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 Unpublished Ballad from Nature.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.