CHAPTER VI.

When Love's afraid, do not that fear despise; Flames tremble most, when they the highest rise.

_D'Avenant._

George Wells still took his Sunday walk with Susan; and Susan, having once told him distinctly that she should never marry, and that she gave him back his troth, having even alluded to the probability of his marrying another woman, felt she had done her duty, and that they might still be, and ever might remain, friends. But friendship between man and woman seldom exists without an admixture of love, past, present, or to come. The feeling that begins in friendship often leads on to love; often, too often, love is indulged under the garb of friendship; and sometimes, but more rarely, love leaves behind it a regard which subsides into friendship. Such, as Susan flattered herself, was the case with George; and she therefore hoped that she should always experience from him the same kindness and the same attention. But it was not friendship, it was still love, that George felt for Susan: and it was a touching sight to mark the young man leading his once plighted wife, the blind Susan, on her way from church; tenderly watching that the merry urchins who were playing in the path did not run against her in their sport, or carefully pushing aside with his foot any loose stone which might cause her to stumble. He would often bring her a nosegay too; and Susan might generally be seen with a bowpot placed near her, containing the common flowers of the season, backed up with southern-wood and marjoram enough to drown the scent of all the roses and pinks of which the foreground was composed. George loved to see the smile with which his present was greeted; and still looked with admiration at the silken eye-lashes which shaded the eyes that could no longer beam upon him.

The summer thus glided by; the autumn was equally tranquil; and Susan learned to listen for the accustomed step; to know, without attending to the village chimes, the very hour at which he usually dropped in, and to recognise his hand upon the latch. But as the winter advanced, and the days became short and the weather severe, when they could no longer walk together in the fields, and that his visits were as much to the old people as to Susan, he did not call so regularly; and Susan listened in vain for the sound of his step on the gravel, or the turn of his hand on the latch. In vain did she now count the hours and the quarters most accurately. The usual time had long elapsed when he did call, and sometimes he omitted to do so altogether. She could not wonder; she told herself she ought to be grateful for all the kindness she had met with; she was aware she had no right to reproach him, but yet she felt her sorrows more acutely than before.

Old Nicholas was the first to remark upon George's frequent absence. Some rumours had reached Susan's ears that George was not so steady as he had formerly been; but she hastened to defend him and to account for the manner in which his time was occupied. Though she might feel hurt herself, it was painful to hear him blamed, and she dreaded hearing herself pitied.

"Why, is not that seven o'clock?--five, six, seven,--yes, sure enough it is seven o'clock," said old Nicholas, one Sunday evening just after Christmas,--"and no George! He was not here last Sunday neither. I am got so used to the young man, it seems quite dull when so many days go by without his giving us a call."

"Young men must take a little pleasure sometimes, father! 'Tis always the same thing here, and I dare say he likes a little change."

"That's quite true, Susan. I've been young in my day, and have had my pleasure; and Sarah, she has known what it is to be light-hearted; and we must not grudge young people what's natural at their age;"--then, after a little while, he added, "but you, my poor girl, trouble is come upon you before its time. It is all as it should be for us to bear our trials and wait patiently till it pleases God to take us; but you, not yet turned your two-and-twenty"----

"Don't pity me, father! that's just what I can't bear. I do very well when I'm not pitied," exclaimed Susan, with a little touch of her former petulance: "Thank you all the same, father, for thinking so much about me," she added, in a few moments, with a subdued manner. "But, hark! I hear his step! I know the sound of his nailed shoes on the gravel;" and her head was raised, and her face turned to the door, while a smile almost angelic in its sweetness played around her mouth. "I am glad you are come, George," she said, "for father missed you so much. Come in, and sit down by him, and tell him all the news."

This was just what suited George; for he felt conscious that he had been somewhat neglectful of late, and he found it easier to entertain old Nicholas with the village news, than to sit by Susan and explain to her how his evenings had been occupied.

"I heard plenty of news, and bad news too, at the Cart and Horses t'other night."

"Oh, George! you have not taken to going to the public-house, sure? You never used to do such a thing!"

"Bless you, Susan, a man can't work all day, and take no amusement when his work is over. What can a man do that has not got a home to go to?" This went to Susan's heart, but she said nothing. "As I was telling you, they said at the Cart and Horses--no, 'twas at the Chequers--Tuesday evening."----

"So he frequents both public-houses!" thought Susan.

George continued: "Master Smith said there was a talk of breaking up the benefit club."

"The benefit club!" exclaimed Sarah; "why, what will my good man do if the benefit club should go! His half-pay is almost all we have had to live upon for many a long year!"

"That will fall heavy upon us, indeed," said Nicholas. "Why, what's the meaning of this? I never heard any talk of the club being so low."

"Why, they say the members are all growing old, and so many of them keep coming upon it that it can't hold out, unless they consent to take less pay."

"Ah!" cried Nicholas; "I always was afraid how 'twould be, and I was very sorry to be such a burthen to it myself. That was why I agreed that, as my affliction was not like a common illness, of which one might hope to be cured, but as I must look for no other than being on the club as long as I lived, I would take only half-pay, walking-pay, as they call it. My two sons are very good, they always make up the money to me out of their earnings. I am sure I would not wish to be too covetous, and to break my club."

"I hope 'tis only talk: it will do well enough, I dare say, if we can get some new young members into it that are not likely to be any drain upon it yet. Well! I have put in for four years, and never drawn a farthing yet."

"I am sure, George, you should be very grateful to think what a blessing God has granted you, in giving you such good health all these years."

"True enough, Susan: in that sense I should be glad never to have any of my money back again. And I am sure, Master Foster, I am glad enough to be in the club, and help to keep it going, if it is only for your sake."

"Thank you, George; that's kindly said," answered Susan, while a tear trembled in her eye-lashes.

"Well, Master Foster," said George, "I must be going; for I promised to meet Will Dixon at the Chequers this evening."

"Oh, George! you are not going to pass your Sunday evening at the public-house!"

"Come, don't scold, Susan; I promised to meet Will Dixon; and though we want to have a bit of talk together, we need not make too free with the beer, you know;" and George was gone. Susan remained with an indefinite sensation of uneasiness for which she could not satisfactorily have accounted to herself.

The following week they saw no more of George, neither did they on the Sunday; but in the succeeding week he again called. The alarm concerning the benefit club seemed to have subsided: Nicholas's mind was set at ease upon the subject; and Susan timidly asked George whether he and Will Dixon had had a merry bout of it at the Chequers.

"Come, come, Susan, you want to get me to tell tales out of school! we drank no more beer than was good for us, and then I went home with Will Dixon to supper." Did these few words re-assure Susan that George was not likely to fall into the habit of frequenting the ale-house, and did they consequently restore her mind to its usual tranquillity? On the contrary, a sensation shot through her which she had hitherto been spared. She remembered that Will Dixon's sister Jane was a pretty girl with bright blue eyes, and one who had for a short time divided George's attentions with herself, before she had finally fixed them. She remembered thinking that Jane Dixon was very partial to George, and she remembered that the neighbours had joked Jane Dixon about wearing the willow. Jealousy for the first time darted through her heart, and she was alarmed and roused by the keenness of the pang. With the rapidity of lightning she pictured to herself George in love with Jane,--George, Jane's accepted lover,--George her bridegroom,--George her kind and affectionate husband! It was with difficulty she could bear her part in the conversation, and her smile was sad and constrained.

"I do not think you seem right well, Susan. Are you ill, Susan?" inquired George kindly and affectionately.

"No, thank you, dear George; I am quite well--only I feel a little dull--I think 'tis the weather. Mother said she felt heavy this morning."

"Maybe it is. Jane Dixon was saying, Sunday, that this mild weather was not seasonable, and that she liked a good sharp frost, and a good long walk." Susan quivered as the name came from George's lips. But George was not yet in love with Jane, and no consciousness prevented his uttering the name freely. Susan had almost said, "So, you were walking with Jane Dixon, Sunday!" but she checked the remark, mentally saying, "and why should he not walk with Jane? and why should he not marry Jane? Why should I fret? I ought to hope Jane may draw him away from idle companions and bad company. I fretted when I thought he was taking to such courses; surely I ought to be glad if anybody else gets the power I have lost to lure him from evil ways. Poor fellow! he would never have thought of such things if I had not been afflicted as I am. If he had married, and had a comfortable home, he would have gone on being steady. Yes, I ought to hope he may marry Jane Dixon, and make her a good husband." But, school herself as she would, she did fret; and all the placidity of mind which she had laboured to acquire was gone. Night and day did she think of George and Jane, and constantly did she fancy them walking through the same lanes, strolling up the same field-paths, loitering along the same head-lands, where she had so often wandered with George. Long before such things did occur, had she imagined them. But in the course of a few months, that which her reason wished, but her feelings dreaded, came to pass. George's visits became more and more rare; and when he did look in, Jane Dixon's name was never breathed.

There was an awkwardness in his manner, and he almost exclusively addressed himself to Nicholas. Susan was all gentleness, and invariably, when he took leave, thanked him for calling, in a subdued manner, which showed how entirely she felt it was from motives of charity, and not from preference, that he now visited them. George, without decyphering what caused the change in her tone, was aware that she read his mind, and he became ill at ease in her presence.

Jane Dixon had originally liked George; and now that he was free again, and that Susan Foster had, as it was well known, refused to marry him, she saw no reason why she should not put forth all her store of rustic allurements to win back her first love. George was by nature steady and domestic: he had for two years been engaged to Susan, and had therefore been in the habit of considering a wife, a family, a home, as the enjoyments to which a poor man should look forward; and although he had latterly been led to mix more with companions of loose character, though he had loitered away many an evening at bowls or in the ale-house, he was not happy while leading such a life. At first, it was for the loss of Susan herself that he grieved; but in time his regrets became less sentimental. He pined for a fire-side of his own, his own chimney-nook, his hot rasher of bacon for supper, and the kind attentions of a wife, even though that wife were not Susan Foster. He was in a state of mind which laid him peculiarly open to such attractions as Jane Dixon possessed; a tolerable share of beauty, extreme good-humour, and, above all, a very decided predilection for him, which she was at no pains to conceal. No wonder, then, if after two years of hopeless attendance upon poor Susan, he should now find himself engaged to Jane Dixon, and that the only difficulty which remained, was to break the event to Susan.

Every time George entered their cottage, to bid them a hurrying good morning, or to wish them a hasty good-night, Susan thought the moment was arrived when he was going to announce to them the step he had taken;--for she felt that he would not allow them to learn it only from common report; and she judged rightly. Once, or twice, after having wished them good night, he had lingered with his hand upon the latch of the door, or had returned to ask some trifling question, and then had hurried suddenly away. Each time she felt that the decisive moment was come, and she worked herself up to receive the intelligence as she ought. She thought she wished it over, and her mind at rest; and yet she felt relieved when the door was closed, and she heard his step receding along the little gravel path, and she might still think of him as her George, and not as the promised husband of another.