Chapter V

He drow’d
Hizzelf about, an’ teäv’d an’ blow’d,
Lik’ any uptied calf.
* * *
An’ mutter’d out sich dreats, an’ wrung
His vist up sich a size!

WILLIAM BARNES.

ON the next morning when the men came slowly sauntering to their work they were surprised to see Mrs. Fiander, clad this time not in homely print but in ceremonious black, standing by her own door, with a severe expression of countenance. She held a note-book in her hand, and as each arrived she jotted down some memorandum therein. When the last straggler had appeared upon the scene, she summoned the entire band before her.

‘Men,’ she said, speaking calmly and very distinctly, ‘since you seem to pay no attention to what I say, I must show you that I am not to be trifled with. I shall fine every one of you this morning for being late. I shall continue to fine you each morning that you are late, and I shall deduct from your pay a certain amount for every hour that you wilfully waste. In fact, for the future your wage shall be in exact proportion to the work you do.’

The men stared, gaped, and looked sullenly first at one another and then at their mistress.

‘Do you understand?’ she inquired sharply.

Job Hunt, his red-bearded face even more glowing than usual, answered in surly tones for himself and comrades.

‘Nay, missus, us can’t say as we do!’

‘Well, then, I’ll make it clear to you,’ rang out the brisk young voice. ‘You are paid for the work you do during certain hours, and if you don’t come here punctually, or if you waste any of those hours, I shall deduct from your weekly wage the value of the lost time—I shan’t pay you, in fact, for work you don’t do!’

‘Nay, now,’ responded Job, rolling his head from side to side, and assuming a bullying air. ‘I don’t hold wi’ these here reg’lations. Us don’t want no new rules, do us, mates?’

‘Nay, that we don’t,’ came the answer in a chorus of growls.

‘Whether you want them or not, I mean to keep to them,’ returned Rosalie. ‘That will do; you can all go to work now.’

She turned, and went into the house; her heart was beating very fast, and she was rather white about the lips, but she had borne herself bravely, and no one would have guessed the difficulty she had found in nerving herself to take this stand.

She could hear the men’s voices murmuring together discontentedly, but by-and-by the sound of heavy slouching steps moving away in different directions warned her that the group had dispersed.

It being the morning for cheese-making, she presently went upstairs to change her imposing black robe for her working dress, and, chancing as she came downstairs to look out of the window, she observed that Job Hunt was standing, arms a-kimbo, by the pigsties, in close conversation with his brother. Now, Job should at that moment have been far on his way to the pasture; Abel ought to have been feeding the pigs: this was palpable defiance.

‘Deeds, not words,’ said Rosalie to herself. ‘They think I am merely threatening—I must show them I am in earnest.’

She went across the yard, note-book in hand.

‘It is now half-past five,’ she remarked. ‘You, Job, are two hours and a half late; you, Abel, an hour. I have made a note of the time. Moreover, if I find that you continue to disobey me I shall not keep you in my service.’

Job made an indescribable sound, between a snort and a groan, and slowly walked away. Abel, however, continued to stare darkly at his mistress, without changing his position.

As Rosalie, now thoroughly incensed, was about to pour out upon him the vials of her wrath, she suddenly perceived—the fact being unmistakably impressed upon her—that the pigsties near which she stood were in a most disgraceful condition.

‘Abel,’ she said, ‘when were these sties cleaned out? Not, I am sure, on Saturday.’

‘I were—mortal busy o’ Saturday,’ returned Abel in sepulchral tones.

‘Why were you more busy last Saturday than on any other Saturday?’

Abel shuffled from one foot to the other, and repeated sulkily that he had been mortal busy.

‘You must clean them as soon as ever you have fed the pigs,’ said Rosalie sharply. ‘’t is enough to bring fever to the place to have them in this state.’

‘Pigs is n’t p’ison,’ responded Abel roughly.

‘Do not attempt to answer me back like that,’ she cried. ‘It must be very bad for the poor animals themselves. Get to work without a moment’s delay.’

‘Saturday is the day,’ growled the man. ‘I’m—blowed if I clean ’em out afore Saturday!’

‘Mind what you are about,’ said his mistress sternly, uplifting a warning fore-finger. ‘I will not put up with impertinence or disobedience.’

‘Saturday is the day,’ shouted Abel; and the shuffling movement became so violent and rapid that he actually seemed to dance.

‘This will never do,’ said Rosalie. ‘I see I must make a change at once. Abel Hunt, I give you notice to leave on Saturday week.’

‘One change be enough for me, Widow Fiander,’ retorted Abel, uplifting his voice as though his mistress stood a hundred yards away from him instead of barely two.

Rosalie’s lips quivered.

‘’T is your own fault,’ she cried passionately. ‘If you behave in this way I must make an example of you. Unless you do as I tell you, you must go!’

‘I’m danged if I do clean the pigs out afore Saturday,’ shrieked Abel; and he threw his hat upon the ground, waved his arms, and stamped about like a maniac. ‘I don’t want no danged women-folk to come a-orderin’ o’ me;’ and here Abel relieved his feelings by what Isaac Sharpe would delicately call ‘a bit o’ language.’

‘Clean your pigs yourself, Widow Fiander. One change be enough for me! Notice me so much as ever ye like, I’ll not clean them pigs out afore Saturday!’

Then came a little more ‘language,’ and so on _da capo_.

Never had such an experience fallen to Rosalie’s lot before; neither her kind old grandfather nor her doting husband had ever given her a rough word; while they lived her subordinates had invariably obeyed her orders with alacrity, and treated her personally with respect. The sound of Abel’s strident tones, the sight of his inflamed face, above all the words he used and the insolence of his manner, positively frightened her. She turned pale, trembled—then, making a valiant effort to stand her ground, threw out her hand as though to command silence; but, as Abel continued to dance and rave, sheer physical terror overcame her, and she suddenly turned and fled, her heart thumping violently against her ribs, the tears—never very far off during these first days of her bereavement—springing to her eyes.

She rushed upstairs to her room and flung herself across the bed, burying her face in the pillow in an agony of humiliation.

‘What a fool I am! What a miserable fool! To be afraid of that wretched booby! How can I ever hope to rule these people if I show the white feather at the outset? Now, of course, they will think that they’ve only got to bully me and I shall at once give in. Oh, fool, fool! To give way to silly womanish fears at such a moment! Oh, oh! how shall I ever look them in the face?’

She continued to roll her head on the pillow for some moments; her cheeks had now become burning, and her heart still beat fast, no longer with terror, but with anger. By-and-by she sat up, pushed back her hair, and shook out the folds of her dress.

‘After all, ’t is never too late to mend,’ she said to herself.

She went downstairs, and into the dairy, directing her maids somewhat sharply, and setting about her own work with flushed cheeks and a serious face. In course of time her agitation subsided, and after her solitary breakfast she was quite herself again.

At noon, as she passed through the kitchen to the parlour, she chanced to glance through the open door, and observed that the men had gathered together in the yard, and were eagerly talking instead of making their way homewards, or retiring to the barn to eat their dinners. She feigned to pay no attention to them, however, and walked on to her own quarters.

Presently she became aware that the whole body was advancing towards the house, and a moment later Susan thrust in her round face at the door.

‘Please, mum, the men be wishin’ to speak a few words with ’ee.’

‘Very well,’ said Rosalie, ‘I will go out to them.’

On reaching the threshold of the outer door she paused, looking round on the group, and waiting for them to take the initiative. Job was, as before, the first to speak.

‘I be come to tell ’ee, Mrs. Fiander, as I wish to notice ye for Saturday week. These here changes bain’t to my likin’, and the mistress bain’t to my likin’; so ye’ll please to suit yourself by that time, mum.’

He spoke gruffly, and eyed her impertinently, but this time she did not flinch.

‘Very well, Job,’ she said; ‘I have no doubt I shall be able to do so without any difficulty.’

Abel was the next to advance, but Rosalie waved him aside.

‘As it has already been settled that you are to leave,’ she remarked, ‘you can have nothing to say to me. Step back. Now who comes next?’

James Bundy, it seemed, came next; he approached a little hesitatingly, looking hard at his mistress.

‘Please, mum, I wish to leave on Saturday week.’

‘Quite right,’ returned Rosalie with great unconcern. ‘Next!’

James Bundy stepped back and Robert Cross stepped forward, smiling obsequiously.

‘I’m sure, mum, it do go agen me terrible to make sich a break as this here, but still, d’ ye see, we can’t nohow put up with—’

‘You need not take the trouble to explain—you wish to leave on Saturday week with the others, I suppose?’

‘’Ees—leastways—’

‘That will do,’ said Rosalie. ‘Now, Sam Belbin, you wish to leave too?’

Sam Belbin made a step forward and glanced round appealingly.

By this time his companions were looking very blank. The sudden assault by which they had expected to frighten their mistress into capitulation had apparently failed. Their respective attitudes had changed; she was calm and unmoved, and they were beginning to be seriously uneasy. Good places and regular pay were not to be picked up every day in that part of the world.

‘Well, Sam?’ said Rosalie kindly, as though to help him out.

Sam was the chief of the three ‘dairy chaps,’ a good-looking young fellow of about four-and-twenty, with a dark, good-humoured countenance and a certain jaunty air. As he now advanced a smile flashed suddenly over his face, his white teeth gleaming out pleasantly.

‘Mum,’ he said. ‘Mum—Mrs. Fiander—’

She smiled too.

‘Well, Sam, what have _you_ got to say? The usual thing, I suppose?’

‘No, mum—not at all, mum. I—wish to say as I haven’t got no fault to find at all, mum. I’ll come in better time to-morrow morn, an’ ye’ll not have to speak to me agen, mum.’

‘_Very_ good!’ said Rosalie in a different tone. At this unexpected speech a lump came in her throat, but she choked it down.

‘Have the others got anything to say?’ she inquired. ‘Because, if so, I hope they will make haste and say it. My dinner will be getting cold.’

The men who had not hitherto spoken looked at each other uncertainly, their glances finally resting on the beaming countenance of Sam Belbin. After all, had he not chosen the better part?

‘I do agree with he,’ said one under his breath, and then another. By-and-by all remarked aloud, somewhat falteringly, that they just thought they would mention their wish to give more satisfaction in the future.

Job and his followers scowled at these renegades, but their mistress rewarded them with a gracious smile.

‘Very well said,’ she remarked. ‘That’s the proper spirit. Do your duty by me, and you will find me ready to do mine by you.’

The day was hers, as she felt when she returned in triumph to her dinner.

Isaac Sharpe happened to be strolling through the village that evening, when he was accosted by Mrs. Belbin, who was standing, as was her custom at this hour, arms a-kimbo, on her doorstep.

‘There be a great upset up at Fiander’s, bain’t there, sir?’

Isaac brought his slow, ruminative gaze to bear on her.

‘Why, what upset do ye mean, Mrs. Belbin? Things be like to be upset now that the master’s gone to the New House. But I hope as your son an’ the rest of ’em be giving the widow so little trouble as ever they can.’

‘I dunno about that, sir. My Sam he do tell I as there was a regular blow-up this mornin’. I d’ ’low as my son _he_ did behave so well as ever he could. Says he to Mrs. Fiander, “Mum,” he says, “I have n’t no fault to find wi’ you at all; and I’ll do my _h_endeavours to gi’e ye satisfaction.” That were what _he_ did say—my son Sam did; but there was others as, accordin’ to all accounts, went on most scandalious.’

Here Mrs. Belbin rolled up her eyes and wagged her head significantly.

‘Ah,’ put in Mrs. Paddock, hastening to cross the road and join in the conversation, ‘it did give me sich a turn when I heard on it, that I did sit down on the table. ’T were a good job as I did, else I should ha’ fell down. Sich doin’s! The whole lot of ’em—aye, every single one as works for her—marchin’ up to give her notice! ’T was enough to frighten a pore lone woman out of her wits.’

‘I have n’t heard a word of this,’ cried Isaac emphatically. ‘The men gave her notice, d’ ye say?’

‘All except my Sam,’ put in Mrs. Belbin proudly. ‘’Ees, they all did go up in a lump, so to speak, and noticed her, one arter the other, till it come to my Sam’s turn, an’ then he up an’ says, “Mrs. Fiander, mum,” says he, “I have n’t got no fault to find wi’ ye;” and a few more, when they heard that, heartened theirselves up and follered his example.’

‘’T was very well done o’ your Sam,’ said Mrs. Paddock in a complimentary tone; ‘but as for them others—why, they do say as Abel Hunt were a-dancin’ an’ a-swearin’ like a madman. “I want no orderin’ from danged women-folk,” says he, just so bold as if the missus was his wife. And Job, he did shout at her so rough, and speak so impident! ’T was really shockin’!’

‘I must go up and see her,’ said Sharpe, much perturbed. ‘I’m sure I don’t know whatever’s come to folks these times. As to them Hunts—I’ll gi’e them a bit o’ my mind. They should be ashamed o’ theirselves to treat a pore young creature so disrespectful. They do think, I s’ppose, as Mrs. Fiander has n’t got nobody to purtect her, and they can serve her so bad as they like. But them as was friends to her husband is friends to her. Pore young thing! Well, I be glad your son did do his duty by her, anyways, Mrs. Belbin. My Father A’mighty, these be times!’

He walked away at an accelerated pace, the women looking after him.

‘He did speak so feelin’, did n’t he?’ commented Mrs. Paddock. ‘“Pore young creature!” says he, d’ ye mind? An’ “Pore young thing!” Master be a very feelin’ man!’

‘Ah,’ agreed Mrs. Belbin; ‘an’ he did say as he were glad my Sam did do his duty. Ah, he be a good man, master be! But I would n’t like so very much to be Abel Hunt jist now—nay, nor Job neither.’