The old blind man had come from the mountains of Wales to try to gain
a prize of ten guineas. This prize was to be awarded to the harper who
should play the best at a large town about five miles from the village
where Susan lived. In the evening, after the prize-giving was over,
there was to be a ball in the town, so the events of the day were
looked forward to by many around. Barbara was one of those who grew
more and more excited as the time for the prize-giving and ball drew
near. She longed to be asked to go there by some of the rich neighbors
who could drive her in their carriage. So how pleased she was when,
on the evening that her father and the butcher were talking about
Susan's lamb, a servant in livery from the Abbey left a note for Mr.
and Miss Barbara Case! It was to invite them to dinner and tea at the
Abbey next day.
"Now they will find out," cried Bab, "that I am indeed a genteel
person, and they will wish to take me to the ball. At any rate, I
shall do my best to be asked."
"To be sure," said Betty, "a lady who would visit Susan Price might
well be glad to take you in her carriage."
"Then pray, Betty, do not forget to send to town first thing to-morrow
for my new bonnet. Without that the ladies of the Abbey will think
nothing of me. And I must coax Papa to buy me a new gown for the ball.
I shall look well at all the ladies' dresses at the Abbey to-morrow
and find out the fashion. And Betty, I have thought of a charming
present to take Miss Somers. I shall give her Susan's guinea-hen. It's
of no use to me, so carry it up early in the morning to the Abbey,
with my compliments."
Feeling quite sure that her bonnet and the guinea-fowl would make Miss
Somers think well of her, Barbara paid her first visit to the Abbey.
She expected to see wonders, but when she was shown into the room
where Miss Somers and other ladies were sitting, simply dressed, and
with work, books and drawings on the table before them, she was
surprised and vexed. There was nothing grand to be seen anywhere.
When Miss Somers tried to find out what would interest her, and talked
of walks, and flowers and gardens, Miss Barbara was offended. "I will
show them," she said to herself, "that I can talk of other things." So
in a grand tone she spoke of what she did not understand, until her
mistaken airs of gentility made the ladies of the Abbey feel first
amused and then ashamed. One by one the ladies left the room, and when
Miss Somers went to change her dress for dinner, Barbara was left
alone with some pretty drawings to amuse her. But the silly girl paid
no heed to these. She could think only of the ball. Suddenly she
remembered that nothing had been said about the guinea-hen. The truth
was that Betty, in the hurry of dressing Barbara for her visit to the
Abbey, had forgotten the bird, but it arrived just as Miss Somers was
dressing. The housekeeper went to her mistress's room to say it had
come.
"Ma'am," she said, "here's a beautiful guinea-hen just come with Miss
Barbara Case's compliments."
Miss Somers thought by the housekeeper's tone that she was not quite
pleased, and she soon found she was right in thinking so. The woman
came close up to the dressing-table, and said, "I never like to speak
till I'm sure, ma'am, and I'm not quite sure in this case, ma'am, but
still I think it right to tell you what crossed my mind about this
same guinea-hen, ma'am, and you can ask about it or do as you feel
best, ma'am. Some time ago we had guinea-fowls of our own, and not
knowing they were going to die as they have done, ma'am, I made bold
to give a couple last Christmas to Susan Price, and very proud of them
she was, ma'am, and I'm sure would never have parted with the hen of
her own will. But if my eyes don't deceive me, ma'am, this guinea-hen
that Miss Barbara sends to you with her compliments is the same that I
gave to Susan. How Miss Barbara came by it, I can't tell, ma'am, but
if my boy Philip was at home, he might know, for he's often at Farmer
Price's cottage. If you wish it, ma'am, I'll ask him when he comes
home to-night."
"I think the best way will be for me to ask Miss Case herself about it
this evening," said Miss Somers.
Dinner was now served. Attorney Case expected to smell mint sauce, and
as the covers were taken off the dishes he looked around for lamb, but
no lamb did he see.
Among other things talked of at table was a carving-knife that Sir
Arthur had made for his sister. From this the conversation passed to
carving. "Now is my chance to find out about my present," thought the
Attorney. "Pray, may I ask," he said to Sir Arthur, "how you carve a
fore quarter of lamb?"
Sir Arthur at once saw what the Attorney wanted to hear. Having
answered his question, he went on to thank him for the present he had
offered, but added, "I am sorry I cannot accept it, as it is my rule
never to accept gifts from my neighbors. The reason is that our poor
tenants cannot show their good will in this way, as they have little
or nothing to offer."
Attorney Case listened with surprise. He was annoyed and angry, for he
did not understand Sir Arthur's just mind and kind heart. After the
ladies left the dining-room and were walking up and down the large
hall, one of them remarked that it would be a charming place for
music. Barbara, who like her father always seized any chance of
turning the conversation as best pleased herself, said what a fine
instrument was the harp. Then she spoke of the prize-giving to the
harpers and of the ball that was to follow. "I know a good deal about
the ball," she said, "because a lady in the town where it is to be
held offered to take me with her, but although she has a carriage,
Papa did not like to let her send it so far." At this point Barbara
fixed her eyes on Miss Somers, that she might, if possible, read her
thoughts, but as the lady was at that moment letting down the veil of
her hat, her face was not seen.
"Shall we go for a little walk before tea?" said Miss Somers to the
other ladies. "I have a pretty guinea-hen to show you." Barbara now
felt hopeful, and when even among the pheasants and peacocks the
guinea-hen was much admired, she was sure that Miss Somers must indeed
be proud to accept her gift.
At this moment Philip came running by on an errand for his mother. As
his eye fell upon the guinea-hen, he exclaimed before he knew, "Why,
that is Susan's guinea-hen!"
"No, it is not Susan's guinea-hen," said Miss Barbara, coloring
furiously, "it is mine, and I have made a present of it to Miss
Somers."
At the sound of Bab's voice, Philip turned round, his face ablaze with
anger.
"What is the matter, Philip?" asked Miss Somers in a soothing voice,
but Philip was not in the mood to be soothed.
"Why, ma'am, may I speak out?" he asked, and without waiting for leave
he gave a full account of the loss of Susan's guinea-fowl, of Rose's
visit to Barbara, and of Barbara's greedy and cruel conduct.
Barbara denied all that Philip said, and told quite another tale. When
she could find no more to say she blushed deeply, for she saw that her
story was not believed. One might have thought she was covered with
shame, had it not been that the moment Philip was out of sight, she
exclaimed, "I am sure I wish I had never seen this wretched
guinea-hen! It is all Susan's fault for letting it stray into our
garden."
Barbara was too angry to notice that she was admitting the truth of
Philip's story.
"Perhaps," said Miss Somers, "Susan will be more careful now that she
has had so hard a lesson. Shall we see? Philip will, I am sure, carry
the guinea-hen back to her, if we wish it."
"If you please, ma'am," said Barbara sulkily.
So the guinea-hen was given to Philip, who set off with joy and was
soon in sight of Farmer Price's cottage.
IX
A SURPRISE FOR SUSAN
When Philip came to the door he stopped suddenly, for the idea struck
him that it would give Rose great pleasure to carry the guinea-fowl to
Susan. So he ran into the village.
All the children who had given up their Mayday money to Susan were
playing on the green. They were delighted to see the guinea-hen once
more. Philip took his pipe and tabor and they all marched together
towards the whitewashed cottage.
As they passed the butcher's house, his boy came out. They told him
where they were going.
"Let me come with you, let me come with you," he said. "But wait one
moment, for my father has something to say to you," and he darted into
the house. The children waited. In a few moments they heard the
bleating of a lamb, and soon they saw it being gently led by the
butcher from the paddock.
"It is Daisy!" exclaimed Rose.
"It is Daisy!" they all shouted with joy, "Susan's lamb! Susan's
lamb!"
"Well, for my part," said the good butcher, as soon as he could be
heard, "for my part I would not be so cruel as Attorney Case for the
whole world. It's true the lamb did not know what was before it, but
poor Susan did, and to wring her gentle heart was what I call cruel.
But at any rate, here it is, safe and sound now. I'd have taken it to
her sooner, but was off early this morning to the fair, and am but
just come back. Daisy, though, was as well off in my paddock as in the
field by the water-side."
The troop of happy children went on their way with the guinea-fowl and
the lamb. As they passed the shop where Susan had been shown the
pretty calicoes, the shopkeeper, who, you remember, was Rose's father,
came out. When he saw the lamb, and learned whose it was and heard its
story, he gave the children some pieces of colored ribbon, with which
Rose decorated Susan's favorite.
The children now once more moved on, led by Philip, who played
joyfully upon his pipe and tabor. Susan was working in her
summer-house, with her little pine table before her. When she heard
the sound of the music, she put down her work and listened. She saw
the crowd of children coming nearer and nearer. They had closed round
Daisy, so she did not see her pet, but as they came up to the
garden-gate she saw that Rose beckoned to her. Philip played as loud
as he could, that she might not hear, until the proper moment, the
bleating of the lamb. As Susan opened the gate, the children divided,
and first she saw, in the midst of her taller friends, little smiling
Mary, with the guinea-hen in her arms.
"Come on! come on!" cried Mary, as Susan started with joyful surprise;
"you have more to see."
At this instant the music paused. Susan heard the bleating of a lamb,
and pressing eagerly forward, she beheld poor Daisy. She burst into
tears. "I did not shed one tear when I parted with you, my dear little
Daisy," she said, "it was for my father and mother. I would not have
parted with you for any one else in the whole world. Thank you, thank
you all," she added to her companions, who were even gladder for her
in her joy than they had been sorry for her in her sorrow. "Now, if my
father was not to go away from us next week, and if my mother were
quite strong, I should be the happiest person in the world." As Susan
finished speaking, a voice behind the listening crowd cried, in a
rough tone, "Let us pass, if you please; you have no right to block
the road." This was the voice of Attorney Case, who was returning
with Barbara from his visit to the Abbey. He saw the lamb and tried to
whistle as he went on. Barbara also saw the guinea-hen and turned her
head another way. Even her new bonnet, in which she had expected to be
so much admired, now only served to hide her blushing face.
"I am glad she saw the guinea-hen," cried Rose, who now held it in her
hands.
"Yes," said Philip, "she'll not forget Mayday in a hurry."
"Nor I either, I hope," said Susan, looking round upon her companions
with a most loving smile: "I hope, while I live, I shall never forget
your goodness to me last Mayday. Now that I've my pretty guinea-hen
safe once more, I should think of returning your money."
"No! no! no!" was the cry, "we don't want the money--keep it--keep
it--you want it for your father."
"Well," said Susan, "I am not too proud to accept it. I will keep your
money for my father. Perhaps some time or other I may be able to
earn----"
"Oh," said Philip, "don't let us talk of earning; don't let her talk
to us of money now; she hasn't had time hardly to look at poor Daisy
and her guinea-hen. Come, we had better go and let her have them all
to herself."
The children moved away, but Philip himself was the very last to stir
from the garden-gate. He stayed, first, to tell Susan that it was Rose
who tied the ribbons on Daisy's head. Then he stayed a little longer
to let her hear the story of the guinea-fowl, and to tell her who it
was that brought the hen home from the Abbey.
As Philip finished speaking, Susan was already feeding her long-lost
favorite. "My pretty guinea-hen," said Susan, "my naughty guinea-hen
that flew away from me, you shall never serve me so again. I must cut
your nice wings, but I won't hurt you."
"Take care!" cried Philip, "you'd better, indeed you'd better let me
hold her, while you cut her wings."
When this was done, which it certainly never could have been had
Philip not held the hen for Susan, he remembered his mother had given
him a message for Mrs. Price. This led to another quarter of an hour's
delay, for Philip had the whole story of the guinea-hen to tell over
again to Mrs. Price, and as the farmer came in while it was going on,
it was only polite to begin at the beginning once more. Farmer Price
was so pleased to see Susan happy again with her two favorites, that
he said he must himself see Daisy fed, and Philip found that he was
wanted to hold the jug of milk, from which Susan's father now filled
the pan for Daisy. When Philip at last left the cottage, Bab and her
maid Betty were staring out of the window as usual. Seeing them after
he had left the garden, he at once turned back to see if he had shut
the gate fast, lest the guinea-hen might stray out and again fall into
Barbara's hands.
X
BARBARA'S ACCIDENT
As the day went on, Miss Barbara became more and more annoyed that her
meanness had been found out, but she had no wish to cure herself of
the fault. The ball was still her first thought.
"Well," she said to Betty, "you have heard how things have turned out,
but if Miss Somers does not ask me to go with, her, I think I know
some one else who will."
Now, some officers were quartered at the town where the ball was to be
held. And because they had got into trouble with a tradesman there,
out of which Mr. Case had undertaken to help them, they sometimes
invited the Attorney to mess. The officers thought that if they showed
some attention to Mr. Case, he would not charge them so much for his
help. One of them even asked his wife to take, sometimes, a little
notice of Miss Barbara. The name of this officer's wife was Mrs.
Strathspey. It was of Mrs. Strathspey that Barbara was thinking when
she said to Betty that if Miss Somers did not take her to the ball,
she thought she knew of some one else who would.
"Mrs. Strathspey and the officers are to breakfast here to-morrow,"
said Bab. "One of them dined at the Abbey to-day and he said they
would all come. They are going somewhere into the country and
breakfast here on the way. Pray, Betty, don't forget that Mrs.
Strathspey can't breakfast without honey. I heard her say so myself."
"Then, indeed," said Betty, "I'm afraid Mrs. Strathspey will have to
go without breakfast here, for not a spoonful of honey have we, let
her long for it ever so much."
"But, surely," said Bab, "we can contrive to get some honey in the
neighborhood."
"There's none to be bought, that I know of," said Betty.
"But is there none to be begged or borrowed?" said Bab, laughing. "Do
you forget Susan's beehive? Step over to her in the morning with my
compliments, and see what you can do. Tell her it's for Mrs.
Strathspey."
In the morning Betty went with Miss Barbara's compliments to Susan, to
beg some honey for Mrs. Strathspey, who could not breakfast without
it. Susan did not like to part with her honey, because her mother
loved it, and she therefore gave Betty only a little. When Barbara saw
how little Susan sent, she called her a miser, and she said she must
have some more for Mrs. Strathspey. "I'll go myself and speak to her.
Come with me, Betty," said the young lady, who seemed to forget she
had said, on the day that she was asked to "take a spoon," that she
never would pay Susan another visit.
"Susan," she said to the poor girl whom she had done everything in her
power to hurt, "I must beg a little more honey from you for Mrs.
Strathspey's breakfast. You know, at a great time such as this, we
should help one another."
"To be sure we should," added Betty.
Susan, though she was generous, was not weak; she was willing to give
to those she loved, but would not let anything be taken from her or
coaxed out of her by those whom she could not respect. She answered
that she was sorry she had no more honey to spare.
Barbara grew angry. "I'll tell you what, Susan Price," she said, "the
honey I will have, so you may as well give it to me by fair means. Yes
or no? Speak! Will you give it to me or not? Will you give me that
piece of the honeycomb that lies there?"
"That bit of honeycomb is for my mother's breakfast," said Susan; "I
cannot give it you."
"Can't you?" said Bab, "then see if I don't take it."
She stretched across Susan and grasped, but she did not reach far
enough. She made a second dart at the honeycomb and, in her effort to
get it, she overset the beehive. The bees swarmed about her. Her maid
Betty screamed and ran away. Susan, who was sheltered by a
laburnum-tree, called to Barbara, upon whom the black clusters of bees
were now settling, and begged her to stand still and not to beat them
away, "If you stand quietly you won't be stung, perhaps."
But instead of standing quietly, Bab flung about her arms, and stamped
and roared, and the bees stung her terribly. Her arms and her face
swelled in a frightful manner. She was helped home by poor Susan and
Betty. The maid, now that the mischief was done, thought only of how
she could excuse herself to her master.
"Indeed, Miss Barbara," said she, "it was quite wrong of you to go and
get yourself into such a scrape. I shall be turned away for it, you'll
see."
"I don't care whether you are turned away or not," said Barbara; "I
never felt such pain in my life. Can't you do something for me? I
don't mind the pain either so much as being such a fright. Pray, how
am I to be fit to appear at breakfast with Mrs. Strathspey; and I
suppose I can't go to the ball either to-morrow, after all."
"No, that you can't expect to do, indeed," said Betty. "You need not
think of balls, for those lumps and swellings won't go off your face
this week. That's not what I mind; I'm thinking of what your papa will
say to me when he sees you, miss."
Susan, seeing she could be of no further use, was about to leave the
house, when at the door she met Mr. Case coming in. Now, since his
second visit to the Abbey, the Attorney had been thinking things over.
It was clear that both Sir Arthur and Miss Somers thought highly of
the Price family, so perhaps it was a mistake on his part not to be on
friendly terms with them too. He felt sure that if the story of
Susan's lamb ever reached the Abbey, Sir Arthur would have no more to
do with him. It would therefore be well to get into the good graces
of the farmer and his family. So when Mr. Case met Susan at the door
he smiled and said, "How is your mother? Have you called for something
that may be of use to her? Barbara, Barbara--Bab, come downstairs,
child, and see what you can do for Susan Price." But no Barbara
answered, and her father stalked upstairs to her room. There he stood
still, amazed at the sight of his daughter's swollen face.
Before Mr. Case could speak, Betty began to tell the story of
Barbara's mishap in her own way. Barbara spoke at the same time,
giving quite another account of what had happened. The Attorney turned
the maid away on the spot, and turning to Barbara asked how she dared
to treat Susan Price so ill, "when," as he said, "she was kind enough
to give you some of her honey. I will not let you treat her so."
Susan, who could not but hear all that was said, now went to beg the
angry father to forgive his daughter.
"You are too good to her, as indeed you are to everybody," he said. "I
forgive her for your sake."
Susan courtesied in great surprise, but she could not forget the
Attorney's treatment of Daisy, and she left his house as soon as she
could to get ready her mother's breakfast. Mr. Case saw that Simple
Susan was not to be taken in by a few simple words, and when he tried
in the same way to approach her father, the blunt, honest farmer
looked at him with disdain.
XI
THE PRIZE-GIVING
So matters stood on the day of the long-expected prize-giving and
ball. Miss Barbara Case, stung by Susan's bees, could not, after all
her efforts, go with Mrs. Strathspey to the ball. The ballroom was
filled early in the evening. There was a large gathering. The harpers
who tried for the prize were placed under the music-gallery at the
lower end of the room. Among them was our old blind friend, who, as he
was not so well clad as the others, seemed to be looked down upon by
many of the onlookers. Six ladies and six gentlemen were chosen to be
judges of the performance. They were seated opposite to the harpers.
The Misses Somers, who were fond of music, were among the ladies, and
the prize was in the hands of Sir Arthur.
There was now silence. The first harp sounded, and as each harper
tried his skill, those who listened seemed to think that he deserved
the prize. The old blind man was the last. He tuned his harp, and such
a simple, sad strain was heard as touched every heart. All were
delighted, and when the music ceased there was still silence for some
moments.
The silence was followed by loud cheers. The judges were all agreed
that the old blind harper, who had played last, deserved the prize.
The simple, sad air, which had moved all who listened, was composed by
himself. He was asked to give the words belonging to the music, and at
last he modestly said he would repeat them, as he could not see to
write. Miss Somers took her pencil, and as the old harper repeated his
ballad, she wrote the words. He called it "Susan's Lamentation for her
Lamb." Miss Somers looked at her brother from time to time, as she
wrote, and Sir Arthur, as soon as the old man had finished, took him
aside and asked him some questions, which brought to light the whole
story of Susan's lamb and of Attorney Case's cruelty.
The Attorney himself was present when the harper began to repeat his
ballad. His color, as Sir Arthur steadily looked at him, changed from
red to white, and from white to red, until at length he suddenly
shrunk back through the crowd and left the room. We shall not follow
him. We had rather follow our old friend the harper. No sooner had he
received the prize of ten guineas, than he went to a small room
belonging to the people of the house, asked for pen, ink, and paper,
and dictated, in a low voice to his boy, a letter, which he ordered
him to put at once into the post-office. The boy ran off with the
letter and was but just in time, for the postman's horn was sounding.
The next morning Farmer Price was sitting beside his wife and Susan
sorrowing that his week's leave was nearly at an end, and that they
had not enough money to give to the man who was willing to go in his
place, when a knock was heard at the door. Then the person who
delivered the letters in the village put one into Susan's hand,
saying, "A penny, if you please--here's a letter for your father."
"For me!" said Farmer Price; "here's the penny then; but who can it be
from, I wonder? Who can think of writing to me, in this world?" He
tore open the letter, but the hard name at the bottom of the page
puzzled him--"your obliged friend, Llewellyn."
"And what's this?" he said, opening a paper that was enclosed in the
letter. "It's a song, seemingly; it must be somebody that has a mind
to make an April fool of me."
"But it is not April, it is May, father," said Susan.
"Well, let us read the letter, and we shall come to the truth all in
good time."
Farmer Price then sat down in his own chair, and read as follows: