“You going to leave us, Mr. Eden, and going to live in a jail? Oh!
Mr. Eden, I can't bear to think of it. You to be cooped up there among
thieves and rogues, and perhaps murderers?”
“They have the more need of me.”
“And you, who love the air of heaven so; why, sir, I see you take off
your very hat at times to enjoy it as you are walking along; you would
be choked in a prison. Besides, sir, it is only little parsons that go
there.”
“What are little parsons?”
“Those that are not clever enough or good enough to be bishops and
vicars, and so forth; not such ones as you.”
“How odd! This is exactly what the Devil whispered in my ear when the
question was first raised, but I did not expect to find you on his
side.”
“Didn't you, sir? Ah! well, if 'tis your duty I know I may as well hold
my tongue. And then, such as you are not like other folk; you come like
sunshine to some dark place, and when you have warmed it and lighted it
a bit, Heaven, that sent you, will have you go and shine elsewhere. You
came here, sir, you waked up the impenitent folk in this village and
comforted the distressed and relieved the poor, and you have saved one
poor broken-hearted girl from despair, from madness, belike; and now we
are not to be selfish, we must not hold you back, but let you run the
race that is set before you, and remember your words and your deeds, and
your dear face and voice to the last hour of our lives.”
“And give me the benefit of your prayers, little sister, do not deny me
them; your prayers, that I may persevere to the end. Ay! it is too true,
Susan; in this world there is nothing but meeting and parting; it is
sad. We have need to be stout-hearted--stouter-hearted than you are. But
it will not always be so. A few short years and we who have fought
the good fight shall meet to part no more--to part no more--to part no
more!”
As he repeated these words, half mechanically, Susan could see that he
had suddenly become scarce conscious of her presence. The light of other
days was in his eye and his lips moved inarticulately. Delicate-minded
Susan left him, and with the aid of the servant brought out the
tea-things and set the little table on the grass square in her garden,
where you could see the western sun. And then she came for Mr. Eden.
“Come, sir, there is not a breath of wind this evening, so the
tea-things are set in the air. I know you like that.”
The little party sat down in the open air. The butter, churned by Susan,
was solidified cream. The bread not very white, but home-made, juicy and
sweet as milk. The tea seemed to diffuse a more flowery fragrance out of
doors than it does in, and to mix fraternally with the hundred odors of
Susan's flowers that now perfumed the air, and the whole innocent meal,
unlike coarse dinner or supper, mingled harmoniously with the scene,
with the balmy air, the blue sky and the bright emerald grass sprinkled
with gold by the descending sun. Farmer Merton soon left them, and then
Susan went in and brought out pen and ink and a large sheet of paper.
Susan sat apart working with her needle, Mr. Eden sketched a sermon and
sipped his tea, and now and then purred three words to Susan, who purred
as many in reply. And yet over this pleasant scene there hung a gentle
sadness, felt most by Susan, as with head bent down she plied her needle
in silence. “He will not sit in my garden many times more, nor write
many more notes of sermons under my eye, nor preach to us all many more
sermons; and then he is going to a nasty jail, where he won't have his
health, I'm doubtful. And then I'm fearful he won't be comfortable in
his house, with nobody to take care of him that really cares for him;
servants soon find out where there is no woman to scold them as should
be, and he is not the man to take his own part against them.” And Susan
sighed at the domestic prospects of her friend, and her needle went
slower and slower.
These reflections were interrupted by the servant, who announced a
visitor. Susan laid down her work and went into the parlor, and there
found Isaac Levi. She greeted him with open arms and heightened
color, and never for a moment suspected that he was come there full of
suspicions of her.
After the first greeting a few things of little importance were said on
either side. Isaac watching to see whether Mr. Meadows had succeeded in
supplanting George, and too cunning to lead the conversation that way
himself, lay patiently in wait like a sly old fox. However, he soon
found he was playing the politician superfluously, for Susan laid bare
her whole heart to the simplest capacity. Instead of waiting for
the skillful, subtle, almost invisible cross-examination which the
descendant of Maimonides was preparing for her, she answered all his
questions before they were asked. It came out that her thought by day
and night was George, that she had been very dull, and very unhappy.
“But I am better now, Mr. Levi, thank God. He has been very good to me:
he has sent me a friend, a clergyman, or an angel in the dress of one, I
sometimes think. He knows all about me and George, sir; so that makes
me feel quite at home with him, and I can--and now Mr. Meadows stops
an hour on market-days, and he is so kind as to tell me all about
Australia, and you may guess I like to hear about--Mr. Levi, come and
see us some market evening. Mr. Meadows is capital company; to hear him
you would think he had passed half his life in Australia. Were you ever
in Australia, sir, if you please?”
“Never, but I shall.”
“Shall you, sir?”
“Yes; the old Jew is not to die till he has drifted to every part in
the globe. In my old days I shall go back toward the East, and there
methinks I shall lay these wandering bones.”
“Oh, sir, inquire after George and show him some kindness, and don't see
him wronged, he is very simple. No! no! no! you are too old; you must
not cross the seas at your age; don't think of it; stay quiet at home
till you leave us for a better world.”
“At home!” said the old man sorrowfully; “I have no home. I had a home,
but the man Meadows has driven me out of it.”
“Mr. Meadows! La, sir, as how?”
“He bought the house I live in, and next Lady-day, as the
woman-worshiper calls it, he turns me to the door.”
“But he won't if you ask him. He is a very good-natured man. You go and
ask him to be so good as let you stay; he won't gainsay you, you take my
word.”
“Susannah!” replied Isaac, “you are good and innocent; you cannot fathom
the hearts of the wicked. This Meadows is a man of Belial. I did beseech
him; I bowed these gray hairs to him to let me stay in the house where I
lived so happily with my Leah twenty years, where my children were
born to me and died from me, where my Leah consoled me for their loss a
while, but took no comfort herself and left me, too.”
“Poor old man! and what did he say?”
“He refused me with harsh words. To make the refusal more bitter
he insulted my religion and my much-enduring tribe, and at the day
appointed he turns me, at threescore years and ten, adrift upon the
earth.”
“Eh, dear! how hard the world is!” cried Susan; “I had a great respect
for Mr. Meadows, but now if he comes here I know I shall shut the door
in his face.”
Isaac reflected. This would not have suited a certain subtle Eastern
plan of vengeance he had formed. “No!” said he, “that is folly. Take
not another man's quarrel on your shoulders. A Jew knows how to revenge
himself without your aid.”
So then her inquisitor was satisfied; Australia really was the topic
that made Meadows welcome. He departed, revolving Oriental vengeance.
Smooth Meadows, at his next visit, removed the impression excited
against him, and easily persuaded Susan that Levi was more in the wrong
than he, in which opinion she stood firm till Levi's next visit.
At last she gave up all hope of dijudicating, and determined to end the
matter by bringing them together and making them friends.
And now approached the day of Mr. Eden's departure. The last sermon--the
last quiet tea in the garden. On Monday afternoon he was to go to
Oxford, and the following week to his new sphere of duties, which he
had selected to the astonishment of some hundred persons who knew him
superficially--knew him by his face, by his pretensions as a scholar,
a divine and a gentleman of descent and independent means, but had not
sounded his depths.
All Sunday Susan sought every opportunity of conversing with him even on
indifferent matters. She was garnering up his words, his very syllables,
and twenty times in the day he saw her eyes fill with tears apropos of
such observations as this:
“We shall have a nice warm afternoon, Susan.”
“It is to be hoped so, sir; the blackbirds are giving a chirrup or two.”
All Monday forenoon Susan was very busy. There was bread to be baked and
butter to be made. Mr. Eden must take some of each to Oxford. They would
keep Grassmere in his mind a day or two longer; and besides they were
wholesome and he was fond of them. Then there was his linen to be looked
over, and buttons sewed on for the last time. Then he must eat a good
dinner before he went, so then he would want nothing but his tea when he
got to Oxford; and the bread would be fit to eat by tea-time, especially
a small crusty cake she had made for that purpose. So with all this
Susan was energetic, almost lively; and even when it was all done and
they were at dinner, her principal anxiety seemed to be that he should
eat more than usual because he was going a journey. But when all bustle
of every kind was over and the actual hour of parting came, she suddenly
burst out crying before her father and the servant, who bade her not
take on and instantly burst out crying too from vague sympathy.
The old farmer ordered the girl out of the room directly, and without
the least emotion proceeded to make excuses to Mr. Eden for Susan.
“A young maid's eyes soon flow over,” etc.
Mr. Eden interrupted him.
“Such tears as these do not scald the heart. I feel this separation from
my dear kind friend as much as she feels it. But I am more than twice
her age and have passed through--I should feel it bitterly if I thought
our friendship and Christian love were to end because our path of duty
lies separate. But no, Susan, still look on me as your adviser, your
elder brother, and in some measure your pastor. I shall write to you and
watch over you, though it some distance--and not so great a distance.
I am always well horsed, and I know you will give me a bed at Grassmere
once a quarter.”
“That we will,” cried the farmer, warmly, “and proud and happy to see
you cross the threshold, sir.”
“And, Mr. Merton, my new house is large. I shall be alone in it.
Whenever you and Miss Merton have nothing better to do, pray come
and visit me. I will make you as uncomfortable as you have made me
comfortable, but as welcome as you have made me welcome.”
“We will come, sir! we will come some one of these days, and thank you
for the honor.”
So Mr. Eden went from Grassmere village and Grassmere farmhouse--but he
left neither as he found them; fifty years hence an old man and woman or
two will speak to their grandchildren of the “Sower,” and Susan Merton
(if she is on earth then) of “the good Physician.” She may well do
so, for it was no vulgar service he rendered her, no vulgar malady he
checked.
Not every good man could have penetrated so quickly a coy woman's grief,
nor, the wound found, have soothed her fever and deadened her smart with
a hand as firm as gentle, as gentle as firm.
Such men are human suns! They brighten and warm wherever they pass.
Fools count them mad, till death wrenches open foolish eyes; they are
not often called “my Lord,” * nor sung by poets when they die; but the
hearts they heal, and their own are their rich reward on earth--and
their place is high in heaven.
* Sometimes thought.