Chapter IX

Then, proud Celinda, hope no more
To be implor’d or woo’d;
Since by thy scorn thou dost restore
The wealth my love bestow’d;
And thy disdain too late shall find
That none are fair but who are kind.

THOMAS STANLEY.

WHEN the 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 to the 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 New Year. 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’ the road. 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 minute I’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 the peculiar 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 a smock-frock, jist the same as if he was in his own place. “Go upstairs, my dear,” says he—’

‘In his _smock-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 incontrovertible testimony, 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.