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.