CHAPTER XI.

Wise Nature is less partial in her love Than ye do judge withal. When lavishly She pours her gifts profuse, satiety Doth blunt the sense: when sparingly dispensed, A keener relish doth supply the measure; And but to live and see the blessed skies (A good unmarked, unheeded, till 'tis lost,) Is rapture all too big for utterance To one long shut from heaven's light.

_Unpublished Poems._

It was a joyful day in Overhurst when Susan Foster returned to her home. The old man and his wife had toddled up to the village inn, where the coach stopped; and there they stood, Sarah to catch the first glimpse of her, Nicholas to hear the first sound of her voice. Many a head was popped out of a casement window, and many a doorway was thronged with its inhabitants, at the hour when the coach usually arrived. George Wells was lingering in a field hard by, occasionally looking over the stile. He had twice called upon the Fosters during Susan's absence, and had inquired, in an awkward, hurried manner, how she was. The inquiry was meant kindly, and it was taken kindly.

The coach drove up to the little inn, and out sprang Susan, blooming and lovely as ever. The old woman nearly fainted; and the neighbours assisted her and the trembling Nicholas into the little parlour of the inn.

In about half an hour, Susan was seen supporting the feeble steps of her mother on one side, and on the other those of her father, down the village street, to her own dear home. George Wells had disappeared; and the other neighbours did not intrude upon the sacred joy of that family party.

"Oh, mother, did we ever expect to be so happy!" exclaimed Susan, as they entered the little garden: "And there is my own moss-rose blowing!"--a slight pang shot through her, for George had given her the tree: but she was too happy, too grateful, to allow any but feelings of thankfulness to find a place in her heart.

With what eagerness did Susan hasten to busy herself about the household duties! with what pleasure did she resume her former privilege of settling her father in his seat, of preparing the supper, of assisting her father up stairs! She had thought the first sight of the heavens glorious, she had gazed with rapture on the face of Nature, she had recognised with tenderness each well-known spot of her youthful home; but all these had been but lesser joys in comparison with that of once more ministering to the comfort of her parents, after having so long been a burthen to them. Never were prayers of more heart-felt gratitude offered up to the throne of Grace than those of the Foster family that night.

Early the next morning, Susan repaired to Overhurst Park, to make her acknowledgments to her benefactors; and as she walked alone through those paths where she had so often wandered with George, which she had never beheld since she had seen them with him, did not the memory of former days come over her with almost over-whelming power? She thought of him certainly, but she thought of him as the contented husband of another; and after having drunk so deeply of the bitter cup of affliction, her present comparative happiness seemed as great as mortals might dare to hope for in this world. She looked with kindly feelings on all around her. There was no touch of bitterness in her emotions.

Farmer Otley was one of the first to welcome Susan home again. He told her his wife was still very poorly, "and that she would take it very kind" if Susan would step up and pay her a visit some evening at Holmy-bank.

"Well, Susan," he said, "I need not be fetching you any more worsted from Turnholme now. You won't send me to market any more. Those eyes of yours can see to take up your old trade again. I dare say my mistress will have some needle-work for you, for she is a rare bad hand at plain-work herself."

A few days after Susan's return, she was employed in tying up some straggling flowers, and in winding the honeysuckle round the porch, enjoying the long untasted pleasure of attending to her little garden, when, on looking round, she saw George Wells loitering under the hedge of the field which we have often described as being opposite Master Foster's house.

Upon finding himself observed, George made a sudden effort, and leaping the stile, he crossed the road, came straight up to Susan, and, before she had time to collect herself, he had taken her hand, shaken it, and had hastily uttered,--

"I just came to tell you I was heartily glad you had got your eye-sight back again, Susan; and to wish you health and happiness, Susan: that's all:" and he was gone.

Susan trembled all over; she tottered back into the cottage, and sat down.

"I have just seen him, mother, for the first time these three years! But it was not so much the seeing him, as the hearing his voice again. It has put me quite in a tremble; but I shan't mind it another time. I _must_ not mind it, you know, mother; and I am so happy, oh! so very happy, to be able to do for you and father, that I do not feel as if I had any thing left to wish for!"

In a few days Susan paid her promised visit to Mrs. Otley, and she found her indeed sadly altered. She passed through the kitchen, where all bore the marks of the mistress's eye being wanted: a servant-girl, in greasy _papillotes_, the children in smart frocks, but with unwashed faces; the copper vessels, instead of being the pride of the housewife and of her assistants, all out of their places; the floor, as if it had not been swept and sanded for a week. The slip-shod maid, with a dirty apron, ushered Susan into the parlour within, where Mrs. Otley sat in a shabby-genteel arm-chair, cowering over the fire, although it was in June.

Her cheeks were sunk, and there was a hectic flush upon them which alarmed Susan; her voice sounded hollow. The smart cap, of which we have already made mention, had now fallen from being a "dress cap" into being an "every-day cap," a purpose for which it was peculiarly unfitted. Its weak wires, and its heavy ribands, shook in a most unseemly manner as the sick woman restlessly moved her head. She laid down the well-thumbed novel she was reading:--"I am glad to see you, Susan," she said. "Why you look surprisingly well, as blooming as a rose. Mr. Otley told me how well you were, and he said your eyes were as black as sloes: I was quite curious to see you. Sit down, Susan, and tell me all about it." But before Susan could begin to speak, Mrs. Otley continued;--"I am such a poor creature--this cough fidgets me so; but I am a great deal better, only the weather is so unseasonable, and the cold winds always affect my nerves. Do you think I look ill?"

"You are something thinner than you were, ma'am," answered Susan; "but it is three years since I saw you last, and three years is a long time."

"So it is a long time, Susan; but now tell me, what did they do to you in London? I am so curious! Did you stay in the hospital all the time?"

"Yes, ma'am, I never left it, except to come home."

"What! did you not see any of the sights? Not the King's palace, nor the theatres, nor anything?"

"No, ma'am, 'tis against the rules for people to go out visiting; and sure, as soon as I was well, I wanted to see nothing so much as father, and mother, and home. As soon as I was able, they set me to work, cleaning the place, and helping to wait on other poor creatures who were worse than myself."

"Poor girl, that was very hard!"

"Oh no, ma'am; I was very glad to be useful, and I was a deal happier than being idle. I missed my worsted-work sadly at first; the time seems so very long when one has nothing to do--nothing but to think, think, think!"

Just then Farmer Otley entered.

"I say, Lizzy, where are the keys of the cellar? I want to get something to drink for Mr. Hawkins, who is waiting at the door."

"Dear Mr. Otley, don't speak so quick; you hurry one. The keys are in my reticule; it is up stairs. Tell Hetty to fetch it."

Mr. Otley went after Hetty, and Mrs. Otley remarked, "Poor dear Mr. Otley! his manner is so abrupt! He is not used to an invalid!"

"Lizzy, I can't find your bag anywhere. The keys should be in your pocket: feel for them there."

"Dear Mr. Otley, you know I do not wear pockets; a reticule is so much more convenient."

"Well! but where are the keys? Mr. Hawkins will think I grudge him a glass of ale."

"Oh! my love, be patient; you quite make me shake!" and she began in a really nervous trepidation to hunt for the reticule, which was found in her chair.

Mrs. Otley and Susan resumed their conversation, when presently the farmer returned.

"Lizzy, you have not got a needle and thread handy, have you? I told you I thought this button would soon be off, and so it is."

"Oh, dear Mr. Otley, I thought you had told Hetty to sew it on yesterday. Do call her, and tell her to bring my work-box here." The good-natured husband called Hetty, and after some time the needle and thread were found.

"Come, look sharp; I must be at the Vestry at three o'clock; and I don't like to be seen with my waistcoat all any how."

Mrs. Otley's fingers really trembled as she was sewing on the button. "Why, Lizzy, I have hurried you! I am sorry for that. There, never mind; don't fluster yourself."

"You never think of one's nerves, Mr. Otley."

"I'll tell you what, Lizzy, if you did not talk about them, or if you did not call them nerves, I should think about them. I see you are not well, and you have got a bad cough, and I must take care of you; so don't fret yourself, but keep quiet. I'll try to see to the things myself, though in-door matters are not in my way: but we must make a shift."

"I am sure Mrs. Glover never did all the drudgery poor dear Mr. Otley expects me to do," said Mrs. Otley, when her husband had left them: "I do not think a wife is to be a servant," she continued, with a toss of her head.

Susan thought that a wife ought to see that all was well regulated in her household; but poor Mrs. Otley was evidently ill and suffering, and she pitied her. As Susan went away, she saw the little girl crying because the maid had slapped her, and the little boy slapping the maid because she would not let him put his fingers into the pie she was preparing. She retraced her steps to her humble home, in the full persuasion that she was happier than any of the inmates of Holmy-bank farm.

Poor Mrs. Otley became rapidly worse; and before many months had elapsed, her troubles and her finery were alike brought to a final close, and she was laid in the quiet grave.

Mr. Otley remained a widower with two young children. He was a sincere mourner. The natural kindness of his heart had caused him to become truly attached to the woman whose preference for him had at first been her principal attraction; and her sufferings latterly had still farther endeared her. But when the freshness of his grief had subsided; when he found that a bustling old body, whom he took as housekeeper, kept all things around him far more neat and trim than they had formerly been; when he found his kitchen clean, his buttons sewed on, his shirts mended; and, above all, when everything he asked for was always forthcoming from that compendious receptacle, the old woman's pockets,--his spirits gradually revived. His children were less fretful, their faces were cleaner; and he only lamented that the old woman could not read, and that he had not much leisure himself to attend to their morals, or their education. By degrees he began to think that a younger woman might perhaps attend to the dairy and to the chickens as effectually as old Goody Thompson; that a younger woman might make the new servant-girl (for Mrs. Thompson had dismissed the slip-shod maiden) scour the pots and pans as perseveringly; and he also began to think it would be more agreeable to have a younger face and a brighter smile welcome him home, after his labours of the day. And whom could he find who would be more active and useful than Susan Foster? Who was calculated to train his children's minds to duty, submission, and religious resignation, more practically than Susan Foster? And where could he find a brighter smile, or more sparkling eyes, than Susan Foster's.