‘I can do very well without you,’ retorted Mrs. Fiander tartly. ‘No, Job, you have behaved too badly. You have been the ringleader of this disgraceful business—you must certainly go.’
‘On Saturday week?’ faltered Job.
‘Yes, Saturday week—you and Abel. How Abel can suppose I could possibly keep him after such conduct, I can’t imagine. I certainly will not.’
‘Mr. Sharpe did say’—Job was beginning, now almost in tears, when she interrupted him relentlessly.
‘Never mind what Mr. Sharpe said. I have quite made up my mind as to what I shall do.’
She was thoroughly in earnest, and the men knew it. They fell back ruefully, and their young mistress returned to the house, carrying her head very high and setting her face sternly.
When her work was over that afternoon she set out, with a business-like air, on what seemed to be a tour of inspection; first walking briskly along the rows of pigsties, the condition of which had on the day before given rise to so much controversy. All was now as it should be; Abel, Sam, and one or two of the other subordinates having devoted their attention to them at early dawn. Here were pigs of every age and degree, from the venerable matron to the spry young porker just beginning to devote himself to the serious business of life—namely, growing fat. Seventy-two in all, and most of them doomed to destruction within a few months: that was the part of the economy of farming which Rosalie most disliked; it was the blot on the otherwise poetical and peaceful avocation. But she had hitherto been taught to consider the presence of these pigs an absolute necessity. Was this really the case? Might not she, with her woman’s wit, devise some better expedient by means of which the obnoxious animals could be dispensed with, and at the same time waste of skim-milk and whey avoided?
Leaving the yard, she betook herself to the orchard, where a few more porcine families were taking exercise. Their presence somewhat detracted from the picturesque appearance of the place, which, though the ‘blooth’ or blossom had long since fallen, had still a considerable share of beauty of its own. The sunlight beating down now through the delicate green leafage brought out wonderful silvery lights from the lichened trunks, and outlined the curiously gnarled branches. It struck out a golden path across the lush grass for Rosalie to walk on, and she passed slowly down the glade with bent head and serious face.
Turning when she reached the end to retrace her steps, she saw a well-known sturdy form approaching her, and advanced to meet Isaac Sharpe, still with a certain queenly air, and without quickening her pace. Isaac’s countenance, on the contrary, wore a perturbed and puzzled expression; his brow was anxiously furrowed, and he gazed hard at Mrs. Fiander as he hastened towards her.
‘I’m a-feared ye’ve had a deal o’ trouble, here,’ he began.