‘I happened to be a little late,’ repeated Rosalie severely, ‘so I desired one of the maids’—here Jane sniffed deprecatingly—‘to start work without me. And when I came down, what do you think? I actually found the careless girl pouring the rennet in out of the bottle.’
‘Tch, tch, tch!’ commented the farmer, clicking his tongue commiseratingly.
‘There were n’t but a few spoonfuls left,’ explained Jane, almost inarticulately.
‘How could you possibly tell how many were left?’ retorted her mistress, with increased acerbity. ‘You know how particular I always am to measure it out drop for drop almost—a spoonful too much may make all the difference—particularly at this time of year. I call it downright wicked of you to run the risk of spoiling the whole vat-ful! There are a hundred and fifty gallons of milk in this vat—it should make nearly a hundredweight of cheese. And just because you are so idle and careless it may all go to waste!’
Jane turned her pretty tear-bedabbled face over her shoulder, and inconsequently and incoherently protested that she always did her best; then, with a gasp and a moan, she darted past the group in the doorway and ran round the house.
Richard looked after her with a disgusted air, and then his glance reverted to Mrs. Fiander, whose beautiful round arm was still embedded in curds, and whose face, a little paler than its wont, continued to be full of ire. What could this trifling mistake matter after all to such a rich woman, a woman who would soon be richer still? Besides being cold-blooded and self-interested, she was evidently miserly; she was, moreover, distinctly bad-tempered. His imagination, already warped by the revulsion of feeling consequent on his uncle’s disclosures, was ready to take alarm at every trivial detail. Rosalie’s pallor, and the slightly drawn look on her face—both due in reality to a sleepless night, resulting from an unaccountable perturbation of mind—were immediately attributed to an acute and unreasonable disappointment over an insignificant money loss. The eyes which had gazed on Rosalie so ardently yesterday were now busily tracing lines of fancied meanness in her face; those frowning brows surely revealed the shrew, the compressed lips spoke of parsimony. When that lovely colour faded, and those clear-cut features had become coarsened by age and self-imposed toil, what would remain? None of that beauty of soul which he had thought to find there.
‘Well, well,’ remarked Isaac placidly, ‘these accidents will happen, but I would n’t advise ’ee to be cast down by ’em. These here curds d’ seem to be a-settin’ all right. I know how ’t is wi’ young folks. A body has to stand over them all the time. Why, when we be a-shearin’ I d’ scarce dare go in for a bit o dinner for fear o’ findin’ them poor ewes snipped to pieces when I come back.’
Rosalie jerked the mass of curds up with additional impetuosity, but made no reply.
‘My nevvy,’ pursued Isaac, ‘thought he’d like to drop in an’ pay his respects to ’ee, my dear, an’ inquire how you was a-feelin’ arter the accident yesterday.’
Here he nudged Richard as a tacit reproach for his muteness.