CHAPTER XIII.

Then be it still my nightly prayer To live to close his sightless eyes, For this my torturing pains to bear, Then sink in death ere morning rise!

With steadfast hope, and faith serene, The humble prayer of duteous love, Pour'd ardent forth in anguish keen, Was heard where mercy rules above!

_Unpublished Ballad from Nature._

Susan Foster's unexpected prosperity was not regarded without envy by some of her neighbours; and old Nelly, her former mistress in the art of knitting, whose temper had not grown more gentle with increasing years and infirmities, failed not to remark to her grand-daughter that "she could not see, for her part, what there was about Susan Foster that people should always make such a fuss with her. Other poor souls had their afflictions, but the gentlefolks did not send them to all the great London doctors to be cured; other girls had had bad eyes before now, but they did not get a good husband a bit the more. And if Susan Foster was so lucky as to marry so much above her station, she thought she ought to do something for her poor old father and mother, who had taken care of her when she was blind. Folks might talk of Susan being such a dutiful daughter, and all that; but for her part she did not see what the old people were the better for having a farmer's wife for a daughter."

"I am sure," answered Patty, "I cannot see anything particular about Susan, grandmother; I think there are many girls in Overhurst who are quite fit to be her match. And many a time since I have grown big, I have wondered why I used to be so pleased when Susan Foster spoke kindly to me, and told me I was a good girl. I think she took upon her very much; for though she may be quite a great lady, and may ride in her one-horse chay now, she was no better than myself then!"

"Ah, my dear Patty! 'tis the way of those people who seem to have such a respect for themselves, to make themselves somehow respected by others. However, Susan is but a labourer's daughter after all, and I don't see why you should demean yourself to her: I have no patience with your upstarts. A poor girl that could not have earned a farthing, and must have gone into the workhouse, if I had not taught her how to knit! and now she goes driving by with her husband, and has called upon me but once, though she has been married a fortnight; and has never sent me anything but a basket of apples out of her orchard, which don't cost her a farthing." Just at this moment a boy knocked at the door, and Patty lifted the latch to admit him. "Mrs. Otley's respects, ma'am, and she sends you a goose, and a bottle of Farmer Otley's elder wine, that you may drink her health on old Michaelmas day." Nelly was a little at a loss what to reply; but after contemplating the present with a satisfaction which she could not quite controul, she consoled herself by saying to Patty as soon as the boy was gone: "Mrs. Otley's respects, indeed! I think it would have been more respectful if Madam Otley had called herself with her present, instead of sending it by a scrubby boy."

It may well be imagined that if Susan did not forget old Nelly, she took care that her parents should never want any comfort which her affection could provide for them, and her kind-hearted husband seconded her wishes to the uttermost. He would willingly have had them remove to Holmy-bank; but the old man had learned to grope his way about his own cottage, and he would have missed his accustomed walk to his own stile, and they found it was kinder not to break in upon his habits.

Mrs. Thompson had resigned her charge to Susan; and Mr. Otley found that not only were the dairy and poultry-yard as efficiently attended to, but that his children became orderly and submissive, and that his house soon acquired that air of home comfort, of tasteful neatness, that a wife only can give it. In her dress Susan took old Mrs. Otley, the mother, as her model, although she somewhat accommodated herself to the fashion. She was a goodly sight to look upon as she sat by her husband's side in the market-cart, once denominated a chaise, her black hair parted on her white forehead, her smooth, rounded, blooming cheek enclosed in her snowy cap, and black velvet bonnet, with her brilliant eyes glancing gaily as she stopped at her father's door on her way to market. More than a year had thus glided by in sober and respectable happiness, when old Nicholas began to droop: he could no longer reach his favourite stile. He was obliged to content himself with leaning in his accustomed attitude over the wicket of his own little garden. After a while he could do no more than take his seat at the cottage-door, there to feel the rays of the setting sun. Susan now devoted herself to her parents, and all other considerations sank before the paramount duty she owed to them. One evening she had brought him his tea to the door, where Mr. Otley had settled him on his own chair, and she asked him if he felt the warmth of the sun. "I don't seem to have any warmth in my bones," he said; "but I like to know the sun is shining upon me."

"Ah, the sun is a glorious thing," said Sarah, "as it sets there in its golden bed; but when my poor Nicholas is at rest, I never wish to see its bright face again. You have got a good husband, Susan, and a comfortable home, and you will not want me now; my pains have almost worn me out: there's no taking pleasure even in the works of God, when one is so racked by pain."

"How well you do bear your sufferings, mother, 'tis very seldom you make any complaints."

"There's no good murmuring, my dear Susan; and it is my duty to bear what 'tis God's pleasure to send."

They looked round, and the old man's head had dropped back upon the chair; they thought he was asleep; but he did not breathe: life was extinct. His wife was the first to understand the truth. "My husband's spirit has passed," she said. "My poor Nicholas is at rest,--he is in heaven! He is happy! Look at that smile,--yes, he is happy. God's will be done!" and she bowed her head.

In tears and trepidation Farmer Otley and Susan moved him within doors. He carried the lifeless body, and laid it on the bed upstairs; while Susan held her mother's hands, kissed them, and wept over them. "He is gone, Susan! my poor husband is gone! He has left me--my poor Nicholas!" and she rocked herself backwards and forwards, her hands clasped upon her knee.

The neighbours soon assembled; the last sad duties were performed; and the aged woman, whose melancholy province it was to lay out the dead, and to keep her dreary vigil by the corpse, attended as usual. But old Sarah would not allow her to remain. She said, "she had done for Nicholas to the last while he was living, and she did not see what need there was of any one else to tend him now. She thanked the neighbours kindly, but she could watch by her husband now, as then; and she would not trouble any of them." She settled herself in her chair at the head of the bed, and sat there silent, meek, and patient.

Susan, who was a nurse, had her baby brought from the farm, and established it in what had formerly been her own little bed-room. She and her husband then took their station in the chamber of death, and together looked upon the decent corpse of the old man.

The brilliant sunset had been followed by a stormy night. The wind howled, and the rain beat against the casement. The rush-candle burned fitfully, and shone with an uncertain light upon the sunk but placid features of the old man. Susan could scarcely defend herself from the vague and superstitious terrors which assail the uneducated on such occasions. The furniture creaked; noises, which in the day are unnoticed, sound startlingly acute in the stillness and darkness of the night. Susan frequently crept into the adjoining apartment to see how it fared with her baby; she bent over it as it slumbered, she listened to its respiration till she fancied it drew its breath painfully. When suffering under one calamity, the human heart is tremblingly alive to the apprehension of others. She imagined the infant was pale; she stole back to beckon her husband to look upon it with her. He attempted to re-assure her; but Susan's heart was oppressed with the foreboding of some fresh ill, and it required all Mr. Otley's patience and good-nature to soothe fears which appeared so unreasonable.

It was an inexpressible relief when the grey dawn began to appear. The rain all cleared away, and the sun shone forth in all its splendour; every leaf was glittering in the sunshine, the rain-drops hung on every spray, the birds sang as if to strain their little throats, the flowers were beginning to expand to the welcome rays. Susan placed her baby in her husband's arms while she returned to share her mother's melancholy watch.

When she entered the low room, the sun almost dazzled her: its beams streamed in upon the slanting, white-washed ceiling: they shone full upon her mother's face, as she sat in the same attitude in which she had left her,--her head supported by the high back of the upright chair, her hands slightly clasped as they had fallen on her knee, and her eyes closed.

Susan drew near; her mother spoke not, moved not: she knelt by her--she listened in breathless agony--no sound, no sign of recognition. The sunbeams glared upon her eyelids, but she heeded them not.

A nameless chill ran through poor Susan's frame. She dared not touch her mother's hand. She rose from her knees, and tottered back to her husband. "I wish you would come to mother," she said; "she is very still. Mother is very still and very pale," she added, in a voice scarcely audible. Susan's looks were ghastly. Mr. Otley hastily placed the sleeping infant on the bed, and followed Susan. The truth was at once evident! "Your mother's prayers have been heard, dear Susan; she has not seen another sun rise, she has not seen the sun which now shines upon her. Her troubles are over, and we should thank God for his mercy to her!"

And the time did come when Susan was able thus to feel; when she was able to rejoice that her mother's humble prayer had thus been granted; when she learned to look upon its accomplishment as an earnest that the spirits of her parents were enjoying the reward of their piety, and their submission. But, at first, nature had its course, and she could but weep for that dear mother who had supported her under her heavy affliction, consoled her in her sorrows, tended her in her helplessness. Nor did her husband oppose the grief which was so natural: he wept with her; and she felt the holy tie which bound them together for weal and for woe, in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health, become more closely riveted as she clung to him for support, as she turned to him as her only earthly comforter.

The neighbours again assembled. The two corpses were decently laid out in the same chamber which for so many years they had inhabited; and all who had known them in life, came to have one last sight of Nicholas and Sarah Foster.

Susan was soothed by this mark of respect to those whom she had loved so well; and she was gratified when, among the rest, George Wells mounted the narrow stairs to look once more upon the well-known faces of the departed. She wept when she heard him sob, as he came down again, and when he wrung her hand as he hurried by through the little kitchen where she sat in deep but gentle grief. She wished not that he should cherish the recollection of herself; but any slight to the memory of her parents would have been bitter, coming from him whom they had once treated as a son.

One funeral service was performed over the venerable couple; one grave received their mortal remains; one stone still marks the spot where they repose; and together, we may well believe their spirits mounted to those regions where suffering and sorrow are unknown.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

VOLUME THE THIRD.

BLANCHE.