‘That’s not the way to get round a woman, my lad,’ he remarked. ‘Mrs. F. will just think you be right down silly; the notion o’ tellin’ her as Blue Vinney cheese was richer to the palate than Rammil—why, Rammil’s made altogether o’ good new milk, and this here’s nothin’ but skim. She makes cheese o’ skim instead o’ givin’ it to the pigs, and you go and tell her all that rubbish. She’s no fool—the widow is n’t—that is n’t the way to make up to her.’
Meanwhile Rosalie had driven across the market-place and up a side street to the house of a certain auctioneer, and to her great joy found him at home.
He was a stout middle-aged man, with some pretensions to good looks, and more to beinga dandy. He was attired in a sporting costume of quite correct cut, and received his visitor with an air of jovial hospitality.
‘Delighted to see you, I’m sure, Mrs. Fiander. I feelhonoured. I am at your service for anything you may wish—you may command me, ma’am.’
Rosalie had begun by expressing a desire to transact a little business with him, and now proceeded to explain its nature.
‘I wish to sell my pigs by auction,’ she said. ‘I have about sixty-five to dispose of, and I should like the sale to take place as early as possible next week.’
‘Next week!’ ejaculated the auctioneer, his face falling.
‘Yes,’ said Rosalie, with great decision.
‘But—have you considered the question? It would be difficult to sell off such a number of pigs at any season of the year, but now—in the height of the summer! If I may advise you, Mrs. Fiander, don’t be in such a hurry. Wait and sell the pigs at a more convenient time. Nobody’s killing pigs now, and most people as go in for fatting pigs have got as many as they want by this time.’
‘It must be next week,’ said the widow obstinately. Job and Abel were leaving on theSaturday, and the stock must be got rid of before the new era began.
‘You’ll lose to a certainty, ma’am,’ said Mr. Wilson, running his hand through his well-oiled hair. ‘What with all the regulations on account of the swine fever, the selling of such a number of pigs would be a difficult matter—at any season, as I say, and you don’t give me no time scarcely to get out my bills—’
‘The sale must take place before Saturday week,’ insisted Rosalie. ‘You must do the best you can for me, Mr. Wilson.’
‘You may rely on that, Mrs. Fiander; but it really grieves me to think that you should lose so much.’
He paused, thoughtfully biting the end of one finger, and suffering his eyes meanwhile to travel slowly over the handsome face and graceful figure of his client. During this scrutiny he was not unobservant of the rich materials of which her dress was composed, and her general appearance of mournful prosperity.
‘Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, he said. ‘It’s against my own interest, but I always like to oblige a lady—particularly such a lady as you, Mrs. Fiander. I’ll drive round the country and see if I can persuade peopleto buy up those pigs by private contract. I know a pig-jobber over Shaftesbury side as might be glad to take a good many off you, if he got them at a low price. If I understand you, Mrs. Fiander, the price is not an object to you?’
‘No—o,’ faltered Rosalie. ‘Of course, I should like as much money as possible for them, but the price is not so important as to get rid of the animals as soon as possible.’
‘Just so,’ agreed the auctioneer cheerfully. ‘Well, Mrs. Fiander, I shall lose by it, as I say, but I will try and arrange matters for you in this way. Under the circumstances, ma’am, I grudge no time or trouble spent in your service. I am always thought to be a lady’s man—my late poor wife used to say that my consideration for ladies injured the business; but, as I used to tell her, a man has a heart or else he has n’t.Ifhe has a heart—if he has more feelings than his neighbours, he is n’t to blame for it. “Let the business go, my dear,” I ’d say, “but don’t ask me to be hard on a woman.”’
It had been whispered among the gossips of Branston that during the lifetime of the late Mrs. Wilson her lord had been wont to correct her occasionally with a boot-jack, butthese rumours had not reached Rosalie’s ears; and even if they had she would probably have disbelieved them. Nevertheless, she did not quite like the manner in which the gallant auctioneer leered at her, nor his unnecessarily warm pressure of her hand on saying good-bye.
She drove homewards with a mixture of feelings. The inauguration of her new plan seemed to involve a considerable amount of risk, not to say loss; she felt conscious of the fact that she owed her very partial success more to the persuasion of her beauty than to faith in her prospects as a woman of business; yet there was, after all, satisfaction in thinking that she had carried her point.
He that will not love must beMy scholar, and learn this of me:There be in love as many fearsAs the summer’s corn has ears.
He that will not love must beMy scholar, and learn this of me:There be in love as many fearsAs the summer’s corn has ears.
* * *
Would’st thou know, besides all these,How hard a woman ’t is to please,How cross, how sullen, and how soonShe shifts and changes like the moon.Herrick.
Would’st thou know, besides all these,How hard a woman ’t is to please,How cross, how sullen, and how soonShe shifts and changes like the moon.
Herrick.
Itwas with some trepidation that Rosalie awaited Isaac’s visit on the Sunday following that long and eventful week. The good fellow was, indeed, so overcome when he found himself seated once more in the familiar chair, with the vacant place opposite to him, that she had not courage to make a confession which would, she knew, distress and annoy him—a confession which would have to be made, nevertheless.
Her own eyes filled as she saw Isaac unaffectedly wiping away his tears with his great red-and-yellow handkerchief, and for some moments no word was spoken between them. She filled his pipe and lit it for him, but hesuffered it to rest idly between his fingers, and made no attempt to sip at the tumbler of spirits and water which she placed at his elbow.
‘Let’s talk of him,’ she murmured softly, at last, bending forward. ‘Tell me about when you knew him first.’
‘Lard!’ said Sharpe with a sniff, ‘I know’d him all his life, I may say; I were with him when he were confirmed—and I were at both his weddin’s. Yours was the only one I was n’t at.’
Rosalie straightened herself, feeling as if a douche of cold water had been unexpectedly applied to her.
‘Ah,’ went on Isaac, shaking his head mournfully, ‘I knowed his fust and his second missus well—they was nice women, both on ’em. The fust was a bit near, but, as poor ’Lias used to say, ’twas a good fault. Ah, he’d say that—a good fault.’
He put his pipe between his lips, and immediately took it out again.
‘The second Mrs. Fiander,’ he went on, ‘was a good creatur’ too—very savin’; delicate, though; but he’d al’ays make allowances, her husband would, though it did seem to me sometimes as it was a bit disheartenin’ to a man when his wife got the ’titus just at thebusiest time of year. Ah, he used to tell me often as it were n’t no use to be a dairy-farmer without you had a active wife.’
Rosalie fidgeted in her chair: these little anecdotes of Isaac seemed to her rather pointless under the present circumstances.
‘All I can say is,’ she remarked after a pause, ‘thatIalways found poor dear Elias the most considerate of men.’
‘I d’ ’low ye did,’ said Isaac, turning his moist eyes upon her. ‘He thought a deal o’ you—he did that. Says he to me the first night I come here, when you come home arter getting wed, “I d’ ’low,” says he, “she’s the best o’ the three.”’
There was comfort in this thought, and Rosalie looked gratefully at her visitor, whose eyes had again become suffused with tears as he recalled this touching tribute.
‘He used to say,’ she observed presently in a low voice, ‘that I was a very good manager, but I don’t think it was on that account alone he was so fond of me.’
‘’Ees, he did use to say you was a wonderful manager,’ said Isaac, disregarding the latter part of the sentence. ‘Many a time he’ve a-told me that you had n’t got no equal as a manager.’
Sentiment was evidently not to be the orderof the day, but here, at least, was an opportunity of introducing the little matter of business which weighed so heavily on Rosalie’s conscience.
‘I think,’ she said, diffidently, ‘he would say I was wise in carrying out this new plan.’
‘What new plan?’ inquired Isaac, pausing with his handkerchief halfway to his eyes, and turning towards her sternly, though the tears hung upon his grizzled lashes.
‘Why, the one I spoke to you of—about doing away with the pigs, you know,’ she returned faintly.
‘That there notion that I gi’e ye my advice agen?’ said Sharpe grimly.
‘Yes,’ hesitatingly. ‘I thought it over, as you told me to, and I did n’t think I could manage differently. I find I can sell the pigs all right, and Mr. Hardy has promised to try and dispose of my Blue Vinney cheeses.’
Isaac blew his nose, returned his handkerchief to his pocket, and stood up.
‘I’m glad to hear as ye can manage so well,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You don’t want no advice, that’s plain; and I sha’n’t never offer you none agen. I’ll wish ye good day, Mrs. Fiander.’
‘Oh, don’t go away like that,’ cried shepiteously. ‘Please don’t be offended with me. Such an old friend—’
At this moment a figure passed across the window, and a loud knock was heard at the house-door. Rosalie rushed to the door of the parlour.
‘Don’t let any one in, Susan,’ she cried. ‘Say I’m—I’m engaged. Stay at least a minute, Mr. Sharpe—I want to tell you—I want to explain.’
Throwing out one hand in pleading, she held open the parlour door an inch or two with the other, and presently the manly tones of Mr. Cross were heard through the chink.
‘I am sorry to hear that Mrs. Fiander is engaged. Will you kindly inform her that I will call next Sunday?’
‘Tell him, Susan,’ said her mistress, opening the door a little way, and speaking under her breath—‘tell him that I am always engaged on Sunday.’
Susan was heard to impart this information, and then the visitor’s tones were heard again:
‘That’s a pity! Tell her, if you please, that I shall ’ope to have the pleasure of finding her at home some afternoon during the week.’
‘I am always out in the afternoon,’ said Rosalie, speaking this time so decidedly that it was not necessary for Susan to repeat her words.
‘Oh!’ said the young man, addressing this time not the maid but the bright eye of which he caught a glimpse through the door, ‘then I shall take my chance of finding you in the morning.’
‘I am too busy to see anyone in the morning,’ retorted Rosalie; and she shut the door with a finality which left Mr. Cross no option but to depart.
‘You see I do take your advice sometimes,’ said Rosalie, turning to Isaac, and speaking in a plaintive tone, though a little smile played about her mouth.
Isaac’s back was towards her, and he made no reply; as she approached the burly form, however, she saw his shoulders heave, and presently, to her great relief, discovered that he was shaking with silent laughter.
‘Well, my dear, ye don’t do things by halves—I’ll say that for ’ee,’ he chuckled. You’ve a-got rid o’ that there chap, anyhow. He’ll not ax to come coortin’ again. Well, well, if ye manage as well in other ways I’ll not say that ye bain’t fit to look arter yourself.’
‘But it was your advice, you know, Mr. Sharpe,’ she said demurely. ‘You gave me the hint about shutting the door.’
‘I d’ ’low I did,’ said Isaac; and, being a good-natured and placable person, his transitory sense of resentment was soon replaced by thorough appreciation of the humorous side of the situation.
The discomfiture of Samuel Cross gave a salutary lesson not only to himself, but to sundry other adventurous young men who had been a little hasty in their overtures to Mrs. Fiander. It was soon noised abroad that the young widow wished for the present to keep herself to herself, as the saying went, and that it would in consequence be advisable to abstain from making advances to her—at least, until she had laid aside her crape.
For some months, therefore, Rosalie enjoyed comparative immunity from the importunities which had so much annoyed her, while the new arrangements appeared to work amazingly well both within and without Littlecomb Farm.
Job and Abel departed in due course; the pigs were sold—at considerable loss to their owner; Sam was installed as chief cowman, and sustained his honours cheerfully,without, however, appearing to be unduly elated; and three strapping damsels were engaged as dairy-maids. With their co-operation Mrs. Fiander turned out weekly a score and more of large round cheeses, which were stowed away in an upper room until, in course of time, they should become sufficiently ripe—some people might use the term mouldy—to have earned their title of ‘Blue Vinney’ cheese.
This process took a considerable time, and meanwhile the profits of the dairy were a good deal lessened since Rosalie had left off making the Ha’skim cheeses, for which she had been so particularly famed, and for which she had invariably received regular payment. Still, as she told herself, when the Blue Vinneys were disposed of, she would receive her money in a lump sum, and all would be the same in the end.
Her chief trouble at this time arose from the frequent calls of Mr. Wilson, the auctioneer, who, though he could not be said to be regularly paying attention to Rosalie, found, nevertheless, sundry excuses for ‘dropping in’ and conversing with her at all manner of unseasonable times. He made, as has been implied, no direct advances; and Rosalie,moreover, could not treat him so unceremoniously as she had treated Mr. Cross, for she felt in a manner indebted to him about the sale of those unlucky pigs. He had carried the matter through for her with great difficulty to himself, as he frequently assured her, and he had steadily refused all remuneration. It was hard, therefore, for the young widow to repel or avoid him, and she was in consequence reluctantly obliged to endure many hours of his society.
Your own fair youth, you care so little for it,Smiling towards Heaven, you would not stay the advancesOf time and change upon your happiest fancies.I keep your golden hour, and will restore it.Alice Meynell.
Your own fair youth, you care so little for it,Smiling towards Heaven, you would not stay the advancesOf time and change upon your happiest fancies.I keep your golden hour, and will restore it.
Alice Meynell.
OneSeptember 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 hermovements 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 assumingthat 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.’
He went back to his work whistling, andthinking over Rosalie’s beautiful face and figure regretfully, and with an admiration that was entirely æsthetic, for he had a cheery, rotund little wife at home in London, and half a dozen children to provide for, so that he was not given to sentiment.
It was, perhaps, because his admiration was so innocent and his ambition so laudable, that a few days later his wish to transfer Rosalie’s charms to canvas was granted in a most unexpected way.
It had been unusually hot, and the artist, having finished his sketch of the porch, was proceeding by a short cut through Littlecomb Farm to the downs beyond, in search of cooler air, when, on crossing a cornfield at the further end of which the reapers were busily at work, he suddenly came upon a woman’s figure lying in the shade of a ‘shock’ of sheaves.
The first glance announced her identity; the second assured him that she was fast asleep. She had removed her hat, and her clasped hands supported her head, the upward curve of the beautiful arms being absolutely fascinating to the artist’s eye. The oval face with its warm colouring, the slightly loosened masses of dark hair, were throwninto strong relief by the golden background; the absolute abandonment of the whole form was so perfect in its grace that he paused, trembling with artistic delight, and hardly daring to breathe lest he should disturb her.
But Rosalie, overcome with the heat and tired out after a hard morning’s work, slept peacefully on while he swung his satchel round, opened it quickly, and began with swift deft fingers to make a rapid sketch of her. A few light pencil strokes suggested the exquisite lines of the prostrate form, and he had already begun to dash on the colour, when, with a loud shriek and flapping of wings, a blackbird flew out of the neighbouring hedge, and Rosalie stirred and opened her eyes.
Rosalie’s eyes always took people by surprise, and the artist, who had not before noticed their colour, suffered his to rest upon them appreciatively while they were still hazy with sleep; but when, with returning consciousness, he observed a sudden wonder and indignation leap into them, he threw out his hand hastily.
‘One moment, if you please—stay just as you are for one moment.’
Still under the influence of her recent heavy slumber, and taken aback by the peremptory tone, Rosalie obeyed.
‘What are you doing?’ she inquired suspiciously, but without changing her posture.
‘Don’t you see?’ he returned. ‘I am making a picture of you.’
A warm tide of colour spread over the upturned face.
‘You should n’t do that without asking my leave.’
‘A man must take his chances where he finds them,’ said the artist. ‘I don’t often get such a chance as this. I am a poor man, and can’t afford to let an opportunity slip.’
He had a shrewd sallow face and kind merry eyes, and as he spoke he paused in his work and smiled down at her.
‘I don’t want to be disobliging,’ said Rosalie, ‘but I—I don’t like it. I fell asleep by accident—I should n’t have thrown myself down like this if I had thought anyone was likely to see me.’
‘All the better,’ commented he. ‘You could n’t have put yourself into such a position if you had tried to. It has evidently come naturally, and it is simply perfect.’
He paused to squeeze out a little colour from one of the tiny tubes in his open box, and again smiled encouragingly down at his model.
‘Now will you oblige me by closing your eyes again? No, don’t screw them up like that; let the lids drop gently—so, very good. ’T is a pity to hide the eyes—one does not often see blue eyes with such Murillo colouring; but the length of the lashes makes amends, and I want you asleep.’
Again a wave of colour swept over Rosalie’s face: the stranger marked it approvingly, and worked on.
‘Is it nearly done?’ she inquired presently. ‘You said you would only be a moment.’
‘I find it will take several moments, but I am sure you would not grudge me the time if you knew what a wonderful piece of good fortune this is for me.’
‘How can it be good fortune for you?’
‘Don’t frown, please; let the lids lie loosely. I will tell you why I consider this meeting a piece of good fortune. Do you know what it is to make bread-and-butter?’
‘I make butter three times a week,’ returned Rosalie, somewhat amused; ‘and I make bread too, sometimes.’
‘Well, I have got to make bread-and-butter every day of my life, not only for myself, but for my wife and six small children, and I have nothing to make it with but this. You mayopen your eyes for a moment if you don’t move otherwise.’
Rosalie opened her eyes, and saw that he was bending towards her, and holding out a paint-brush.
‘Now, go to sleep again,’ he went on. ‘Yes, that’s what I make my bread-and-butter with; and it is n’t always an easy task, because there are a great many other chaps who want to make bread-and-butter in the same kind of way, and we can never be quite sure which among the lot of us will find the best market for his wares. But I shall have no difficulty in disposing of you, I am certain—therefore, I consider myself in luck.’
‘Do you mean that you will sell that little picture of me?’
‘Not this one, but a big one which I shall make from it. It will go to an exhibition, and people will come and look at it. As the subject is quite new and very pretty, I shall ask a big price for it, and there will be lots of bread-and-butter for a long time to come.’
‘But would anybody care to buy a picture of a woman whom they don’t know, lying asleep in a cornfield?’ cried Rosalie incredulously, and involuntarily raising her drooped lids.
‘Most certainly they will,’ responded theartist confidently. ‘This will be a lovely thing when it is done. I shall come here to-morrow and make a careful study of this stook against which you are lying, and of the field; and I shall look about for a few good types of harvesters to put in the middle distance.’ He was speaking more to himself than to her, but Rosalie listened with deep interest, and watched him sharply through her half-closed lids. Suddenly she saw him laugh.
‘Perhaps if I come across a very attractive specimen of a rustic, I may place him just behind the stook here, peering through the sheaves at you, or bending forward as if he were going to—’
‘Oh, don’t,’ cried Rosalie, starting violently and opening her eyes wide. ‘No, I won’t have it, I won’t be in the picture at all if you put anything of that kind in!’
‘Not—if I chose a particularly nice young man?’ inquired the painter, still laughing softly to himself. ‘Not if I chose—theyoung man?’
‘I am sure I don’t know what you mean,’ protested she, her cheeks crimson again and her lips quivering. ‘There is no young man.’
‘Do you mean to tell me, my dear child, that with that face you have lived till nowwithout anyone courting you—as I suppose they would call it?’
‘Oh, of course they court me,’ Rosalie hastened to admit; ‘but I hate them all. And they are all very ugly,’ she added eagerly, ‘and would look dreadful in a picture.’
‘There, you are frowning again. Come, let us talk of something less exciting. Keep still, please. So you make butter three times a week, do you? You are a farmer’s daughter, I suppose?’
‘I was a farmer’s granddaughter,’ she returned. ‘My father was a schoolmaster.’
‘Ah, that accounts for your educated way of speaking.’
‘No, father died when I was quite a baby, but my grandfather sent me to school.’
‘Then you live with your mother, I suppose?’
‘No, I live alone here. This farm belongs to me.’
She could not help peeping out beneath her lashes to judge of the effect of her words, and was gratified when the busy brush paused and the dark eyes glanced down at her in astonishment.
‘You live alone here? But this is a big farm—you can’t manage it all yourself?’
‘Yes, I do. It is hard work, but I contrive to do it. I am rather lonely, though.’
‘That will be remedied in time,’ said the artist encouragingly. ‘The right man will come along, and perhaps,’ he added with that queer smile of his, ‘you won’t find him so ugly as the rest.’
‘You don’t know who I am or you would n’t speak like that,’ said Rosalie with dignity; adding, with a softer inflexion of her voice: ‘The right man has come—and gone. I am a widow.’
And unclasping the hands beneath her head, she thrust forward the left one with the shining wedding-ring.
Confusion and concern now replaced the careless gaiety of the stranger’s face.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said earnestly; ‘I did not know. You look so young—I could not guess—but I am very sorry for my foolish talk.’
‘I was married four years,’ said Rosalie softly. Something gentle and kindly about the man invited confidence. ‘My poor Elias has only been dead three months.’ She paused abruptly, astonished at the sudden expression of blank bewilderment on the other’s face.
‘Your husband’s name was Elias’ he queried. ‘I beg your pardon for what must seemidle curiosity. Was it—was it his grave that I saw you visiting the other day?’
‘Yes,’ said Rosalie, sighing and blushing; ‘yes: I—I thought I was alone.’
‘Aged sixty-two!’ quoted the artist to himself, and he raised his hand to his mouth for a moment to conceal its tell-tale quivering. He thought of the girl’s elastic gait on the morning when he had first seen her, and scrutinised once more the blooming face and admirably proportioned form before him; then, shaking his head slowly, went on with his work.
‘Perhaps I shall call this picture “The Sleeping Beauty,”’ he observed after a pause, with apparent irrelevance. ‘You know the story, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think it would be a good name. She was a Princess who went to sleep in a palace in the wood, and I am just I—in my working dress, asleep in a cornfield.’
‘These are mere details,’ said he. ‘The main points of the story are the same. She woke up all right, you know. You will wake up some day, too, my beauty.’
He put such meaning into the words, and smiled down at her so oddly, that she felt confused and uncomfortable. It was not thather pride was wounded at the liberty he had taken in applying such a term to her: his admiration was so evidently impersonal that it could not offend her, and, moreover, his allusion to his wife and children had had a tranquillising effect. But the man’s look and tone when he made this strange remark filled her with vague disquietude; both betrayed a secret amusement mingled with something like compassion. ‘She would wake up some day,’ he said; but she did not want to wake up! She was quite happy—at least, as happy as could be in her bereaved state—she asked nothing more from life. It would be certainly more unpleasant than the reverse to discover that life had surprises in store for her. But why need she trouble herself about a prophecy so idly uttered, and by an absolute stranger? Nevertheless, she did trouble herself, not only throughout the remainder of the time that the artist was completing his sketch, but frequently afterwards.
‘You will wake up some day, my beauty!’ Oh no, no; let her sleep on if this placid contented existence were indeed sleep; let her dream away the days in peace, until that time of awakening which would re-unite her to Elias.
Then, proud Celinda, hope no moreTo be implor’d or woo’d;Since by thy scorn thou dost restoreThe wealth my love bestow’d;And thy disdain too late shall findThat none are fair but who are kind.Thomas Stanley.
Then, proud Celinda, hope no moreTo be implor’d or woo’d;Since by thy scorn thou dost restoreThe wealth my love bestow’d;And thy disdain too late shall findThat none are fair but who are kind.
Thomas Stanley.
Whenthe artist had gone away, after lingering some days longer to complete his studies for the projected picture, the tenor of Rosalie’s existence flowed on as calmly as even she could desire. She made and sold her butter; had her cheeses conveyed to Mr. Hardy’s establishment in Branston; superintended the harvesting of her potatoes and mangels; laid in her winter store of oil-cake; and fattened sundry turkeys and geese for the Christmas market.
Early on a winter’s afternoon Rosalie Fiander might have been seen walking slowly across the downs in the neighbourhood of Isaac Sharpe’s farm. She carried a large basket, and every now and then paused to add tothe store of scarlet berries or shining evergreen which she was culling from thicket and hedgerow for Christmas decoration.
All at once she was surprised by hearing a step on the path behind her and a man’s voice calling her name, and, turning, descried the tall and somewhat ungainly person of Andrew Burge.
Though it wanted yet a few days of Christmas, that gentleman, who was of a social turn of mind, had evidently begun to celebrate the festival, and Rosalie, gazing at him, was somewhat dismayed on perceiving the flushed hilarity of his countenance and the devious gait by which he approached.
She paused reluctantly, however, and shook hands with him when he came up.
‘I’ve been calling at your place, Mrs. Fiander,’ he observed, ‘to wish you the compliments of the season.’
‘I am very much obliged to you,’ said Rosalie. ‘The same to you, Mr. Burge.’
‘Ah!’ said the young man, rolling an amorous eye at her, ‘I was most wishful, Mrs. Fiander, to give you my Christmas greetings in person.’
‘You are very good,’ said she. ‘I wish you a merry Christmas and a happy NewYear. And now I think I must be moving home, for I am very busy to-day.’
‘Allow me to escort you,’ urged Andrew. ‘’T was a disapp’intment to me not to find you at home. I am rej’iced to have overtaken you, and anxious to prorogue the interview. There’s a season for condoliances and a season for congratulations. This here is the time for congratulations, and I am anxious, Mrs. Fiander, ma’am, to prorogue it.’
‘My work is waiting for me at home,’ said the young widow in alarm. ‘I am afraid I shall have no time to attend to you; but, perhaps, some other day—’
She broke off and began to walk away rapidly; but the uneven, lumbering steps kept pace with hers.
‘Christmas comes but once a year,’ remarked Mr. Burge, somewhat thickly. ‘’T is a joyful season—a season as fills a man’s ’eart with ’ope and ’appiness.’
This observation appearing to call for no rejoinder, Rosalie let it pass unnoticed except by a slight quickening of her pace; to no purpose, however, for her unwelcome companion kept by her side.
‘Christmas for ever!’ he ejaculated huskily, with an appropriate flourish of his hat.Instead of restoring it to its place after this sudden display of enthusiasm, he continued to wave it uncertainly, not over his own head, but over Rosalie’s, leering the while in a manner which materially increased her discomposure. All at once she saw that a sprig of mistletoe was tucked into the band of Mr. Burge’s head-gear, and almost at the moment she made this discovery he lurched forward, so as to bar her progress, and bent his face towards hers.
‘How dare you!’ cried Rosalie, thrusting him from her with a vigorous push; then, as he momentarily lost his equilibrium and staggered backwards against the hedge, she fairly took to her heels and fled from him at full speed, not towards her own home, but to Isaac Sharpe’s premises.
‘O Mr. Sharpe!’ she cried breathlessly. ‘Oh, oh, save me! He’s after me!’
‘Who’s arter you, my dear? Why, you be a-shakin’ same as an aspen-tree. What in the name o’ Goodness has put you in such a state?’
‘Oh, it’s—it’s that dreadful Andrew Burge. He overtook me on the downs and tried to kiss me. I think he’s tipsy, and I know he’s running after me.’
‘Nay now, my dear, don’t ’ee take on so. He’ll not hurt ye here—I’ll see to that. Dang his impidence! Tried to kiss ye, did he? That chap needs to be taught his place.’
‘I’m sure he’s coming down the path now,’ cried Rosalie, wringing her hands. ‘Oh, dear, if he does n’t come here I dare say he’ll go back to the farm, and I shall find him there when I go home.’
‘Now, don’t ’ee go on shakin’ and cryin’ so. Don’t ye be so excited, Rosalie,’ said Isaac, who was himself very red in the face and violently perturbed. ‘Come, I’ll walk home along of ye, and if I do find him there I’ll settle him—leastways, if you’ll give me leave. Ye don’t want to have nothin’ more to say to ’en, do ye? Very well, then, ’t will be easy enough to get rid of ’en.’
So Isaac Sharpe, without pausing to pull a coat over his smock-frock, duly escorted Mrs. Fiander across the downs and home by the short cut; and, as Rosalie had surmised, Susan greeted them on the threshold with the pleasing information that Mr. Burge was waiting for her in the parlour.
‘Very good,’ said Isaac. ‘Leave ’en to me, my dear. Jist you go to the dairy, or up to your room, or anywheres ye like out o’ theroad. I’ll not be very slack in getting through wi’ this here job.’
He watched her until she had disappeared from view, and then suddenly throwing open the parlour door shouted in stentorian tones to its solitary occupant:
‘Now then, you must get out o’ this!’
Burge, who had been sitting in a somnolent condition before the fire, woke up, and stared in surprise mingled with alarm at the white-robed giant who advanced threateningly towards him through the dusk.
‘Why, what does this mean?’ he stammered.
‘What does this mean?’ repeated the farmer in thundering tones. ‘It means that you’re a rascal, young fellow.’
And Isaac qualified the statement with one or two specimens of ‘language’ of the very choicest kind.
‘What do you mean, eh,’ he pursued, standing opposite the chair where Andrew sat blinking, ‘by running arter young females on them there lonesome downs, when you was not fit for nothin’ but a public bar, frightenin’ her, and insultin’ her till she was very near took with a fit on my doorstep? What do ye mean, ye villain, eh? If ye was n’t so drunk that ye could n’t stand up to me for a minuteI’d have ye out in that there yard and I’d give ye summat!’
Mr. Burge shrank as far back in his chair as was compatible with a kind of tipsy dignity, and inquired mildly:
‘Why, what business is it of yours, Mr. Sharpe?’
‘It’s my business that I won’t have ’Lias Fiander’s widow insulted nor yet put upon, nor yet bothered by folks as she don’t want to ha’ nothin’ to say to.’
‘Mr. Sharpe,’ protested Andrew—‘Mr. Sharpe, I cannot permit such interference. My intentions was honourable. I meant matrimony, and I will not allow any stranger to come between this lady and me.’
‘Ye meant matrimony, did ye?’ said Isaac, exchanging his loud, wrathful tone for one of withering scorn. ‘Mrs. Fiander does n’t mean matrimony, though—not wi’ the likes o’ you. Come, you clear out o’ this; and don’t you never go for to show your ugly mug here again, or my cluster o’ five will soon be no stranger to it, I promise you!’
He held up a colossal hand as he spoke, first extending the fingers in illustration of his threat, and then clenching it into a redoubtable fist.
Andrew sat upright in the elbow-chair, his expressionless eyes staring stolidly at his assailant, but without attempting to move. Through the open door the sound of whispers and titters could have been heard had either of the men been in a condition to notice such trivial matters.
‘Now, then!’ repeated Sharpe threateningly.
Andrew Burge drew himself up.
‘This contumacious behaviour, Mr. Sharpe, sir,’ he said, ‘has no effect upon me whatever. My intentions is to make an equivocal offer of marriage to Mrs. Fiander, and from her lips alone will I take my answer. I shall sit in this chair,’ he continued firmly, ‘until the lady comes in person to give me her responsory.’
‘You will, will ye?’ bellowed Isaac. ‘Ye be a-goin’ to sit there, be ye? Ye bain’t, though! That there chair’s my chair I’d have ye know, and I’ll soon larn ye who have got the right to sit in it.’
With that he lunged forward, thrusting the cluster of five so suddenly into Andrew’s face that that gentleman threw himself heavily backwards, and the chair, being unprovided with castors, overbalanced, and fell violently to the ground.
Undeterred by the catastrophe and thepeculiar appearance presented by Mr. Burge’s flushed and dazed countenance as he stared helplessly upwards, contemplating probably a thousand stars, Isaac seized the chair by the legs and began to drag it across the floor, bumping its occupant unmercifully in his exertions. His own countenance was, indeed, almost as purple in hue as Andrew’s by the time he reached the door, which was obligingly thrown open as he neared it, revealing Sam Belbin’s delighted face. The alarmed countenances of the maids peered over his shoulder, while a few manly forms were huddled together in the passage. Mr. Sharpe’s extremely audible tones had attracted many eager listeners; nothing so exciting had taken place at Littlecomb since Elias Fiander’s funeral.
‘Here, you chaps,’ cried the farmer, still tugging violently at the chair, and panting with his efforts; ‘here, come on, some on you. Lend a hand to get rid o’ this here carcase.’
Nothing loath, the men sprang forward, and between them the chair with its occupant was dragged out of the room and along the passage.
‘What’s he been a-doin’ of?’ inquired Sam with great gusto, as he dropped his particular chair-leg on the cobble-stones in the yard.
‘Never you mind what he’ve been a-doin’of,’ returned Isaac, straightening himself and wiping his brow. ‘Get him out of that there chair, and trot him off the premises—that’s what you ’ve a-got to do.’
Andrew Burge was with some difficulty set on his legs, and after gazing vacantly round him appeared to recover a remnant of his scattered senses.
‘I’ll summons you, Mr. Sharpe,’ he cried. ‘The liberties of the British subject is not to be vi’lently interfered with! I leave this spot,’ he added, looking round loftily but unsteadily, ‘with contumely!’
Anyone who had subsequently seen Sam and Robert conducting the suitor to the high road would have endorsed the truth of this remark, though Mr. Burge, according to his custom, had merely used the first long word that occurred to him without any regard to its appropriateness.
Returning to the house, Isaac went to the foot of the stairs and called out Rosalie’s name in a mildly jubilant roar.
‘Come down, Mrs. Fiander; come down, my dear! He be gone, and won’t never trouble you no more, I’ll answer for ’t.’
Rosalie came tripping downstairs, smiling, in spite of a faintly alarmed expression.
‘What a noise you did make, to be sure!’ she remarked; ‘and what a mess the parlour is in!’
‘We did knock down a few things, I d’ ’low, when we was cartin’ ’en out of this,’ returned Isaac apologetically. ‘He was a-settin’ in my chair, and he up and told me to my face as he’d go on a-settin’ there till he seed ’ee—that were comin’ it a bit too strong!’
He was helping her as he spoke to pick up the scattered furniture, and to restore the table-cloth and books, which Andrew had dragged down in falling, to their places.
These tasks ended, he faced her with a jovial smile.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘he won’t trouble you again, anyhow. There’s one o’ your coortin’ chaps a-gone for good.’
‘I wish you could get rid of them all in the same way,’ said Rosalie gratefully; adding in a confidential tone, ‘there’s Mr. Wilson, now—he keeps calling and calling, and he follows me about, and pays me compliments—he is very tiresome.’
‘Be he?’ returned the farmer with a clouded brow. ‘Ah, and he bain’t a chap for you to be takin’ notice on, nohow. I’d give ’en the sack if I was you.’
‘Why, you see, I don’t like to be rude; and he was kind about the pigs. But I wish some one would drop him a hint that he is wasting his time in dangling about me.’
She broke off suddenly, for at that moment the interested and excited countenance of Sam Belbin appeared in the doorway, and, though he was a favourite with his mistress, she did not see fit to discuss such intimate affairs in his hearing.
The news of Isaac Sharpe’s encounter with young Andrew Burge soon flew round the neighbourhood, evoking much comment, and causing constructions to be placed upon the farmer’s motives which, if he had heard them, would have sorely disquieted that good man.
‘He be a-goin’ to coort Widow Fiander hisself, for certain,’ averred Mrs. Paddock. ‘D’ ye mind how I did say that day as there was all the trouble yonder at Littlecomb—“How nice,” says I, “master did speak of her!”—d’ ye mind? He were quite undone about her. “Pore young creatur’,” says he, so feelin’ as he could. “D’ ye mind? Mrs. Belbin,” I said, says I, “master be a very feelin’ man.”’
‘Ah, I can mind as you said that,’ returned Mrs. Belbin; ‘but my Sam he d’ ’low as Mrs.Fiander would n’t so much as look at master. “Not another old man,” says he. And, mind ye,’ added Mrs. Belbin, confidentially dropping her voice, ‘Sam’s missus do think a deal o’ he.’
Mrs. Paddock folded her arms, and looked superciliously at her neighbour.
‘Nay now,’ said she, ‘your Sam ’ull find hisself mistook if he gets set on sich a notion as that.’
‘What notion?’ returned the other innocently. ‘I never said nothin’ about no notion at all. You’ve a-got such a suspectin’ mind, Mrs. Paddock, there’s no tellin’ you a bit o’ news wi’out you up an’ take a body’s character away.’
At this moment the impending hostilities between the two matrons were averted by the advent of a third—Mrs. Stuckhey by name, wife of Robert Stuckhey, who worked at Littlecomb.
‘My ’usband did say,’ she remarked, negligently scratching her elbows, ‘as Mr. Sharpe seemed very intimate wi’ missus. “My dear,” he says to her. Ah, Stuckhey d’ say as Mr. Sharpe do often call missus “my dear.” And he did say as he seed ’en come walkin’ home wi’ her this arternoon, quite lovin’ like, in asmock-frock, jist the same as if he was in his own place. “Go upstairs, my dear,” says he—’
‘In hissmock-frock?’ interrupted Mrs. Paddock eagerly. ‘Were it a new smock-frock, did Mr. Stuckhey say?’
‘Very like it were,’ replied Mrs. Stuckhey, accommodatingly. ‘My master he bain’t one as takes much notice, and if it had a-been a old one he’d scarce ha’ thought o’ mentionin’ it to me.’
‘Then you may depend, Mrs. Belbin,’ cried Mrs. Paddock triumphantly, ‘as master be a-coortin’ o’ Widow Fiander! A new smock-frock! ’t is the very thing as a man like he ’ud wear when his thoughts was bent on sich matters! I do mind as my father told me often how he did save an’ save for eleven weeks to buy hisself a new smock to go a-coortin’ my mother in. Ah, wages was terrible low then, and he were n’t a-gettin’ above seven shillin’ a week; but he did manage to put by a shillin’ out o’ that. The smock—it were a white ’un—did cost eleven shillin’, and he did save eleven weeks. And, strange to say, when he and my mother did wed, they did have eleven children.’
Utterly routed by this incontrovertibletestimony, Mrs. Belbin withdrew to her own quarters, leaving the other two ragged heads bobbing together in high enjoyment of the delectable piece of gossip.
Before the morrow the entire village knew that Farmer Sharpe had arrived at Littlecomb with his arm round Widow Fiander’s waist, that he had spoken to her in the tenderest terms, had avowed his intention of hammering each and every one of her suitors, and had bought himself a brand-new and beautifully embroidered smock-frock for the express purpose of courting her in it.
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,Misprising what they look on . . .Shakespeare.
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,Misprising what they look on . . .
Shakespeare.
ThoughIsaac Sharpe did not consider himself bound to assist Rosalie in repelling the advances of Mr. Wilson, the auctioneer, the wish she had expressed that someone would be kind enough to ‘drop a hint to him’ had fallen upon other attentive and willing ears.
Sam Belbin had laid her words to heart, and only waited for an opportunity of proving his good-will by ridding her of a frequent and unwelcome visitor.
His chance came at last, and he was quick to take advantage of it.
It was cheese-day, and Rosalie and her maids had prepared such a quantity that their work was not, as usual, finished before dinnertime, and they were still elbow-deep in curds when Mr. Wilson chanced to look in.
Sam was standing in the outer room, swilling out the great cheese-vat which had heldthat morning a hundred and eighty gallons of skim-milk. A wonderfully obliging fellow was Sam, always ready to lend a hand here, to do an odd job there; and so good-tempered with it all. His mistress could often see his smiling mouth open and ready to agree with whatever remark he thought her likely to make long before she had spoken; and as she liked contradiction as little as any of her sex her head-man advanced the more rapidly in her favour.
She was anything but gratified when Mr. Wilson appeared on the threshold of the milk-house, and after a brief greeting bent her head over her mould and went on with her work.
‘Always busy, Mrs. Fiander,’ remarked the visitor pleasantly. ‘’Pon my word, you ladies put us to shame sometimes. We men are idle creatures in comparison with you.’
Rosalie made no answer, and Sam banged about the vat with his stiff brush so energetically that he seemed bent on giving the lie to the auctioneer’s words.
‘I am really quite curious to see how you set about your cheese-making,’ pursued the latter in mellifluous tones. ‘Should I be inyour way, Mrs. Fiander, if I was to step in and watch you?’
‘I am afraid you would n’t find it very amusing,’ responded Rosalie unwillingly. ‘Of course, if you like. But it will really be most uncomfortable for you. We are all in such a mess here. Sam’—irritably—‘what a din you do make with that tub!’
Sam, who had tilted up the tub, the better apparently to scrub the bottom, now let it go suddenly, sending a great portion of its contents splashing across the floor in Mr. Wilson’s direction.
‘It be all the same,’ he remarked philosophically; ‘I were just a-goin’ to swill out this here place.’
And with that he upset a little more of the steaming water upon the floor, seized a stiff broom, and began to brush the soapy liquid towards the door.
‘You might have waited a moment,’ commented his mistress; but she spoke with a sweet smile, for she saw with the corner of her eye how hastily Mr. Wilson had skipped out of the way, anxious to protect his shining boots and immaculate leggings. ‘I really cannot invite you in now,’ she added, turning to the visitor regretfully. ‘Pray excuse theman’s awkwardness.’ But as she spoke she smiled again on Sam.
She related the anecdote with much gusto to Isaac Sharpe on the following Sunday, but he did not seem to appreciate it as much as she had expected.
‘That there Wilson, he’s arter you too, I suppose. I would n’t have anything to say to him if I was you. He bain’t steady enough to make a good husband—racin’ an’ drinkin’, and sich-like. Ah, his poor wife, she did n’t praise him, but she suffered, poor soul!’
‘Gracious, Mr. Sharpe, I am sure you need n’t warn me! You know what my views are; besides, I hate the man. I would n’t see him at all if he had n’t—had n’t been rather obliging in a business-way. But was n’t it clever of Sam to get rid of him like that?’
‘’Ees,’ agreed the farmer dubiously; ‘but don’t ’ee go for to let ’en take too much on hisself, my dear, else ye’ll be like to repent it. It do never do to let these young fellows get sot up. Keep ’en in his place, Mrs. Fiander; don’t let ’en get presumptious.’
‘I’m sure he would never be that,’ she rejoined warmly. ‘Poor Sam; he’s the humblest creature in the world. He goes about his work like—like a machine.’
‘May be so,’ said Isaac incredulously; ‘you know him best, I suppose, but I jist thought I’d speak my mind out about him.’
Rosalie frowned a little and said no more, but her faith in Sam was not diminished, and as time went on she grew to rely more and more on this cheerful and obliging young fellow.
The gossiping anent the alleged courting of Mrs. Fiander by Farmer Sharpe was not confined to Littlecomb Village, but soon spread to the more important town of Branston, with the immediate result of stirring up sundry of the young men belonging to that place, who, after the discomfiture of Samuel Cross, had deemed it prudent to relax for a time in their attentions to the fascinating widow. So long as she had been thought plunged in grief, these wooers of hers had been content to bide their time; but when it became known that there was actually an avowed suitor in the field, and one, moreover, to whom the lady had given unequivocal tokens of confidence and good-will, they resolved with one accord to bestir themselves, lest the prize of which each thought himself most deserving, might be secured by another.
Before many days of the new year hadpassed Rosalie found herself absolutely besieged. Samuel Cross actually forced his way past the unwilling Susan into the parlour while Rosalie was at tea; Mr. Wilson lay in wait for her as she was emerging from church on Christmas Day, and made his proposal in due form as he escorted her homewards. John Hardy inveigled the widow into the back parlour behind the shop, ostensibly to discuss the sale of the Blue Vinneys, in reality to lay his hand and heart at her feet.
Rosalie said ‘No’ to one and all, and was astonished at the outburst of indignation which her answer provoked, and at the keen sense of ill-usage under which every one of her suitors appeared to be labouring.
It was Samuel Cross who first alluded in Rosalie’s hearing to the prevalent belief that Farmer Sharpe was paying his court to her; and he was somewhat taken aback by the unfeigned merriment which the suggestion evoked.
‘You may laugh, Mrs. Fiander,’ he said, recovering himself after an instant, ‘but people are not blind and deaf; and, though they may be fooled to a certain extent by a lady, gentlemen of my profession find it easy to put two and two together, ma’am. When a lady tellsyou she is always engaged on a Sunday, and shuts the door in the face of a person who comes to make civil inquiries, one does n’t need to be extra clever to guess that there must be some reason for it. And when the reason turns out to be another gentleman, and when that gentleman takes upon himself to assault another gentleman as was also desirous of paying his respects in the same quarter, that, Mrs. Fiander, is what one may termprimâ-facieevidence!’
Whether the display of Mr. Cross’s learning had a sobering effect on Mrs. Fiander, or whether she was suddenly struck by some serious thought, it is certain that she ceased laughing at this juncture, and remained pensive even after the rejected suitor had departed.
Mr. Wilson was harder to get rid of. He was so confident in the justice of his claim, so pertinacious in reminding Rosalie of her obligations towards him with regard to the sales of the pigs—which piece of business he perseveringly alluded to as ‘a delicate matter’—so persuaded, moreover, of his own superiority to any of her other lovers, that she finally lost patience and petulantly declared that if there were not another man in the world she would not consent to marry him.
The auctioneer grew purple in the face, and suddenly changed his note:—
‘If there was n’t another man in the world!’ he repeated sneeringly. ‘Then there is another man? Ha! it is n’t very hard to guess who! Well, tastes differ. If you like such a rough, common old chap better than a gentleman doing a large and honourable business, I make you a present of him, Mrs. Fiander, smock-frock and all! Ha, ha, he’ll soon have the pigs back again when he’s master here, and all my labour and loss of time will have been thrown away. Not that I grudge the sacrifice,’ cried Mr. Wilson in a melting tone. ‘No, far be it from me to grudge the sacrifice. The ladies have always found an easy prey in me; and when I think of the far greater sacrifice which a young and lovely woman is prepared to make upon the altar of matrimony—a sacrifice which she will repent too late—I am rejooced to silence.’
Here Mr. Wilson thumped his breast and cast a last languishing look at the young widow, who appeared, however, to be absorbed in her own reflections.
He talked on in spite of his last assertion until they reached Rosalie’s door, where,waking as if from a dream, she extended her hand to him.
‘Good-bye,’ she said. ‘There is no use in talking about it any more, Mr. Wilson; my mind is made up.’
The auctioneer extended his hand dramatically in the direction of the empty pigsties.
‘Well, Mrs. Fiander,’ he cried, ‘if the Inspector of Nuisances visits your premises you will only have yourself to thank.’
‘Meanwhile,’ retorted Rosalie with some acerbity, ‘as it might be a little difficult to send for him to-day, I should be glad if the nuisance who is now occupying my premises would take himself off.’
She went into the house with a flushed face, but seemed more thoughtful than annoyed during the remainder of the day.
It was, however, with unmixed vexation that she perused, on the morning following her rejection of young John Hardy, a document signed by the firm, which ran thus:—
‘ToMrs. Fiander.Madam,—ReBlue Vinney Cheeses.—We regret to inform you that we can no longer allow our premises to be used as a storehouse for these unsaleable articles. In the three months during which, in order to oblige you, we have placed ourestablishment at your disposal, we have only found one purchaser for a small portion of the goods in question (as you will see per statement copied from our books and enclosed herewith). Under these circumstances we are returning to you to-day as many of the cheeses as the carrier’s cart can convey, and we shall be obliged by your removing the remainder at your earliest convenience.We are, Madam, yours obediently,‘Hardy&Son.’
‘ToMrs. Fiander.
Madam,—ReBlue Vinney Cheeses.—We regret to inform you that we can no longer allow our premises to be used as a storehouse for these unsaleable articles. In the three months during which, in order to oblige you, we have placed ourestablishment at your disposal, we have only found one purchaser for a small portion of the goods in question (as you will see per statement copied from our books and enclosed herewith). Under these circumstances we are returning to you to-day as many of the cheeses as the carrier’s cart can convey, and we shall be obliged by your removing the remainder at your earliest convenience.
We are, Madam, yours obediently,‘Hardy&Son.’
The enclosed ‘statement’ testified to the purchase by one Margaret Savage of ¾ lb. Blue Vinney Cseat 5¾d.= 4d., which sum had been credited to Mrs. Fiander’s account.
Rosalie gave a little gasp, and tears of vexation sprang to her eyes.
‘They just want to spite me,’ she said. ‘Of course the cheeses are hardly fit for use yet—they can’t have even tried to dispose of them; they simply pretended to sell them so as to entrap me, and now they are throwing them back on my hands before I have time to think what to do with them. That odious John Hardy! Mean-spirited wretch—it is all his doing!’
Even as she thus cogitated there was a rattling of wheels without, and the carrier’s cart drew up with a flourish at the door.
‘Please, ma’am,’ cried Susan, thrusting in her head, ‘Mr. Smith be here with ever so many cheeses as he says Hardys are sending back; and there’s sixteen-and-eightpence to pay; and he says, ma’am, will you please send the men to unload them at once?’
‘Call Sam,’ said her mistress in a strangled voice. ‘Tell him to come at once with two or three of the others, and to take the cheeses carefully upstairs.’
‘Why, the cheese-room be a’most full, ma’am. I doubt there’ll not be much room for them there. We was waitin’, you know, till Christmas had gone over a bit to send the last load to town.’
‘Pile them up in the dairy, then, for the present. Well, why don’t you go?’ she cried, irritably, as the girl remained staring at her. ‘Make the men get to work at once while I find my purse.’
As she came down from her room, purse in hand, she observed through the staircase window the blank faces of Sam and his underlings, as the carrier tossed the cheeses to them from the cart, grinning the while as though at some excellent joke. She stamped her foot, and caught her breath with a little angry sob. She had been so proud in despatchingto Branston load after load of these fine round cheeses, she had often congratulated herself on the wisdom and cleverness of this expedient of hers—and now to have them ignominiously thrown back at her without having even disposed of one—to be turned into a laughing-stock for her own folks as well as for the whole town of Branston; to be actually made to pay for the ill-success of her experiment! Rosalie was as a rule open-handed and generous enough, but the disbursal of this particular sixteen-and-eightpence caused her a pang of almost physical anguish.
Half an hour later, when the carrier had departed and the men returned to their work, she entered the dairy, and stood gazing with clasped hands and a melancholy countenance at the heaps of despised Blue Vinneys which were piled up on every side.
To her presently came Sam Belbin, his arms dangling limply by his sides, his expression duly composed to sympathetic gloom.
‘Oh, Sam!’ exclaimed Rosalie in a heartbroken tone, pointing tragically to the nearest yellow mound.
‘I would n’t take on, I’m sure, mum,’ responded Sam with a ghastly smile. ‘Nay now, I would n’t take on. ’T was very illdone o’ Mr. Hardy—so everybody do say, but he’s that graspin’—he never do care for sellin’ a bit o’ cheese to poor folks—’t is all bacon, bacon wi’ he! “Don’t ’ee go for to fill your stummicks wi’ that there ’ard cheese,” I ’ve a-heard him say myself. “Buy a bit o’ bacon as ’ull stand to ye hot or cold.”’
‘Bacon!’ ejaculated Rosalie with a note of even deeper woe. Then, pointing to the cheeses again, she groaned: ‘Oh, Sam, was it worth while getting rid of the pigs—for this?’
‘Dear heart alive, mum,’ responded Belbin, plucking up his courage, and speaking more cheerfully. ‘Mr. Hardy bain’t the only grocer in Branston! There be a-many more as ’ud be proud an’ glad to sell them cheeses for ye.’
‘No, no. Why, the story must be all over the town by now—no one will look at them in Branston. Everyone will know that Mr. Hardy packed them back to me. No, if I sell them at all I must send them away somewhere—to Dorchester, perhaps.’
‘Well, and that ’ud be a good notion, mum,’ commented Belbin. ‘You’d get a better price for them there, I d’ ’low. Lard! At Dorchester the Blue Vinney cheeses do go off like smoke.’
‘There is always a sale for them there, to be sure,’ said Rosalie, somewhat less lugubriously.
‘And our own horses and carts ’ud take them there in less than no time,’ pursued Sam, more and more confidently. ‘Things have just fell out lucky. It be a-goin’ to take up to-night, and I d’ ’low there’ll be some sharpish frostiss—’t will just exercise the horses nicely, to get them roughed and make ’em carry them cheeses to Dorchester—’t will be the very thing as ’ull do them good. And it’ll cost ye nothing,’ he added triumphantly.
‘Well, Sam, you are a good comforter,’ cried his mistress, brightening up under the influence of his cheerfulness. ‘’T is a blessing, I am sure, to have someone about one who does n’t croak.’
She turned to him as she spoke with one of her radiant smiles—a smile, however, which very quickly vanished, for Sam’s face wore a most peculiar expression.
‘Why, my dear!’ he cried, casting an ardent look upon her, ‘I be main glad to hear ye say so! I’d ax nothin’ better nor to be about ye always; an’ I’d comfort an’ do for ye so well as I could. ’T is a thing,’ he added, with modest candour, ‘asI’ve a-had in my mind for some time, but I did n’t like to speak afore. I was n’t sure as ye’d relish the notion. But now as you’ve a-hinted so plain—’
Rosalie had averted her face for a moment, but as he advanced towards her with extended arm, she flashed round upon him a glance which suddenly silenced him.
He remained staring at her with goggling eyes and a dropping jaw during the awful pause which succeeded.
He heaved a sigh of relief, however, when she at last broke silence, for she spoke calmly, and her words seemed innocuous enough.
‘Is that your coat hanging up behind the door?’
‘Yes, mum,’ responded Sam, no longer the lover but the very humble servant.