Fiander's Widow: A Novel

A man of reverend age, But stout and hale . . .

WORDSWORTH.

A wife’s be the cheapest ov hands.

WILLIAM BARNES.

THE sale was over: live stock, implements, corn and hay, turnips and potatoes, even apples, had duly been entered to their various buyers; and now such smaller articles as milk-pails, cheese-tubs, cream-tins, weights and scales, and other items of a dairy-farmer’s gear were passing under the hammer. The auction had been well attended, for it had been known beforehand that things would go cheap, and though the melancholy circumstances under which the sale took place called forth many expressions of regret and compassion, they in no way lessened the general eagerness to secure good bargains.

Old Giles Stelling had always kept pace with the times, and had been among the first to adopt new appliances and avail himself of the lights which advancing science throws even upon the avocations of the farmer. He had gone a little too fast, as his neighbours now agreed with many doleful ‘ah’s’ and ‘ayes’ and shakings of heads. All these grand new machines of his had helped to precipitate the catastrophe which had overtaken him—a catastrophe which was tragic indeed, for the old farmer, overcome by the prospect of impending ruin, had been carried off by an apoplectic fit even before this enforced sale of his effects.

Nevertheless, though many considered these strange new-fangled reapers-and-binders, these unnatural-looking double-ploughs, a kind of flying in the face of Providence, a few spirited individuals had made up their minds to bid for them, and one energetic purchaser had even driven eighteen miles from the other side of the county to secure one particularly complicated machine.

The bidding was still proceeding briskly in the great barn when this person shouldered his way through the crowd and made a tour of inspection of the premises, previous to setting forth again on his return journey. He was a middle-sized elderly man, with bright blue eyes that looked forth kindly if keenly from beneath bushy grizzled brows; the ruddy face, set off by a fringe of white beard and whisker, looked good-humoured and prosperous enough, but the somewhat stooping shoulders bore witness to the constant and arduous labour which had been Elias Fiander’s lot in early life.

He sauntered across the great yard, so desolate to-day albeit crowded at the upper end nearest the barn; the suspension of the ordinary life of the place gave it an air of supreme melancholy and even loneliness. The cattle thrusting at each other in their enclosures and bellowing dismally, the sheep hurdled off in convenient lots, the very fowl penned up and squawking lamentably, for the more valuable specimens were tied together in bunches by the legs—all these dumb things seemed to have a kind of instinctive understanding that something unusual and tragic was going forward.

‘Poor beasts, they do make a deal o’ noise,’ muttered Elias half aloud; ‘a body might think they was a-cryin’ for their master. Well, well, ’t is an ill wind what blows nobody good, and that there turnip-hoer was a wonderful bargain. It won’t do him no harm as I should ha’ picked it up so cheap. Nay, nay, ’t won’t do him no harm where he be gone to; and I might as well ha’ bought it as another.’

Having satisfied a passing twinge of conscience with this reflection, he stepped into the great rickyard, and stood a moment gazing from one to the other of the golden and russet stacks.

‘Prime stuff!’ he muttered to himself. ‘That be real old hay in the corner, and this here wheat-rick—there’s a goodish lot o’ money in that or I’m much mistaken. Here be another, half thrashed—ah, fine stuff. ’T is a pity the poor old master did n’t live to see the end o’ that job—though if the money were n’t a-goin’ into his own pocket he wouldn’t ha’ been much the better for ’t.’

He was wandering round the rick in question, gazing at it from every point, and even thrusting his hands upwards into the loosened sheaves of that portion which had been unroofed and partially thrashed, when a sudden rustle close to him made him start.

Lo! perched high upon the ledge of the half-demolished stack a figure was standing, knee-deep among the roughly piled-up sheaves, the tall and shapely figure of a young girl. She was dressed in black, and from under the wide sombre brim of her straw hat a pair of blue eyes looked down fiercely at the farmer. The face in which they were set was oval in shape, and at that moment very pale; the lips were parted, showing a gleam of white teeth.

‘Why, my dear,’ said Fiander, stepping a little further away from the stack and gazing up at her in mild astonishment—‘why, whatever might you be doin’ up there? You did gi’ me quite a start, I do assure ye.’

‘I’m looking at something I don’t like to see,’ returned the girl in a choked voice; and her bosom heaved with a quick angry sob.

‘Ah!’ said the other tentatively. Setting his hat a little further back on his head and wrinkling up his eyes he examined her more closely. The black dress, the wrathful, miserable face told their own tale. ‘I do ’low ye be somebody belongin’ to the poor old master?’ he continued respectfully.

She sobbed again for all response.

‘Ah!’ said Fiander again, with a world of sympathy in his blue eyes, ‘’t is a melancholy sight for ye, sure. You’re Mr. Stelling’s daughter very like.’

‘Granddaughter,’ corrected the girl.

‘Dear heart alive, ’t is sad—’t is very sad for ye, miss, but I’m sure I’d never keep a-standin’ on the stack frettin’ yourself so, I would n’t, truly. ’T is a very sad business altogether, Miss Stelling, but you’ll be upsettin’ yourself worse if ye bide here.’

The girl stepped across the sheaves and drew near the edge of the stack. Fiander stretched out his hand to assist her down.

‘That’s it,’ he remarked encouragingly; ‘I’m main glad to see you are so sensible and ready to take advice, Miss Stelling. Here, let me help ye down.’

‘No, thank you,’ she replied, ‘and my name is n’t Stelling!’

Stooping, and supporting herself with one hand against the edge of the ledge, she swung herself gracefully down, her hat dropping off as she did so; the face thus exposed to view proved even younger than Fiander had anticipated, and, were he a more impressionable man, he might well have been startled at its beauty.

Even though he had attained the respectable age of fifty-eight and had not long buried a most faithful and hard-working helpmate, the worthy farmer was conscious of a glow of admiration. Though the girl’s eyes were blue, the hair and brows were distinctly dark, and the complexion of the brunette order—a combination somewhat unusual and very striking. Her figure was, as has been said, tall and slight, yet with vigour as well as grace in every movement: she alighted on the ground as easily and as lightly as though she had been a bird.

‘Well done!’ ejaculated Fiander. ‘And what might your name be if it bain’t Stelling?’

‘My name is Goldring,’ she replied a little haughtily. ‘Rosalie Goldring. My mother was Mr. Stelling’s daughter.’

‘Well now,’ returned the farmer, smiling cheerfully, ‘Goldring! and that’s a pretty name too—partic’lar for a maid—a token I might say! Rosalie did you tell me, miss? I do mind a song as I used to hear when I were a boy about Rosalie the Prairie Flower.’ She had picked up her hat and stood gazing at him discontentedly.

‘I suppose everything is sold by this time?’ she said. ‘My dear grandfather’s mare, and the trap, and even my cocks and hens. Dear grandfather! he always used to tell me that everything in the whole place was to be mine when he died—and now they won’t so much as leave me the old rooster.’

‘Poor maid!’ ejaculated Fiander, full of commiseration, and guiltily conscious of having bought that turnip-hoer a bargain. ‘’T is unfort’nate for ye, I’m sure. Did n’t your grandfather make no provision for ’ee?’

‘Oh, it is n’t that I mind,’ retorted Rosalie quickly; ‘it’s seeing everything go. Everything that I love—all the live things that I knew and used to take care of—even my churn, and my cheese-presses—granfer used always to say I was wonderful about cheese-making—and the pails and pans out of my dairy—everything that I kept so nice and took such pride in. They’ll all go to strangers now—all scattered about, one here, one there. And to-morrow they’ll be selling the things out of the house. If they leave me the clothes I stand up in that’ll be all.’

She sobbed so pitifully and looked so forlorn that Fiander’s heart was positively wrung.

‘My word!’ he ejaculated, ‘I do ’low it’s hard—’t is that, ’t is cruel hard; what was ye thinkin’ o’ doin’, my dear? You’ll have some relations most like as ’ll be glad to take ye in?’

‘I have n’t a relation in the world,’ returned Rosalie with another sob; ‘I had nobody but grandfather. If I had,’ she added quickly, ‘I don’t know that I should have gone to them—I don’t like to be beholden to anybody. I’ll earn my own bread, though I don’t know how I shall do it; grandfather could never bear the notion of my going to service.’

‘Ah! and could n’t he?’ returned Fiander, deeply interested.

‘No, indeed. Of course when he was alive we never thought of things coming to this pass. He always told me I should be mistress here when he was gone, and that I should be well off. Dear granfer, he grudged me nothing.’

‘Such a good education as he gi’ed ye too!’ observed Elias commiseratingly.

‘Oh, yes. I was at boarding-school for three years. I can play the piano and work the crewel-work, and I learnt French.’

‘Dear heart alive!’ groaned Fiander, ‘and now ye be a-thrown upon the world. But I was meanin’ another kind of education. Cheese-making and dairy-work and that—you was sayin’ you was a good hand at suchlike.’ While he spoke he eyed her sharply, and listened eagerly for the response.