Chapter I: Oh, Sir! the good die first

WORDSWORTH.

Aa! Nichol’s now laid in his grave,
Bi t’ side of his fadder and mudder;
The warl not frae deoth could yen save,
We a’ gang off,—teane after t’ other.

A CUMBERLAND BALLAD.

SUNDAY noontide; and a warm Sunday too. The little congregation pouring out of the ivy-grown church in the hollow seemed to have found the heat within oppressive; the men were wiping their moist brows previous to assuming the hard uncompromising hats which alone could do justice to the day, and the women fanned themselves with their clean white handkerchiefs, or sniffed ostentatiously at the squat, oddly shaped bottles of smelling-salts, or nosegays of jessamine and southernwood, with which they had provided themselves. In the village proper sundry non-churchgoers waited the return of their more pious brethren; one or two lads sat expectantly on stiles, on the look-out for their respective sweethearts, whom they would escort homewards, and with whom they would possibly make appointments for a stroll at some later hour of the day. Children, with important faces, might be seen returning from the bakehouse, carefully carrying the Sunday dinner covered with a clean cloth; and a few older men and women stood about their doorsteps, or leaned over their garden gates, with the intention of waylaying their homeward-bound neighbours and extracting from them items concerning a very important event which had recently taken place in the vicinity.

One very fat old lady, propping herself with difficulty against the lintel of her door, hailed her opposite neighbour eagerly.

‘Good-day, Mrs. Paddock. Did ye chance to notice if master have a-gone by yet?’

‘Nay, he have n’t a-come this way—not so far as I know,’ returned the other. ‘They do say he takes on terrible about poor Mr. Fiander.’

‘Ah!’ said the first speaker with a long-drawn breath, ‘he’d be like to, I do ’low, seein’ what friends they was. Folks d’ say as Fiander have very like left him summat.’

‘Nay, nay, he’ll leave it all in a lump to she. He thought the world of the missus. He’ll be sure to ha’ left it to she—wi’out she marries again. Then—well, then, very like Mr. Sharpe will come in. Poor Mr. Fiander, ’t is a sad thing to ha’ never chick nor child to leave your money to.’

‘Ah, sure, ’t is a pity they did n’t have no children. I reckon Mr. Fiander looked to have ’em, seein’ he’d picked out such a fine shapely maid. He were a fine man too, though he were gettin’ into years, to be sure, when he wed her. Not but what a body ’ud ha’ expected the old gentleman to last a good bit longer. Sixty-two they d’ say he were.’

‘Well, and that’s no age to speak on! Lord, I were that upset when I heerd he were took I’m not the better of it yet.’

‘Ay, ’t is a terrible visitation! All as has hearts must feel it.’

‘I do assure ye, Mrs. Belbin, I’ve scarce closed my eyes since, and when I do drop off towards mornin’ I do dream—’t is fearful what I do dream! This very night, I tell ye, I thought the End had come, and we was all a-bein’ judged yon in church. The Lord A’mighty Hisself was a-sittin’ up in gallery a-judging of we—’

‘Bless me,’ interrupted Mrs. Belbin, ‘and what were A’mighty God like to look on, Mrs. Paddock?’

‘Oh, He were beautiful—wi’ broad large features and a very piercin’ eye—but He had a beautiful smile. I thought, if ye can understand, that some was a-goin’ up to the right and some to the left. Yes, we was all bein’ judged, taking our turns. Squire fust, and then his lady, and then all the young ladies and gentlemen a-goin’ up one after t’ other and a-bein’ judged—’

‘Well, well!’ commented Mrs. Belbin, throwing up her eyes and hands. ‘All so natural like, wa’ n’t it?’

She had evidently been much impressed by the strict order of precedence observed by the actors in this visionary drama.

‘Well, then I seed farmers a-goin’ up—’

‘Did ye see poor Farmer Fiander?’ inquired the other eagerly.

‘Nay, nay. He were n’t there, strange to say. ’T ’ud ha’ been natural to see him—him bein’ dead, ye know—but he were n’t there. But I see master a-bein’ judged.’

‘Did ye, now? and where did he go? He’s a good man—he ’d be like to go up’ards. Were Hamworthy there—the butcher, I mean? I wonder what the A’mighty ’ud say to the short weights that he do give us poor folk!’

‘Nay, I did n’t see him, fur it were a-comin’ nigh my turn, and I were that a-feared I could n’t think o’ nothin’ else. And when I did get up to walk up under gallery I thought my legs did give way and down I plumped—and that did awaken me up.’

‘Well, it was a wonderful dream, Mrs. Paddock. I’m not surprised as you be feelin’ a bit poorly to-day. ’T is astonishing what folks d’ dream when they’re upset. I do assure ye when my stummick’s a bit out of order I’m hag-rid all night. Last Sunday ’t was, I did dream I seed a great big toad sittin’ on piller, and I hollered out and hit at him, and Belbin he cotched me by the hand, “Good gracious!” says he, “what be’st thumpin’ me like that for?” “Why,” says I, “bain’t there a toad on piller?” “Nay now,” says he, “there’s nothin’ at all; but you’ve a-hit me sich a crack upon the chops that I’ll lay I’ll have the toothache for a week.”’

‘I’d never go for to say as dreams did n’t mean summat, though,’ said Mrs. Paddock.

‘Aye, I’ve great faith in dreams and tokens and sich. Ye mind old Maria Gillingham? Folks always used to think her a bit of a witch, but she never did nobody much harm seemingly. It were but the day before she died as I did meet her. “You look poorly, Maria,” says I. “I be like to be poorly, Mrs. Paddock,” says she. “I’m near my end,” she says. “I ’ve had a token.” “You don’t tell me?” says I. “Yes,” she said. “I were a-sittin’ in chimbly corner just now, and three great blue-bottles did come flyin’ in wi’ crape upon their wings, and they did fly three times round my head, and they did say, _Soon gone_! _Soon gone_! _Soon gone_!”’

‘Ah,’ commented Mrs. Belbin, ‘and she were soon gone, were n’t she?’

‘She were,’ agreed Mrs. Paddock lugubriously. ‘They did find her lyin’ wi’ her head under the table next day, stone dead. . . . But here’s Rose Bundy a-comin’ down the road. Well, Rose, was the widow in church?’

‘Ay, I seed her,’ cried Rose, a fat red-cheeked girl, with round black eyes at this moment gleaming with excitement. ‘She did have on such lovely weeds—ye never saw such weeds. There was crape on ’em very nigh all over. She did have a great long fall as did come to her knees very near, and another much the same a-hanging down at the back o’ her bonnet, and her skirt was covered with crape—and I think there was truly more black than white to her han’kercher. Ah, it was a-goin’ all the time under her veil—fust her eyes and then her nose. Poor thing! she do seem to feel her loss dreadful.’

‘And well she may,’ said Mrs. Paddock emphatically. ‘A good husband same as Fiander bain’t to be picked up every day.’

‘Why, he was but a old man,’ retorted the girl. ‘Mrs. Fiander’ll soon have plenty o’ young chaps a-comin’ to coort her; they d’ say as Mr. Fiander have a-left her every single penny he had, to do what she likes wi’! She’ll soon take up wi’ some smart young fellow—it is n’t in natur’ to expect a handsome young body same as her to go on frettin’ for ever after a old man, let him be so good as he may.’

‘Nay now, nay now,’ cried Mrs. Belbin authoritatively, ‘’t will be this way, as you’ll soon see. Mr. Fiander will ha’ left the widow his money and farm and all, as long as she do be a widow, but if she goes for to change her state, why then o’ coorse it’ll go to somebody else. There never was a man livin’—and more particularly a old one—as could make up his mind to leave his money behind him for a woman to spend on another man. That’ll be it, ye’ll find. Mrs. Fiander’ll keep her money as long as she d’ keep her mournin’.’

‘Here be master, now,’ announced her opposite neighbour, craning her head a little further out of the doorway. ‘The poor man, he do look upset and sorrowful.’

The eyes of all the little party fixed themselves on the approaching figure. Mr. Sharpe was clad in Sunday gear of prosperous broadcloth, and wore, somewhat on the back of his head, a tall hat so antiquated as to shape and so shaggy as to texture that the material of which it was composed may possibly have been beaver. His large face was at that moment absolutely devoid of all expression; Mrs. Paddock’s remark, therefore, seemed to be dictated by a somewhat lively imagination. He nodded absently as the women greeted him, which they did very respectfully, as both their husbands worked under him, but wheeled round after he had passed the group to address Mrs. Paddock.

‘I’ll take those chicken off you as you was a-speakin’ on if you’ll fetch ’em up to my place to-week. The fox have a-took a lot of mine, and I be loath to disappoint my customers.’

‘I’ll fetch ’em up, sir, so soon as I can. These be terrible times, Mr. Sharpe, bain’t they? Sich losses as we’ve a-had last week! The fox he ’ve a-been terrible mischeevous; and poor Mr. Fiander—he were took very unexpected, were n’t he?’

‘Ah!’ agreed Mr. Sharpe.

‘You’ll be the one to miss him, sir. As we was sayin’, Mrs. Belbin and me, Mr. Sharpe ’ull be the one to miss him. Ye did use to go there every Sunday reg’lar, Mr. Sharpe, did n’t ye?’

‘Ah!’ agreed the farmer again. His large face seemed just as expressionless as before, but a close observer might have detected a sudden suffusion of colour to the eyelids.

‘They d’ say as Mrs. Fiander be takin’ on terrible,’ put in Mrs. Belbin, folding her arms across her ample bosom, and settling herself for a good chat with an air of melancholy enjoyment. ‘She is a nice young woman—yes, she’s that; and the marriage did turn out wonderful well, though folks did think it a bit foolish o’ Mr. Fiander to choose sich a young maid at his time o’ life. But he was lonesome, poor man, losing his first wife so long ago, and the children dying so young, and his second missus bein’ took too. But, well, as I d’ say, the last marriage turned out wonderful well; there was never a word said again’ Mrs. Fiander.’

‘There was never a word _to_ be said,’ returned Mr. Sharpe somewhat sternly.

‘Yes, just what I d’ say,’ chimed in Mrs. Paddock. ‘His ch’ice was a good ’un. She be a nice body, Mrs. Fiander be.’

‘Ah!’ agreed the farmer, ‘I d’ ’low she be a nice plain young woman. Her husband have a-proved that he did think his ch’ice a good ’un, for he’ve a-left her everything as he had in the world.’

‘But not if she marries again, sir, sure?’ cried both the women together.

‘Lard,’ added Mrs. Belbin, ‘he’d never ha’ been sich a sammy as to let her keep everything if she goes for to take another man.’

‘She be left house and farm, stock and money, onconditional,’ returned Mr. Sharpe emphatically. And he passed on, leaving the gossips aghast.