Chapter X

Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on . . .

SHAKESPEARE.

THOUGH Isaac 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 held that 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 in your 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 the man’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 had passed 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 tells you 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 term _primâ-facie_ evidence!’

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:—

‘To MRS. FIANDER.

MADAM,—_Re_ Blue 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 our establishment 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 Cse at 5¾_d._ = 4_d._, 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 despatching to 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 ill done 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, ‘as I’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.

‘Go and get it then. Your cap, I think, is on the table.’

She fumbled in her pocket for a moment, and presently drew forth her purse, from which she counted out the sum of fourteen shillings. Her eyes had a steely glitter in them as she fixed them on Sam.

‘Here are your week’s wages,’ she said. ‘Take them, and walk out of this house.’

‘Mum,’ pleaded Sam piteously. ‘Missus—!’

‘Go out of this house,’ repeated Rosalie, pointing mercilessly to the door; ‘and never let me see your face again. Out of my sight!’ she added quickly, as he still hesitated.

Sam’s inarticulate protests died upon his lips, and he turned and left her, Rosalie looking after him with gleaming eyes until his figure was lost to sight.