Fiander's Widow: A Novel

by M. E. Francis

Rosalie frowned a little and said no more, but her faith in Sam was not diminished, and as time went on she grew to rely more and more on this cheerful and obliging young fellow.

The gossiping anent the alleged courting of Mrs. Fiander by Farmer Sharpe was not confined to Littlecomb Village, but soon spread to the more important town of Branston, with the immediate result of stirring up sundry of the young men belonging to that place, who, after the discomfiture of Samuel Cross, had deemed it prudent to relax for a time in their attentions to the fascinating widow. So long as she had been thought plunged in grief, these wooers of hers had been content to bide their time; but when it became known that there was actually an avowed suitor in the field, and one, moreover, to whom the lady had given unequivocal tokens of confidence and good-will, they resolved with one accord to bestir themselves, lest the prize of which each thought himself most deserving, might be secured by another.

Before many days of the new year had passed Rosalie found herself absolutely besieged. Samuel Cross actually forced his way past the unwilling Susan into the parlour while Rosalie was at tea; Mr. Wilson lay in wait for her as she was emerging from church on Christmas Day, and made his proposal in due form as he escorted her homewards. John Hardy inveigled the widow into the back parlour behind the shop, ostensibly to discuss the sale of the Blue Vinneys, in reality to lay his hand and heart at her feet.

Rosalie said ‘No’ to one and all, and was astonished at the outburst of indignation which her answer provoked, and at the keen sense of ill-usage under which every one of her suitors appeared to be labouring.

It was Samuel Cross who first alluded in Rosalie’s hearing to the prevalent belief that Farmer Sharpe was paying his court to her; and he was somewhat taken aback by the unfeigned merriment which the suggestion evoked.

‘You may laugh, Mrs. Fiander,’ he said, recovering himself after an instant, ‘but people are not blind and deaf; and, though they may be fooled to a certain extent by a lady, gentlemen of my profession find it easy to put two and two together, ma’am. When a lady tells you she is always engaged on a Sunday, and shuts the door in the face of a person who comes to make civil inquiries, one does n’t need to be extra clever to guess that there must be some reason for it. And when the reason turns out to be another gentleman, and when that gentleman takes upon himself to assault another gentleman as was also desirous of paying his respects in the same quarter, that, Mrs. Fiander, is what one may term primâ-facie evidence!’

Whether the display of Mr. Cross’s learning had a sobering effect on Mrs. Fiander, or whether she was suddenly struck by some serious thought, it is certain that she ceased laughing at this juncture, and remained pensive even after the rejected suitor had departed.

Mr. Wilson was harder to get rid of. He was so confident in the justice of his claim, so pertinacious in reminding Rosalie of her obligations towards him with regard to the sales of the pigs—which piece of business he perseveringly alluded to as ‘a delicate matter’—so persuaded, moreover, of his own superiority to any of her other lovers, that she finally lost patience and petulantly declared that if there were not another man in the world she would not consent to marry him.

The auctioneer grew purple in the face, and suddenly changed his note:—

‘If there was n’t another man in the world!’ he repeated sneeringly. ‘Then there is another man? Ha! it is n’t very hard to guess who! Well, tastes differ. If you like such a rough, common old chap better than a gentleman doing a large and honourable business, I make you a present of him, Mrs. Fiander, smock-frock and all! Ha, ha, he’ll soon have the pigs back again when he’s master here, and all my labour and loss of time will have been thrown away. Not that I grudge the sacrifice,’ cried Mr. Wilson in a melting tone. ‘No, far be it from me to grudge the sacrifice. The ladies have always found an easy prey in me; and when I think of the far greater sacrifice which a young and lovely woman is prepared to make upon the altar of matrimony—a sacrifice which she will repent too late—I am rejooced to silence.’