Chapter VII

He that will not love must be
My scholar, and learn this of me:
There be in love as many fears
As 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 soon
She shifts and changes like the moon.

HERRICK.

IT was 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 he suffered 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 the busiest 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, ‘that _I_ always 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 order of 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 she piteously. ‘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.