress, without changing his position.
As Rosalie, now thoroughly incensed, was about to pour out upon him the vials of her wrath, she suddenly perceived—the fact being unmistakably impressed upon her—that the pigsties near which she stood were in a most disgraceful condition.
‘Abel,’ she said, ‘when were these sties cleaned out? Not, I am sure, on Saturday.’
‘I were—mortal busy o’ Saturday,’ returned Abel in sepulchral tones.
‘Why were you more busy last Saturday than on any other Saturday?’
Abel shuffled from one foot to the other, and repeated sulkily that he had been mortal busy.
‘You must clean them as soon as ever you have fed the pigs,’ said Rosalie sharply. ‘’t is enough to bring fever to the place to have them in this state.’
‘Pigs is n’t p’ison,’ responded Abel roughly.
‘Do not attempt to answer me back like that,’ she cried. ‘It must be very bad for the poor animals themselves. Get to work without a moment’s delay.’
‘Saturday is the day,’ growled the man. ‘I’m—blowed if I clean ’em out afore Saturday!’
‘Mind what you are about,’ said his mistress sternly, uplifting a warning fore-finger. ‘I will not put up with impertinence or disobedience.’
‘Saturday is the day,’ shouted Abel; and the shuffling movement became so violent and rapid that he actually seemed to dance.
‘This will never do,’ said Rosalie. ‘I see I must make a change at once. Abel Hunt, I give you notice to leave on Saturday week.’
‘One change be enough for me, Widow Fiander,’ retorted Abel, uplifting his voice as though his mistress stood a hundred yards away from him instead of barely two.
Rosalie’s lips quivered.
‘’T is your own fault,’ she cried passionately. ‘If you behave in this way I must make an example of you. Unless you do as I tell you, you must go!’
‘I’m danged if I do clean the pigs outafore Saturday,’ shrieked Abel; and he threw his hat upon the ground, waved his arms, and stamped about like a maniac. ‘I don’t want no danged women-folk to come a-orderin’ o’ me;’ and here Abel relieved his feelings by what Isaac Sharpe would delicately call ‘a bit o’ language.’
‘Clean your pigs yourself, Widow Fiander. One change be enough for me! Notice me so much as ever ye like, I’ll not clean them pigs out afore Saturday!’
Then came a little more ‘language,’ and so onda capo.
Never had such an experience fallen to Rosalie’s lot before; neither her kind old grandfather nor her doting husband had ever given her a rough word; while they lived her subordinates had invariably obeyed her orders with alacrity, and treated her personally with respect. The sound of Abel’s strident tones, the sight of his inflamed face, above all the words he used and the insolence of his manner, positively frightened her. She turned pale, trembled—then, making a valiant effort to stand her ground, threw out her hand as though to command silence; but, as Abel continued to dance and rave, sheer physical terror overcame her, and she suddenly turnedand fled, her heart thumping violently against her ribs, the tears—never very far off during these first days of her bereavement—springing to her eyes.
She rushed upstairs to her room and flung herself across the bed, burying her face in the pillow in an agony of humiliation.
‘What a fool I am! What a miserable fool! To be afraid of that wretched booby! How can I ever hope to rule these people if I show the white feather at the outset? Now, of course, they will think that they’ve only got to bully me and I shall at once give in. Oh, fool, fool! To give way to silly womanish fears at such a moment! Oh, oh! how shall I ever look them in the face?’
She continued to roll her head on the pillow for some moments; her cheeks had now become burning, and her heart still beat fast, no longer with terror, but with anger. By-and-by she sat up, pushed back her hair, and shook out the folds of her dress.
‘After all, ’t is never too late to mend,’ she said to herself.
She went downstairs, and into the dairy, directing her maids somewhat sharply, and setting about her own work with flushed cheeks and a serious face. In course of timeher agitation subsided, and after her solitary breakfast she was quite herself again.
At noon, as she passed through the kitchen to the parlour, she chanced to glance through the open door, and observed that the men had gathered together in the yard, and were eagerly talking instead of making their way homewards, or retiring to the barn to eat their dinners. She feigned to pay no attention to them, however, and walked on to her own quarters.
Presently she became aware that the whole body was advancing towards the house, and a moment later Susan thrust in her round face at the door.
‘Please, mum, the men be wishin’ to speak a few words with ’ee.’
‘Very well,’ said Rosalie, ‘I will go out to them.’
On reaching the threshold of the outer door she paused, looking round on the group, and waiting for them to take the initiative. Job was, as before, the first to speak.
‘I be come to tell ’ee, Mrs. Fiander, as I wish to notice ye for Saturday week. These here changes bain’t to my likin’, and the mistress bain’t to my likin’; so ye’ll please to suit yourself by that time, mum.’
He spoke gruffly, and eyed her impertinently, but this time she did not flinch.
‘Very well, Job,’ she said; ‘I have no doubt I shall be able to do so without any difficulty.’
Abel was the next to advance, but Rosalie waved him aside.
‘As it has already been settled that you are to leave,’ she remarked, ‘you can have nothing to say to me. Step back. Now who comes next?’
James Bundy, it seemed, came next; he approached a little hesitatingly, looking hard at his mistress.
‘Please, mum, I wish to leave on Saturday week.’
‘Quite right,’ returned Rosalie with great unconcern. ‘Next!’
James Bundy stepped back and Robert Cross stepped forward, smiling obsequiously.
‘I’m sure, mum, it do go agen me terrible to make sich a break as this here, but still, d’ ye see, we can’t nohow put up with—’
‘You need not take the trouble to explain—you wish to leave on Saturday week with the others, I suppose?’
‘’Ees—leastways—’
‘That will do,’ said Rosalie. ‘Now, Sam Belbin, you wish to leave too?’
Sam Belbin made a step forward and glanced round appealingly.
By this time his companions were looking very blank. The sudden assault by which they had expected to frighten their mistress into capitulation had apparently failed. Their respective attitudes had changed; she was calm and unmoved, and they were beginning to be seriously uneasy. Good places and regular pay were not to be picked up every day in that part of the world.
‘Well, Sam?’ said Rosalie kindly, as though to help him out.
Sam was the chief of the three ‘dairy chaps,’ a good-looking young fellow of about four-and-twenty, with a dark, good-humoured countenance and a certain jaunty air. As he now advanced a smile flashed suddenly over his face, his white teeth gleaming out pleasantly.
‘Mum,’ he said. ‘Mum—Mrs. Fiander—’
She smiled too.
‘Well, Sam, what haveyougot to say? The usual thing, I suppose?’
‘No, mum—not at all, mum. I—wish to say as I haven’t got no fault to find at all, mum. I’ll come in better time to-morrow morn, an’ ye’ll not have to speak to me agen, mum.’
‘Verygood!’ said Rosalie in a different tone. At this unexpected speech a lump came in her throat, but she choked it down.
‘Have the others got anything to say?’ she inquired. ‘Because, if so, I hope they will make haste and say it. My dinner will be getting cold.’
The men who had not hitherto spoken looked at each other uncertainly, their glances finally resting on the beaming countenance of Sam Belbin. After all, had he not chosen the better part?
‘I do agree with he,’ said one under his breath, and then another. By-and-by all remarked aloud, somewhat falteringly, that they just thought they would mention their wish to give more satisfaction in the future.
Job and his followers scowled at these renegades, but their mistress rewarded them with a gracious smile.
‘Very well said,’ she remarked. ‘That’s the proper spirit. Do your duty by me, and you will find me ready to do mine by you.’
The day was hers, as she felt when she returned in triumph to her dinner.
Isaac Sharpe happened to be strolling through the village that evening, when he was accosted by Mrs. Belbin, who wasstanding, as was her custom at this hour, arms a-kimbo, on her doorstep.
‘There be a great upset up at Fiander’s, bain’t there, sir?’
Isaac brought his slow, ruminative gaze to bear on her.
‘Why, what upset do ye mean, Mrs. Belbin? Things be like to be upset now that the master’s gone to the New House. But I hope as your son an’ the rest of ’em be giving the widow so little trouble as ever they can.’
‘I dunno about that, sir. My Sam he do tell I as there was a regular blow-up this mornin’. I d’ ’low as my sonhedid behave so well as ever he could. Says he to Mrs. Fiander, “Mum,” he says, “I have n’t no fault to find wi’ you at all; and I’ll do myhendeavours to gi’e ye satisfaction.” That were whathedid say—my son Sam did; but there was others as, accordin’ to all accounts, went on most scandalious.’
Here Mrs. Belbin rolled up her eyes and wagged her head significantly.
‘Ah,’ put in Mrs. Paddock, hastening to cross the road and join in the conversation, ‘it did give me sich a turn when I heard on it, that I did sit down on the table. ’T were a good job as I did, else I should ha’ felldown. Sich doin’s! The whole lot of ’em—aye, every single one as works for her—marchin’ up to give her notice! ’T was enough to frighten a pore lone woman out of her wits.’
‘I have n’t heard a word of this,’ cried Isaac emphatically. ‘The men gave her notice, d’ ye say?’
‘All except my Sam,’ put in Mrs. Belbin proudly. ‘’Ees, they all did go up in a lump, so to speak, and noticed her, one arter the other, till it come to my Sam’s turn, an’ then he up an’ says, “Mrs. Fiander, mum,” says he, “I have n’t got no fault to find wi’ ye;” and a few more, when they heard that, heartened theirselves up and follered his example.’
‘’T was very well done o’ your Sam,’ said Mrs. Paddock in a complimentary tone; ‘but as for them others—why, they do say as Abel Hunt were a-dancin’ an’ a-swearin’ like a madman. “I want no orderin’ from danged women-folk,” says he, just so bold as if the missus was his wife. And Job, he did shout at her so rough, and speak so impident! ’T was really shockin’!’
‘I must go up and see her,’ said Sharpe, much perturbed. ‘I’m sure I don’t know whatever’s come to folks these times. As tothem Hunts—I’ll gi’e them a bit o’ my mind. They should be ashamed o’ theirselves to treat a pore young creature so disrespectful. They do think, I s’ppose, as Mrs. Fiander has n’t got nobody to purtect her, and they can serve her so bad as they like. But them as was friends to her husband is friends to her. Pore young thing! Well, I be glad your son did do his duty by her, anyways, Mrs. Belbin. My Father A’mighty, these be times!’
He walked away at an accelerated pace, the women looking after him.
‘He did speak so feelin’, did n’t he?’ commented Mrs. Paddock. ‘“Pore young creature!” says he, d’ ye mind? An’ “Pore young thing!” Master be a very feelin’ man!’
‘Ah,’ agreed Mrs. Belbin; ‘an’ he did say as he were glad my Sam did do his duty. Ah, he be a good man, master be! But I would n’t like so very much to be Abel Hunt jist now—nay, nor Job neither.’
Souvent femme varie,Bien fol est qui s’y fie.
Souvent femme varie,Bien fol est qui s’y fie.
Themistress of Littlecomb Farm had no cause to complain of the unpunctuality of any of her workpeople on the following morning. Each man appeared at the very moment he was supposed to appear, the maids were up betimes, and the business of the day progressed with far greater speed than usual.
At dinner-time she again observed a group of men in the yard, smaller in number, however, than on the preceding day, and talking with dismal countenances and hesitating tones. Susan came presently to announce, as before, that some of the men wished to speak to her.
Rosalie went out, and discovered a detachment of four awaiting her, two with plaintive, wobegone faces, the others in a state of surly depression.
‘Missus,’ stammered James Bundy, ‘we be a-come—me and these here chaps—bea-come to ’pologise, and to say as we hopes ye won’t bear no malice, and as ye’ll overlook what has passed. We’ll undertake to give satisfaction from this time for’ard.’
‘’T is a pity you did not say that yesterday, James,’ said Rosalie severely.
Bundy looked at Cross, and the latter’s jaw fell.
‘If ye’d please to overlook it, mum,’ resumed James, falteringly. ‘We was, so to speak, took by surprise wi’ the new rules, and we was persuaded’—here he darted a reproachful glance at Joe—‘I’ve got a long family, mum,’ he added tearfully, ‘and my wife—she be near her time wi’ the eleventh—’
‘Well, James, you have been foolish, but I do not altogether think it was your fault. I will make no definite promise, but I will see how you go on between this and Saturday week.’
‘I be to go on Saturday week?’ ejaculated James, whose wits were none of the keenest, and who was more impressed by the severity of the tone than by Rosalie’s actual words.
‘No, no, you foolish fellow! Come, I will give you another chance; but mind you behave very well.’
Robert Cross next came forward.
‘Mine be a very long family, too,’ he began, having evidently remarked the happy results which had ensued from Bundy’s plea. Rosalie stopped him:
‘Well, I will give you another chance, Cross,’ she said. ‘Next time, think twice before you follow a bad leader. As for you, Abel Hunt,’ she said, turning sternly to that gentleman, ‘I am at a loss to know what you can have to say—in fact, I have no wish to hear it, whatever it may be. You must go. No apology can atone for your insolence yesterday.’
‘And how be you goin’ to manage about them pigs?’ inquired Abel plaintively.
‘That is no concern of yours.’
‘Mr. Sharpe was a-speakin’ to me yesterday,’ put in Job, very humbly, for his courage was fast oozing away, ‘an’ he did say ’twould be terrible ill-convenient for ’ee to have so many chaps a-leavin’ together, an’ so me an’ my brother agreed as we’d ax to stop on.’
‘I can do very well without you,’ retorted Mrs. Fiander tartly. ‘No, Job, you have behaved too badly. You have been the ringleader of this disgraceful business—you must certainly go.’
‘On Saturday week?’ faltered Job.
‘Yes, Saturday week—youandAbel. How Abel can suppose I could possibly keep him after such conduct, I can’t imagine. I certainly will not.’
‘Mr. Sharpe did say’—Job was beginning, now almost in tears, when she interrupted him relentlessly.
‘Never mind what Mr. Sharpe said. I have quite made up my mind as to what I shall do.’
She was thoroughly in earnest, and the men knew it. They fell back ruefully, and their young mistress returned to the house, carrying her head very high and setting her face sternly.
When her work was over that afternoon she set out, with a business-like air, on what seemed to be a tour of inspection; first walking briskly along the rows of pigsties, the condition of which had on the day before given rise to so much controversy. All was now as it should be; Abel, Sam, and one or two of the other subordinates having devoted their attention to them at early dawn. Here were pigs of every age and degree, from the venerable matron to the spry young porker just beginning to devote himself to the serious business of life—namely, growing fat. Seventy-two in all, and most of them doomedto destruction within a few months: that was the part of the economy of farming which Rosalie most disliked; it was the blot on the otherwise poetical and peaceful avocation. But she had hitherto been taught to consider the presence of these pigs an absolute necessity. Was this really the case? Might not she, with her woman’s wit, devise some better expedient by means of which the obnoxious animals could be dispensed with, and at the same time waste of skim-milk and whey avoided?
Leaving the yard, she betook herself to the orchard, where a few more porcine families were taking exercise. Their presence somewhat detracted from the picturesque appearance of the place, which, though the ‘blooth’ or blossom had long since fallen, had still a considerable share of beauty of its own. The sunlight beating down now through the delicate green leafage brought out wonderful silvery lights from the lichened trunks, and outlined the curiously gnarled branches. It struck out a golden path across the lush grass for Rosalie to walk on, and she passed slowly down the glade with bent head and serious face.
Turning when she reached the end toretrace her steps, she saw a well-known sturdy form approaching her, and advanced to meet Isaac Sharpe, still with a certain queenly air, and without quickening her pace. Isaac’s countenance, on the contrary, wore a perturbed and puzzled expression; his brow was anxiously furrowed, and he gazed hard at Mrs. Fiander as he hastened towards her.
‘I’m a-feared ye’ve had a deal o’ trouble, here,’ he began.
‘Yes; I followed your advice, you see.’
‘And it did n’t altogether answer?’ said the farmer, with a nervous laugh.
‘Oh, yes, it answered very well. I think the men know I’m in earnest now.’
‘Them two Hunts come round to my place at dinner-time; they were in a taking, poor chaps! But ’twill do them good. All the same, I think I’d let ’em off, if I was you, Mrs. Fiander. Job be a roughish sort o’ chap, but he be a good cowman; an’ Abel, he be wonderful with the management o’ pigs.’
‘I’m not going to let them off,’ said Rosalie, her face hardening again as she thought of Abel’s maniacal dance, and of the loud voice which had frightened her, and of Job’s insolent manner when he had said, ‘The missus bain’t to my likin’.’
‘Well, but ’twill be a bit ’ard to find as good,’ Isaac objected. ‘P’r’aps ye’ll not better yourself. I doubt ’t will be harder for you to get on wi’ strange men.’
‘I am not going to put strange men in their place. I am not going to hire any more men; I’m going to have women. I can manage women very well.’
‘But, my dear,’ cried Isaac, opening his eyes very wide, and speaking in horror-stricken tones, ‘women can’t do men’s work.’
‘No, but they can do women’s work. I have thought it all out, Mr. Sharpe, and my mind is made up. Job and Abel must go. I shall put Sam Belbin in Job’s place.’
‘Well, he have behaved well to ’ee,’ conceded Isaac, unwillingly; ‘but he be young. I doubt if he’s fit for ’t.’
‘I’ve watched him,’ returned Rosalie, positively, ‘and I think he’s quite fit for it. He has worked under Job for some time, and is a capital milker. I think he will manage very well. As to Abel, I shall put no one in his place, for I mean to sell the pigs.’
‘Sell the pigs!’ ejaculated Isaac—‘at this time o’ year?’ His face became absolutely tragic, but Rosalie merely nodded.
‘Why, what’s to become o’ your skim-milk,’ he gasped, ‘an’ the whey, and that?’
‘There will be no skim-milk,’ said Rosalie. ‘I shall make Blue Vinney cheese, as I used to make when I was with my grandfather. Some people are very fond of it. That is made entirely of skim-milk, you know. As for the whey, there will not be much nourishment in it, but I shall keep a few sows still, just to consume that and the butter-milk. They will not require much attention as they walk about here, you see, and there is always a lot of waste green stuff.’
‘I don’t think ye’ll find many folks here what cares for the Blue Vinney cheese,’ said Isaac, still much dejected. ‘Nay, ’t is all the Ha’-skim as they likes hereabouts. The Blue Vinney has gone out o’ fashion, so to speak.’
‘If they don’t buy them here I can send them to Dorchester,’ said the widow resolutely. ‘They used to buy them up there faster than I could make them. So you see there will be no waste, Mr. Sharpe; there will be less work to do outside, and therefore I shall not miss Job or Abel; but, as we shall be very busy in the dairy, I must have two or three extra women to help me.’
Isaac stared at her ruefully; she looked brighter than she had done since her husband’s death, but she also looked determined. He shook his head slowly; his mind was of the strictly conservative order, and the contemplated abolition of pigs from the premises of this large dairy-farm seemed to him an almost sacrilegious innovation. Moreover, to sell pigs in July; to make cheeses that nobody in that part of the world cared to eat; to replace two seasoned men who knew their business—whatever might be their faults—with that dangerous commodity, womankind—the whole experiment seemed to him utterly wild, and pregnant with disaster.
‘I mean to do it,’ said Rosalie, defying the condemnation in his face. ‘By this time next year you will congratulate me on my success.’
‘I hope so, I am sure,’ said Isaac in a slightly offended tone. ‘I came here to advise ’ee, but it seems ye don’t want no advice.’
‘Oh yes, I do,’ she cried, softening in a moment. ‘I value it of all things, Mr. Sharpe. My one comfort in my difficulties is the thought that I can talk them over with you. I have laid my plan before you quite simply, in the hope that you would approve.’
‘Well, my dear,’ said Isaac, somewhatmollified, ‘I don’t approve, d’ ye see? Since you ask my advice, I’ll tell ye plain that I don’t think the plan will work. Ye won’t be able to sell your pigs to begin with; then ye’ll want a man wi’ more experience than Sam to look after the cows; it bain’t such easy work—nay, that it bain’t. Then, as to gettin’ more women ’bout the place, I don’t hold with the notion. I don’t think it ’ud benefit ye, my dear. I don’t trewly.’
Rosalie appeared to meditate.
‘Think it over, Mrs. Fiander,’ he urged; ‘don’t do nothing in a hurry; that be my advice.’
‘Thank you very much. Yes, I’ll think it over. You’ll come on Sunday, won’t you, Mr. Sharpe?’
‘’Ees,’ agreed Isaac doubtfully. ‘’Ees, I’ll come on Sunday. I be main glad you be thinking of taking my advice, Mrs. Fiander.’
‘I am grateful to you for giving it,’ said Rosalie with a sweet smile; and the farmer walked away, thinking that on the whole women were far less unreasonable than he had hitherto supposed.
The next day was Thursday—early closing day at Branston—therefore no one was surprised when Mrs. Fiander, having as sheaverred some business to do in the town, ordered the gig in the forenoon. It was the first time she had used that vehicle since her husband’s death, and she looked sorrowful enough as she climbed into it, clad in her deepest weeds.
The steady old horse looked round when she gathered up the reins, as though wondering at the innovation—for Elias had always been accustomed to drive—and was with some difficulty induced to start.
‘Nigger be so wise as a Christian, that he be,’ commented Bundy, as the gig and its occupant disappeared. ‘He was a-standin’ and a-waitin’ for master, so sensible as I mid do myself. But he’ll have to get used to the change the same as the rest of us.’
‘Ay, an’ p’r’aps he’ll not like it so very well,’ returned Abel sardonically. ‘Give a woman a whip in her hand, and she fancies she’s bound to lay it on.’
But Nigger was suffered to jog along the road at his own pace, for the old sadness which had fallen upon Rosalie had for a moment checked her eager spirit, and a new preoccupation was, moreover, now added to it. Would Elias approve of what she was about to do, or would he agree with Isaac?No, surely he would say that she knew best; he was always pleased with anything she did. He used to say that she was the best manager he had ever known; and, on the other hand, used frequently to speak of Isaac’s ‘notions’ with good-humoured derision. It will be seen that Mrs. Fiander’s meditations over her friend’s advice had resulted, as indeed might have been expected, in the determination to adhere to her original plan, and she was now on her way to interview two personages whose co-operation would be necessary in carrying it out.
Her appearance in the shop of Mr. Hardy, the principal grocer of the town, caused a certain amount of commotion; everybody turned to look at the beautiful young widow, who had indeed for many days past formed the principal topic of conversation among the townsfolk; and much interest was aroused by her murmured request to see Mr. Hardy in private.
‘Certainly, Mrs. Fiander. Step this way, ma’am. John, open the door there!’
John Hardy, a tall, good-looking young man in a white linen jacket, hastened to obey his parent’s behest, and was even good enough to accompany the visitor along the passagewhich led from the shop to the family sitting-room. It was empty at this hour, Mrs. Hardy being presumably occupied in household duties; and Mr. John ushered Rosalie in with much ceremony, and invited her to be seated in the best armchair.
Some disappointment was perceptible in his ingenuous countenance when he found that the interview which had been so mysteriously asked for was merely connected with cheese; but his father listened to Rosalie’s proposition with grave attention.
‘I don’t exactly see how the plan would work,’ he remarked, shaking his head. ‘We sell your Ha’skim cheeses very fairly well, Mrs. Fiander.’ Mr. Hardy was a discreet person, and was determined not to commit himself. ‘But as for the Blue Vinney, I’d be very glad to oblige you, but I’m really afraid—you see there’s scarcely any demand for Blue Vinney nowadays. A few of the old folks ask for it now and then, but we don’t get, not to say, a reg’lar custom for ’t, and it would n’t be worth our while to keep it.’
‘I am considered a particularly good hand at making Blue Vinney,’ said Rosalie. ‘I used to be quite celebrated for it when I lived near Dorchester—in fact, I could easily sellmy cheeses now at Dorchester, only I thought I would give you the first offer as you have dealt with me so long.’
Growing warm in her excitement, she threw back her veil: John Hardy, gazing at her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, thought Mrs. Fiander had never looked so handsome as in her widow’s weeds.
‘Dorchester!’ commented the senior. ‘That would be a long way for you to send, ma’am.’
‘I am sure,’ put in the son quickly, ‘we’d be sorry to think as Mrs. Fiander should need to take her cheeses to Dorchester, father.’
The elder Mr. Hardy glanced from one to the other of the two young faces, and, as Rosalie bestowed a grateful smile upon his son, an idea seemed to strike him.
‘Well,’ he said good-naturedly, ‘you are trying an experiment, I understand, Mrs. Fiander. There’s always a certain amount o’ risk in an experiment; but still, “Nothing venture, nothing have,” they say. If you’re willing to venture I shall be glad to help you all I can. Send your cheeses to me, and I’ll do my best to sell ’em. I won’t promise to pay money down for ’em,’ he added, cautiously, ‘same as I do for the Ha’skims, but I’ll try an’ sell ’em for you, and we can settle about them after.’
‘I am very much obliged,’ said Rosalie, a little blankly, however, for she had not been accustomed to do business in this manner.
‘We will use our utmost endeavours to push the goods—of that you may be sure,’ cried young John eagerly; and she smiled upon him again, so graciously that he somewhat lost his head, and made several incoherent statements as to the excellence of Blue Vinney cheese for which his worthy father subsequently brought him to book.