Chapter II

The time I’ve lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing
The light that lies
In woman’s eyes,
Has been my heart’s undoing.

THOMAS MOORE.

THE subject of the conversation recently recorded was slowly removing her ‘blacks,’ and laying them carefully away on the lavender-scented shelves in the desolate upper chamber of the home which had suddenly grown so lonely. Divested of the flowing mantle, the tall, well-moulded figure was set off by its close-fitting black robe; and the face, which had been hidden from view by the thick folds of crape, proved able to stand the test of the glaring summer sunshine. The adjective ‘plain,’ applied to the widow by her late husband’s friend, must be taken only in its local sense as signifying ‘simple and straightforward;’ even to the indifferent eyes of this elderly yeoman Rosalie’s beauty had ripened and increased during the four years that had elapsed since her marriage with his friend. The black lashes which shaded her lovely eyes were still wet; the red lips quivered, and the bosom heaved convulsively. Most of the friends and neighbours of the late Mr. Fiander would have been astonished—not to say scandalised—at the sight of such grief. It was quite decent and becoming to cry in church where everybody was looking at you, but to cry when you were alone for an old man of sixty-two—when you had been left in undisputed possession of all his property, and might with perfect impunity marry again at the earliest possible opportunity—it was not only unreasonable and foolish, but rank ingratitude for the most merciful dispensation of Providence.

But Mrs. Fiander continued to sob to herself, and to look blankly round the empty room, and out at the wide fields where the familiar figure had been wont to roam; and when, taking the new widow’s cap from its box, she arranged it on the top of her abundant hair, she could not repress a fresh gush of tears.

‘Poor Fiander!’ she said to herself, ‘he would n’t let me wear it if he knew. It makes me a perfect fright, and is so cumbersome and so much in the way. But I’ll wear it all the same. Nobody shall say I’m wanting in respect to his memory. Dear, dear, not a week gone yet! It seems more like a year.’

She descended the stairs slowly, and entered the parlour. There was the high-backed chair where Fiander used to sit waiting for the Sunday midday meal; there also was the stool on which he supported his gouty leg. Opposite was another chair, invariably occupied by Farmer Sharpe on Sunday afternoons, when, after a walk round his neighbour’s land, he came in for a chat and a smoke. Mrs. Fiander herself had always sat at the table, joining in the conversation from time to time, after she had mixed for her husband and his friend the stiff glass of grog of which it was their custom to partake. Fiander said nobody mixed it so well as she, and even Mr. Sharpe occasionally nodded approval, and generously agreed that she was a first-rate hand.

She wondered idly if Mr. Sharpe would come to-day; she almost hoped he would. She did not like to walk round the fields alone—people would think it strange, too—and it was so lonely and so dreary sitting by herself in the house.

But Mr. Sharpe’s chair remained empty all that afternoon; Mrs. Fiander, however, had other visitors. It was getting near tea-time, and she was looking forward somewhat anxiously to the arrival of that meal which would make a break in the dismal hours, when a genteel knock at the door startled her. She knew it was not Isaac, for it was his custom to walk in uninvited, and thought it might be some other neighbour coming with a word of comfort. She was surprised, however, when the maid ushered in a tall, stout young man, whom she recognised as the son of one of the leading tradespeople in the town. Andrew Burge’s father was, indeed, not only cab and coach proprietor on a large scale, but also undertaker, and Rosalie now remembered that her actual visitor had taken a prominent part at her husband’s funeral.

‘I jest called to see how you might be getting on, Mrs. Fiander,’ he remarked, ‘and to offer my respectful condoliences. ’T was a melancholy occasion where we met last, Mrs. Fiander.’

‘It was indeed,’ said Rosalie; adding, somewhat stiffly, ‘Take a seat, Mr. Burge.’

Mr. Burge took a seat—not one of the ordinary chairs which Mrs. Fiander indicated with a general wave of the hand, but poor Elias’s own particular one, which was, as has been stated, established in the chimney-corner. It happened to be directly opposite to the one in which Rosalie had been sitting—Isaac Sharpe’s usual chair—and was no doubt chosen by the visitor on account of its agreeable proximity to his hostess. Anybody more unlike its former occupant it would be hard to imagine. Andrew was, as has been said, tall and stout, with black eyes, closely resembling boot-buttons in size and expression, a florid complexion, and very sleek black hair. He conveyed a general impression of bursting out of his clothes; his coat appearing to be too tight, his trousers too short, his collar too high, and his hat, when he wore it, too small. This hat he carefully placed upon the ground between his legs, and drew from its crown a large white pocket-handkerchief, which he flourished almost in a professional manner.

‘I feels,’ he went on, attuning his voice to the melancholy tone in harmony with this proceeding—‘I feels that any condoliences, let them be so sincere as they may, falls immaterially short of the occasion. The late Mr. Elias Fiander was universally respected by the townsfolk of Branston as well as by his own immediate neighbours.’

‘You are very kind,’ said Rosalie, feeling that she must make a remark, and inwardly chiding herself for the frenzied impatience with which she had longed to turn him out of her husband’s chair. After all, the poor young man was unconscious of offence, and meant well.

‘It was, I may say, Mrs. Fiander, a object of congratulation to me that I was able to pay the deceased a last melancholy tribute. P’r’aps you did n’t chance to observe that it was me druv the ’earse?’

‘I knew I had seen you there,’ said the widow, in a low voice, ‘but I could n’t for the moment recollect where.’

‘It would ha’ fallen in better wi’ my own wishes,’ went on Andrew, ‘if I could ha’ driven both o’ you. But my father told me you did n’t fancy the notion o’ the Jubilee ’earse.’

‘You mean that combined hearse and mourning coach?’ cried Rosalie. ‘No, indeed! Why, the coffin is put crosswise behind the driver’s legs, just like a bale of goods. I think it’s dreadful!’

‘Nay now,’ returned Andrew, ‘we are most careful to show every respect to the pore corpse. The compartment is made special—glazed, and all quite beautiful. Some people thinks it a privilege for the mourners to be sittin’ behind, so close to their dear departed. And then think of the expense it saves—only one pair of horses needed, you know! Not but what expense is no object to _you_; and of course, your feelin’s bein’ o’ that delicate natur’, you felt, I suppose, it would be almost too ‘arrowing.’

‘I know I could n’t bear the idea,’ she cried. ‘The _Jubilee_ hearse, do you call it? How came you to give it such a name?’

‘Ah! Why, you see, it was entirely my father’s idea, and he had it built in the Jubilee year. He thought, you know, he’d like to do something a little special that year by way of showin’ his loyalty. Ah, he spared no expense in carryin’ of it out, I do assure ’ee. Well, as I was sayin’, Mrs. Fiander, it would have been a great pleasure to me to have given you both a token of respect and sympathy at the same time, but, since it was n’t to be, I followed what I thought would be most in accordance with your wishes, and I showed my respect for your feelin’s by driving the remains.’

Here he flourished the handkerchief again and raised the boot-button eyes to Mrs. Fiander’s face.

‘I am, of course, grateful for any tribute of respect to my dear husband,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ resumed Mr. Burge, ‘I thought you’d look on it in that light; but I should have thought it a privilege to drive you, Mrs. Fiander.’

Rosalie made some inarticulate rejoinder.

‘I thought I’d just call round and explain my motives,’ he went on, ‘and also take the opportunity of offering in person my best condoliences.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rosalie.

‘I may speak, I think,’ remarked Andrew pompously, ‘in the name of the whole borough of Branston. There was, I might say, but one mournful murmur when the noos of his death came to town. But one mournful murmur, I do assure ’ee, Mrs. Fiander.’

Rosalie looked up gratefully; the young man certainly meant well and this information was gratifying. She felt a little thrill of melancholy pleasure at the thought of the universal esteem and respect in which her poor Elias had been held. But meeting the hard expressionless gaze of Mr. Burge’s tight little eyes, the appreciative compliment died upon her lips.

‘So now,’ resumed the visitor, diving for his hat and carefully tucking away the handkerchief in its lining—‘now, Mrs. Fiander, having spoken for myself and for my fellow-townsmen, and having assured myself that you are no worse in health than might have been expected under these extraneous circumstances, I will withdraw.’

He rose, ducked his head, extended his hand, and solemnly pumped Rosalie’s up and down for about two minutes; finally backing to the door.

As he let himself out he almost fell over another caller who was at that moment raising his hand to the knocker. This was a dapper gentleman of about his own age, with an alert and sprightly air and a good-humoured, sharp-featured face.

Rosalie, just standing within the half-open parlour-door, caught sight of the new-comer and wondered who he might be. In a moment he had set her doubts at rest.

‘Good-day, ma’am,’ he remarked, advancing cheerily with outstretched hand. ‘I must introduce myself, I see; I’m not so well known to you as you are to me. My name is Cross—Samuel Cross—and I am one of Mr. Robinson’s clerks. Robinson and Bradbury, solicitors, you know—that’s who I am. I just called round to—to make a few remarks with regard to certain business matters in the hands of our firm.’

‘Won’t you sit down?’ said Rosalie, hastily taking possession of her husband’s chair. It should not, if she could help it, again be desecrated that day. She pointed out a small one, but Mr. Samuel Cross, without noticing the intimation, stepped quickly forward and seated himself opposite to the widow in the chair she had just vacated—Isaac Sharpe’s chair. Rosalie contemplated him with knitted brows; since Mr. Sharpe, that trusted friend, had not thought fit to occupy his customary place himself that afternoon, she felt ill pleased at the intrusion of this presumptuous stranger.

What a callow little shrimp of a man it was, to be sure, and how unlike, with his spare form and small narrow face—a face which she mentally compared to that of a weasel—to the large, bland personality of Isaac!

‘A matter of business,’ she said drily. ‘I am surprised that Mr. Robinson should send you on Sunday.’

‘Oh, this is quite an informal visit, Mrs. Fiander; not at all official. I came of my own accord—I may say, in my private capacity. This here is n’t a six-and-eightpenny affair. He! he!’

‘Oh!’ said Rosalie, even more drily than before.

‘No; seeing, Mrs. Fiander, that you are left so peculiarly lonely and desolate, I just thought to myself that it would be only kind to call in in passing and mention that your business matters, Mrs. Fiander, are in a most satisfactory position. I have frequently heard our firm remark that they seldom had to deal with affairs more satisfactory and straightforward.’

‘My husband had a very clear head for business,’ said Mrs. Fiander. ‘I always found that.’

‘’T is n’t that alone,’ rejoined the young man, ‘it is, if I may be permitted to express an opinion, the very satisfactory manner in which he has disposed of his property, on which I feel bound to congratulate you. I called round, private as I say, jist to let you know as all was most satisfactory.’

‘Thank you. I had no doubt about it,’ said Rosalie, surveying her visitor with increasing disfavour as he leered at her from the depth of Isaac’s capacious chair.

‘Ladies,’ he pursued, with an ingratiating wriggle—‘ladies is apt to be easily alarmed when legal matters is under discussion. The very terms which come so natural to us are apt to frighten them. Lor’ bless you, I des-say when Mr. Robinson do talk about testamentary dispositions and such like it makes you feel quite nervous. But ’t is only the sound of the words as is strange; the thing itself [meaning the testamentary dispositions of the late lamented Mr. Fiander] is, I do assure you, most satisfactory. What with the freehold property, meanin’ the farm and the money invested in such good and safe securities—you may be sure that they are good and safe, Mrs. Fiander; for I may ventur’ to tell you in confidence that the late lamented used to consult our firm with regard to his investments—I have pleasure in assuring you that very few ladies find theirselves in so satisfactory a position as you do find yourself to-day. I jist dropped in, unofficial like, to let you know this, for, as I said to myself, it may be a satisfaction to pore Mrs. Fiander to know _her_ circumstances, and to understand that, desolate as she may be left, there is some compensations; and that, moreover, she has been left absolutely free and independent, the late lamented not having hampered her by no conditions whatever.’

Here Mr. Cross, who had been leaning forward in his chair so that his face, with its narrow jaws and its little twinkling eyes, had been a good deal below the level of the slightly disdainful countenance of his hostess, now slowly straightened himself, clapped an exultant hand on either knee, and brought the jaws aforesaid together with a snap.

Mrs. Fiander could not help contrasting him once more with the friend who should by right be sitting opposite to her; how far more welcome would have been the sight of the good-tempered rubicund visage, the placid portly form! Even the contented, amicable taciturnity which Mr. Sharpe usually maintained during the greater part of his visits would have been far more to her mind than this loquacity, which somehow seemed unpleasantly near familiarity. Still, it was unreasonable to take a dislike to the poor young man merely because he looked like a weasel and was disposed to be a little over-friendly; no doubt his intention was kind.

She thanked him, therefore, with somewhat forced politeness, but could not repress a little forward movement in her chair which a sensitive person would have recognized as a token of dismissal. Mr. Cross was not, however, of this calibre, and prolonged his visit until his hostess’s patience fairly wore out. She rose at last, glancing at the clock, and observing that she thought it was time to get ready for evening church.

‘I will have the pleasure of escorting you,’ announced Samuel promptly and cheerfully.

Thereupon Mrs. Fiander sat down again.

‘On second thoughts I’m too tired,’ she said; ‘but I will not allow you to delay any longer, Mr. Cross—you will certainly be late as it is.’

He had no course but to withdraw then, which he did, unwillingly enough, after tenderly pressing the widow’s hand and assuring her, quite superfluously, that she might depend on him to look after her interests in every way in his power.

Rosalie was disconsolately polishing the hand which had received this undesired token of interest, when the door creaked slowly open, and a tall, gaunt, elderly female, clad in rusty black, and wearing somewhat on the back of her head a flat black bonnet, with the strings untied, entered the room. This was Mrs. Greene, a personage generally to be met with in this neighbourhood in households whose number had recently been either increased or diminished. She was equally at home, as she once remarked, with babies and with corpses; and she filled up the intervals by ‘charing.’ Her appearance was so genteel, and her manner of fulfilling her various duties so elegant, that the clergyman’s daughter had once remarked that she was wonderfully refined for a char-woman; the appellation had stuck to her, and she was commonly known as the ‘refined char-woman’ among such of the ‘gentry’ as occasionally employed her in that capacity.

She had come to Littlecomb Farm to ‘lay out’ poor Elias Fiander, and she was remaining on as chief factotum and comforter. For it was n’t to be supposed that the poor young widow ’ud be eq’al to lookin’ after the maids—much less to turn her thoughts to doin’ for herself. She now advanced slowly to the table, and after heaving a deep sigh proceeded to lay the cloth. Rosalie knew that she was burning to enter into conversation, but was too much dispirited to encourage her. But by-and-by, after a preliminary cough, Mrs. Greene remarked in a lugubrious tone:

‘That’s a lovely cap, mum. Everybody was a-sayin’ that you did look charmin’ in your weeds. Ay, that was what they said. “She do look charming”—that was the very thing they said; “’t is a comfort, too,” says they, “to see how nice she do mourn for Mr. Fiander.” They was all a-passing the remark one to the other about it, mum—admirable they said it was.’

‘Nonsense,’ cried Rosalie wrathfully, but with a little quaver in her voice; ‘it would be very strange, I think, if I did not grieve for such a good husband. I wish people would n’t talk about me,’ she added petulantly.

‘Talk!’ ejaculated Mrs. Greene dismally. ‘Ah, they will talk, mum, you may depend on it. They’ll al’ays talk, and perticlarly about a young widow. Lord, how they did go on about me when poor Greene died! They did n’t leave so much as my furnitur’ alone. Whether I could afford to keep it, or whether I’d be for ridden house and goin’ into lodgin’s, and whether I’d put the children in an orphanage and get married again—it was enough to drive a body silly the way they did go on.’

‘Disgusting,’ cried Rosalie, now faintly interested. ‘The idea of talking of a second marriage when your poor husband was only just dead.’

‘Why, that be the first thing they’d talk on,’ with a kind of dismal triumph—‘more perticlar if a woman be young and good-lookin’. In your own case, mum, I do assure ye they be all a-pickin’ out _your_ second. Ah, that’s what they be a-doin’, but as they all picks different men they don’t so very well agree.’

‘Mrs. Greene!’ ejaculated her mistress indignantly, wheeling round in her chair, ‘what do you mean? How dare you come and repeat such things to me—it’s positively indecent!’

‘That be the very remark as I did pass myself to the men yesterday,’ retorted Mrs. Greene, pausing to contemplate Mrs. Fiander with her hands upon her hips. ‘The very thing. “’t is most onbecomin’,” says I, “to be settin’ yourselves up to pry into the affairs o’ your betters. Missus,” says I, “be a-thinkin’ of nothing but her mournin’ so far, and when she do make her ch’ice,” says I, “she’ll please herself and pick out him as is most suitable.” Them was my words, mum.’

‘Well,’ cried Rosalie, rising to her feet impetuously, ‘I wonder you dare to own them to me, Mrs. Greene. I think that, considering you are a widow yourself, you ought to know better than to accuse another woman of such faithlessness. If you think I could ever, ever forget my good kind husband, you are much mistaken.’

Mrs. Greene coughed drily behind her hand.

‘Why should I marry again any more than you?’ cried Rosalie, with angry tears starting to her eyes.

‘Well, mum, the cases be very different. Nobody never axed I—’t was n’t very likely as they should, considering I had six children and only my own labour to keep ’em. As for you, mum, nobody could n’t think it at all strange if you was to get married again—considerin’ everything, you know. Your station in life,’ continued Mrs. Greene delicately, ‘and your not bein’ blessed with no children, and your fortun’ and your _oncommon_ looks—it ’ud be very strange if there was n’t a-many a-coming coortin’ ye—and you may depend upon it they will,’ she cried with conviction. ‘And seein’ how young you be, mum, and how lonesome like, I should say it be a’most your dooty to take a second.’

‘Now listen to me, Mrs. Greene,’ said Rosalie very emphatically, ‘I wish to put an end to this foolish gossip at once. You can tell everybody that you hear talking about the matter that I never intend to marry again. Never!—do you hear me?’

‘Yes, mum,’ returned Mrs. Greene, with every feature and line of her countenance expressing disbelief, ‘I hear. P’r’aps I better begin by lettin’ them two chaps know what called here to-day. I do ’low they’ll be disapp’inted!’

‘I wish you would n’t talk such nonsense, Mrs. Greene,’ cried Rosalie almost pettishly, though the colour rushed over her face, and a startled expression showed itself for a moment in her heavy eyes. ‘Go away! I don’t want to be worried any more; remember what I have said, that’s all.’