SIMPLE SUSAN.
CHAPTER I.
Waked as her custom was, before the day, To do the observance due to sprightly May.
DRYDEN.
IN a retired hamlet on the borders of Wales, between Oswestry andShrewsbury, it is still the custom to celebrate the 1st of May.
The children of the village, who look forward to this rural festival withjoyful eagerness, usually meet on the last day of April to make up theirnosegays for the morning and to choose their queen. Their customaryplace of meeting is at a hawthorn, which stands in a little green nook,open on one side to a shady lane, and separated on the other side by athick sweet-brier and hawthorn hedge from the garden of an attorney.
[Picture: Simple Susan]
This attorney began the world with nothing, but he contrived to scrapetogether a good deal of money, everybody knew how. He built a new houseat the entrance of the village, and had a large, well fenced garden, yet,notwithstanding his fences, he never felt himself secure. Such were hislitigious habits, and his suspicious temper, that he was constantly atvariance with his simple and peaceable neighbours. Some pig, or dog, orgoat, or goose was for ever trespassing. His complaints and hisextortions wearied and alarmed the whole hamlet. The paths in his fieldswere at length unfrequented, his stiles were blocked up with stones orstuffed with brambles and briers, so that not a gosling could creepunder, or a giant get over them. Indeed, so careful were even thevillage children of giving offence to this irritable man of the law, thatthey would not venture to fly a kite near his fields lest it shouldentangle in his trees, or fall upon his meadow.
Mr. Case, for this was the name of our attorney, had a son and adaughter, to whose education he had not time to attend, as his whole soulwas intent upon accumulating for them a fortune. For several years hesuffered his children to run wild in the village; but suddenly, on hisbeing appointed to a considerable agency, he began to think of making hischildren a little genteel. He sent his son to learn Latin; he hired amaid to wait upon his daughter Barbara; and he strictly forbade herthenceforward to keep company with any of the poor children, who hadhitherto been her playfellows. They were not sorry for this prohibition,because she had been their tyrant rather than their companion. She wasvexed to observe that her absence was not regretted, and she wasmortified to perceive that she could not humble them by any display ofairs and finery.
There was one poor girl, amongst her former associates, to whom she had apeculiar dislike,—Susan Price, a sweet tempered, modest, sprightly,industrious lass, who was the pride and delight of the village. Herfather rented a small farm, and, unfortunately for him, he lived nearAttorney Case.
Barbara used often to sit at her window, watching Susan at work.Sometimes she saw her in the neat garden raking the beds, or weeding theborders; sometimes she was kneeling at her beehive with fresh flowers forher bees; sometimes she was in the poultry yard, scattering corn from hersieve amongst the eager chickens; and in the evening she was often seatedin a little honeysuckle arbour, with a clean, light, three-legged dealtable before her, upon which she put her plain work.
Susan had been taught to work neatly by her good mother, who was veryfond of her, and to whom she was most gratefully attached.
Mrs. Price was an intelligent, active, domestic woman; but her health wasnot robust. She earned money, however, by taking in plain work; and shewas famous for baking excellent bread and breakfast cakes. She wasrespected in the village, for her conduct as a wife and as a mother, andall were eager to show her attention. At her door the first branch ofhawthorn was always placed on May morning, and her Susan was usuallyQueen of the May.
It was now time to choose the Queen. The setting sun shone full upon thepink blossoms of the hawthorn, when the merry group assembled upon theirlittle green. Barbara was now walking in sullen state in her father’sgarden. She heard the busy voices in the lane, and she concealed herselfbehind the high hedge, that she might listen to their conversation.
“Where’s Susan?” were the first unwelcome words which she overheard.“Ay, where’s Susan?” repeated Philip, stopping short in the middle of anew tune that he was playing on his pipe. “I wish Susan would come! Iwant her to sing me this same tune over again; I have not it yet.”
“And I wish Susan would come, I’m sure,” cried a little girl, whose lapwas full of primroses. “Susan will give me some thread to tie up mynosegays, and she’ll show me where the fresh violets grow; and she haspromised to give me a great bunch of her double cowslips to wearto-morrow. I wish she would come.”
“Nothing can be done without Susan! She always shows us where the nicestflowers are to be found in the lanes and meadows,” said they. “She mustmake up the garlands; and she shall be Queen of the May!” exclaimed amultitude of little voices.
“But she does not come!” said Philip.
Rose, who was her particular friend, now came forward to assure theimpatient assembly, “that she would answer for it Susan would come assoon as she possibly could, and that she probably was detained bybusiness at home.”
The little electors thought that all business should give way to theirs,and Rose was dispatched to summon her friend immediately.
“Tell her to make haste,” cried Philip. “Attorney Case dined at theAbbey to-day—luckily for us. If he comes home and finds us here, maybehe’ll drive us away; for he says this bit of ground belongs to hisgarden: though that is not true, I’m sure; for Farmer Price knows, andsays, it was always open to the road. The Attorney wants to get ourplayground, so he does. I wish he and his daughter Bab, or Miss Barbara,as she must now be called, were a hundred miles off, out of our way, Iknow. No later than yesterday she threw down my nine-pins in one of herill-humours, as she was walking by with her gown all trailing in thedust.”
“Yes,” cried Mary, the little primrose-girl, “her gown is alwaystrailing. She does not hold it up nicely, like Susan; and with all herfine clothes she never looks half so neat. Mamma says she wishes I maybe like Susan, when I grow up to be a great girl, and so do I. I shouldnot like to look conceited as Barbara does, if I was ever so rich.”
“Rich or poor,” said Philip, “it does not become a girl to lookconceited, much less _bold_, as Barbara did the other day, when she wasat her father’s door without a hat upon her head, staring at the strangegentleman who stopped hereabout to let his horse drink. I know what hethought of Bab by his looks, and of Susan, too; for Susan was in hergarden, bending down a branch of the laburnum-tree, looking at its yellowflowers, which were just come out; and when the gentleman asked her howmany miles it was from Shrewsbury, she answered him so modest!—notbashful, like as if she had never seen nobody before—but just right; andthen she pulled on her straw hat, which was fallen back with her lookingup at the laburnum, and she went her ways home; and the gentleman says tome, after she was gone, ‘Pray, who is that neat, modest girl—?’ But Iwish Susan would come,” cried Philip, interrupting himself.
Susan was all this time, as her friend Rose rightly guessed, busy athome. She was detained by her father’s returning later than usual. Hissupper was ready for him nearly an hour before he came home; and Susanswept up the ashes twice, and twice put on wood to make a cheerful blazefor him; but at last, when he did come in, he took no notice of the blazeor of Susan; and when his wife asked him how he did, he made no answer,but stood with his back to the fire, looking very gloomy. Susan put hissupper upon the table, and set his own chair for him; but he pushed awaythe chair and turned from the table, saying—“I shall eat nothing, child!Why have you such a fire to roast me at this time of the year?”
“You said yesterday, father, I thought, that you liked a little cheerfulwood fire in the evening; and there was a great shower of hail; your coatis quite wet, we must dry it.”
“Take it, then, child,” said he, pulling it off—“I shall soon have nocoat to dry—and take my hat, too,” said he, throwi
ng it upon the ground.
Susan hung up his hat, put his coat over the back of a chair to dry, andthen stood anxiously looking at her mother, who was not well; she hadthis day fatigued herself with baking; and now, alarmed by her husband’smoody behaviour, she sat down pale and trembling. He threw himself intoa chair, folded his arms, and fixed his eyes upon the fire.
Susan was the first who ventured to break silence. Happy the father whohas such a daughter as Susan!—her unaltered sweetness of temper, and herplayful, affectionate caresses, at last somewhat dissipated her father’smelancholy.
He could not be prevailed upon to eat any of the supper which had beenprepared for him; however, with a faint smile, he told Susan that hethought he could eat one of her guinea-hen’s eggs. She thanked him, andwith that nimble alacrity which marks the desire to please, she ran toher neat chicken-yard; but, alas! her guinea-hen was not there—it hadstrayed into the attorney’s garden. She saw it through the paling, andtimidly opening the little gate, she asked Miss Barbara, who was walkingslowly by, to let her come in and take her guinea-hen. Barbara, who wasat this instant reflecting, with no agreeable feelings, upon theconversation of the village children, to which she had recently listened,started when she heard Susan’s voice, and with a proud, ill-humoured lookand voice, refused her request.
“Shut the gate,” said Barbara, “you have no business in our garden; andas for your hen, I shall keep it; it is always flying in here, andplaguing us, and my father says it is a trespasser; and he told me Imight catch it and keep it the next time it got in, and it is in now.”Then Barbara called to her maid, Betty, and bid her catch the mischievoushen.
“Oh, my guinea-hen! my pretty guinea-hen!” cried Susan, as they huntedthe frightened, screaming creature from corner to corner.
“Here we have got it!” said Betty, holding it fast by the legs.
“Now pay damages, Queen Susan, or good-bye to your pretty guinea-hen,”said Barbara, in an insulting tone.
“Damages! what damages?” said Susan; “tell me what I must pay.”
“A shilling,” said Barbara.
“Oh, if sixpence would do!” said Susan; “I have but sixpence of my own inthe world, and here it is.”
“It won’t do,” said Barbara, turning her back.
“Nay, but hear me,” cried Susan; “let me at least come in to look for itseggs. I only want _one_ for my father’s supper; you shall have all therest.”
“What’s your father, or his supper to us? is he so nice that he can eatnone but guinea-hen’s eggs?” said Barbara. “If you want your hen andyour eggs, pay for them, and you’ll have them.”
“I have but sixpence, and you say that won’t do,” said Susan with a sigh,as she looked at her favourite, which was in the maid’s grasping hands,struggling and screaming in vain.
Susan retired disconsolate. At the door of her father’s cottage she sawher friend Rose, who was just come to summon her to the hawthorn bush.
“They are all at the hawthorn, and I am come for you. We can do nothingwithout _you_, dear Susan,” cried Rose, running to meet her, at themoment she saw her. “You are chosen Queen of the May—come, make haste.But what is the matter? why do you look so sad?”
“Ah!” said Susan, “don’t wait for me; I can’t come to you, but,” addedshe, pointing to the tuft of double cowslips in the garden, “gather thosefor poor little Mary; I promised them to her, and tell her the violetsare under a hedge just opposite the turnstile, on the right as we go tochurch. Good-bye! never mind me; I can’t come—I can’t stay, for myfather wants me.”
“But don’t turn away your face; I won’t keep you a moment; only tell mewhat’s the matter,” said her friend, following her into the cottage.
“Oh, nothing, not much,” said Susan; “only that I wanted the egg in agreat hurry for father, it would not have vexed me—to be sure I shouldhave clipped my guinea-hen’s wings, and then she could not have flownover the hedge; but let us think no more about it, now,” added she,twinkling away a tear.
When Rose, however, learnt that her friend’s guinea-hen was detainedprisoner by the attorney’s daughter, she exclaimed, with all the honestwarmth of indignation, and instantly ran back to tell the story to hercompanions.
“Barbara! ay; like father, like daughter,” cried Farmer Price, startingfrom the thoughtful attitude in which he had been fixed, and drawing hischair closer to his wife.
“You see something is amiss with me, wife—I’ll tell you what it is.” Ashe lowered his voice, Susan, who was not sure that he wished she shouldhear what he was going to say, retired from behind his chair. “Susan,don’t go; sit you down here, my sweet Susan,” said he, making room forher upon his chair; “I believe I was a little cross when I came in firsttonight; but I had something to vex me, as you shall hear.
“About a fortnight ago, you know, wife,” continued he, “there was aballoting in our town for the militia; now at that time I wanted but tendays of forty years of age; and the attorney told me I was a fool for notcalling myself plump forty. But the truth is the truth, and it is what Ithink fittest to be spoken at all times come what will of it. So I wasdrawn for a militiaman; but when I thought how loth you and I would be topart, I was main glad to hear that I could get off by paying eight ornine guineas for a substitute—only I had not the nine guineas—for, youknow, we had bad luck with our sheep this year, and they died away oneafter another—but that was no excuse, so I went to Attorney Case, and,with a power of difficulty, I got him to lend me the money; for which, tobe sure, I gave him something, and left my lease of our farm with him, ashe insisted upon it, by way of security for the loan. Attorney Case istoo many for me. He has found what he calls a flaw in my lease; and thelease, he tells me, is not worth a farthing, and that he can turn us allout of our farm to-morrow if he pleases; and sure enough he will please,for I have thwarted him this day, and he swears he’ll be revenged of me.Indeed, he has begun with me badly enough already. I’m not come to theworst part of my story yet—”
Here Farmer Price made a dead stop; and his wife and Susan looked up inhis face, breathless with anxiety.
“It must come out,” said he, with a short sigh; “I must leave you inthree days, wife.”
“Must you?” said his wife, in a faint, resigned voice. “Susan, love,open the window.” Susan ran to open the window, and then returned tosupport her mother’s head. When she came a little to herself she sat up,begged that her husband would go on, and that nothing might be concealedfrom her. Her husband had no wish indeed to conceal anything from a wifehe loved so well; but, firm as he was, and steady to his maxim, that thetruth was the thing the fittest to be spoken at all times, his voicefaltered, and it was with great difficulty that he brought himself tospeak the whole truth at this moment.
The fact was this. Case met Farmer Price as he was coming home,whistling, from a new ploughed field. The attorney had just dined at_The Abbey_. The Abbey was the family seat of an opulent baronet in theneighbourhood, to whom Mr. Case had been agent. The baronet diedsuddenly, and his estate and title devolved to a younger brother, who wasnow just arrived in the country, and to whom Mr. Case was eager to payhis court, in hopes of obtaining his favour. Of the agency he flatteredhimself that he was pretty secure; and he thought that he might assumethe tone of command towards the tenants, especially towards one who wassome guineas in debt, and in whose lease there was a flaw.
Accosting the farmer in a haughty manner, the attorney began with, “So,Farmer Price, a word with you, if you please. Walk on here, man, besidemy horse, and you’ll hear me. You have changed your opinion, I hope,about that bit of land—that corner at the end of my garden?”
“As how, Mr. Case?” said the farmer.
“As how, man! Why, you said something about its not belonging to me,when you heard me talk of inclosing it the other day.”
“So I did,” said Price, “and so I do.”
Provoked and astonished at the firm tone in which these words werepr
onounced, the attorney was upon the point of swearing that he wouldhave his revenge; but, as his passions were habitually attentive to the_letter_ of the law, he refrained from any hasty expression, which might,he was aware, in a court of justice, be hereafter brought against him.
“My good friend, Mr. Price,” said he, in a soft voice, and pale withsuppressed rage. He forced a smile. “I’m under the necessity of callingin the money I lent you some time ago, and you will please to takenotice, that it must be paid to-morrow morning. I wish you a goodevening. You have the money ready for me, I daresay.”
“No,” said the farmer, “not a guinea of it; but John Simpson, who was mysubstitute, has not left our village yet. I’ll get the money back fromhim, and go myself, if so be it must be so, into the militia—so I will.”
The attorney did not expect such a determination, and he represented, ina friendly, hypocritical tone to Price, that he had no wish to drive himto such an extremity; that it would be the height of folly in him _to runhis head against a wall for no purpose_. “You don’t mean to take thecorner into your own garden, do you, Price?” said he.
“I?” said the farmer, “God forbid! it’s none of mine, I never take whatdoes not belong to me.”
“True, right, very proper, of course,” said Mr. Case; “but then you haveno interest in life in the land in question?”
“None.”
“Then why so stiff about it, Price? All I want of you to say—”
“To say that black is white, which I won’t do, Mr. Case. The ground is athing not worth talking of; but it’s neither yours nor mine. In mymemory, since the _new_ lane was made, it has always been open to theparish; and no man shall inclose it with my good-will. Truth is truth,and must be spoken; justice is justice, and should be done, Mr.Attorney.”
“And law is law, Mr. Farmer, and shall have its course, to your cost,”cried the attorney, exasperated by the dauntless spirit of this villageHampden.
Here they parted. The glow of enthusiasm, the pride of virtue, whichmade our hero brave, could not render him insensible. As he drew nearerhome, many melancholy thoughts pressed upon his heart. He passed thedoor of his own cottage with resolute steps, however, and went throughthe village in search of the man who had engaged to be his substitute.He found him, told him how the matter stood; and luckily the man, who hadnot yet spent the money, was willing to return it; as there were manyothers drawn for the militia, who, he observed, would be glad to give himthe same price, or more, for his services.
The moment Price got the money, he hastened to Mr. Case’s house, walkedstraight forward into his room, and laying the money down upon his desk,“There, Mr. Attorney, are your nine guineas; count them; now I have donewith you.”
“Not yet,” said the attorney, jingling the money triumphantly in hishand. “We’ll give you a taste of the law, my good sir, or I’m mistaken.You forgot the flaw in your lease, which I have safe in this desk.”
“Ah, my lease,” said the farmer, who had almost forgot to ask for it tillhe was thus put in mind of it by the attorney’s imprudent threat. “Giveme my lease, Mr. Case. I’ve paid my money; you have no right to keep thelease any longer, whether it is a bad one or a good one.”
“Pardon me,” said the attorney, locking his desk, and putting the keyinto his pocket, “possession, my honest friend,” cried he, striking hishand upon the desk, “is nine points of the law. Good night to you. Icannot in conscience return a lease to a tenant in which I know there isa capital flaw. It is my duty to show it to my employer; or, in otherwords, to your new landlord, whose agent I have good reasons to expect Ishall be; you will live to repent your obstinacy, Mr. Price. Yourservant, sir.”
Price retired with melancholy feelings, but not intimidated. Many a manreturns home with a gloomy countenance, who has not quite so much causefor vexation.
When Susan heard her father’s story, she quite forgot her guinea-hen, andher whole soul was intent upon her poor mother, who, notwithstanding herutmost exertion, could not support herself under this sudden stroke ofmisfortune.
In the middle of the night Susan was called up; her mother’s fever ranhigh for some hours; but towards morning it abated, and she fell into asoft sleep with Susan’s hand locked fast in hers.
Susan sat motionless, and breathed softly, lest she should disturb her.The rushlight, which stood beside the bed, was now burnt low; the longshadow of the tall wicker chair flitted, faded, appeared, and vanished,as the flame rose and sunk in the socket. Susan was afraid that thedisagreeable smell might waken her mother; and, gently disengaging herhand, she went on tiptoe to extinguish the candle. All was silent: thegrey light of the morning was now spreading over every object; the sunrose slowly, and Susan stood at the lattice window, looking through thesmall leaded, cross-barred panes at the splendid spectacle. A few birdsbegan to chirp; but, as Susan was listening to them, her mother startedin her sleep, and spoke unintelligibly. Susan hung up a white apronbefore the window to keep out the light, and just then she heard thesound of music at a distance in the village. As it approached nearer,she knew that it was Philip playing upon his pipe and tabor. Shedistinguished the merry voices of her companions “carolling in honour ofthe May,” and soon she saw them coming towards her father’s cottage, withbranches and garlands in their hands. She opened quick, but gently, thelatch of the door, and ran out to meet them.
“Here she is!—here’s Susan!” they exclaimed, joyfully. “Here’s the Queenof the May.” “And here’s her crown!” cried Rose, pressing forward; butSusan put her finger upon her lips, and pointed to her mother’s window.Philip’s pipe stopped instantly.
“Thank you,” said Susan, “my mother is ill; I can’t leave her, you know.”Then gently putting aside the crown, her companions bid her say whoshould wear it for her.
“Will you, dear Rose?” said she, placing the garland upon her friend’shead. “It’s a charming May morning,” added she, with a smile; “good-bye.We sha’n’t hear your voices or the pipe when you have turned the cornerinto the village; so you need only stop till then, Philip.”
“I shall stop for all day,” said Philip: “I’ve no mind to play any more.”
“Good-bye, poor Susan. It is a pity you can’t come with us,” said allthe children; and little Mary ran after Susan to the cottage door.
“I forgot to thank you,” said she, “for the double cowslips; look howpretty they are, and smell how sweet the violets are in my bosom, andkiss me quick, for I shall be left behind.” Susan kissed the littlebreathless girl, and returned softly to the side of her mother’s bed.
“How grateful that child is to me, for a cowslip only! How can I begrateful enough to such a mother as this?” said Susan to herself, as shebent over her sleeping mother’s pale countenance.
Her mother’s unfinished knitting lay upon a table near the bed, and Susansat down in her wicker arm-chair, and went on with the row, in the middleof which her hand stopped the preceding evening. “She taught me to knit,she taught me everything that I know,” thought Susan, “and the best ofall, she taught me to love her, to wish to be like her.”
Her mother, when she awakened, felt much refreshed by her tranquil sleep,and observing that it was a delightful morning, said, “that she had beendreaming she heard music; but that the drum frightened her, because shethought it was the signal for her husband to be carried away by a wholeregiment of soldiers, who had pointed their bayonets at him. But thatwas but a dream, Susan; I awoke, and knew it was a dream, and I then fellasleep, and have slept soundly ever since.”
How painful it is to awake to the remembrance of misfortune. Graduallyas this poor woman collected her scattered thoughts, she recalled thecircumstances of the preceding evening. She was too certain that she hadheard from her husband’s own lips the words, “_I must leave you in threedays_”; and she wished that she could sleep again, and think it all adream.
“But he’ll want, he’ll want a hundred things,” said she, starting up. “Imus
t get his linen ready for him. I’m afraid it’s very late. Susan, whydid you let me lie so long?”
“Everything shall be ready, dear mother; only don’t hurry yourself,” saidSusan. And indeed her mother was ill able to bear any hurry, or to doany work this day. Susan’s affectionate, dexterous, sensible activitywas never more wanted, or more effectual. She understood so readily, sheobeyed so exactly; and when she was left to her own discretion, judged soprudently, that her mother had little trouble and no anxiety in directingher. She said that Susan never did too little, or too much.
Susan was mending her father’s linen, when Rose tapped softly at thewindow, and beckoned to her to come out. She went out. “How does yourmother do, in the first place?” said Rose.
“Better, thank you.”
“That’s well, and I have a little bit of good news for you besides—here,”said she, pulling out a glove, in which there was money, “we’ll get theguinea-hen back again—we have all agreed about it. This is the moneythat has been given to us in the village this May morning. At every doorthey gave silver. See how generous they have been—twelve shillings, Iassure you. Now we are a match for Miss Barbara. You won’t like toleave home; I’ll go to Barbara, and you shall see your guinea-hen in tenminutes.”
Rose hurried away, pleased with her commission, and to accomplish herbusiness. Miss Barbara’s maid Betty was the first person that wasvisible at the attorney’s house. Rose insisted upon seeing Miss Barbaraherself, and she was shown into a parlour to the young lady, who wasreading a dirty novel, which she put under a heap of law papers as theyentered.
“Dear, how you _startled_ me! Is it only you?” said she to her maid; butas soon as she saw Rose behind the maid, she put on a scornful air.“Could not ye say I was not at home, Betty? Well, my good girl, whatbrings you here? Something to borrow or beg, I suppose.”
May every ambassador—every ambassador in as good a cause—answer with asmuch dignity and moderation as Rose replied to Barbara upon the presentoccasion. She assured her, that the person from whom she came did notsend her either to beg or borrow; that she was able to pay the full valueof that for which she came to ask; and, producing her well filled purse,“I believe that this is a very good shilling,” said she. “If you don’tlike it, I will change it, and now you will be so good as to give meSusan’s guinea-hen. It is in her name I ask for it.”
“No matter in whose name you ask for it,” replied Barbara, “you will nothave it. Take up your shilling, if you please. I would have taken ashilling yesterday, if it had been paid at the time properly; but I toldSusan, that if it was not paid then, I should keep the hen, and so Ishall, I promise her. You may go back, and tell her so.”
The attorney’s daughter had, whilst Rose opened her negotiation, measuredthe depth of her purse with a keen eye; and her penetration discoveredthat it contained at least ten shillings. With proper management she hadsome hopes that the guinea-hen might be made to bring in at least halfthe money.
Rose, who was of a warm temper, not quite so fit a match as she hadthought herself for the wily Barbara, incautiously exclaimed, “Whateverit costs us, we are determined to have Susan’s favourite hen; so, if oneshilling won’t do, take two; and if two won’t do, why, take three.”
The shillings sounded provoking upon the table, as she threw them downone after another, and Barbara coolly replied, “Three won’t do.”
“Have you no conscience, Miss Barbara? Then take four.” Barbara shookher head. A fifth shilling was instantly proffered; but Bab, who now sawplainly that she had the game in her own hands, preserved a cold, cruelsilence. Rose went on rapidly, bidding shilling after shilling, till shehad completely emptied her purse. The twelve shillings were spread uponthe table. Barbara’s avarice was moved, she consented for this ransom toliberate her prisoner.
Rose pushed the money towards her; but just then, recollecting that shewas acting for others more than for herself, and doubting whether she hadfull powers to conclude such an extravagant bargain, she gathered up thepublic treasure, and with newly-recovered prudence observed that she mustgo back to consult her friends. Her generous little friends were amazedat Barbara’s meanness, but with one accord declared that they were mostwilling, for their parts, to give up every farthing of the money. Theyall went to Susan in a body, and told her so. “There’s our purse,” saidthey; “do what you please with it.” They would not wait for one word ofthanks, but ran away, leaving only Rose with her to settle the treaty forthe guinea-hen.
There is a certain manner of accepting a favour, which shows truegenerosity of mind. Many know how to give, but few know how to accept agift properly. Susan was touched, but not astonished, by the kindness ofher young friends, and she received the purse with as much simplicity asshe would have given it.
“Well,” said Rose, “shall I go back for the guinea-hen?”
“The guinea-hen!” said Susan, starting from a reverie into which she hadfallen, as she contemplated the purse. “Certainly I _do_ long to see mypretty guinea-hen once more; but I was not thinking of her just then—Iwas thinking of my father.”
Now Susan had heard her mother often, in the course of this day, wishthat she had but money enough in the world to pay John Simpson for goingto serve in the militia instead of her husband. “This, to be sure, willgo but a little way,” thought Susan; “but still it may be of some use tomy father.” She told her mind to Rose, and concluded by saying,decidedly, that “if the money was given to her to dispose of as shepleased, she would give it to her father.”
“It is all yours, my dear, good Susan,” cried Rose, with a look of warmapprobation. “This is so like you—but I’m sorry that Miss Bab must keepyour guinea-hen. I would not be her for all the guinea-hens, or guineaseither, in the whole world. Why, I’ll answer for it, the guinea-henwon’t make her happy, and you’ll be happy _even_ without; because you aregood. Let me come and help you to-morrow,” continued she, looking atSusan’s work, “if you have any more mending work to do—I never liked worktill I worked with you. I won’t forget my thimble or my scissors,” addedshe, laughing—“though I used to forget them when I was a giddy girl. Iassure you I am a great hand at my needle, now—try me.”
Susan assured her friend that she did not doubt the powers of her needle,and that she would most willingly accept of her services, but that_unluckily_ she had finished all the needle work immediately wanted.
“But do you know,” said she, “I shall have a great deal of businessto-morrow; but I won’t tell you what it is that I have to do, for I amafraid I shall not succeed; but if I do succeed, I’ll come and tell youdirectly, because you will be so glad of it.”
Susan, who had always been attentive to what her mother taught her, andwho had often assisted her when she was baking bread and cakes for thefamily at the Abbey, had now formed the courageous, but not presumptuousidea, that she could herself undertake to bake a batch of bread. One ofthe servants from the Abbey had been sent all round the village in themorning in search of bread, and had not been able to procure any that wastolerable. Mrs. Price’s last baking failed for want of good barm. Shewas not now strong enough to attempt another herself; and when thebrewer’s boy came with eagerness to tell her that he had some fine freshyeast, she thanked him, but sighed, and said it would be of no use toher. Accordingly she went to work with much prudent care, and when herbread the next morning came out of the oven, it was excellent; at leasther mother said so, and she was a good judge. It was sent to the Abbey;and as the family there had not tasted any good bread since their arrivalin the country, they also were earnest and warm in its praise. Inquirieswere made from the housekeeper, and they heard, with some surprise, thatthis excellent bread was made by a young girl only twelve years old.
The housekeeper, who had known Susan from a child, was pleased to have anopportunity in speaking in her favour. “She is the most industriouslittle creature, ma’am, in the world,” said she to her mistress. “LittleI can’t so w
ell call her now, since she’s grown tall and slender to lookat; and glad I am she is grown up likely to look at; for handsome is thathandsome does; she thinks no more of her being handsome than I do myself;yet she has as proper a respect for herself, ma’am, as you have; and Ialways see her neat, and with her mother, ma’am, or fit people, as a girlshould be. As for her mother, she dotes upon her, as well she may; for Ishould myself if I had half such a daughter; and then she has two littlebrothers; and she’s as good to them, and, my boy Philip says, taught ’emto read more than the school-mistress, all with tenderness and goodnature; but, I beg your pardon, ma’am, I cannot stop myself when I oncebegin to talk of Susan.”
“You have really said enough to excite my curiosity,” said her mistress;“pray send for her immediately; we can see her before we go out to walk.”
The benevolent housekeeper despatched her boy Philip for Susan, who neverhappened to be in such an _untidy_ state as to be unable to obey asummons without a long preparation. She had, it is true, been very busy;but orderly people can be busy and neat at the same time. She put on herusual straw hat, and accompanied Rose’s mother, who was going with abasket of cleared muslin to the Abbey.
The modest simplicity of Susan’s appearance and the artless propriety ofthe answers she gave to all the questions that were asked her, pleasedthe ladies at the Abbey, who were good judges of character and manners.
Sir Arthur Somers had two sisters, sensible, benevolent women. They werenot of that race of fine ladies who are miserable the moment they come to_the country_; nor yet were they of that bustling sort, who quack anddirect all their poor neighbours, for the mere love of managing, or thewant of something to do. They were judiciously generous; and whilst theywished to diffuse happiness, they were not peremptory in requiring thatpeople should be happy precisely their own way. With these dispositions,and with a well informed brother, who, though he never wished to direct,was always willing to assist in their efforts to do good, there werereasonable hopes that these ladies would be a blessing to the poorvillagers amongst whom they were now settled.
As soon as Miss Somers had spoken to Susan, she inquired for her brother;but Sir Arthur was in his study, and a gentleman was with him onbusiness.
Susan was desirous of returning to her mother, and the ladies thereforewould not detain her. Miss Somers told her, with a smile, when she tookleave, that she would call upon her in the evening at six o’clock.
It was impossible that such a grand event as Susan’s visit to the Abbeycould long remain unknown to Barbara Case and her gossiping maid. Theywatched eagerly for the moment of her return, that they might satisfytheir curiosity. “There she is, I declare, just come into her garden,”cried Bab; “I’ll run in and get it all out of her in a minute.”
Bab could descend, without shame, whenever it suited her purposes, fromthe height of insolent pride to the lowest meanness of fawningfamiliarity.
Susan was gathering some marigolds and some parsley for her mother’sbroth.
“So, Susan,” said Bab, who came close up to her before she perceived it,“how goes the world with you to-day?”
“My mother is rather better to-day, she says, ma’am—thank you,” repliesSusan, coldly but civilly.
“_Ma’am_! dear, how polite we are grown of a sudden!” cried Bab, winkingat her maid. “One may see you’ve been in good company this morning—hey,Susan? Come, let’s hear about it.”
“Did you see the ladies themselves, or was it only the housekeeper sentfor you?” said the maid.
“What room did you go into?” continued Bab. “Did you see Miss Somers, orSir Arthur?”
“Miss Somers.”
“La! she saw Miss Somers! Betty, I must hear about it. Can’t you stopgathering those things for a minute, and chat a bit with us, Susan?”
“I can’t stay, indeed, Miss Barbara; for my mother’s broth is justwanted, and I’m in a hurry.” Susan ran home.
“Lord, her head is full of broth now,” said Bab to her maid; “and she hasnot a word for herself, though she has been abroad. My papa may wellcall her _Simple Susan_; for simple she is, and simple she will be, allthe world over. For my part, I think she’s little better than adownright simpleton. But, however, simple or not, I’ll get what I wantout of her. She’ll be able to speak, maybe, when she has settled thegrand matter of the broth. I’ll step in and ask to see her mother, thatwill put her in a good humour in a trice.”
Barbara followed Susan into the cottage, and found her occupied with thegrand affair of the broth. “Is it ready?” said Bab, peeping into the potthat was over the fire. “Dear, how savoury it smells! I’ll wait tillyou go in with it to your mother; for I must ask her how she doesmyself.”
“Will you please to sit down then, miss,” said Simple Susan, with asmile; for at this instant she forgot the guinea-hen; “I have but justput the parsley into the broth; but it soon will be ready.”
During this interval Bab employed herself, much to her own satisfaction,in cross-questioning Susan. She was rather provoked indeed that shecould not learn exactly how each of the ladies was dressed, and whatthere was to be for dinner at the Abbey; and she was curious beyondmeasure to find out what Miss Somers meant, by saying that she would callat Mr. Price’s cottage at six o’clock in the evening. “What do you thinkshe could mean?”
“I thought she meant what she said,” replied Susan, “that she would comehere at six o’clock.”
“Ay, that’s as plain as a pike-staff,” said Barbara; “but what else didshe mean, think you? People, you know, don’t always mean exactly,downright, neither more nor less than what they say.”
“Not always,” said Susan, with an arch smile, which convinced Barbarathat she was not quite a simpleton.
“_Not Always_,” repeated Barbara colouring,—“oh, then I suppose you havesome guess at what Miss Somers meant.”
“No,” said Susan, “I was not thinking about Miss Somers, when I said notalways.”
“How nice that broth does look,” resumed Barbara, after a pause.
Susan had now poured the broth into a basin, and as she strewed over itthe bright orange marigolds, it looked very tempting. She tasted it, andadded now a little salt, and now a little more, till she thought it wasjust to her mother’s taste.
“Oh! _I_ must taste it,” said Bab, taking the basin up greedily.
“Won’t you take a spoon?” said Susan, trembling at the large mouthfulswhich Barbara sucked up with a terrible noise.
“Take a spoonful, indeed!” exclaimed Barbara, setting down the basin inhigh anger. “The next time I taste your broth you shall affront me, ifyou dare! The next time I set my foot in this house, you shall be assaucy to me as you please.” And she flounced out of the house, repeating“_Take a spoon_, _pig_, was what you meant to say.”
Susan stood in amazement at the beginning of this speech; but theconcluding words explained to her the mystery.
Some years before this time, when Susan was a very little girl, and couldscarcely speak plain, as she was eating a basin of bread and milk for hersupper at the cottage door, a great pig came up, and put his nose intothe basin. Susan was willing that the pig should have some share of thebread and milk; but as she ate with a spoon and he with his large mouth,she presently discovered that he was likely to have more than his share;and in a simple tone of expostulation she said to him, “Take a _poon_,pig.” {77} The saying become proverbial in the village. Susan’s littlecompanions repeated it, and applied it upon many occasions, wheneveranyone claimed more than his share of anything good. Barbara, who wasthen not Miss Barbara, but plain Bab, and who had played with all thepoor children in the neighbourhood, was often reproved in her unjustmethods of division by Susan’s proverb. Susan, as she grew up, forgotthe childish saying; but the remembrance of it rankled in Barbara’s mind,and it was to this that she suspected Susan had alluded, when sherecommended a spoon to her, whilst she was swallowing the basin of broth.
“La, miss,” said
Barbara’s maid, when she found her mistress in a passionupon her return from Susan’s, “I only wondered you did her the honour toset your foot within her doors. What need have you to trouble her fornews about the Abbey folks, when your own papa has been there all themorning, and is just come in, and can tell you everything?”
Barbara did not know that her father meant to go to the Abbey thatmorning, for Attorney Case was mysterious even to his own family abouthis morning rides. He never chose to be asked where he was going, orwhere he had been; and this made his servants more than commonlyinquisitive to trace him.
Barbara, against whose apparent childishness and real cunning he was notsufficiently on his guard, had often the art of drawing him intoconversation about his visits. She ran into her father’s parlour; butshe knew, the moment she saw his face, that it was no time to askquestions; his pen was across his mouth, and his brown wig pushed obliqueupon his contracted forehead. The wig was always pushed crooked wheneverhe was in a brown or rather, a black study. Barbara, who did not, likeSusan, bear with her father’s testy humour from affection and gentlenessof disposition, but who always humoured him from artifice, tried all herskill to fathom his thoughts, and when she found that it would not do,she went to tell her maid so, and to complain that her father was socross there was no bearing him.
It is true that Attorney Case was not in the happiest mood possible; forhe was by no means satisfied with his morning’s work at the Abbey. SirArthur Somers, the _new man_, did not suit him, and he began to be ratherapprehensive that he should not suit Sir Arthur. He had sound reasonsfor his doubts.
Sir Arthur Somers was an excellent lawyer, and a perfectly honest man.This seemed to our attorney a contradiction in terms; in the course ofhis practice the case had not occurred; and he had no precedents ready todirect his proceedings. Sir Arthur was also a man of wit and eloquence,yet of plain dealing and humanity. The attorney could not persuadehimself to believe that his benevolence was anything but enlightenedcunning, and his plain dealing he one minute dreaded as the masterpieceof art, and the next despised as the characteristic of folly. In short,he had not yet decided whether he was an honest man or a knave. He hadsettled accounts with him for his late agency, and had talked aboutsundry matters of business. He constantly perceived, however, that hecould not impose upon Sir Arthur; but the idea that he could know all themazes of the law, and yet prefer the straight road, was incomprehensible.
Mr. Case, having paid Sir Arthur some compliments on his great legalabilities, and his high reputation at the bar, he coolly replied, “I haveleft the bar.” The attorney looked in unfeigned astonishment, that a manwho was actually making 3,000 pounds per annum at the bar should leaveit.
“I am come,” said Sir Arthur, “to enjoy that kind of domestic life in thecountry which I prefer to all others, and amongst people whose happinessI hope to increase.” At this speech the attorney changed his ground,flattering himself that he should find his man averse to business, andignorant of country affairs. He talked of the value of land, and of newleases.
Sir Arthur wished to enlarge his domain, and to make a ride round it. Amap of it was lying upon the table, and Farmer Price’s garden cameexactly across the new road for the ride. Sir Arthur lookeddisappointed; and the keen attorney seized the moment to inform him that“Price’s whole land was at his disposal.”
“At my disposal! how so?” cried Sir Arthur, eagerly; “it will not be outof lease, I believe, these ten years. I’ll look into the rent rollagain; perhaps I am mistaken.”
“You are mistaken, my good sir, and you are not mistaken,” said Mr. Case,with a shrewd smile. “In one sense, the land will not be out of leasethese ten years, and in another it is out of lease at this present time.To come to the point at once, the lease is, ab origine, null and void. Ihave detected a capital flaw in the body of it. I pledge my credit uponit, sir, it can’t stand a single term in law or equity.”
The attorney observed, that at these words Sir Arthur’s eye was fixedwith a look of earnest attention. “Now I have him,” said the cunningtempter to himself.
“Neither in law nor equity,” repeated Sir Arthur, with apparentincredulity. “Are you sure of that, Mr. Case?”
“Sure! As I told you before, sir, I’d pledge my whole credit upon thething—I’d stake my existence.”
“_That’s something_,” said Sir Arthur, as if he was pondering upon thematter.
The attorney went on with all the eagerness of a keen man, who sees achance at one stroke of winning a rich friend, and of ruining a poorenemy. He explained, with legal volubility and technical amplification,the nature of the mistake in Mr. Price’s lease. “It was, sir,” said he,“a lease for the life of Peter Price, Susanna his wife, and to thesurvivor or survivors of them, or for the full time and term of twentyyears, to be computed from the first day of May then next ensuing. Now,sir, this, you see, is a lease in reversion, which the late Sir BenjaminSomers had not, by his settlement, a right to make. This is a curiousmistake, you see, Sir Arthur; and in filling up those printed leasesthere’s always a good chance of some flaw. I find it perpetually; but Inever found a better than this in the whole course of my practice.”
Sir Arthur stood in silence.
“My dear sir,” said the attorney, taking him by the button, “you have noscruple of stirring in this business?”
“A little,” said Sir Arthur.
“Why, then, that can be done away in a moment. Your name shall notappear in it at all. You have nothing to do but to make over the leaseto me. I make all safe to you with my bond. Now, being in possession, Icome forward in my own proper person. _Shall I proceed_?”
“No—you have said enough,” replied Sir Arthur.
“The case, indeed, lies in a nutshell,” said the attorney, who had bythis time worked himself up to such a pitch of professional enthusiasm,that, intent upon his vision of a lawsuit, he totally forgot to observethe impression his words made upon Sir Arthur.
“There’s only one thing we have forgotten all this time,” said SirArthur.
“What can that be, sir?”
“That we shall ruin this poor man.”
Case was thunderstruck at these words, or rather, by the look whichaccompanied them. He recollected that he had laid himself open before hewas sure of Sir Arthur’s _real_ character. He softened, and said heshould have had certainly more _consideration_ in the case of any but alitigious, pig-headed fellow, as he knew Price to be.
“If he be litigious,” said Sir Arthur, “I shall certainly be glad to gethim fairly out of the parish as soon as possible. When you go home, youwill be so good, sir, as to send me his lease, that I may satisfy myselfbefore we stir in this business.”
The attorney, brightening up, prepared to take leave; but he could notpersuade himself to take his departure without making one push at SirArthur about the agency.
“I will not trouble _you_, Sir Arthur, with this lease of Price’s,” saidCase; “I’ll leave it with your agent. Whom shall I apply to?”
“_To myself_, sir, if you please,” replied Sir Arthur.
The courtiers of Louis the Fourteenth could not have looked moreastounded than our attorney, when they received from their monarch asimilar answer. It was this unexpected reply of Sir Arthur’s which hadderanged the temper of Mr. Case, and caused his wig to stand so crookedupon his forehead, and which had rendered him impenetrably silent to hisinquisitive daughter Barbara.
After having walked up and down his room, conversing with himself, forsome time, the attorney concluded that the agency must be given tosomebody when Sir Arthur should have to attend his duty in Parliament;that the agency, even for the winter season, was not a thing to beneglected; and that, if he managed well, he might yet secure it forhimself. He had often found that small timely presents workedwonderfully upon his own mind, and he judged of others by himself. Thetenants had been in the reluctant but constant practice of making himcontinual petty offerings; and he resolved to try
the same course withSir Arthur, whose resolution to be his own agent, he thought, argued aclose, saving, avaricious disposition. He had heard the housekeeper atthe Abbey inquiring, as he passed through the servants, whether there wasany lamb to be gotten? She said that Sir Arthur was remarkably fond oflamb, and that she wished she could get a quarter for him. Immediatelyhe sallied into his kitchen, as soon as the idea struck him, and asked ashepherd, who was waiting there, whether he knew of a nice fat lamb to behad anywhere in the neighbourhood.
“I know of one,” cried Barbara. “Susan Price has a pet lamb that’s asfat as fat could be.” The attorney easily caught at these words, andspeedily devised a scheme for obtaining Susan’s lamb for nothing.
It would be something strange if an attorney of his talents and standingwas not an over-match for Simple Susan. He prowled forth in search ofhis prey. He found Susan packing up her father’s little wardrobe; andwhen she looked up as she knelt, he saw that she had been in tears.
“How is your mother to-day, Susan?” inquired the attorney.
“Worse, sir. My father goes to-morrow.”
“That’s a pity.”
“It can’t be helped,” said Susan, with a sigh.
“It can’t be helped—how do you know that?” said Case.
“Sir, _dear_ sir!” cried she, looking up at him, and a sudden ray of hopebeamed in her ingenuous countenance.
“And if _you_ could help it, Susan?” said he. Susan clasped her hands insilence, more expressive than words. “You _can_ help it, Susan.” Shestarted up in an ecstasy. “What would you give now to have your fatherat home for a whole week longer?”
“Anything!—but I have nothing.”
“Yes, but you have, a lamb,” said the hard-hearted attorney.
“My poor little lamb!” said Susan; “but what can that do?”
“What good can any lamb do? Is not lamb good to eat? Why do you look sopale, girl? Are not sheep killed every day, and don’t you eat mutton?Is your lamb better than anybody else’s, think you?”
“I don’t know,” said Susan, “but I love it better.”
“More fool you,” said he.
“It feeds out of hand, it follows me about; I have always taken care ofit; my mother gave it to me.”
“Well, say no more about it, then,” he cynically observed; “if you loveyour lamb better than both your father and your mother, keep it, and goodmorning to you.”
“Stay, oh stay!” cried Susan, catching the skirt of his coat with aneager, trembling hand;—“a whole week, did you say? My mother may getbetter in that time. No, I do not love my lamb half so well.” Thestruggle of her mind ceased, and with a placid countenance and calmvoice, “take the lamb,” said she.
“Where is it?” said the attorney.
“Grazing in the meadow, by the river side.”
“It must be brought up before night-fall for the butcher, remember.”
“I shall not forget it,” said Susan, steadily.
As soon, however, as her persecutor turned his back and quitted thehouse, Susan sat down, and hid her face in her hands. She was soonaroused by the sound of her mother’s feeble voice, who was calling Susanfrom the inner room where she lay. Susan went in; but did not undraw thecurtain as she stood beside the bed.
“Are you there, love? Undraw the curtain, that I may see you, and tellme;—I thought I heard some strange voice just now talking to my child.Something’s amiss, Susan,” said her mother, raising herself as well asshe was able in the bed, to examine her daughter’s countenance.
“Would you think it amiss, then, my dear mother,” said Susan, stooping tokiss her—“would you think it amiss, if my father was to stay with us aweek longer?”
“Susan! you don’t say so?”
“He is, indeed, a whole week;—but how burning hot your hand is still.”
“Are you sure he will stay?” inquired her mother. “How do you know? Whotold you so? Tell me all quick.”
“Attorney Case told me so; he can get him a week’s longer leave ofabsence, and he has promised he will.”
“God bless him for it, for ever and ever!” said the poor woman, joiningher hands. “May the blessing of heaven be with him!”
Susan closed the curtains, and was silent. She _could not say Amen_.She was called out of the room at this moment, for a messenger was comefrom the Abbey for the bread-bills. It was she who always made out thebills, for though she had not a great number of lessons from thewriting-master, she had taken so much pains to learn that she could writea very neat, legible hand, and she found this very useful. She was not,to be sure, particularly inclined to draw out a long bill at thisinstant, but business must be done. She set to work, ruled her lines forthe pounds, shillings and pence, made out the bill for the Abbey, anddespatched the impatient messenger. She then resolved to make out allthe bills for the neighbours, who had many of them taken a few loaves androlls of her baking. “I had better get all my business finished,” saidshe to herself, “before I go down to the meadow to take leave of my poorlamb.”
This was sooner said than done, for she found that she had a great numberof bills to write, and the slate on which she had entered the account wasnot immediately to be found; and when it was found the figures werealmost rubbed out. Barbara had sat down upon it. Susan pored over thenumber of loaves, and the names of the persons who took them; and shewrote and cast up sums, and corrected and re-corrected them, till herhead grew quite puzzled.
The table was covered with little square bits of paper, on which she hadbeen writing bills over and over again, when her father came in with abill in his hand. “How’s this, Susan?” said he. “How can ye be socareless, child? What is your head running upon? Here, look at the billyou were sending up to the Abbey? I met the messenger, and luckily askedto see how much it was. Look at it.”
Susan looked and blushed; it was written, “Sir Arthur Somers, to JohnPrice, debtor, six dozen _lambs_, so much.” She altered it, and returnedit to her father; but he had taken up some of the papers which lay uponthe table. “What are all these, child?”
“Some of them are wrong, and I’ve written them out again,” said Susan.
“Some of them! All of them, I think, seem to be wrong, if I can read,”said her father, rather angrily, and he pointed out to her sundry strangemistakes. Her head, indeed, had been running upon her poor lamb. Shecorrected all the mistakes with so much patience, and bore to be blamedwith so much good humour, that her father at last said, that it wasimpossible ever to scold Susan, without being in the wrong at the last.
As soon as all was set right, Price took the bills, and said he would goround to the neighbours, and collect the money himself; for that heshould be very proud to have it to say to them, that it was all earned byhis own little daughter.
Susan resolved to keep the pleasure of telling him of his week’s reprievetill he should come home to sup, as he had promised to do, in hermother’s room. She was not sorry to hear him sigh as he passed theknapsack, which she had been packing up for his journey. “How delightedhe will be when he hears the good news!” said she, to herself; “but Iknow he will be a little sorry too for my poor lamb.”
As Susan had now settled all her business, she thought she could havetime to go down to the meadow by the river side to see her favourite; butjust as she had tied on her straw hat the village clock struck four, andthis was the hour at which she always went to fetch her little brothershome from a dame-school near the village. She knew that they would bedisappointed, if she was later than usual, and she did not like to keepthem waiting, because they were very patient, good boys; so she put offthe visit to her lamb, and went immediately for her brothers.