‘Well, my dear,’ said Isaac, somewhat mollified, ‘I don’t approve, d’ ye see? Since you ask my advice, I’ll tell ye plain that I don’t think the plan will work. Ye won’t be able to sell your pigs to begin with; then ye’ll want a man wi’ more experience than Sam to look after the cows; it bain’t such easy work—nay, that it bain’t. Then, as to gettin’ more women ’bout the place, I don’t hold with the notion. I don’t think it ’ud benefit ye, my dear. I don’t trewly.’
Rosalie appeared to meditate.
‘Think it over, Mrs. Fiander,’ he urged; ‘don’t do nothing in a hurry; that be my advice.’
‘Thank you very much. Yes, I’ll think it over. You’ll come on Sunday, won’t you, Mr. Sharpe?’
‘’Ees,’ agreed Isaac doubtfully. ‘’Ees, I’ll come on Sunday. I be main glad you be thinking of taking my advice, Mrs. Fiander.’
‘I am grateful to you for giving it,’ said Rosalie with a sweet smile; and the farmer walked away, thinking that on the whole women were far less unreasonable than he had hitherto supposed.
The next day was Thursday—early closing day at Branston—therefore no one was surprised when Mrs. Fiander, having as she averred some business to do in the town, ordered the gig in the forenoon. It was the first time she had used that vehicle since her husband’s death, and she looked sorrowful enough as she climbed into it, clad in her deepest weeds.
The steady old horse looked round when she gathered up the reins, as though wondering at the innovation—for Elias had always been accustomed to drive—and was with some difficulty induced to start.
‘Nigger be so wise as a Christian, that he be,’ commented Bundy, as the gig and its occupant disappeared. ‘He was a-standin’ and a-waitin’ for master, so sensible as I mid do myself. But he’ll have to get used to the change the same as the rest of us.’
‘Ay, an’ p’r’aps he’ll not like it so very well,’ returned Abel sardonically. ‘Give a woman a whip in her hand, and she fancies she’s bound to lay it on.’