CHAPTER VIII.

Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best, Nae mair's required; let Heav'n make out the rest.

Allan Ramsay's _Gentle Shepherd_.

Susan was somewhat agitated and perplexed the next Sunday morning, debating in her own mind whether George and Jane were likely to be asked that very day, and whether she could hear their names called over with the composure which befitted so holy a place. She did not like to absent herself from church on that account; for to those who have acquired the habit of never failing in their attendance, the omission appears a dereliction of duty. She therefore summoned up her courage; her mother, as usual, arranged her bonnet, and pinned her shawl with due attention to neatness. The dame, as usual, turned the key of the door, and placed it in her pocket; then, taking Nicholas's arm with one hand, she guided him safely on his way, while with the other she supported her own feebler steps with her polished staff. Susan followed, led by a neighbour's little girl, who always came to attend her to church.

This afflicted family, so decent in their apparel, so respectable in their behaviour, were never seen drawing near the house of worship without exciting a feeling of pity and veneration in all whose souls were not callous to every good emotion. They had arranged themselves as usual in their pew. The service had begun; and when the close of the second lesson drew near, poor Susan's heart beat almost audibly. Her head was held low, and her face was partly concealed by her bonnet: but she strove to maintain as unmoved a countenance as possible; for she knew that the opposite seat was occupied by gay young girls who would feel a curiosity about her, and she was unable to tell when, or when not, her countenance might be the subject of remark to others.

The last words of the lesson were read; the large Bible was closed with a heavy noise; there was a moment's pause, but the clergyman proceeded with the service, and Susan was spared for that Sunday. A sort of hope shot through her mind; and yet what did she hope? She had herself relinquished George, she had herself anticipated his marriage, she knew he was engaged, she knew he could not with honour break off with Jane Dixon; if he did, was not she as unfit for a poor labourer's wife as when she first gave him back his troth? It was all so, and yet she felt relieved.

The following Sunday she was again seated in her accustomed place, and she again listened as the clergyman read the service. This time the names were read,--"George Wells, bachelor, and Jane Dixon, spinster, both of this parish." The girls opposite might have seen her lips quiver; and the hands which were habitually meekly clasped upon her knee, were slightly raised, and fell again immediately.

That day Sarah herself led Susan from church, and gave up the guidance of Nicholas to the little girl. They reached their home; and before old Sarah busied herself in the preparation for their humble repast, she sat down to rest herself. Susan heard her mother sigh.

"Mother!" she said, "you are fretting about me!"

"Not to say fretting, Susan, for we heard no more than what we expected to hear; but I thought it was a great trial to you to hear their names in church. I was afraid whether it might not be almost too much for you. And then I sighed to think, when we were gone, what a poor desolate creature you would be; and I was wishing we could any way provide for you. I should not like you to come on the parish, and yet I don't see how we can save any thing,--we, that can't earn a shilling. Next time Farmer Otley calls, I will ask him about the Friendly Society he was mentioning; and I have heard talk of insuring one life against another, and perhaps we might get your brothers to help," continued the old woman, her thoughts gradually led from the wound Susan's affections had received, to the blasting of her worldly prospects.

When, as among the lower orders, the provision necessary for existence is at stake, the most tender regrets must often be mixed up with other considerations; but Susan could not yet comprehend any sorrow but that of losing the lover of her youth. "Never trouble your head about me in that way, mother; I don't care nor think anything about such matters."

"That's all very well for young folks who have always had their fathers' roof over their heads," interposed Nicholas, "and a bit to eat as long as their parents had it; but it is the duty of parents to look forward for their children. You will find it very different when we are in our graves, and you have to find yourself board and lodging and everything. It frets me so, sometimes, I can't go to sleep! I and my old woman used often to say we should be at rest when we were beneath the sod, and we did not care how soon our time came; but now I quite dread to think we may be taken any day."

"And so may I, father, be taken any day. It often happens that the youngest goes first; and as 'tis all in the hands of Providence, there is no need for you to make yourself unhappy about me in that way. Besides, who knows but God may raise me up friends if my time of need should ever come?--It is not my board nor my lodging that troubles me," she could not help adding with an irrepressible expression of grief.

"Ah! I know what 'tis that troubles you. 'Tis just what I am often thinking of. In my affliction I have a kind helpmate to cheer me, and keep up my spirits, and save me from ever feeling lonesome; and I have you, Susan, and I love to listen to your voice, though it has not its cheerful tone, and though I never hear the laugh that used to make my heart glad within me. You, my poor girl, you can never have these comforts, and that weighs upon my mind, though I do not like to say much about it."

"It can't be helped, father, and I hope I submit as I should. It has pleased God to visit me as He has done, and I am sure I have done no more than my duty in not letting George burthen himself with me for a wife."

"Yes, yes, it is all right; you have done your duty, that's certain."

"And when we have done that, we must leave the rest to Providence."

Mr. Otley called soon afterwards with some of the worsted which he was now in the constant habit of procuring for Susan. Dame Foster took the opportunity of getting her mind enlightened concerning annuities, and friendly societies, and all the other modes of provision for the poor which were established at Turnholme. But all required a larger monthly sum, or a more considerable deposit, than they could possibly contrive to pay. "I wish, Mr. Otley," said Susan, "you could persuade father and mother not to think so much about me; if 'tis anything about themselves, they always say we should rely on Providence: tell them they should do so for me, as well as for themselves."

"It is quite right, Susan, you should speak as you do, and feel as you do; but it is quite right too that your parents should be willing to do the best they can for you. I am sure I wish I could put them in the way of making some provision for you; but when people get to be in years, all the insurances are so high: that is a thing people should think of when they are young and in health."

"That is quite just, Master Otley, and so I did when I was young; for I put into my club as soon as I was turned nineteen,--as soon as I got anything like man's wages; and a good job it has been for me that I did so: but, you see, one could not reckon upon such an affliction as poor Susan's."

"And that's quite just too, Master Foster; and I'll be bound that if ever she should be in want, the gentry, ay, and the farmers too, would not grudge her some help,--such a good girl, and such a patient girl as she is! and so young too, and so well-favoured as she is! I often tell my mistress I don't care how many warm handkerchiefs she buys of Susan, 'tis all money well spent; though I will say I wish she would not always be making me drive her over to Turnholme, that she may learn the new fashions. What do the fashions signify? say I; where is your red cloak? say I; and where is your checked apron? say I: and then she is so mad with me! But she is a good-natured soul, and always comes round after I've laughed a bit. And then then she is not so hearty and strong as I am, and she can't bustle about. Well, good night, Nicholas! I must be off. I must not forget this package though: Miss Mincing, at the shop, told me I must be sure and carry it very carefully, for the least touch would spoil it." And away went the good-natured farmer, carrying the parcel very carefully to the cart, but then putting it at the bottom of the vehicle among many other articles of great size and weight, where it was jumbled in a manner which would have agonised Miss Mincing had she witnessed it, and which did agonise Mrs. Otley when she extracted it from among its travelling companions, and upon examination found the beautiful cap, with its wires, and its bows, more fit to adorn a May-day chimney-sweeper, than the head of so refined a lady as she was.

"Oh, Mr. Otley, how could you!" she exclaimed, in an accusing voice to her husband.

"How could I do what, Lizzy, dear?"

"Look at my cap!" she said; "I am sure Miss Mincing must have told you to take care of it."

"So I did, Lizzy; I held it up between my finger and thumb, as tenderly as if it was a plum with the bloom on it, till I laid it quite light at the top of everything else in the cart."

"And then you went rattling away as hard as you could drive, without once looking behind you to see how all the articles rode in the chaise! I do think you must have been a little too gay at market, Mr. Otley," she said, in a small voice; "you must have made a little too free with some of your coarse drinking companions:" and she drew herself up.

"Not a bit of it, Lizzy; none of your insinuations! I just wetted my bargain, as everybody should, and that was all. I'm sorry your cap is tumbled."

"Crushed, spoiled, _abeemy_," (query _abîmé_?) "as Miss Mincing says."

"But I'll tell you what: it is a sort of a flashy thing I can't abide, and I had rather by half see you in such a cap as old Dame Foster wears."

"My love, you are quite uncivil: you have quite lost your manners. I am sure you are saying what you do not think, and I am sure that all the while you like to see your wife look neat and genteel."

"Neat, I do, and neatness is gentility enough for me. Come, I'll buy you a new cap after my own fashion; and then if you take half the bows, and all the flowers, off this queer thing," and he held the cap up aloft, dangling by one of its strings, "you will have two decent caps, instead of one out-of-the-way concern."

"You have no taste, dear Mr. Otley!" said poor Mrs. Otley, as she pinched, and pulled, and tried to squeeze the unfortunate cap into its pristine shape. Mr. Otley watched her as she put her head first on this side, then on that, looking distressfully on the cap, and every now and then giving it a masterly twitch.

"Now, what puzzles me, Lizzy, is, when you look to wearing this cap: you can't go to church in it, and you can't drive out in the cart in it; and hang me if I know when you mean to put it on."

"Surely, Mr. Otley, every woman should have something decent to wear if visitors should come."

"I'm sure Farmer Dobson will never know what sort of a cap you have on your head, and Mr. Higgins is quite a plain sort of a man; and 'tis but seldom they call in, except just in the way of business."

"But Mr. Dobson has a wife, and daughters too," answered Mrs. Otley triumphantly; "and Mrs. Higgins's lace-veil, last Sunday, was quite the talk of the whole church. I am sure I heard of it three times before I could get down the church-yard and into our chaise; and I saw all the bonnets moving in all the pews as she came up the aisle with her beautiful veil hanging down almost to her knees."

Mr. Otley had nothing to reply, and Mrs. Otley remained in possession of the field.