‘Do they now?’ in tones of deep disgust. ‘Well, an’ that’s a pretty story!’
‘Yes. And you know, Mr. Sharpe, ’t is the last thing Elias would have wished—that the work should be neglected and everything allowed to go wrong like this; yet they seem to think me heartless for expecting things to go on as before. And the worst of it all is’—here poor Rosalie began to weep hysterically—‘they don’t any of them believe that I am sorry for Elias, and they think I’m going to marry again; and, and—two hateful, odious, impudent young men have already come to court me.’
Her sobs well-nigh choked her as she made this last announcement; and Isaac, full of concern, fell to patting her arm again.
‘Don’t ’ee now, my dear, don’t ’ee. Well, ’t is very annoyin’ for ’ee, I’m sure. There, don’t ’ee cry so. Well, well! to think on’t! Started coortin’ a’ready, have they? Well, they mid ha’ waited a bit! But come in a minute, do ’ee, Mrs. Fiander, and sit ’ee down. Dear heart alive! dear heart alive! poor Elias ’ud be terrible upset if he were to see ye a-givin’ way like this.’
He half persuaded, half propelled the still weeping widow across the yard and into his kitchen, where, sitting down near the table and covering her face with her hands under the heavy crape veil, she continued to sob until her host was nearly distracted.
‘Here, my dear, take a sup o’ this, ’t will do ye good.’
Rosalie threw back her veil and took the glass which he offered her. Raising it to her lips, she found that the dark decoction which it contained was excessively strong, unusually acid, and unspeakably nasty. Fresh tears, not prompted by sorrow this time, started to her eyes as she set down the glass.
‘Thank you, Mr. Sharpe,’ she said; ‘I am better now. I don’t think I’ll finish it. It seems very strong.’
‘Ah, it’s that,’ agreed the farmer with some pride. ‘Sloe wine Bithey d’ call it; she do make a quart every year. Wonderful good for the spasms, or sich-like. She do get taken that way sometimes in her in’ards, pore old soul! an’ she says a drop o’ this do al’ays set her to rights. Sloe wine! ah, that’s what it be called; ye’d scarce think ’twere made o’ nought but the snags what grows in the hedges—jist snags an’ a trifle o’ sugar. But I do assure ye ’t is that strong ’t will sometimes lift the cork out o’ the bottle. Now, Mrs. Fiander, ye’d best finish it; ’t is a pity to let the good stuff go to waste.’
But, as Rosalie gratefully but firmly declined, the worthy man appeased his thrifty conscience by draining the glass himself.