Fiander's Widow: A Novel

by M. E. Francis

‘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?’