CHAPTER XXVII.

But I wad rather see him roam

An outcast on a foreign strand,

And wi' his master beg his bread,

Nae mair to see his native land,

Than bow a hair o' his brave head

To base usurper's tyrannye,

Than cringe for mercy to a knave

That ne'er was owned by him or me.

_Jacobite Song._

Lady Nithsdale's voyage was performed in safety; and at Paris she

joined her husband and her children, whom he had conveyed thither from

Bruges to await her coming.

The happiness which they had almost feared to picture was at length

realised. They together gazed upon their noble boy;--she saw the little

Lady Anne nestled in her father's bosom,--she gave herself up to the

joy of gazing on them, with no fear that this joy should be snatched

from her by any power except the immediate will of Heaven.

On the 4th of May they reached Avignon, where all his adherents flocked

around the Pretender,--the Earl, or, as he was there styled, the Duke

of Mar, the Duke of Ormond, and many others, to the number of thirty

lords.

But the petty broils, the dissensions, and the jealousies of this mock

court assorted but ill with the feelings and habits of Lord and Lady

Nithsdale. They soon left Avignon, and proceeded to Italy, where they

lived in privacy, with no wish beyond each other's society and the

company of their children.

After all which they had endured, it was enough to be together; and for

weeks, nay, months, the delightful certainty of being restored to each

other, stood in lieu of all things else.

But human nature is so constituted that the continued possession of

that which we have long enjoyed, and that which we no longer fear to

lose, will not alone be productive of lively, positive happiness; other

thoughts, other desires, find room within the heart.

As their children advanced in years, they could not but feel that they

were doomed to vegetate in a foreign soil,--they could not but feel

that their position in life was very different from that to which they

had been born.

The remembrance of home, the images of absent friends, the memory of

departed ones, were treasured up in their minds: and Lady Nithsdale

would, unperceived, dwell on the pale sad brow of her lord as, hanging

on his arm, she paced with him the shores of the Mediterranean; and she

could easily read that his thoughts had leaped over intervening time

and space, over years gone by, and over the mountains, plains, and seas

that interposed between them and their home, and were sadly fixed upon

the past, and the distant. He caught her eye, as tearfully, fondly, it

was turned on him.

"Yes," he said, "my thoughts were far from hence. The clear pure heaven

above us is unbroken by a cloud, but dearer to my eyes the misty sky

of Scotland; the deep blue of the unruffled sea is beautiful, but to

my feelings the dusky waves that dash against the ruined walls of our

own Caerlaverock are more sublime in their wild grandeur. The distinct,

defined outline of yon purple mountains may be more brilliant, but my

heart yearns for the softened hazy outline of our own Scotch hills,

melting into the pearly hues of our watery sky!"

As he spoke, a light bark glided rapidly by, and the boatmen kept time

with their oars as they chanted, in their musical tongue, Italian

poetry to Italian melody.

"And dearer to my ears," said Lady Nithsdale, "the simple ballad of a

Scottish maiden, than even these sweet sounds as they are wafted to us

over the waters!"

They stopped to listen to the song as it died away; and, as they

listened, another and more awful sound struck upon their ears.

The bell of one of the small chapels, often constructed on the shores

of Catholic countries, was tolled for the soul of a departed mariner.

As it happened, the tone was not unlike one of which they both retained

only too vivid and painful a recollection.

The countess felt her husband's frame quiver beneath the stroke. There

was no need of words. With a mutual pressure of the arm, they returned

upon their steps and sought their home.

Unconsciously their pace quickened. They seemed to fly before the

stroke of that bell! Such suffering as they had both experienced leaves

traces in the soul which time itself can never wholly efface.

* * * * *

To those who may have been interested in the fate of the two persons

who form the subject of the foregoing memoir, it may be satisfactory

to know, that the Lady Nithsdale was not parted by death from her

beloved husband till many years afterwards, when, in the year 1744,

he died, in his exile, at Rome. She survived him five years: but she

had the comfort of knowing that, by her exertions in her last visit to

Terreagles, she had succeeded in securing a competency to her son, who

married his cousin the Lady Catherine Stewart, daughter to the Earl and

Countess of Traquhair. Her daughter, the Lady Anne Maxwell, became the

wife of Lord Bellew.

THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE.

CHAPTER I.

And still it was her nightly prayer

To live to close his sightless eyes;

For this her torturing pains to bear,

Then sink in death ere morning rise.

Who, were she gone, the staff would guide

With which he feels, amiss, his way?

Who, careful, lay the stone aside,

That might his tottering footstep stay?

Who lead him to the shelter'd stile

That fronts the sun at noontide hour,

And watch the western clouds the while

To warn him of the gathering shower?

_Unpublished Ballad from Nature._

In one of the last cottages of the village of Overhurst, dwelt Nicholas

and Sarah Foster. There, in their accustomed seats, did the neighbours

for many years find old Nicholas, still bending over the embers of his

humble hearth, and Sarah still gazing through the casement window, in

patient endurance of the evils with which each was visited.

They rest now in their quiet graves; but those who have known that

ancient couple will not easily forget their appearance, or that of all

around them: they will remember the well-polished wooden chair in which

the old woman sat, both her hands pressed tightly against her right

side, as if to quell the tortures of an agonizing and mortal complaint

which had long preyed upon her: they will remember the very dress she

wore,--such as is rarely seen of late years. But Sarah was an English

peasant of the olden time, and she changed not with the fashion of the

day. Her cap had a narrow, close, stiff border; the crown was high

and well-starched; and round it was tightly pinned a broad piece of

dark-purple ribbon. Her grey hair was turned back over a roll,--one of

the last remaining specimens of that mode of dressing the hair. Her

waist reached to her hips; her sleeves were tight, and ended at the

elbow. The gown was open in front; and the apron, which was of spotless

white, always seemed to be just out of the folds.

Her usual seat, by the long casement of their clean and decent kitchen,

commanded a view down the village street; before her was a clean deal

table, which ran the whole length of the window, and upon it lay her

spectacles and a book of prayer.

Her countenance bore the traces of extreme suffering, and her brows

were always contracted; but on her lips dwelt a patient smile. She

swayed her body incessantly backwards and forwards, as if to allay her

pain; but her voice was invariably cheerful, and even lively,--for

Nicholas was blind;--and to cheer his days of darkness was her constant

task of love.

Nicholas in his youth had been a hedger, and he still wore the

brown leather coat peculiar to his calling. His place was in the

chimney-corner; his back towards the light, his two hands resting on

his staff, his chin upon his hands, and his sightless eyes fixed on

vacancy.

Tempted by the beauty of the sunset, the 'squire's family one evening

extended their walk to the village, and, as they frequently did, paid

a visit to Master Foster and his dame. Sarah's face lighted up with

a momentary expression of joy as they trooped in, filling the humble

dwelling; and the old man smiled upon them the patient placid smile of

blindness.

There was the 'squire's lady, the gentle and kind Mrs. Mowbray; and

her blooming daughter, the young Alice, in the full flush of maiden

loveliness; and the tall, slender, merry Fanny, just verging on

womanhood; and two stout schoolboys; and the rosy little Emma, who had

quickly gained possession of the tortoiseshell cat, and was trying high

its powers of endurance by her childish mode of fondling it. Besides

this, the usual party, there was also a dark and handsome youth, who

appeared to be all attention to Mrs. Mowbray; while the young Alice's

cheeks were more brilliant even than usual, her smile more animated,

and her eyes more down-cast.

Old Sarah Foster soon perceived that the village report, which said the

'squire's eldest daughter was likely to be early settled, was better

founded than is usually the case with such reports.

"Where is Susan this evening?" inquired Mrs. Mowbray.

"'Tis Freshfield fair to-day, madam," answered the dame, "and all the

young people hereabouts are gone to see the humours of it: and so

her father and I thought poor Susan should take a little amusement

for once. She has but a dull life with us, so poorly as I am, and so

helpless as my good man is!"

"I think you look rather better this evening, Dame Foster," said Alice,

who was in that happy frame of mind when it is painful to be obliged

to believe others less fortunate than one's-self, and when one had far

rather be called upon to sympathise in their joys than in their sorrows.

"Thank you, Miss Alice," replied the old woman, while a sudden pain

caused the smile, with which she tried to receive Alice's kind words,

to die away on her lips, and her brows involuntarily to become more

contracted.--"Thank you, my dear young lady, I am much as usual; but I

do not mind my pains as long as I am able to do for my poor Nicholas. I

know his ways so well. Susan, herself, could not guess all his thoughts

as I can. Blindness is a heavy affliction, ladies. He wants some one

who can speak comfort to him at times, when he gets thinking his sad

thoughts; some one who can talk of by-gone days, when we had every

thing to make us happy; and one who can remind him of that better place

where we shall be happier than even the happiest are in this world.

Morning and night I pray to be spared as long as my poor Nicholas

lives, however hard my pains may be to bear; and morning and night I

pray that, when he is gone, I may never see another sun rise."

A silence of some moments ensued. All were touched by the pure and

devoted affection so unconsciously expressed by the old woman. Alice's

eyes had filled with tears; for one instant they were raised to those

of the youth to whom she was betrothed, but they as quickly fell again.

"I am sure, dame, you are a pattern for all wives," at length added

Mrs. Mowbray.

At this moment, the sound of distant merriment was heard; and parties

of young folks, the slant western sun shining on their holiday apparel,

were seen trooping down the head-land of the opposite hill, under the

shelter of the hazel copse.

"My Susan will soon be at home," said the dame, "for I told her to be

sure and not stay late at these merry-makings. I always hold that no

good comes of too much pleasure, madam; and, in my young days, girls

had not half the liberty they take now. I can't say, however, but that

Susan is a good girl, and minds what we old folks say to her: but she

is light-hearted, poor thing, and has not known trouble yet--God grant

it may be long before she does! There she comes, poor girl! Ah! time

was when I could move as nimbly as she does, and laugh as heartily. You

must excuse her, ladies: she little thinks what visitors we have in our

cottage, or she would know better than to be so free of her jokes,"

added the dame, as Susan and her lover reached the garden gate, and she

laughingly shut it against him, and ran into the cottage.

Upon finding herself in the presence of the 'squire's family, she

stopped suddenly, while the blood rushed over her face; and she dropped

a court'sy, graceful in its awkwardness, and took refuge close to her

mother's chair. George Wells meanwhile had followed; and, threatening

that he would steal a kiss in revenge for the trick she had played him,

burst into the cottage after her. His shame-faced look of dismay when

he perceived the company assembled was irresistibly comic: Mrs. Mowbray

smiled, Fanny tried to be serious, the two boys laughed outright,

while Alice and Captain Harcourt each maintained a countenance of

imperturbable unconsciousness.

The visit was now speedily brought to a conclusion; and Susan and her

lover were left to settle their little quarrel, relieved from the awe

inspired by "the gentlefolks."

They had already kept company, as it is termed, two years. George had

saved enough to furnish a cottage decently; and Susan had already

provided the linen, blankets, and counterpane, which, among the better

sort of poor people, and those who think it necessary to make any

provision before they enter into the marriage state, is reckoned the

proper dowry of the bride. They only waited to hear of a cottage which

they might rent, before they were asked in church.

George Wells was invited to stay supper, and the quick and lively Susan

had soon arranged the humble meal. The rashers of bacon were fried,

the smoking potatoes were on the table: she had placed her father's

chair, and she gently led him from his chimney-nook, and settled him

comfortably to his supper; then, gaily kissing him on the forehead, she

began to tell him of the wonders they had seen at the fair. The old

man turned his sightless eyes towards her, and, leaning forward as he

listened, smiled placidly to hear of all the brilliant things which he

might never gaze on again; and the dame forgot her pains for a while,

rejoicing in the happiness of her child. "But, mother, you do not know

why I am so overjoyed to-day! I have such a piece of news for you!

I think you will be as pleased as I am; and father too! Won't they,

George?"

"Maybe they will, if it comes true."

"Well, mother, guess."

"I never was a good guesser, Susan, not in my best days; and I shall

never begin now."

"Well, father, do you guess, then."

"Lord save you, child! how should I know? Maybe 'tis that the 'squire

will give away coals gratis to the poor this Christmas?"

"No, 't an't that; 'tis something that will make us happy at Christmas

and at Lady-day, at Midsummer and at Michaelmas, and all the year

round, as long as we all live."

"If so be that it comes true; but we are not sure yet, Susan,"

interposed the more steady George, who did not run away with a notion

so quickly as the light-hearted Susan.

"Oh, George! I know they will give up the cottage; you will see if

they don't. They say, father, that Master Mumford is going to set up

carpenter, and that he is to move to Mr. Peters's shop, and Mr. Peters

is to be a great cabinet-maker at Turnholme; and then what should

hinder us taking Master Mumford's cottage, and living next door to you?

I should not mind marrying if I was to go no farther than that from

you and mother; for then I could do for you as well as I can now, and

mother need only just trouble herself with little odd jobs that will be

rather a pleasure than a trouble to her."

"But, Susan, we don't know, even if Master Mumford should set up at Mr.

Peters's, whether the 'squire will let the cottage to us. If you run

off so at score, maybe you'll only meet with a disappointment. However,

I am willing to go to the 'squire's to-morrow morning, and see what I

can do."

"That's right, George!" exclaimed the eager Susan; "that's what I have

been wanting all along!"

"Well, I never said I was against trying; only I a'nt for making too

sure of a thing before we have got it. You have heard, maybe, Susan, of

counting your chickens before they are hatched!"

"Don't you make game of me, George! I'll answer for it, the 'squire

is not the man to say no to us; he has always been a kind friend to

father:" while the suspicion that he seldom missed an opportunity of

asking her how she did, and taking a look at her sparkling black eyes,

may have increased her reliance on his kindness to her blind father.

"I shall be glad enough if we are so lucky as to get the refusal of

it," replied George; "for I see little chance of our finding any other

place hereabouts; and I would never be the man to take you into another

parish, with your parents such poor afflicted creatures as they are!

I'm not one of your high-flown, flighty folks; and I've never read any

of such fine books as you and your school-fellows sometimes get hold

of, Susan; but I can read my Bible pretty middling, and I know what

is the duty we owe to our parents, who took care of us when we could

do nothing for ourselves, and I would never wish my wife not to be a

dutiful child."

Old Sarah Foster looked approvingly at her future son-in-law; and

Nicholas said, "You are a young man with good principles, and it will

be a pleasure to give our Susan to such a one as you. When I die, I

shall rest quiet in my grave if I know she is married to you."

"They did not always speak so of you, George!" answered the merry girl.

"You used to say I was a wilful girl, did not you, father, when I said

I would have George, or nobody? So, after all, I have got an old head

on young shoulders, though nobody has given me credit for it yet!"

It was not many weeks after Freshfield fair, when the village of

Overhurst was all alive with another and a greater jubilee. The church

bells rang a merry peal from the very sunrise; the village maidens,

in their most trim apparel, were in waiting to strew flowers on the

path of Alice Mowbray and Captain Harcourt; an ox was roasted whole

in Overhurst Park, and the beer flowed as beer should flow on such

occasions.

The 'squire had promised Master Mumford's house to George Wells, and

he had obtained Susan's consent that they should soon be asked in

church. Susan was all blushes and smiles, as among the other maidens

she scattered flowers on the path; and she court'sied with a pretty

confusion when the bride gave her a nod of recognition, as she hurried

past into the travelling carriage at the gate.

Hitherto, all had seemed to smile on Susan; for, having been

accustomed to them from her youth, her father's blindness and her

mother's ill-health did not dwell upon her mind as misfortunes; while

the wish to enliven her parents, and the pleasure they took in her

sprightliness, had rather tended to increase the natural gaiety of her

disposition. But on this, the happiest day of her life, a change came

over the destiny of Susan Foster.

The festivities of Overhurst Park concluded with a dance on the green;

and Susan, gay, blooming, and thoughtless, seemed to be the reigning

village belle.

The scene was one which could not be looked upon without interest.

There the good-natured Mrs. Mowbray might be seen, moving about among

her humble guests, with a kind word for each. She was flushed and

agitated, breathless and tearful; but she had given her daughter to

a son-in-law whom she thought perfection, and she was as happy as

a mother can be who has for the first time parted from her child.

The simple congratulations of the poor people over-came, while they

pleased, her. The tears started into her eyes when she heard the

hearty "God bless Miss Alice!"--"May the captain make her a good

husband!"--"May Miss Alice be as happy as she deserves to be!" which

greeted her on all sides.

Half ashamed of her own emotion, she turned away to a demure and staid

matron, who sat somewhat apart, watching the young ones as they footed

it merrily on the grass to the music of the village band: "Well,

Dame Dixon, I hope you have enjoyed yourself, and that you have had

everything you wished for?"

"Everything was beautiful, I am sure, madam," replied Mrs. Dixon,

rising respectfully from her seat: "his honour has treated us with the

best of everything."

"Is your daughter among the dancers?" inquired Mrs. Mowbray, as she saw

Mrs. Dixon's eye glance frequently towards the country-dance.

"Yes, madam; Jane is very partial to dancing--almost too partial," she

continued, as a bouncing couple came flying by beyond the double hedge

of dancers. "Jane," said the mother, as she clutched the maiden's red

elbow, "don't you see that madam is here? Where's your manners, girl?"

Jane stopped short, dropped a sort of court'sy, and composed her

laughing countenance, while the partner disappeared among the crowd,

with the sheepish bashfulness which characterises an English clown,

especially in his youth.

"I am afraid we have stopped their dancing," said Mrs. Mowbray. "Pray

do not mind me, Jane. I hope I have not frightened away your partner;"

and the kind hostess glided on.

"What is become of Will Smith?" asked Dame Dixon.

"I don't know," replied Jane; "and what's more, I don't care. I'm

very tired," she continued, as she let herself drop on the bench by

her mother's side; while her countenance relaxed into as decided an

expression of sadness, as it had previously worn that of uncontrolled

merriment.

"Then I am sure, Jane, I wish you would not make so free with him, nor

with half-a-dozen other young men. You have too much to say to them by

half."

"It won't do to sit and mope," cried Jane, starting up, as George Wells

and Susan Foster were slowly advancing to join the dancers, with a

lingering step, as though they were loth to have their conversation

broken in upon. Jane was off like a startled deer; and in a few moments

Dame Dixon saw her dancing away with more spirit than ever, having

already provided herself with another partner.

Mr. Mowbray meantime had stopped Susan Foster to speak to her, and she

was blushing and court'sying under the compliments he was paying her on

her bright skin and her black eyes, and George was shifting from leg to

leg under the compliments he was paying him upon his good taste and his

good fortune.

Mr. Mowbray had an eye for beauty, and certainly felt the glow

of charity more strongly in his bosom towards the young and the

good-looking of his parishioners, than towards the old and the

ill-favoured: at least he was apt to think Mrs. Mowbray understood the

wants and the sorrows of the latter better than he did.

"And who is that buxom lass?" said he to his wife, who was looking on

upon the scene; "she is a light-hearted one. How indefatigable she is!"

"That is old Dixon's daughter, Jane, to whom you always used to give a

shilling for opening the gate, because her eyes were so blue."

"So she is! Faith, she has turned out a fine creature! But, bless me,

who is this pretty woman? Quite an _élégante_, I declare! Where can she

come from?"

"Why, from our own farm of Holmy-bank, to be sure. Do you not see

Farmer Otley close behind her? and do you not know he has been married

this year, though they are only lately come to the farm?"

"Why you know, my dear, I have a taste for the beautiful, and not for

the sublime; and I quite overlook everything else when there is such a

pretty woman as this to be seen."

"I am sure, if you are thinking of beauty, Mr. Otley is almost the

handsomest man I ever saw in my life; and if she looks like a lady with

her smart dress, he looks ten times more really distinguished, with

those fine features, and his head like an antique gem, though he is

dressed as befits his station in life."

"Well, my dear, you may admire Mr. Otley if you like it: it is only

fair to allow me to admire his wife. I have just recollected, I have a

great deal to say to Farmer Otley," continued Mr. Mowbray, laughing;

and he was soon in deep conversation with his tenant about his course

of cropping and his stock: while Mrs. Mowbray secretly reflected, "Mr.

Mowbray is growing too old to talk so much about beauty. I feel quite

uncomfortable when he goes on so before the children."

"Well, mamma!" interposed Fanny; "don't you think Susan Foster is much

prettier than Mrs. Otley? Her eyes are much larger, in the first place;

and then she is so quiet, and does not look up and down so; and then,

as for her nose----"

"My dear, Susan Foster is a very respectable, worthy young woman, and

very good-looking; and now do not let us hear any more about beauty. I

am really sick of the subject."

It was not that Mrs. Mowbray was jealous, for Mr. Mowbray was a kind

husband, and she knew it was only "his way." She knew that his foible

was not to "affect a virtue though he had it not;" but rather to talk,

as if he were far less scrupulous than he really was. It was only

before the children, or in the hearing of strangers, who did not know

"his way," that Mrs. Mowbray felt seriously annoyed.

Mr. Otley was of course gratified when his landlord wished to be

introduced to his wife; and Mr. Mowbray, with twinkling eyes and gay

smile, was soon inquiring into the condition of her pigs, her poultry,

and her dairy.

"Oh, sir!" she replied, with a tender look at her husband; "you must

not ask me about the pigs: Mr. O. says I am a sad fine lady;" (and she

looked up for applause;) "but I never could bear the smell of those

creatures," (and she looked down with a refined cast of countenance:)

"but I am very fond of my dairy; am I not, Mr. O.? and I slip on my

clogs every morning, and step into my dairy; don't I, Mr. O.?"

"Why, yes, Lizzy, you do that, to be sure; but my mother used to see to

the scouring of the milk-pans herself, and would never let father have

any peace if there was not always plenty of wood-ashes to clean them

with, every morning."

"Oh dear, Mr. Otley! don't you go off now about that dear good old

soul, your poor dear mother. I am sure Mr. Mowbray will not care to

hear what she did twenty years ago."

"I had always rather hear about a pretty young woman of the present

day, than about an old one, be she ever so good, of the past day,"

replied Mr. Mowbray, with a bow; and Mrs. Otley simpered, and blushed,

and looked down, and removed a curl which fell a little too much over

her eyes, and then added, turning to her husband,--

"You know, Mr. Otley, I have promised to be very good about the

poultry, and to look after the eggs every morning, as soon as you have

made a raised path across the farm-yard to the hen-house. But really,

sir, the farm-yard is in such a pickle, that nobody but the labouring

men could think of crossing it."

"Impossible that Mr. Otley can have so little gallantry as to wish

those pretty little feet should step into the farm-yard! He would not

be such a Goth!"

"That's just what I am always telling Mr. O.," added Mrs. Otley,

turning round exultingly; "I am always telling him he is a Goth and a

Vandal; and then he says he does not know who the Goths and the Vandals

are; and then I laugh, and tell him he is more of a Goth and a Vandal

than ever."

"Ah, Lizzy! you must not mind everything his honour says; he is

pleased to joke sometimes. But he knows well enough that a farmer has

need of his head, and both his hands too, and that a farmer's wife

should be a stirring body: he knows well enough they are the sort who

pay their rent to the day, and keep their land in good condition."

"You, and your father before you, have been very good tenants, Master

Otley; no landlord need wish for better: but here comes Mrs. Mowbray.

My dear, you must allow me to have the pleasure of presenting you to

our new neighbour, our friend Mr. Otley's pretty wife."

Mrs. Otley simpered, "Mrs. Mowbray had already done her the honour----"

"You need not introduce us, Mr. Mowbray," answered Mrs. Mowbray, with

a shade of asperity in her tone, which amused her husband; "I have

already had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Otley's pretty farm, and her

sweet little boy: Emma and I walked to Holmy-bank a few days ago, and

Mr. Otley showed us all about the place."

"How are the dear little calves, Mr. Otley," exclaimed Emma, "that

Fanny and I were feeding?"

"They are growing nicely, thank you, young ladies," replied the farmer;

"and I shall be proud to show them to you again, if you would favour us

with a call."

"Oh! Mrs. Otley, what a pleasure the calves must be to you! I dare say

you pass half the day feeding them: I am sure I should!"

"They are pretty innocent creatures, indeed, miss; and if our old

Daniel would keep the pens a little cleaner, I should have no objection

to looking at them oftener than I do. But, if Mrs. Mowbray should

honour us with another visit, I think I could show you something that

would please young ladies more than such common, every-day creatures

as calves. I have got two beautiful green parrots, that can chatter,

and will repeat anything. And I am sure it would please you to see the

curious Gothic castle, all made of shells, and the lady at the window

playing on the guitar!"

"Oh! I should like another walk to Holmy-bank of all things; but it

would be to see the dear calves: I like them much better than parrots."

"My girls are very homely in their tastes, Mrs. Otley; they are quite

country lasses;" and Mrs. Mowbray glided on, a little provoked that

her husband should find so much to say to such a would-be fine lady as

the farmer's pretty wife: "and he has never remembered to speak once to

good old Mrs. Williams, our own steward's mother," she thought, as she

proceeded towards Mrs. Williams, in order to make up for his omission.

The evening was now beginning to close: the cockchafers were humming

under the beech-trees, and were flying into the faces and among the

hair of those who had taken refuge under their shade. Much was the

merriment they gave rise to, and many a rustic coquette affected a

little more fear than she really felt of their harmless, though sticky,

claws; while Jane Dixon laughed rather longer and louder than the

occasion seemed to require.

The sun had quite sunk below the horizon; and the vapours, which had

been rising during the heat of the sultry day, were suddenly condensed,

and hung on the lower grounds, looking silvery-white under the light of

the summer moon.

Susan and some other village girls, tired with dancing and the

excitement of the day, mounted an empty waggon which was returning

homewards, and the merry group of thoughtless young creatures thus

made their entry into the quiet village street. Susan had, in the

exuberance of her spirits, danced the longest and the latest; the day

had been oppressively hot, but with the evening came a heavy dew, and

the air was chilly. When Susan arrived at home, her mother thought she

looked pale; and scolded George for having allowed her to return in the

waggon, after having heated herself with dancing.

"Time enough for me to mind him, mother, when once we are married,"

answered the joyous girl; "I have but a little while longer to be my

own mistress, and I must use my liberty now, or never!" and the gay

creature laughed, conscious of her power over father, mother, and lover.

"Oh, mother, we have been so happy! I never was so happy before, and,

maybe, never shall again! never, at least, if you teach George that I

am not to have my own way!" and she turned her beaming eyes from her

mother to her lover, while old Sarah hoped she had many days in store

for her of more true happiness, if not of such flighty gaiety. Alas! it

was well for them they could not look into futurity.

The next morning Susan woke with a heavy cold, and an unusual pain in

her eyes; they were bloodshot and inflamed. The dame reproached her

with her imprudence: and doctored her with that degree of discretion

which is usual among the poor people. Her eyes became hourly more

painful.

As he returned from work, George paid her his accustomed visit. He

wished she would see the doctor; but she laughingly replied she should

be well to-morrow, for old Dame Jones had given her an infallible

remedy for all complaints of the eyes.

CHAPTER II.

O dolce Amor che di riso t' ammanti

Quanto parevi ardente in que' favilli

Ch' aveano spirto sol di pensier santi.

Dante, _Paradiso, cant._ 20mo.

Dame Jones's infallible remedy rather increased than diminished the

evil; and Susan's spirits began to fail her at the continued suffering,

the enforced idleness, and also in some degree at the disfigurement

occasioned by the dimming of her brilliant eyes; for she was not

without a share of female vanity,--vanity which is indulged as almost

a laudable feeling when it is for the sake of another that personal

attractions are valued.

The Sunday on which Susan and her lover were to be asked in church was

fast approaching, when she half sadly, half sportively, thus addressed

him: "You had better go to Mr. Sandford, George, and tell him not to

say any thing about us in church. It would never do to be a bride

with such eyes as these;" and she tried to smile, though she was more

inclined to weep.

"There will be plenty of time for your eyes to get quite well, Susan,

before we are out-asked."

"They must begin to mend, George, before we need talk of their getting

well," replied Susan with a sigh; and then she playfully added, "Do you

remember your telling me when Miss Alice, that was, walked down the

church-yard, looking so blushing and beautiful, that you would show

them a prettier bride before long; and that, though she would not have

such a smart lace-veil to hang over her face, she would have a pair of

brighter eyes to shine out of her bonnet. You must wait a bit, George,

before your words can come true."

"Not long, Susan, not long; I am sure you will be well before three

weeks are over; that's a long time."

"So it is, George,--a long, long time to be as I am! But the folks

shan't laugh at you for having such a homely half-blind bride. I should

not like you to be ashamed of your wife, upon the wedding-day at all

events;" and she tried to carry off her sadness and her mortification

by an assumed air of sprightliness.

Still poor Susan's eyes did not mend; her mother's applications, and

Dame Jones's wonderful remedy, proved equally unavailing. Susan's

spirits quite gave way: she often sat and wept when her mother's back

was towards her, and her sightless father could not perceive how sad

his once light-hearted girl was now become. After Alice's marriage, the

family of the Mowbrays had left home for some time, and Mr. Sandford

was old and had been ill, or Susan's sufferings would never have been

allowed to continue so long, without her having been provided with

better medical attendance. The old couple themselves had derived so

little benefit from the advice of doctors, that they, as is frequently

the case among the poor, reposed more confidence in the doctoring

of Mr. Sandford, or of any other gentleman or lady, than in that of

the first physician in the land. They all felt anxious that the good

minister should recover his health, and visit them; and they flattered

themselves he would soon afford Susan some relief. When he did call,

he was shocked at the alteration in the poor girl's appearance, and he

instantly sent for the best medical practitioner in the neighbourhood,

deeming the case much too important a one for his own unassisted advice.

Mr. Sandford's countenance first excited alarm, serious alarm, in

Susan's mind: for the first time she trembled for her eye-sight; and an

icy chill ran through her when she thought of her future fate.

George called as he returned home from work; and, on hearing that Mr.

Sandford had visited the cottage, his countenance brightened: "Then now

we shall see you begin to mend! What has our good minister told you

to do, Susan? Am I to go to his house to-night to fetch any stuff for

you?"

"No, George, no. He says I must see the real doctor. He says he can't

do any thing for me himself." George looked amazed and confounded. "He

says he does not understand such things himself;" and she added, in a

tone which she tried to make perfectly calm and composed, "he says he

is afraid I shall not be well for a long time."

George was in despair. He thought, if Mr. Sandford could not cure a

complaint, it must indeed be a bad one! He turned his eyes towards the

old dame: she sat, as usual, rocking herself backwards and forwards,

with her hands pressed to her side, in mental as well as bodily

suffering, for she too had been struck by the manner of their pastor.

"We shall hear what the doctor says to-morrow, George! I am sorry now

that we kept waiting and waiting for Mr. Sandford to get well; but I

have had enough of doctors in my time, and I was loth to begin again

with them. We must hope for the best, and not be down-hearted."

"She is young, poor thing!" added old Nicholas; "and 'tis to be hoped

she won't be afflicted at her age as I am. I was near three-score when

I lost my eye-sight, and I thought it a heavy affliction. It would be a

deal worse for a young thing just turned her one-and-twenty," continued

the father, at once uttering in plain English the utmost extent of

their fears, in the simple straightforward manner common among the poor

people, but which would sound harsh and unfeeling to the sensibilities

of the more refined.

"I only hope I may be able to bear my trials as well as you do, father,

if I am to be so afflicted," exclaimed Susan, as she burst into an

agony of tears, rendered the more violent by her having previously

attempted to control herself.

"Susan, Susan, you must not take on so," said George, anxious to soothe

her.

"You'll do your poor eyes more harm if you cry, Susan," said her

mother, "than the doctor can cure in a week. You must try not to give

way, Susan dear!"

"Cheer up, my child," added Nicholas. "We do not know yet what the

doctor will say; perhaps it may not be so bad after all."

Susan dried her tears, and tried to be composed; but the inmates of

Nicholas Foster's humble cottage retired to rest that night with

sadness in their hearts, which was not destined to be much alleviated

by the doctor's visit the next day. He talked of time and patience,

of a cooling diet and soothing applications, a tranquil mind and the

necessity of not fretting,--of all injunctions the most difficult to

obey! He gave them hope certainly, which, though not enough to relieve

Susan's mind, was eagerly caught at by George, and he was beginning to

urge that it could do no harm if they were asked in church.

"Not yet, George, not yet. Wait till I begin to mend. I should be but a

useless wife to you at present. I have given up the thought of making

a pretty bride," she continued in a tone almost of bitterness; "but I

must be able to do for you, and to keep your house tidy: so there's no

use in talking about being asked in church, George."

George desisted, for her manner was so resolved he felt it impossible

to oppose her.

CHAPTER III.

E l'aspettar del male è mal peggiore

Forse, che non parrebbe il mal presente.

Tasso.

Susan was a good-hearted girl, but she had a high spirit. She had a

generous temper, but it was not always under control. Of all qualities

a sweet temper is perhaps the one least cultivated in the lower ranks

of life. The peculiar disposition is not watched; care is not taken to

distinguish between the passionate child, the sulky, the obstinate, and

the timid. The children of the poor are allowed a latitude of speech

unknown among the higher orders, and they are free from the salutary

restraint imposed by what is termed "company."

When in the enjoyment of full health and strength, the ungoverned

temper of the poor is one of their most striking faults, while their

resignation under affliction, whether mental or bodily, is the point of

all others in which the rich might with advantage study to imitate them.

Susan's spirit was not yet tamed by affliction. There were moments when

she could not bear, without impatience, the pain her eyes occasioned

her, and the weight of care which oppressed her mind.

It was towards George that she most frequently evinced any signs of

captiousness; and yet it was on his account that she most poignantly

felt her present affliction, and her future prospects. She was more

unhappy than she quite ventured to own to herself, or to him; more

apprehensive of what might be the result. She feared he would not

always continue to be as kind as he now was. She could not expect it;

and she sometimes received his simple attentions as if she was more

surprised, than touched by them.

One evening he brought her some flowers from his father's garden.

"Well! I shall be able to smell," she said, "even when I shall not

be able to see; but perhaps, George, you will not go on bringing me

flowers then! What beautiful double-stocks these are! we can't get any

to grow like these in our little bit of garden."

"I raised them for father myself, Susan; so I don't see why we should

not have some, just as fine, and finer, when we have a garden of our

own!" And poor George looked pleased at her praise of his pet flower.

"I dare say you will never get any to come so thick and so double

another time,--even if you should try," answered Susan despondingly;

for she thought, "when could she hope to have a home of her own?"

"And do you think I shall not try, Susan, to make my wife's home as

nice as father's?"

"Maybe you will,--and I may not be there to see it."

"Why, Susan, I do not know what is come over you; there is no pleasing

you. I thought you would like my flowers!"

"And so I do, George; and I am very much obliged to you for them," she

continued in a tone of gratitude almost beyond what the occasion called

for. Presently she added, in a sad, low voice, "You are very good to

me, very good indeed."

Just at this moment Nicholas and his dame were seen approaching the

garden-gate. She was leading him from the stile over which he loved

to lean, and to feel the warm sun on his eyes, and turn his face in

the direction of the setting orb. Sarah was hobbling back, guiding the

blind old man, whose firmer step assisted in supporting her suffering

frame. George opened the cottage-door to admit them, and the slant

beams of the sun glanced through the opening upon poor Susan's eyes.

The sudden light pained her; and although she had one moment before

reproached herself with not being sufficiently grateful for the

kindness shown her, she exclaimed somewhat pettishly, "Don't you know,

George, how it hurts my eyes to have the light glare upon them all

at once?" at the same time pushing back her chair with an impatient

movement, which was accounted for, but not justified, by the pain which

she suffered.

The sight of her poor blind father, and of his meek expression of

countenance, recalled her to herself. She hastened to him and helped

him to his chimney-nook, and then assisted her mother to her usual

chair. They each thanked her in a kind and gentle voice, and she felt

inwardly rebuked by their patience and their submission.

George had stood aloof, awkward and mortified. She drew near him. "I

beg your pardon, George," she murmured: "George, I do not know what is

come to me;" and she burst into tears.

"Never fret, Susan; I don't mind. 'Tis very natural, I dare say, that

you should be a little testy or so: don't cry, your mother says 'tis so

bad for you. I don't mind, though, to be sure, you do sometimes hurt my

feelings a little." Dame Forster thought she saw him brush off a tear

with the back of his hand.

"Why, what's the matter, Susan? Sure you and George have not been

falling out, have you?"

"Oh, no! not a bit of it, dame!"

"George is very good to me, mother; but I don't know how it is, I

believe sometimes I am hard to please;" and she strove to smile.

"Ah, my poor girl," said Nicholas, "trouble is hard to bear when first

it comes; but the back gets used to the burden. If you are a good girl,

and say your prayers as should be, God will give you strength to bear

what it is his pleasure to lay upon you. Won't He, dame? I am sure we

have found it so. He is very merciful; and if He gives us trouble, He

sends us comfort to make up for it. If it has pleased Him to afflict me

with blindness, He has given me a good wife--ay, the best of wives;

and if she is afflicted with her side, poor soul! why He has given

her, and me too, dutiful children, and children who, some of them, are

likely to do very well. There are our two boys, though they are settled

in distant counties, they are very good to us, and have never let us

want for anything, but have kept us off the parish as yet; and that's

what few people can say for their sons. If we do but look the right way

for them, we shall all find we have our comforts; though we may not be

so sharp to find them out, as we are to find our troubles."

Among Susan's causes of uneasiness there was one which she did not like

to dwell upon to her parents. She had been used to assist towards the

maintenance of the family, by taking in needle-work. She had now for

many weeks been obliged to give up her occupation; and she felt that,

though her brothers provided for the comfort of their parents, it was

hard upon them to have a helpless sister also to support.

She was allowed to be much in the air if she wore a shade over her

eyes; and she frequently made use of this liberty to visit an old

neighbour, who had long been bedridden, and who earned herself a decent

livelihood by knitting stockings for the poor, and muffettees and

handkerchiefs for the gentry, who admired the intricate and curious

stitches with which she adorned her work.

Susan, who already contemplated the probability of being eventually

condemned to blindness, thought it would prove useful if, while she

still retained some eye-sight, she was to make herself acquainted with

old Nelly's art; and accordingly she applied herself diligently to

acquire the requisite proficiency. She would sometimes close her eyes

and try whether she could thus accomplish the difficult stitch; and

then, when she opened them for the purpose of ascertaining where lay

her mistake, she would sigh to think the time might soon arrive when

the darkness would be eternal.

Susan's visits to Nelly Warner had a considerable and not unfavourable

influence upon her future character.

The old woman was naturally of a querulous disposition, and was more

inclined to dwell on the many privations to which her complaint

condemned her, than on the superior comforts which fell to her lot

beyond others who were equally afflicted. She had an attentive

grand-daughter, who was devoted to her; and she was not in want of

what might in her line of life be deemed comforts, for the neighbouring

gentry showed her much kindness.

Susan could not but compare the patient endurance of her mother,

the placid submission of her father, with the fretfulness of Nelly

Warner; and when she answered her complaints with such arguments for

resignation as naturally occurred to her mind, she could not but apply

the words she uttered to her own case.

"So you are come at last, Susan," said old Nelly, in a reproachful

tone; "I have been expecting you this half-hour. The church clock

has gone three, I do not know how long. Young people should not keep

old folks waiting, more especially when they want them to do them a

kindness."

"It is only ten minutes past three, Nelly; I looked as I came by; but

I am sorry I was not quite to my time. The bright sun dazzled my eyes,

and I went back to get mother to alter my green shade."

"Ah! young folks always have some excuse or another which they

think mighty good themselves. It fidgets a poor body like me to lie

wondering, and expecting, and listening to hear the door open! When one

is helpless and ailing, as I am, folks should take care not to worry

one. It is bad enough to bear one's own miseries. Here I lie, and what

pleasure have I from one week's end to another?"

"Little enough of pleasure, indeed, dear Nelly, except the pleasure

of doing a kindness by me," said Susan, as she took out her knitting

needles. "Then you have little Patty to help you, and to bring you all

you want, and she is a good child. Some people, Nelly, have not the

comfort of such a good little girl to attend to them: sure you have

much to be grateful for."

"I can't tell what I have to be grateful for. There's Master Thompson,

he is two years older than I am, and he is hearty and well, and goes to

his work regularly, and earns as much as a young man. And there's my

own sister Pratt, why she's ten years older than I am, and she can walk

to market."

"Oh, but, Nelly, the way to be contented is to compare our condition

with those who are worse off than ourselves. You want for nothing; you

are able to earn a good deal yourself. Now, I can't earn anything yet:"

she added in a very low voice; "and people are very good to you."

"They like my warm muffettees well enough; but I need not thank them,

but myself, for that."

Susan felt shocked at Nelly's ill-temper and ingratitude, and she

thought what a hard task it must be for Patty to study the humours of

such a discontented old woman.

She remembered how kind her mother had always been to her, she

remembered how patiently George had borne with her, and she resolved

she would not put him to such trials any more.

The uncertainty in which she remained concerning her future fate,

sometimes appeared to her harder to bear than the knowledge of the

truth would be, and she made up her mind she would some day ask the

doctor what was his real opinion of her case. But many a visit passed

over without her summoning the requisite courage. If he should destroy

all the hopes she still indulged, what should she do? How ought she to

conduct herself towards George? Could she wish him to be 'cumbered with

a blind wife?

While all these contending feelings were working in her mind, she found

it difficult to be always gentle and placid, and yet she was ashamed

before her good resigned parents to give way to impatience. They never

tutored her, they never gave her advice; but

'Example more than precept weighs,'

and their whole lives were one continued moral lesson.

Susan was one day sitting at home, with her back towards the light,

diligently plying her long needles, when she suddenly addressed her

mother: "Mother, do you think I shall ever get well?"

"There's no saying, my dear Susan; such things are in the hands of

Providence!"

"Mother, has the doctor ever told you anything?" she asked, with a

great effort.

"No, my child, he has never said anything for certain: but how do you

feel your eyes yourself?"

"No better, mother, no better; I don't think they will last long, and

that's the truth of it," she said, relieved by giving utterance to what

had been so long preying on her mind.

"My poor Susan! The Lord have mercy upon you, and bear you up under

this affliction!--and He will, my child,--depend upon it, He will. But

it goes harder with me, Susan, to see you so, than it has to bear all

the other troubles I have ever been visited with."

"Well, mother, don't fret; we will hope," said Susan, alarmed

herself at the alarm she had excited in her mother's bosom, and half

disappointed at not meeting with more reassurement; but Sarah had

long perceived with grief that her daughter made no progress towards

amendment, and the melancholy truth had gradually forced itself upon

her mind.

The doctor called one day, when the dame was leading her good man to

his usual stile, and Susan was therefore alone. She determined to put

the question to him, and to be assured whether she ought, or ought not,

to relinquish all hope. Having thus armed herself with resolution to

hear the worst, she framed her question with such apparent composure,

and as if she entertained so little expectation of recovery, that

the doctor thought there was no occasion to deceive her, and did not

attempt to deny that her fears were only too well grounded. She dropped

him a respectful court'sy, and only said, "Thank you, sir." He praised

her for her strength of mind, advised her to seek fortitude whence

alone it was to be found, and recommended her being as much as possible

in the open air, that her general health might not suffer.

When he had taken his leave,--when poor Susan found herself quite

alone,--then all her strength of mind forsook her. She relieved her

bursting heart by floods of tears; and had scarcely recovered any

composure, when her father and mother returned from their evening

stroll to the neighbouring stile. That night Susan could not sleep, but

she pondered deeply on the future.

CHAPTER IV.

But not to understand a treasure's worth

Till time has stolen away the slighted good,

Is cause of half the poverty we feel,

And makes the world the wilderness it is.

Cowper.

After her conversation with the doctor, Susan applied herself more

diligently than ever to her knitting, and succeeded in acquiring

such dexterity, that she nearly equalled her mistress. She took every

opportunity of walking in the fields, for she thought she should

like to see the beautiful face of nature as long as it was permitted

her to do so. George found that all peevishness had disappeared; his

kindnesses were received with gratitude, and any little omission on

his part did not seem to be perceived. The days had become so much

shorter that she could no longer take a walk with him each evening when

he returned from work, but on Sundays they still wandered through the

fields together. He one day remarked how long the oaks had kept their

leaves this year.

"I can see that the woods look thick," she replied; "but I cannot well

distinguish their colour. However, I am glad the leaves last late this

autumn, for I shall never see them again; before spring I shall be

quite dark, George. I shall be very sorry not to see the young lambs:

I used to like to watch them skip about upon the head-lands, when the

sun shone out on a spring morning; and I shall be sorry not to see

the primroses in the dell by Fairmead Shaw. O dear! I shall tie up no

more bunches of violets in Oldash Lane, where the banks are always

so blue with them! I did not know at the time how much I enjoyed all

those sights. And the pretty young shoots of the sallow, that we used

to gather for Palm Sunday! Oh! we are all giddy thoughtless creatures,

George, and do not half value the common blessings of life while we

have them. I think sometimes of such things till my heart seems ready

to burst; and then I remember poor father, how patient and contented

he is; and I know how mother bears all her pains, and I remember that

I have not much pain to bear; for I do not suffer now, except, to be

sure, in my poor mind. I feel a great deal sometimes, George,--more

than I like to talk about; and I think a great deal; and the time must

come when you must think too. I know this is not the way for a young

man to wear away his life; I know it all, and I do not mean to hold you

to your word; only, as long as I can walk about and see the old places

at all, I should like to walk with you, and see them with you."

"Oh, Susan! you go near to break my heart when you talk so beautifully.

But you know I wanted long ago that we should be married, and you know

I am ready to work night and day to keep you; and there will be Master

Mumford's house at liberty by the spring. I am ready and willing to do

my best for you."

"No, George, it won't do; such a poor helpless creature as I shall be

by the spring must not think of taking care of a family. Hark how that

robin is singing! There is one comfort: I shall be able to hear the

birds sing, and I shall know when the spring comes by hearing them;

and listening to their songs will put me in mind of all the pretty

sights there are in spring time. I will tell you what is worst of all,

George,--that I shall never be able to see the faces of those I love

again. I cannot justly discern the favour of any one now; that is what

I miss most. I cannot be sure now when you look at me, except by a kind

of guess. Oh, George! sometimes I think how vain and foolish I used to

be, and how much I prided myself upon looking pretty of a Sunday, when

I thought I should meet you, and it all seems to me now to have been

such vanity; and I am sorry now I did not read my Bible more when I

could read. It would be a comfort to me to have more texts by heart, to

repeat to myself when I feel as sad as I often do."

They walked on in silence till they passed under a large holly which

grew on the steep bank of the road. "Is not that the old holly from

which we used to gather the branches to stick in our windows at

Christmas? I think it looks black against the sky."

"Yes, dear Susan, that is the very holly."

"Are there many red berries upon it this autumn?"

"Yes, there's quite a sight of berries."

"I wish I could see them!--but that can't be. As I was saying George,

about the Bible,--be sure you read a chapter every Sunday: it will do

you good: as poor Mr. Sandford used to say, the Bible is the poor man's

best friend. Poor Mr. Sandford! I am sorry he is so bad. It would have

been a good thing for me if he had been able to go about as usual, and

to talk to me, and give me good advice. Perhaps I should never have

been so pettish as I was for a little while; but I have got over that

now. He will be very much missed in the parish when he is gone; but

he is a great age, and we all must go when our time comes. The place

won't seem like itself when he is in his grave, and 'Squire Mowbray

in foreign parts; for they say he is not coming back, but is going

somewhere for Miss Fanny's health, and to finish the young ladies'

education, now Miss Alice is married. Poor Miss Alice! To be sure, how

well I remember her wedding! and truly enough did I say I should never

spend so happy a day again; but I did not think so when I said it.

I thought I should spend many and many much happier days when I was

married to you, George, for all I was so flighty that evening." And

Susan smiled, and then sighed to think how light-hearted she had been.

"Ah, that was a happy day!" said George; and he shook his head

sorrowfully, as he led poor Susan home to her father's cottage.

Each succeeding week saw Susan's blindness gradually increase; and as

her sight became more and more dim, she became more than ever gentle

and uncomplaining. Of all the visitations with which human nature is

afflicted, none assuredly has such a tendency to calm, to purify, and

to refine the heart, as blindness. The absence of all external objects

to distract the attention, forces the soul to look back into itself,

to subdue its passions, to control its emotions, to chasten all its

feelings. It is seldom that the countenance of a blind person does not

bear the stamp of a meek and resigned spirit within.

Old Mr. Sandford died, and was replaced by a worthy common-place

clergyman, who did the duty in a respectable common-place manner; who

attended the schools, and visited the poor people, and was sorry for

the blind young woman; but, not having known her previously, took no

particular interest in her case. Susan and her father lamented the

death of Mr. Sandford. To them the loss of the voice to which they had

been accustomed was a deprivation far greater than to others, for to

them a voice was everything.

Susan was one day seated at her usual hour with her knitting by Nelly's

side, when Mr. and Mrs. Otley paid the old woman a visit.

"Ah!" said Nelly, "I warrant me, they are coming for some job of their

own. It's seldom any one opens my door to keep me company, or to cheer

my lonesome days: that's the way of the world,--every one for himself."

Then addressing Mrs. Otley as she entered: "Well, ma'am, and what queer

new-fangled piece of work do you want to set me about now?"

"I have brought you a new pattern, Nelly," replied the good-humoured

Mrs. Otley; "these knit boas are quite the fashion at Turnholme; and I

thought if you got some done before they grow common, it would be such

a good thing for you!"

"And can you tell me how I am to set about making such an

out-of-the-way thing as this?" said Nelly, as she held up the boa with

a disdainful air.

"No, I cannot tell you how to do it; but you are so clever at such

matters, I thought you would know directly."

"Perhaps I may find out, as there are few stitches I do not know,"

replied Nelly, her temper a little soothed through the medium of her

vanity; "but when I have made them, I do not see who there is to buy

them, now Mrs. Mowbray and her family are gone."

"Oh! in the first place, I will take one; and then Miss Mincing will be

glad to take any number, if you let her have them a trifle under the

usual price."

Nelly nodded, with a half-pleased, half-cunning air, as if she had

proved right, and Mrs. Otley had her own ends to answer in her apparent

good-nature. "And, perhaps," continued Mrs. Otley, "the Mowbrays may be

at home before next winter."

"No," said Nelly, "not a bit of it. That's all a pretence about the

young ladies' education. They have had some losses out, there away, in

them sugar-mines, and they won't be at home these two years," replied

Nelly, with the dogmatical air of one whose superior information could

not be doubted.

"That's sad news, Mrs. Nelly," interposed Mr. Otley; "'tis a wonder Mr.

Williams did not say a word about it yesterday, when I called, about

stocking up that hedge."

"The news only came this morning; but I believe you will find it's true

enough; though people think an old woman can know nothing."

"I'm loth to credit such bad news about such good people," answered Mr.

Otley.

"They may be good, for aught I know to the contrary; but I am sure it

is little enough I have profited by their goodness."

"Oh, Nelly!" exclaimed Susan, "did not they keep you always in

employment; and if you had nothing else to do, did they not bid you

always be knitting stockings for them, which they afterwards gave to

the poor?"

"And much good that did me! I was none the warmer. They paid me for my

work, sure enough; and what thanks do I owe them for that? It would be

a pretty thing indeed, if gentlefolks ordered goods of poor people, and

then cheated them out of their money."

"Oh, Nelly!" cried Susan, and she longed to add, "how ungrateful!" but

she remembered she was old and sick, and she restrained herself.

"I always thought it would come to this. I always thought the 'squire

would run himself into debt with the warm house he kept, and his dances

on the green to giddy boys and girls;"--(Susan sighed)--"and then the

grand company that visited at the Park! I am sure it has kept me awake

many a night to hear the carriages rolling by after a dinner-party. It

won't do to burn the candle at both ends. I have always said so; but

nobody minds me."

"I am sure, Nelly," interposed Mrs. Otley, "Mr. Mowbray saw no more

company than was proper and becoming for a gentleman of his birth and

connexions: and it would have been a sin and a shame if he had let his

daughters mope at home without allowing them to see a little of the

world; and as for his losses in his West India property, he could not

foresee that his crop of sugar-canes would fail, or that a hurricane

would ruin his plantations."

"I know nothing about sugar-canes, nor hurricanes, not I; but I know

that if they are things that pay one year, and don't pay the next, you

should reckon accordingly, and not live as if sugar-mines paid every

year as regular as sheep or corn."

"Not sugar-mines, Nelly. Sugar grows in plantations."

"Sugar-mines, or salt-mines, it is all one to me; that's no business of

mine," replied Nelly doggedly, "and it makes little difference to me.

If them losses out, there away, hinder the 'squire's family from coming

home, and I have no regular sale for my stockings, it matters little

what keeps them in foreign parts."

"Well, Mrs. Nelly," said Mr. Otley, "you are not the only person who

will miss Mr. and Mrs. Mowbray. All who are willing to work will wish

for the 'squire back again, and all who are sick or sorry, will miss

Mrs. Mowbray's kind words, and kind deeds; and I am sure I shall miss

those sweet young ladies, with their smiling faces, and their affable

manners, running about my yard, and playing with the dogs, and the

cats, and the calves, and all the dumb animals."

"And I am sure I shall miss Mr. Mowbray's elegant manners and agreeable

conversation, though I own it struck me there was something rather high

about Mrs. Mowbray's ways, though she was such a dowdy in her dress.

Well, Nelly, you do not seem to like the idea of knitting boas, so I

will take away the pattern."

"And if I don't get employment from Miss Mincing, who am I to look to

now?--but if you are against leaving it with me for a day or two, why I

don't wish to be beholden to anybody."

"I borrowed it on purpose from Mrs. Knotaway, and if you succeed in

making them, I shall be very glad to buy one," added Mrs. Otley, as she

took her leave.

Almost before the door was closed, "There," said Nelly, "I told you

how it was. She thinks she can get her flaunting boa a trifle cheaper

than if she bought it at Miss Mincing's. I know her well enough. People

think I can't see through them, because I am old and helpless; but I

have not lost my senses."

"Indeed, Nelly," said Susan, "Mrs. Otley ordered one, out of

good-nature."

"And do you think, if my work was dearer than the shop-price, she would

think so much of being good-natured?"

"Oh, Nelly! we should not be looking out for bad motives to kind

actions. It will be a great advantage to you to find a market for your

goods at Miss Mincing's, and I am sure Mrs. Otley meant to do you a

service; and if it had not been for your good, Mr. Otley would never

have let her propose it."

"Mr. Otley, indeed!--He just lets his flighty wife take her own way."

"He is very kind; but my cousin, Sophy Foster, who lived with them

half-a-year, says he can be firm enough when there is need for it,

and that he rules in all great things, though he does not like to be

jarring about trifles."

"I don't know how it is, Susan, you are always contradicting one. You

always have something to say in defence of everybody. It is a very

disagreeable trick in a young woman to be contradicting her elders."

The spring had now stolen on; Master Mumford's house was free; and

Susan thought it her duty to tell George that she released him from

his engagement. She was quite blind. No hope was held out to her of

recovery. Her becoming the wife of a poor man, the mother of a poor

man's children, was absolutely out of the question. She took the

opportunity one day, when her father and mother were both present,

to say to him, "The time is come, George, when I must give you up.

You have been very good to me, and I shall feel your goodness as long

as I live; but I cannot make you such a wife as a poor man ought to

have: and now, George, here, before my father and mother, I give you

back your word. The house next door is free, and you must give the

'squire's steward your answer; and so you had better go to Mr. Williams

and give it up at once. I can never live there with you; and if--if

you should--if you should marry another girl, George," she continued

resolutely, though with a choking voice, "I could not bear to have

her live there--no more could you, I am sure you could not; so you

had better go to the 'squire's steward and tell him how it is!" She

stopped, exhausted with the effort she had made.

George stood by, grieved, distressed, uncertain how to act, or what to

say. He loved Susan dearly, as dearly as ever; but it was true, she

could not take care of a poor man's house. He was but a labourer; it

was impossible he should earn enough to support her, and a person to

do for her and the family they might have. It would be bringing her

into a state of hopeless poverty and distress. He had no arguments to

adduce, and yet he could not bear to break off his engagement. "What is

to be done, dame?" at length he said, with the tears in his eyes. "I

love your Susan, there, as dearly as ever I did, and I can't bear the

thoughts of giving her up; and yet I have nothing to say against the

reasons she has been bringing up against me. I am fairly puzzled what

to do," he continued, rubbing his forehead. "I would not mind, if I

thought I could keep her creditably; but if she and her children were

to be brought to want, and I not able to earn a decent maintenance for

them, why, I do think that would be worst of all."

"There is nothing to be done, dear George, but what I tell you. We

must break off with one another, and you must try to forget by-gone

days: that will soon be easy enough for you. As for me, I do not see

there is any need for me to try to forget, for I may as well think over

everything that is pleasant; and it will always be a pleasure to me to

think how kind you have been to me, and how true you have been to me!"

and she held out her hand in the direction where he stood, moving it

slowly towards him as blind people do. He took her hand, he grasped it

firmly; he pressed it between his own hard palms, occasionally patting

it, in silence for some minutes, till at length he let it fall, and

dropping his head upon the deal dresser, he burst into an agony of

uncontrollable sobs.

CHAPTER V.

These orbs, that Heaven's gay light no longer know,

Nor meet with kindred beam affection's eye,

(Long, long denied each grateful ministry!)

Still own the tear that flows for others' woe!

_Unpublished Poems._

Susan sat dissolved in silent tears. The dame had clasped her hands

in prayer. Old Nicholas's head rested on his staff, while tears also

rolled from his sightless eyes. It is not a new remark, but it is

always a touching reflection, that eyes which have long forgotten to

minister to pleasurable objects should still retain the faculty of

weeping.

Few more words were spoken that evening by the party assembled in

Master Foster's house. It was necessary that George Wells should

decide whether he meant to take the neighbouring cottage. There was no

alternative, and he was obliged to give it up. But he still continued

to visit Susan.

The summer came on, and he often led her carefully forth to walk in

their accustomed paths. He thought in his heart that he should never

marry, and he was sure he could never like any girl as well as Susan.

He sometimes told her so, and she gladly believed him; and she

found herself, when thus convinced of his continued affection, less

unhappy than she had imagined it possible to be under her melancholy

deprivation. Her skill in knitting almost exceeded that of her old

mistress; and although she could not earn as much as she formerly had

by needle-work, still the farmers' wives patronized her; some of the

gentry in the nearest country town bought her muffettees as fast as she

could make them; and she was able to assist her parents in some degree.

The household cares fell heavier on old Sarah, but she had a willing

spirit, and grudged no labour for those she loved.

One of Susan's most constant customers for her worsted manufactures

was Mrs. Otley, who thought, in the absence of the Mowbrays, it was

incumbent upon her to patronise their favourites. Though her husband

rented but a small farm not exceeding a hundred acres, she was not, in

her own estimation, a personage of small importance. She was possessed

with that desire of aping her betters, which is the misfortune of many

in her condition.

Because a man with a capital of ten or twelve thousand pounds chooses

to invest that capital in a large farm, and consequently lives himself,

and brings up his family, as he would be entitled to do if the same

fortune was invested in any other speculation or profession; why should

the small farmer, who can barely stock his forty or fifty acres, and

by the utmost industry ought not to expect a profit much beyond the

earnings of a good labourer, think himself called upon to emulate his

richer neighbour? Like him he keeps his greyhounds to go coursing, or

his nag to ride hunting; while his wife and daughters appear at church

attired in the extreme of the fashion, and at home display in their

best parlour the elegancies of a drawing-room; such as diminutive

cupids bearing gigantic candlesticks, _petits objets_ on a small table,

a flower-glass containing an artificial bouquet, and not unfrequently

a piano-forte. Farmer Otley himself was not one to whom these remarks

were applicable, but he had married a woman who was the very type of a

fashionable farmeress. She had received a boarding-school education,

could play on the piano-forte, spoke French, wrote a delicate hand

with a steel pen, embroidered muslin, was really a pretty and not a

vulgar-looking woman, and having brought him a decent fortune, felt

herself entitled to be as refined as books and backboards could make

her.

She had been struck by Mr. Otley's personal beauty, and had fallen

in love with him as being more fitted by his appearance to enact the

hero than any one else with whom she associated. He was certainly a

singularly handsome man; and although (after marriage) she sometimes

reproved him for allowing his voice to go beyond what she thought the

true pitch of romance, and his laugh to become too hearty, she consoled

herself by finding many examples in novels and poems, where strength,

manliness, and courage are the requisite attributes of the lover, and

the delicacy and refinement are only indispensable in the lady-love.

When she married him she imagined all farmers must move in the same

sphere of gentility; and as Mr. Glover, who rented and cultivated

highly a thousand acres in her native parish, drove his wife and

daughters to church in a phaeton with two pretty ponies; as the

Miss Glovers were dressed as well, or nearly as well, as the Lady

Larkingtons; as Mrs. Glover frequently dined with the clergyman's wife,

and Mr. Glover occasionally at Larkington Hall, she concluded that when

she also was united to a farmer, Mrs. Otley would be as great and as

genteel a personage as Mrs. Glover.

Much has been said, and much has been written, both against the farmers

of the present day, and in their defence. Surely the condemnation and

the approbation have both been too general. It is often urged that

all the distress among that class of people is owing to their altered

notions, their finery, and their ambition. It has also been urged with

truth, that there is no reason why a large capitalist who invests his

money in agricultural speculations should be condemned to eat bread and

cheese, and to wear a smock-frock; and his wife to churn, bake, and

feed her chickens.

The fault appears to be that sufficient regard is not paid to the

difference of capital requisite for a large and a small farm. The

small shop-keeper in a narrow alley does not feel himself called upon

to make the same appearance, or to indulge in the same luxuries, as

the proprietor of one of the brilliant magazines in Regent Street, or

Bond Street; but the small farmer strives to vie with the large one,

and would be ashamed to see his family appear at church less well

dressed, than that of a man whom he considers in the same rank of life

as himself.

Dame Foster was, as usual, one afternoon sitting at her cottage window,

whence she commanded a view down the village street, which enabled her

to beguile the tedious hours by reporting to her blind companions each

little village incident. She saw Mrs. Otley draw near, accompanied by

her children, and a girl who attended upon them. Old Sarah could not

help remarking that Mrs. Otley was more dressed out than ever Mrs.

Mowbray used to be. "It is a pity folks do not know their own places. I

remember the time when Mr. Otley's mother--old Mrs. Otley that's dead

and gone--used to wear her black satin bonnet and her red cloak just as

I did; only her cloak was handsomer, and the satin was a richer satin,

and she was never forced to wear them till they were shabby. She looked

respectable at all times; and she kept as warm a house as anybody in

the parish--plenty for her own family and for anybody who was in want.

When you were courting me, Nicholas, you used to work with old Farmer

Otley, and I dare say, if you had gone on with him, you would not have

married for some years longer. I don't justly mind how it was, but you

and he came to words, and you went off to Farmer Lightfoot, and he did

not board nor lodge his men; and I remember well you said 'twas all so

different from old Mrs. Otley's comfortable hot suppers, and her good

clean bed, and her warm fire-side to sit by of an evening, that you

resolved you would have a home of your own, and you said it would not

cost you much more to have a cottage to yourself than to hire a single

room. Ah! it was all very well, and we got on pretty middling; but it

was a good while before we gathered things comfortable about us. We

often used to say that if we had waited another two or three years we

should have begun quite before-hand with the world. Do you remember,

Nicholas, how pleased we were when we got our nice clock at last? It

was a hard matter to save up enough for the clock, with a growing

family coming on!"

When old Sarah had advanced thus far in her reminiscences, she

perceived that Mrs. Otley crossed the road and directed her steps to

their cottage. She entered the humble apartment with a graceful slide,

and her silk gown rustled, as Nicholas said, till he almost thought she

must be the minister's lady. Her little boy was dressed in a Polish

coat, with a cap from which dangled a smart tassel. The little girl,

who was just able to toddle, had a boa round her neck; and the brawny

country-girl who enacted nursery-maid, seemed to have been tutored into

taking as mincing steps as her mistress. Mrs. Otley came to bespeak

some handkerchiefs and muffettees like those which Mrs. Parkins, the

oracle of fashion in the town of Turnholme, had ordered; and she begged

Mrs. Foster's permission to wait at her house till Mr. Otley passed by

from market, and would drive her home in "his chaise,"--a term which

serves some people to designate every gradation of one-horsed vehicle,

from a stanhope to a tax-cart.

It was not long before Mr. Otley was seen approaching in the

market-cart, which Mrs. Otley denominated his chaise; and she sent

the girl to the garden-gate to stop him on his way. The good-natured

husband quickly dismounted from his cart, and entered the cottage,

fearing something might be the matter. "Why, what's this, Lizzy? You're

not ill, to be sure?"

"No, my love," answered the lady; "only fatigued with my walk: but do

not speak so loud, if you please, my love; you forget my nerves."

"Lord bless you, Lizzy, I can't remember those things I know nothing

about: but I am sorry you are so troubled with them. I am sure if they

are a trouble to you, they are a trouble to me too; for they won't let

you do any of the jobs that want doing about a farmhouse. Why, what's

this queer bit of a rat's tail you've twisted round little Lizzy's

neck?" he continued, laughing, as he held up the child's Lilliputian

boa.

"Take care, dear Mr. Otley; the poor child will take cold if she is

without her boa. Mrs. Foster will think you quite a savage," she

continued, in a mincing half-tender tone, to carry off his rough

manners.

"No, no, she won't," he replied! "Dame Foster knows me of old; and

Nicholas, he was the first that taught me how to take a wasp's nest. Do

you remember, Nicholas? You had left working for father then; but you

were always partial to me, and I remember well you used sometimes to

come at after-hours, and help me wasp-nesting, or bat-fowling, or such

like."

"Ah, Master Otley! you were a smart sprig of a lad, and I always had

a liking for you. You always were sharp and active; and when you were

quite a child, you would be helping your poor mother when she was busy

at her dairy, or her poultry-yard, or when she was particular busy on

baking-days."

"There, Lizzy; you see I always told you how mother used to set her

hand to everything, and never thought any useful work was beneath her.

That's the way to make farming answer. 'Tis the small profits and the

small savings we must look to, if we mean to get on in these hard

times."

"Dear Mr. Otley, I do not like to hear you talk so. Anybody would think

you quite mean and niggardly to hear you. I am often telling you you do

not do yourself justice."

"Ah, wife! that's all very well; but it is just because I want to do

myself justice that I talk so. But come along. Up with you into the

cart, and we'll be jogging home. The more the merrier," he added, as he

took the little girl in his arms.

"Oh, Mr. Otley! when will you get me a little pony-chaise, or something

decent, to go about in? I have never been used to such a shabby

conveyance."

"I am sorry for it, my dear! When I have the money, you shall have

just such a chay as you may fancy; but mean time you must put up with

this. Good night to you, Master Foster!" he continued, as he left the

cottage. "Good night, dame! good night, Susan! I saw some rare fine

worsted in a shop-window at Turnholme to-day. You shall have some, next

time I go to market. I did think about bringing some to-day. It would

be just the thing for your work."

"Thank you kindly, sir. You are very good," answered Susan.

"Well to be sure, she looks too much of a lady to be getting up

into that common cart," remarked Sarah, as she watched Farmer Otley

carefully assisting his wife into the "chaise," and dutifully saving

the silk gown from coming into contact with the wheel. "There's no

particular harm in the woman if she was married to some one who only

wanted a wife to look at; but how she is to keep everything going

about a farm, is more than I can tell! She needs somebody to look

after her, instead of her being able to look after others. There's

her veil flying, and her bit of fur that she calls a boa slipping off

among the spokes of the wheel, and her smart shawl almost shaken off

her shoulders as the cart rattles down the street. Now the wind takes

her bonnet, and it is blown quite back! Old Mrs. Otley used to look so

decent and respectable as she came home from market by her husband's

side, with her warm red cloak held tight round her, and her close black

bonnet fitting to her face, it was a pleasure to see her. Well! after

all, this young woman's a good-natured soul, and gives you a good price

for your work, Susan; and for all she is so fine herself, she is not

proud nor haughty to others," added the kind-hearted Sarah; for though

the habit of sitting at her window, watching all that took place in

the village, and making her remarks and her calculations thereon, had

unavoidably caused her to be something of a gossip, her heart was so

good, that she always qualified any fault she might find with her

neighbours, by discovering some counterbalancing merit.

It is almost impossible that those whose lives are passed in

ministering to the mental cravings and the amusement of the infirm and

the unoccupied, should avoid talking too freely of others. However

amiable their intentions and their feelings may be, so many words

cannot be uttered without sometimes doing mischief, if it were only by

magnifying trifles into matters of importance.

CHAPTER VI.

When Love's afraid, do not that fear despise;

Flames tremble most, when they the highest rise.

_D'Avenant._

George Wells still took his Sunday walk with Susan; and Susan, having

once told him distinctly that she should never marry, and that she

gave him back his troth, having even alluded to the probability of his

marrying another woman, felt she had done her duty, and that they might

still be, and ever might remain, friends. But friendship between man

and woman seldom exists without an admixture of love, past, present,

or to come. The feeling that begins in friendship often leads on to

love; often, too often, love is indulged under the garb of friendship;

and sometimes, but more rarely, love leaves behind it a regard which

subsides into friendship. Such, as Susan flattered herself, was the

case with George; and she therefore hoped that she should always

experience from him the same kindness and the same attention. But it

was not friendship, it was still love, that George felt for Susan: and

it was a touching sight to mark the young man leading his once plighted

wife, the blind Susan, on her way from church; tenderly watching that

the merry urchins who were playing in the path did not run against her

in their sport, or carefully pushing aside with his foot any loose

stone which might cause her to stumble. He would often bring her a

nosegay too; and Susan might generally be seen with a bowpot placed

near her, containing the common flowers of the season, backed up with

southern-wood and marjoram enough to drown the scent of all the roses

and pinks of which the foreground was composed. George loved to see

the smile with which his present was greeted; and still looked with

admiration at the silken eye-lashes which shaded the eyes that could no

longer beam upon him.

The summer thus glided by; the autumn was equally tranquil; and Susan

learned to listen for the accustomed step; to know, without attending

to the village chimes, the very hour at which he usually dropped in,

and to recognise his hand upon the latch. But as the winter advanced,

and the days became short and the weather severe, when they could no

longer walk together in the fields, and that his visits were as much

to the old people as to Susan, he did not call so regularly; and Susan

listened in vain for the sound of his step on the gravel, or the turn

of his hand on the latch. In vain did she now count the hours and the

quarters most accurately. The usual time had long elapsed when he did

call, and sometimes he omitted to do so altogether. She could not

wonder; she told herself she ought to be grateful for all the kindness

she had met with; she was aware she had no right to reproach him, but

yet she felt her sorrows more acutely than before.

Old Nicholas was the first to remark upon George's frequent absence.

Some rumours had reached Susan's ears that George was not so steady as

he had formerly been; but she hastened to defend him and to account for

the manner in which his time was occupied. Though she might feel hurt

herself, it was painful to hear him blamed, and she dreaded hearing

herself pitied.

"Why, is not that seven o'clock?--five, six, seven,--yes, sure enough

it is seven o'clock," said old Nicholas, one Sunday evening just after

Christmas,--"and no George! He was not here last Sunday neither. I am

got so used to the young man, it seems quite dull when so many days go

by without his giving us a call."

"Young men must take a little pleasure sometimes, father! 'Tis always

the same thing here, and I dare say he likes a little change."

"That's quite true, Susan. I've been young in my day, and have had my

pleasure; and Sarah, she has known what it is to be light-hearted; and

we must not grudge young people what's natural at their age;"--then,

after a little while, he added, "but you, my poor girl, trouble is come

upon you before its time. It is all as it should be for us to bear our

trials and wait patiently till it pleases God to take us; but you, not

yet turned your two-and-twenty"----

"Don't pity me, father! that's just what I can't bear. I do very well

when I'm not pitied," exclaimed Susan, with a little touch of her

former petulance: "Thank you all the same, father, for thinking so

much about me," she added, in a few moments, with a subdued manner.

"But, hark! I hear his step! I know the sound of his nailed shoes on

the gravel;" and her head was raised, and her face turned to the door,

while a smile almost angelic in its sweetness played around her mouth.

"I am glad you are come, George," she said, "for father missed you so

much. Come in, and sit down by him, and tell him all the news."

This was just what suited George; for he felt conscious that he had

been somewhat neglectful of late, and he found it easier to entertain

old Nicholas with the village news, than to sit by Susan and explain to

her how his evenings had been occupied.

"I heard plenty of news, and bad news too, at the Cart and Horses

t'other night."

"Oh, George! you have not taken to going to the public-house, sure? You

never used to do such a thing!"

"Bless you, Susan, a man can't work all day, and take no amusement

when his work is over. What can a man do that has not got a home

to go to?" This went to Susan's heart, but she said nothing. "As I

was telling you, they said at the Cart and Horses--no, 'twas at the

Chequers--Tuesday evening."----

"So he frequents both public-houses!" thought Susan.

George continued: "Master Smith said there was a talk of breaking up

the benefit club."

"The benefit club!" exclaimed Sarah; "why, what will my good man do if

the benefit club should go! His half-pay is almost all we have had to

live upon for many a long year!"

"That will fall heavy upon us, indeed," said Nicholas. "Why, what's the

meaning of this? I never heard any talk of the club being so low."

"Why, they say the members are all growing old, and so many of them

keep coming upon it that it can't hold out, unless they consent to take

less pay."

"Ah!" cried Nicholas; "I always was afraid how 'twould be, and I was

very sorry to be such a burthen to it myself. That was why I agreed

that, as my affliction was not like a common illness, of which one

might hope to be cured, but as I must look for no other than being on

the club as long as I lived, I would take only half-pay, walking-pay,

as they call it. My two sons are very good, they always make up the

money to me out of their earnings. I am sure I would not wish to be too

covetous, and to break my club."

"I hope 'tis only talk: it will do well enough, I dare say, if we can

get some new young members into it that are not likely to be any drain

upon it yet. Well! I have put in for four years, and never drawn a

farthing yet."

"I am sure, George, you should be very grateful to think what a

blessing God has granted you, in giving you such good health all these

years."

"True enough, Susan: in that sense I should be glad never to have any

of my money back again. And I am sure, Master Foster, I am glad enough

to be in the club, and help to keep it going, if it is only for your

sake."

"Thank you, George; that's kindly said," answered Susan, while a tear

trembled in her eye-lashes.

"Well, Master Foster," said George, "I must be going; for I promised to

meet Will Dixon at the Chequers this evening."

"Oh, George! you are not going to pass your Sunday evening at the

public-house!"

"Come, don't scold, Susan; I promised to meet Will Dixon; and though

we want to have a bit of talk together, we need not make too free

with the beer, you know;" and George was gone. Susan remained

with an indefinite sensation of uneasiness for which she could not

satisfactorily have accounted to herself.

The following week they saw no more of George, neither did they on

the Sunday; but in the succeeding week he again called. The alarm

concerning the benefit club seemed to have subsided: Nicholas's mind

was set at ease upon the subject; and Susan timidly asked George

whether he and Will Dixon had had a merry bout of it at the Chequers.

"Come, come, Susan, you want to get me to tell tales out of school!

we drank no more beer than was good for us, and then I went home with

Will Dixon to supper." Did these few words re-assure Susan that George

was not likely to fall into the habit of frequenting the ale-house,

and did they consequently restore her mind to its usual tranquillity?

On the contrary, a sensation shot through her which she had hitherto

been spared. She remembered that Will Dixon's sister Jane was a pretty

girl with bright blue eyes, and one who had for a short time divided

George's attentions with herself, before she had finally fixed them.

She remembered thinking that Jane Dixon was very partial to George,

and she remembered that the neighbours had joked Jane Dixon about

wearing the willow. Jealousy for the first time darted through her

heart, and she was alarmed and roused by the keenness of the pang. With

the rapidity of lightning she pictured to herself George in love with

Jane,--George, Jane's accepted lover,--George her bridegroom,--George

her kind and affectionate husband! It was with difficulty she

could bear her part in the conversation, and her smile was sad and

constrained.

"I do not think you seem right well, Susan. Are you ill, Susan?"

inquired George kindly and affectionately.

"No, thank you, dear George; I am quite well--only I feel a little

dull--I think 'tis the weather. Mother said she felt heavy this

morning."

"Maybe it is. Jane Dixon was saying, Sunday, that this mild weather

was not seasonable, and that she liked a good sharp frost, and a good

long walk." Susan quivered as the name came from George's lips. But

George was not yet in love with Jane, and no consciousness prevented

his uttering the name freely. Susan had almost said, "So, you were

walking with Jane Dixon, Sunday!" but she checked the remark, mentally

saying, "and why should he not walk with Jane? and why should he not

marry Jane? Why should I fret? I ought to hope Jane may draw him away

from idle companions and bad company. I fretted when I thought he was

taking to such courses; surely I ought to be glad if anybody else gets

the power I have lost to lure him from evil ways. Poor fellow! he would

never have thought of such things if I had not been afflicted as I am.

If he had married, and had a comfortable home, he would have gone on

being steady. Yes, I ought to hope he may marry Jane Dixon, and make

her a good husband." But, school herself as she would, she did fret;

and all the placidity of mind which she had laboured to acquire was

gone. Night and day did she think of George and Jane, and constantly

did she fancy them walking through the same lanes, strolling up the

same field-paths, loitering along the same head-lands, where she had

so often wandered with George. Long before such things did occur, had

she imagined them. But in the course of a few months, that which her

reason wished, but her feelings dreaded, came to pass. George's visits

became more and more rare; and when he did look in, Jane Dixon's name

was never breathed.

There was an awkwardness in his manner, and he almost exclusively

addressed himself to Nicholas. Susan was all gentleness, and

invariably, when he took leave, thanked him for calling, in a subdued

manner, which showed how entirely she felt it was from motives of

charity, and not from preference, that he now visited them. George,

without decyphering what caused the change in her tone, was aware that

she read his mind, and he became ill at ease in her presence.

Jane Dixon had originally liked George; and now that he was free again,

and that Susan Foster had, as it was well known, refused to marry

him, she saw no reason why she should not put forth all her store of

rustic allurements to win back her first love. George was by nature

steady and domestic: he had for two years been engaged to Susan, and

had therefore been in the habit of considering a wife, a family, a

home, as the enjoyments to which a poor man should look forward; and

although he had latterly been led to mix more with companions of loose

character, though he had loitered away many an evening at bowls or in

the ale-house, he was not happy while leading such a life. At first,

it was for the loss of Susan herself that he grieved; but in time

his regrets became less sentimental. He pined for a fire-side of his

own, his own chimney-nook, his hot rasher of bacon for supper, and

the kind attentions of a wife, even though that wife were not Susan

Foster. He was in a state of mind which laid him peculiarly open to

such attractions as Jane Dixon possessed; a tolerable share of beauty,

extreme good-humour, and, above all, a very decided predilection for

him, which she was at no pains to conceal. No wonder, then, if after

two years of hopeless attendance upon poor Susan, he should now find

himself engaged to Jane Dixon, and that the only difficulty which

remained, was to break the event to Susan.

Every time George entered their cottage, to bid them a hurrying good

morning, or to wish them a hasty good-night, Susan thought the moment

was arrived when he was going to announce to them the step he had

taken;--for she felt that he would not allow them to learn it only from

common report; and she judged rightly. Once, or twice, after having

wished them good night, he had lingered with his hand upon the latch

of the door, or had returned to ask some trifling question, and then

had hurried suddenly away. Each time she felt that the decisive moment

was come, and she worked herself up to receive the intelligence as she

ought. She thought she wished it over, and her mind at rest; and yet

she felt relieved when the door was closed, and she heard his step

receding along the little gravel path, and she might still think of him

as her George, and not as the promised husband of another.

CHAPTER VII.

Behold the herbage rich, in pride of June,

Pranked with gay flowrets dancing merrily

Beneath the sunbeams of the sultry noon,

While slumbering in their cells their perfumes lie.

But when the scythe sweeps on right sturdily,

Laying their sweet heads low, their spirits fling

Pure incense on the breeze ere yet they die;

So doth the chastening hand of sorrow bring

Virtues and graces forth, by joy left slumbering.

_Unpublished Poems._

It was rather more than two years from Alice Mowbray's wedding-day,

when George Wells lifted the latch of Master Foster's door, and,

closing it after him, walked into the house, seated himself on the

polished wooden chair opposite old Sarah's, and said in a hurried

voice, "I am come, neighbours,--I am come to tell you a piece of news

which I should be loth you should hear from anybody but myself."

Susan's heart died away within her--her head drooped more than ever

over her knitting; Dame Foster took off her spectacles, and, wiping

them, laid them within the sacred book from which she had been reading

some texts to her husband and her child; old Nicholas half turned

himself upon his settle: but none spoke. Susan felt that the silence

must be distressing to George; and exerting herself the first, she

replied, "If it is any news, George, that concerns yourself, you may be

sure there are no friends who will be more rejoiced to hear of any good

likely to befall you, or more grieved to hear of any misfortune. You

have scarce any older friends than father, and mother, and myself; so

you need not be afraid to speak."

"Thank you, Susan, thank you; that's just like you. I was sure you

would take it so. And yet, after all that has passed between us, I

felt--I don't know how I felt. But it seems strange I should marry

anybody else."

"I gave you back your word, George, and this is what I have long

expected; and long tried to make up my mind to," she added, with some

effort. "I could not expect you to go on always tending upon a poor

blind girl like me. 'Tis better, much better, than getting any ways

unsteady. God knows, I have not a word to say against your marrying

Jane Dixon."

"Thank you, Susan, thank you," he repeated; "I feel easier now! Susan,

this has been a great trouble to me; for I could not bear deceiving you

like, and yet I did not know how to tell you there was any courting

going on between me and Jane."

"You know, George, I gave you back your word from the first."

"Yes, yes, so you did; but for a long time I did not believe I should

ever think of any girl but you: but I do not know how it is, a man

wants a home--does he not, Master Foster?--and he wants a wife to see

to him. And then, Jane Dixon, she's a tight lass; and I don't know how

it was, I never came home from work without meeting her going of an

errand somewhere; and then she is a bustling girl, and one who will

keep things nice and tidy in a poor man's house."

"Her mother was a thrifty, bustling body, and I hope she will make

you a good wife, George," said Dame Foster, in a tone which she meant

should be very kind; but her thoughts were so much occupied with Susan,

that she had no feeling to spare for any one else.

"I wish you happiness, George," said Nicholas; "you have behaved very

well by my poor girl; and, if it had not been for her affliction, you

would have married her, and made her a good husband, I warrant. It is

the will of God it should all be as it is."

"Thank you kindly, Master Foster."

Meanwhile Susan had been feeling upon the little shelf on the wall

close to where she sat, for a small book, which at length she found.

"George," she said, "I have a book here which I ought to give you back.

'Tis those Watts's Hymns which you gave to me a few days before Miss

Alice's wedding;" she could not repress a sigh. "If you remember, you

wrote both our Christian names upon it,--and then said you would add

the surname when one name would do for both. I don't think it is right

I should keep that book, and you the husband of another; and yet I

could never find it in my heart to destroy it. Besides, I can't read

all the beautiful hymns that are in it; but you can, and sometimes it

may do you good perhaps to read them."

George indeed remembered giving Susan the little book: he had that day

obtained the promise of Master Mumford's house, and he had that day

gained her consent to their being speedily asked in church. They had

then written their names in the manner described by Susan, and had

talked over their future prospects, with the assurance of soon being

indissolubly united.

As George took the book from Susan's hands, he felt them tremble.

He was scarcely more composed himself. The appearance of the little

volume, the sight of the writing, annihilated for a moment the

intervening two years; and he saw Susan as she then stood beside him,

radiant with health, joy, and tenderness.

Jane Dixon would not have been pleased had she known with what pain he

received this present, with what regret he looked back upon the image

thus conjured up to his mind. The tears were in his eyes as he held it.

"If it is not right for you to keep the book, Susan, I do not think it

is right I should; for I am sure I shall never look upon it without

wishing,--without remembering----Oh! Susan, how happy we were when I

gave you that book!" His voice broke, and he passed the back of his

hand several times over his eyes.

Strong emotion in a stout and sturdy peasant, whose feelings we are

sure are thoroughly genuine, and in which we are satisfied there is no

touch of sickly, morbid sensibility, is always an affecting subject

of contemplation. It was almost too much for old Sarah, who now wept

like a child; while Susan experienced among the poignant regrets which

overpowered her, a mixture of satisfaction to find she was so tenderly

recollected. "I did not think you would have minded it, George; but if

it makes you think too much of by-gone days, why, perhaps, 'twill be

best you should give the book to mother to keep. I would not wish you

to think any more about me now; it would be no ways right." But it was

a comfort to Susan, though she was not aware of it, that she had to

tell him not to think about her.

George still held the book, awkwardly shifting it from hand to hand:

at length he held it out; "Take it, dame," he said, "take it; for

I'm going to be married to Jane Dixon, and I must not think any more

about Susan, nor about the days that are passed and gone; it won't

do," and he pushed the book towards Dame Foster, and abruptly opened

the door. "God bless you, George," and Susan held out her hand. He had

closed the latch, and was gone. Her hand dropped to her side, but she

was not mortified. She scarcely knew how it was that she felt so much

less miserable than she expected she would have done, when George was

about to be married to another,--when an eternal barrier was about to

be placed between them,--when she had broken the last link that bound

them to each other. Alas! it must be confessed that if the causes of

her more resigned frame of mind were accurately analyzed, there might

be discovered, among better feelings, a slight admixture of vanity,

which had been soothed by finding George still remembered her with

affection, and by feeling that he did not love Jane Dixon so well as he

had once loved her.

Susan was a good and a generous girl; but in her nature there was a

portion of that quality which, although subdued and chastened by heavy

affliction, is seldom entirely rooted out of the human heart. She did

not wish George to be unhappy on her account; she heartily hoped Jane

would prove a good wife to him; and yet, after having experienced

considerable mortification in the course of his unavoidable neglect of

her, it was a balm to poor frail human nature to feel that she was not

relinquished without a pang.

"My poor girl," said Sarah, after she had watched George's hurried

steps along the road, over the stile, and into the fields beyond the

village,--"my poor girl! I must no longer pray, as I have done, never

to see another sun rise when once my poor Nicholas is in his grave, for

what will you do without me? As long as George was single, I felt you

would never want a friend; but now I must hope to be spared still for

your sake! I once thought, when you were George's wife, and my good man

was at rest, that old Sarah Foster's task would be finished, and that

she might pray the Almighty to release her from these pains. But God's

will be done!" and she bowed her head in meek submission.

George Wells had instinctively avoided the village; he dreaded to meet

his betrothed. Susan had risen up to his mind as she had been in her

best days: those days once more became so present to him, that all his

former love seemed to return with fresh force, and he wondered how he

had become entangled with Jane Dixon. But a few weeks more, and she

would be his wife; and among the lower orders that name is more sacred

than among the higher, where the gradations between virtue and vice

are softened down, and the line of demarcation not so absolute. He

remembered that he had promised to walk with Jane that very evening,

and he somewhat slowly and unwillingly returned towards the village

by a path which led nearer the dwelling of his new love. He had not

advanced far when he met her gaily approaching in search of him. He was

scarcely yet in a frame of mind to meet her gladly, and he wished she

had not been quite so affectionate in her disposition towards him. She

certainly was not coy. He had never been called upon to sue; he had

but to receive the advances she was disposed to make. "Poor girl!" he

thought, "it is not her fault, if I once liked Susan so much. She has

always been partial to me: I must make her a good husband. It would

never do to be anywise unkind to her now; besides, the parish begins

to talk, and the best thing we can do is to be married out of hand."

And the result was that they agreed he should wait on the minister, and

inform him they wished to be asked in church.

CHAPTER VIII.

Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best,

Nae mair's required; let Heav'n make out the rest.

Allan Ramsay's _Gentle Shepherd_.

Susan was somewhat agitated and perplexed the next Sunday morning,

debating in her own mind whether George and Jane were likely to be

asked that very day, and whether she could hear their names called over

with the composure which befitted so holy a place. She did not like

to absent herself from church on that account; for to those who have

acquired the habit of never failing in their attendance, the omission

appears a dereliction of duty. She therefore summoned up her courage;

her mother, as usual, arranged her bonnet, and pinned her shawl with

due attention to neatness. The dame, as usual, turned the key of the

door, and placed it in her pocket; then, taking Nicholas's arm with

one hand, she guided him safely on his way, while with the other

she supported her own feebler steps with her polished staff. Susan

followed, led by a neighbour's little girl, who always came to attend

her to church.

This afflicted family, so decent in their apparel, so respectable in

their behaviour, were never seen drawing near the house of worship

without exciting a feeling of pity and veneration in all whose souls

were not callous to every good emotion. They had arranged themselves as

usual in their pew. The service had begun; and when the close of the

second lesson drew near, poor Susan's heart beat almost audibly. Her

head was held low, and her face was partly concealed by her bonnet: but

she strove to maintain as unmoved a countenance as possible; for she

knew that the opposite seat was occupied by gay young girls who would

feel a curiosity about her, and she was unable to tell when, or when

not, her countenance might be the subject of remark to others.

The last words of the lesson were read; the large Bible was closed with

a heavy noise; there was a moment's pause, but the clergyman proceeded

with the service, and Susan was spared for that Sunday. A sort of hope

shot through her mind; and yet what did she hope? She had herself

relinquished George, she had herself anticipated his marriage, she knew

he was engaged, she knew he could not with honour break off with Jane

Dixon; if he did, was not she as unfit for a poor labourer's wife as

when she first gave him back his troth? It was all so, and yet she felt

relieved.

The following Sunday she was again seated in her accustomed place, and

she again listened as the clergyman read the service. This time the

names were read,--"George Wells, bachelor, and Jane Dixon, spinster,

both of this parish." The girls opposite might have seen her lips

quiver; and the hands which were habitually meekly clasped upon her

knee, were slightly raised, and fell again immediately.

That day Sarah herself led Susan from church, and gave up the guidance

of Nicholas to the little girl. They reached their home; and before old

Sarah busied herself in the preparation for their humble repast, she

sat down to rest herself. Susan heard her mother sigh.

"Mother!" she said, "you are fretting about me!"

"Not to say fretting, Susan, for we heard no more than what we expected

to hear; but I thought it was a great trial to you to hear their

names in church. I was afraid whether it might not be almost too much

for you. And then I sighed to think, when we were gone, what a poor

desolate creature you would be; and I was wishing we could any way

provide for you. I should not like you to come on the parish, and yet I

don't see how we can save any thing,--we, that can't earn a shilling.

Next time Farmer Otley calls, I will ask him about the Friendly Society

he was mentioning; and I have heard talk of insuring one life against

another, and perhaps we might get your brothers to help," continued the

old woman, her thoughts gradually led from the wound Susan's affections

had received, to the blasting of her worldly prospects.

When, as among the lower orders, the provision necessary for existence

is at stake, the most tender regrets must often be mixed up with other

considerations; but Susan could not yet comprehend any sorrow but that

of losing the lover of her youth. "Never trouble your head about me in

that way, mother; I don't care nor think anything about such matters."

"That's all very well for young folks who have always had their

fathers' roof over their heads," interposed Nicholas, "and a bit to eat

as long as their parents had it; but it is the duty of parents to look

forward for their children. You will find it very different when we

are in our graves, and you have to find yourself board and lodging and

everything. It frets me so, sometimes, I can't go to sleep! I and my

old woman used often to say we should be at rest when we were beneath

the sod, and we did not care how soon our time came; but now I quite

dread to think we may be taken any day."

"And so may I, father, be taken any day. It often happens that the

youngest goes first; and as 'tis all in the hands of Providence, there

is no need for you to make yourself unhappy about me in that way.

Besides, who knows but God may raise me up friends if my time of need

should ever come?--It is not my board nor my lodging that troubles me,"

she could not help adding with an irrepressible expression of grief.

"Ah! I know what 'tis that troubles you. 'Tis just what I am often

thinking of. In my affliction I have a kind helpmate to cheer me, and

keep up my spirits, and save me from ever feeling lonesome; and I have

you, Susan, and I love to listen to your voice, though it has not its

cheerful tone, and though I never hear the laugh that used to make

my heart glad within me. You, my poor girl, you can never have these

comforts, and that weighs upon my mind, though I do not like to say

much about it."

"It can't be helped, father, and I hope I submit as I should. It has

pleased God to visit me as He has done, and I am sure I have done no

more than my duty in not letting George burthen himself with me for a

wife."

"Yes, yes, it is all right; you have done your duty, that's certain."

"And when we have done that, we must leave the rest to Providence."

Mr. Otley called soon afterwards with some of the worsted which he was

now in the constant habit of procuring for Susan. Dame Foster took

the opportunity of getting her mind enlightened concerning annuities,

and friendly societies, and all the other modes of provision for the

poor which were established at Turnholme. But all required a larger

monthly sum, or a more considerable deposit, than they could possibly

contrive to pay. "I wish, Mr. Otley," said Susan, "you could persuade

father and mother not to think so much about me; if 'tis anything about

themselves, they always say we should rely on Providence: tell them

they should do so for me, as well as for themselves."

"It is quite right, Susan, you should speak as you do, and feel as you

do; but it is quite right too that your parents should be willing to do

the best they can for you. I am sure I wish I could put them in the way

of making some provision for you; but when people get to be in years,

all the insurances are so high: that is a thing people should think of

when they are young and in health."

"That is quite just, Master Otley, and so I did when I was young; for

I put into my club as soon as I was turned nineteen,--as soon as I got

anything like man's wages; and a good job it has been for me that I did

so: but, you see, one could not reckon upon such an affliction as poor

Susan's."

"And that's quite just too, Master Foster; and I'll be bound that if

ever she should be in want, the gentry, ay, and the farmers too, would

not grudge her some help,--such a good girl, and such a patient girl

as she is! and so young too, and so well-favoured as she is! I often

tell my mistress I don't care how many warm handkerchiefs she buys of

Susan, 'tis all money well spent; though I will say I wish she would

not always be making me drive her over to Turnholme, that she may learn

the new fashions. What do the fashions signify? say I; where is your

red cloak? say I; and where is your checked apron? say I: and then she

is so mad with me! But she is a good-natured soul, and always comes

round after I've laughed a bit. And then then she is not so hearty and

strong as I am, and she can't bustle about. Well, good night, Nicholas!

I must be off. I must not forget this package though: Miss Mincing, at

the shop, told me I must be sure and carry it very carefully, for the

least touch would spoil it." And away went the good-natured farmer,

carrying the parcel very carefully to the cart, but then putting it at

the bottom of the vehicle among many other articles of great size and

weight, where it was jumbled in a manner which would have agonised Miss

Mincing had she witnessed it, and which did agonise Mrs. Otley when she

extracted it from among its travelling companions, and upon examination

found the beautiful cap, with its wires, and its bows, more fit to

adorn a May-day chimney-sweeper, than the head of so refined a lady as

she was.

"Oh, Mr. Otley, how could you!" she exclaimed, in an accusing voice to

her husband.

"How could I do what, Lizzy, dear?"

"Look at my cap!" she said; "I am sure Miss Mincing must have told you

to take care of it."

"So I did, Lizzy; I held it up between my finger and thumb, as tenderly

as if it was a plum with the bloom on it, till I laid it quite light at

the top of everything else in the cart."

"And then you went rattling away as hard as you could drive, without

once looking behind you to see how all the articles rode in the chaise!

I do think you must have been a little too gay at market, Mr. Otley,"

she said, in a small voice; "you must have made a little too free with

some of your coarse drinking companions:" and she drew herself up.

"Not a bit of it, Lizzy; none of your insinuations! I just wetted my

bargain, as everybody should, and that was all. I'm sorry your cap is

tumbled."

"Crushed, spoiled, _abeemy_," (query _abîmé_?) "as Miss Mincing says."

"But I'll tell you what: it is a sort of a flashy thing I can't abide,

and I had rather by half see you in such a cap as old Dame Foster

wears."

"My love, you are quite uncivil: you have quite lost your manners. I am

sure you are saying what you do not think, and I am sure that all the

while you like to see your wife look neat and genteel."

"Neat, I do, and neatness is gentility enough for me. Come, I'll buy

you a new cap after my own fashion; and then if you take half the bows,

and all the flowers, off this queer thing," and he held the cap up

aloft, dangling by one of its strings, "you will have two decent caps,

instead of one out-of-the-way concern."

"You have no taste, dear Mr. Otley!" said poor Mrs. Otley, as she

pinched, and pulled, and tried to squeeze the unfortunate cap into its

pristine shape. Mr. Otley watched her as she put her head first on this

side, then on that, looking distressfully on the cap, and every now and

then giving it a masterly twitch.

"Now, what puzzles me, Lizzy, is, when you look to wearing this cap:

you can't go to church in it, and you can't drive out in the cart in

it; and hang me if I know when you mean to put it on."

"Surely, Mr. Otley, every woman should have something decent to wear if

visitors should come."

"I'm sure Farmer Dobson will never know what sort of a cap you have on

your head, and Mr. Higgins is quite a plain sort of a man; and 'tis but

seldom they call in, except just in the way of business."

"But Mr. Dobson has a wife, and daughters too," answered Mrs. Otley

triumphantly; "and Mrs. Higgins's lace-veil, last Sunday, was quite the

talk of the whole church. I am sure I heard of it three times before

I could get down the church-yard and into our chaise; and I saw all

the bonnets moving in all the pews as she came up the aisle with her

beautiful veil hanging down almost to her knees."

Mr. Otley had nothing to reply, and Mrs. Otley remained in possession

of the field.

CHAPTER IX.

Cancel all our vows;

And, when we meet at any time again,

Be it not seen in either of our brows

That we one jot of former love retain.

Michael Drayton.

George Wells and Jane Dixon had been asked for the last time, and the

wedding was fixed for the Wednesday following. George Wells had not

again visited the family of the Fosters. His mind was more at ease

since he had spoken to Susan; but he found that the sight of her meek

countenance, the sound of her gentle voice, and the recollection of

former days, unsettled him. Neither did Susan desire that he should

call any more. She was never again to consider him but as the husband

of another, and she wished for time to accustom herself to this idea

before she again heard his voice: she wished to school and calm her

feelings, so as to be sure her heart would not beat when she heard his

step and recognised his hand upon the latch.