“Oh, there’s Susan!” cried her two little brothers, running, leaping, and bounding up to her; and many of the other rosy girls and boys crowded round her, to talk of their plays; for Susan was easily interested in all that made others happy; but she could not make them comprehend, that, if they all spoke at once it was not possible that she could hear what was said.
The voices were still raised one above another, all eager to establish some important observation about ninepins, or marbles, or tops, or bows and arrows, when suddenly music was heard and the crowd was silenced. The music seemed to be near the spot where the children were standing, and they looked round to see whence it could come. Susan pointed to the great oak-tree, and they beheld, seated under its shade, an old man playing upon his harp. The children all approached — at first timidly, for the sounds were solemn; but as the harper heard their little footsteps coming towards him, he changed his hand and played one of his most lively tunes. The circle closed, and pressed nearer and nearer to him; some who were in the foremost row whispered to each other, “He is blind!” “What a pity!” and “He looks very poor, — what a ragged coat he wears!” said others. “He must be very old, for all his hair is white; and he must have travelled a great way, for his shoes are quite worn out,” observed another.
All these remarks were made whilst he was tuning his harp, for when he once more began to play, not a word was uttered. He seemed pleased by their simple exclamations of wonder and delight, and, eager to amuse his young audience, he played now a gay and now a pathetic air, to suit their several humours.
Susan’s voice, which was soft and sweet, expressive of gentleness and good nature, caught his ear the moment she spoke. He turned his face eagerly to the place where she stood; and it was observed, that whenever she said that she liked any tune particularly he played it over again.
“I am blind,” said the old man, “and cannot see your faces; but I know you all asunder by your voices, and I can guess pretty well at all your humours and characters by your voices.”
“Can you so, indeed?” cried Susan’s little brother William, who had stationed himself between the old man’s knees. “Then you heard MY sister Susan speak just now. Can you tell us what sort of person she is?”
“That I can, I think, without being a conjurer,” said the old man, lifting the boy up on his knee; “YOUR sister Susan is good-natured.” The boy clapped his hands. “And good-tempered.” “RIGHT,” said little William, with a louder clap of applause. “And very fond of the little boy who sits upon my knee.” “O right! right! quite right!” exclaimed the child, and “quite right” echoed on all sides.
“But how came you to know so much, when you are blind?” said William, examining the old man attentively.
“Hush,” said John, who was a year older than his brother, and very sage, “you should not put him in mind of his being blind.”
“Though I am blind,” said the harper, “I can hear, you know, and I heard from your sister herself all that I told you of her, that she was good- tempered and good-natured and fond of you.”
“Oh, that’s wrong — you did not hear all that from herself, I’m sure,” said John, “for nobody ever hears her praising herself.”
“Did not I hear her tell you,” said the harper, “when you first came round me, that she was in a great hurry to go home, but that she would stay a little while, since you wished it so much? Was not that good- natured? And when you said you did not like the tune she liked best, she was not angry with you, but said, ‘Then play William’s first, if you please,’ — was not that good-tempered?”
“Oh,” interrupted William, “it’s all true; but how did you find out that she was fond of me?”
“That is such a difficult question,” said the harper, “that I must take time to consider.” The harper tuned his instrument, as he pondered, or seemed to ponder: and at this instant, two boys who had been searching for birds’ nests in the hedges, and who had heard the sound of the harp, came blustering up, and pushing their way through the circle, one of them exclaimed, “What’s going on here? Who are you, my old fellow? A blind harper! Well, play us a tune, if you can play ever a good one — play me — let’s see, what shall he play, Bob?” added he turning to his companion. “Bumper Squire Jones.”
The old man, though he did not seem quite pleased with the peremptory manner of the request, played, as he was desired, “Bumper Squire Jones”; and several other tunes were afterwards bespoke by the same rough and tyrannical voice.
The little children shrunk back in timid silence, and eyed the brutal boy with dislike. This boy was the son of Attorney Case; and as his father had neglected to correct his temper when he was a child, as he grew up it became insufferable. All who were younger and weaker than himself, dreaded his approach, and detested him as a tyrant.
When the old harper was so tired that he could play no more, a lad, who usually carried his harp for him, and who was within call, came up, and held his master’s hat to the company, saying, “Will you be pleased to remember us?” The children readily produced their halfpence, and thought their wealth well bestowed upon this poor, good-natured man, who had taken so much pains to entertain them, better even than upon the gingerbread woman, whose stall they loved to frequent. The hat was held some time to the attorney’s son before he chose to see it. At last he put his hand surlily into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a shilling. There were sixpennyworth of halfpence in the hat. “I’ll take these halfpence,” said he, “and here’s a shilling for you.”
“God bless you, sir,” said the lad; but as he took the shilling which the young gentleman had slily put INTO THE BLIND MAN’S HAND, he saw that it was not worth one farthing. “I am afraid it is not good, sir,” said the lad, whose business it was to examine the money for his master.
“I am afraid, then, you’ll get no other,” said young Case, with an insulting laugh.
“It never will do, sir,” persisted the lad; “look at it yourself; the edges are all yellow! you can see the copper through it quite plain. Sir, nobody will take it from us.”
“That’s your affair,” said the brutal boy, pushing away his hand. “You may pass it, you know, as well as I do, if you look sharp. You have taken it from me, and I shan’t take it back again, I promise you.”
A whisper of “that’s very unjust,” was heard. The little assembly, though under evident constraint, could no longer suppress their indignation.
“Who says it’s unjust?” cried the tyrant, sternly, looking down upon his judges.
Susan’s little brothers had held her gown fast, to prevent her from moving at the beginning of this contest, and she was now so much interested to see the end of it, that she stood still, without making any resistance.
“Is anyone here amongst yourselves a judge of silver?” said the old man.
“Yes, here’s the butcher’s boy,” said the attorney’s son; “show it to him.” He was a sickly-looking boy, and of a remarkably peaceful disposition. Young Case fancied that he would be afraid to give judgment against him. However, after some moments’ hesitation, and after turning the shilling round several times, he pronounced, “that, as far as his judgment went, but he did not pretend to be a downright CERTAIN SURE of it, the shilling was not over and above good.” Then to Susan, to screen himself from manifest danger, for the attorney’s son looked upon him with a vengeful mien, “But here’s Susan here, who understands silver a great deal better than I do; she takes a power of it for bread, you know.”
“I’ll leave it to her,” said the old harper; “if she says the shilling is good, keep it, Jack.” The shilling was handed to Susan, who, though she had with becoming modesty forborne all interference, did not hesitate, when she was called upon, to speak the truth: “I think that this shilling is a bad one,” said she; and the gentle but firm tone in which she pronounced the words, for a moment awed and silenced the angry and brutal boy. “There’s another, then,” cried he; “I have sixpences and shillings too in ple
nty, thank my stars.”
Susan now walked away with her two little brothers, and all the other children separated to go to their several homes. The old harper called to Susan, and begged, that, if she was going towards the village, she would be so kind as to show him the way. His lad took up his harp, and little William took the old man by the hand. “I’ll lead him, I can lead him,” said he; and John ran on before them, to gather king-cups in the meadow.
There was a small rivulet, which they had to cross, and as a plank which served for a bridge over it was rather narrow, Susan was afraid to trust the old blind man to his little conductor; she therefore went on the tottering plank first herself, and then led the old harper carefully over. They were now come to a gate, which opened upon the high road to the village. “There is the high road straight before you,” said Susan to the lad, who was carrying his master’s harp; “you can’t miss it. Now I must bid you a good evening; for I’m in a great hurry to get home, and must go the short way across the fields here, which would not be so pleasant for you, because of the stiles. Good-bye.” The old harper thanked her, and went along the high road, whilst she and her brothers tripped on as fast as they could by the short way across the fields.
“Miss Somers, I am afraid, will be waiting for us,” said Susan. “You know she said she would call at six; and by the length of our shadows I’m sure it is late.”
When they came to their own cottage-door, they heard many voices, and they saw, when they entered, several ladies standing in the kitchen. “Come in, Susan; we thought you had quite forsaken us,” said Miss Somers to Susan, who advanced timidly. “I fancy you forgot that we promised to pay you a visit this evening, but you need not blush so much about the matter; there is no great harm done; we have only been here about five minutes; and we have been well employed in admiring your neat garden, and your orderly shelves. Is it you, Susan, who keeps these things in such nice order?” continued Miss Somers, looking round the kitchen.
Before Susan could reply, little William pushed forward, and answered, “Yes, ma’am, it is MY sister Susan that keeps everything neat; and she always comes to school for us, too, which was what caused her to be so late.”
“Because as how,” continued John, “she was loth to refuse us the hearing a blind man play on the harp. It was we kept her, and we hopes, ma’am, as you ARE — as you SEEM so good, you won’t take it amiss.”
Miss Somers and her sister smiled at the affectionate simplicity with which Susan’s little brothers undertook her defence, and they were, from this slight circumstance, disposed to think yet more favourably of a family which seemed so well united. They took Susan along with them through the village. Many neighbours came to their doors, and far from envying, they all secretly wished Susan well as she passed.
“I fancy we shall find what we want here,” said Miss Somers, stopping before a shop, where unfolded sheets of pins and glass buttons glistened in the window, and where rolls of many coloured ribbons appeared ranged in tempting order. She went in, and was rejoiced to see the shelves at the back of the counter well-furnished with glossy tiers of stuffs, and gay, neat printed linens and calicoes.
“Now, Susan, choose yourself a gown,” said Miss Somers; “you set an example of industry and good conduct, of which we wish to take public notice, for the benefit of others.”
The shopkeeper, who was father to Susan’s friend Rose, looked much satisfied by this speech, and as if a compliment had been paid to himself, bowed low to Miss Somers, and then with alertness, which a London linen-draper might have admired, produced piece after piece of his best goods to his young customer — unrolled, unfolded, held the bright stuffs and calendered calicoes in various lights. Now stretched his arm to the highest shelves, and brought down in a trice what seemed to be beyond the reach of any but a giant’s arm; now dived into some hidden recess beneath the counter, and brought to light fresh beauties and fresh temptations.
Susan looked on with more indifference than most of the spectators. She was thinking much of her lamb, and more of her father.
Miss Somers had put a bright guinea into her hand, and had bid her pay for her own gown; but Susan, as she looked at the guinea, thought it was a great deal of money to lay out upon herself, and she wished, but did know like to ask, that she might keep it for a better purpose.
Some people are wholly inattentive to the lesser feelings, and incapable of reading the countenances of those on whom they bestow their bounty. Miss Somers and her sister were not of this roughly charitable class.
“She does not like any of these things,” whispered Miss Somers to her sister. Her sister observed, that Susan looked as if her thoughts were far distant from gowns.
“If you don’t fancy any of these,” said the civil shopkeeper to Susan, “we shall have a new assortment of calicoes for the spring season, soon from town.”
“Oh,” interrupted Susan, with a smile and a blush; “these are all pretty, and too good for me, but—”
“BUT what, Susan?” said Miss Somers. “Tell us what is passing in your little mind.” Susan hesitated. “Well then, we will not press you, you are scarcely acquainted with us yet; when you are, you will not be afraid, I hope, to speak your mind. Put this shining yellow counter,” continued she, pointing to the guinea, “in your pocket, and make what use of it you please. From what we know, and from what we have heard of you, we are persuaded that you will make a good use of it.”
“I think, madam,” said the master of the shop, with a shrewd, good natured look, “I could give a pretty good guess myself what will become of that guinea; but I say nothing.”
“No, that is right,” said Miss Somers; “we leave Susan entirely at liberty; and now we will not detain her any longer. Good night, Susan, we shall soon come again to your neat cottage.” Susan curtsied, with an expressive look of gratitude, and with a modest frankness in her countenance, which seemed to say, “I would tell you, and welcome, what I want to do with the guinea; but I am not used to speak before so many people. When you come to our cottage again you shall know all.”
When Susan had departed, Miss Somers turned to the obliging shopkeeper, who was folding up all the things he had opened. “You have had a great deal of trouble with us, sir,” said she; “and since Susan will not choose a gown for herself, I must.” She selected the prettiest; and whilst the man was rolling it in paper, she asked him several questions about Susan and her family, which he was delighted to answer, because he had now all opportunity of saying as much as he wished in her praise.
“No later back, ma’am, than last May morning,” said he, “as my daughter Rose was telling us, Susan did a turn, in her quiet way, by her mother, that would not displease you if you were to hear it. She was to have been Queen of the May, which in our little village, amongst the younger tribe, is a thing that is thought of a good deal; but Susan’s mother was ill, and Susan, after sitting up with her all night, would not leave her in the morning, even when they brought the crown to her. She put the crown upon my daughter Rose’s head with her own hands; and, to be sure, Rose loves her as well as if she was her own sister. But I don’t speak from partiality; for I am no relation whatever to the Prices — only a well-wisher, as everyone, I believe, who knows them is. I’ll send the parcel up to the Abbey, shall I, ma’am?”
“If you please,” said Miss Somers, “and, as soon as you receive your new things from town, let us know. You will, I hope, find us good customers and well-wishers,” added she, with a smile; “for those who wish well to their neighbours surely deserve to have well-wishers themselves.”
A few words may encourage the benevolent passions, and may dispose people to live in peace and happiness; a few words may set them at variance, and may lead to misery and lawsuits. Attorney Case and Miss Somers were both equally convinced of this, and their practice was uniformly consistent with their principles.
But now to return to Susan. She put the bright guinea carefully into the glove with the twelve shillings, which she had recei
ved from her companions on May day. Besides this treasure, she calculated that the amount of the bills for bread could not be less than eight or nine and thirty shillings; and as her father was now sure of a week’s reprieve, she had great hopes that, by some means or other, it would be possible to make up the whole sum necessary to pay for a substitute. “If that could but be done,” said she to herself, “how happy would my mother be. She would be quite stout again, for she certainly is a great deal better, since I told her that father would stay a week longer. Ah! but she would not have blessed Attorney Case, though, if she had known about my poor Daisy.”
Susan took the path that led to the meadow by the waterside, resolved to go by herself, and take leave of her innocent favourite. But she did not pass by unperceived. Her little brothers were watching for her return, and, as soon as they saw her, they ran after her, and overtook her as she reached the meadow.
“What did that good lady want with you?” cried William; but, looking up in his sister’s face, he saw tears in her eyes, and he was silent, and walked on quietly. Susan saw her lamb by the water-side. “Who are those two men?” said William. “What are they going to do with DAISY?” The two men were Attorney Case and the butcher. The butcher was feeling whether the lamb was fat.
Susan sat down upon the bank in silent sorrow; her little brothers ran up to the butcher, and demanded whether he was going to DO ANY HARM to the lamb. The butcher did not answer, but the attorney replied, “It is not your sister’s lamb any longer; it’s mine — mine to all intents and purposes.”
“Yours!” cried the children, with terror; “and will you kill it?”
“That’s the butcher’s business.”
The little boys now burst into piercing lamentations. They pushed away the butcher’s hand; they threw their arms round the neck of the lamb; they kissed its forehead — it bleated. “It will not bleat to-morrow!” said William, and he wept bitterly. The butcher looked aside, and hastily rubbed his eyes with the corner of his blue apron.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 303