Fiander's Widow: A Novel
9781465665676
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
The sale was over: live stock, implements, corn and hay, turnips and potatoes, even apples, had duly been entered to their various buyers; and now such smaller articles as milk-pails, cheese-tubs, cream-tins, weights and scales, and other items of a dairy-farmer’s gear were passing under the hammer. The auction had been well attended, for it had been known beforehand that things would go cheap, and though the melancholy circumstances under which the sale took place called forth many expressions of regret and compassion, they in no way lessened the general eagerness to secure good bargains. Old Giles Stelling had always kept pace with the times, and had been among the first to adopt new appliances and avail himself of the lights which advancing science throws even upon the avocations of the farmer. He had gone a little too fast, as his neighbours now agreed with many doleful ‘ah’s’ and ‘ayes’ and shakings of heads. All these grand new machines of his had helped to precipitate the catastrophe which had overtaken him—a catastrophe which was tragic indeed, for the old farmer, overcome by the prospect of impending ruin, had been carried off by an apoplectic fit even before this enforced sale of his effects. Nevertheless, though many considered these strange new-fangled reapers-and-binders, these unnatural-looking double-ploughs, a kind of flying in the face of Providence, a few spirited individuals had made up their minds to bid for them, and one energetic purchaser had even driven eighteen miles from the other side of the county to secure one particularly complicated machine. The bidding was still proceeding briskly in the great barn when this person shouldered his way through the crowd and made a tour of inspection of the premises, previous to setting forth again on his return journey. He was a middle-sized elderly man, with bright blue eyes that looked forth kindly if keenly from beneath bushy grizzled brows; the ruddy face, set off by a fringe of white beard and whisker, looked good-humoured and prosperous enough, but the somewhat stooping shoulders bore witness to the constant and arduous labour which had been Elias Fiander’s lot in early life. He sauntered across the great yard, so desolate to-day albeit crowded at the upper end nearest the barn; the suspension of the ordinary life of the place gave it an air of supreme melancholy and even loneliness. The cattle thrusting at each other in their enclosures and bellowing dismally, the sheep hurdled off in convenient lots, the very fowl penned up and squawking lamentably, for the more valuable specimens were tied together in bunches by the legs—all these dumb things seemed to have a kind of instinctive understanding that something unusual and tragic was going forward. ‘Poor beasts, they do make a deal o’ noise,’ muttered Elias half aloud; ‘a body might think they was a-cryin’ for their master. Well, well, ’t is an ill wind what blows nobody good, and that there turnip-hoer was a wonderful bargain. It won’t do him no harm as I should ha’ picked it up so cheap. Nay, nay, ’t won’t do him no harm where he be gone to; and I might as well ha’ bought it as another.’
