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.