Simple Susan lived one hundred years ago. Mr. Price was Susan's father. He rented a small farm and was always hard at work. No more honest man could be found far or near, and he loved his little daughter from the bottom of his big heart.
Mrs. Price was Susan's mother. She was a good woman who was always busy cooking, or cleaning, or sewing. The bread and cakes made by her were better than those made by any one else in the village. When she was not doing household work, she earned money by taking in plain needlework. All who knew Mrs. Price liked her and were sorry she was so far from strong. That no girl had a better mother than Susan, every one agreed.
John and William were Susan's little brothers. They were quite sure that no other boys in all the world had such a good sister as theirs.
Our story begins on the evening before the first of May. Now one hundred years ago, Mayday was looked forward to with glee by all English children living in the country. Early that morning the lads and lasses of the village, gaily decked with flowers, would go merrily singing from house to house. In their midst would walk the Queen of the May, or sometimes, seated in a chair twined round with blossom, she would be carried from door to door by her little companions. With a wreath of their gayest flowers they would crown her their Queen, and for her would be woven the fairest garlands. After the May carols were sung, cake, coppers, or small coins would be given to the boys and girls.
To choose their Queen and to arrange their flowers the children would meet on the last day of April. This they did in the village where Susan lived, and their meeting-place was in a corner of a field close by a large pink hawthorn. A shady lane ran past one side of the bush. On another side a sweetbrier hedge separated it from the garden belonging to an attorney.
This attorney was a very cross man, so cross that the village people were always in fear of him. Although he had hedged and fenced his garden, it sometimes happened that there would stray into it a pig, or a dog, or a goat, or a goose belonging to a poor neighbor. Then the attorney would go to the owner of the stray animal and in a harsh voice demand money to pay for the damage it had done.
Nor did this cruel man let people walk along the paths through his meadows, although they did no harm. He blocked up the stiles with stones and prickly shrubs, so that not even a gosling could squeeze under them nor a giant climb over. Even the village children were afraid to fly their kites near his fields, lest they should get entangled in his trees or fall on his ground.
Mr. Case was the name of this attorney, and he had one son and a daughter called Barbara.
For long the father paid no attention to the education of his children, for all his time and thought were given to money-making. Meanwhile Barbara and her brother ran wild with the village children. But suddenly Mr. Case decided to send his son to a tutor to learn Latin, and to employ a maid to wait upon Barbara. At the same time he gave strict orders that his children should no longer play with their old companions.
The village children were not at all sorry when they heard this. Barbara had not been a favorite among them, for she had always wanted to rule them and to secure for herself the chief part in their games. When Barbara saw that she was not missed by her old friends she was vexed, and she became angry when she found that they paid no attention to the grand air with which she now spoke nor to the fine frocks which she wore.
To one girl Barbara had a special dislike. This was none other than Susan Price, the sweetest-tempered and busiest lass in the village, and the pride and delight of all who knew her. The farm rented by Susan's father was near the house in which Mr. Case lived, and Barbara from her window used to watch Susan at work.
Sometimes the little girl was raking the garden-plots in her neat garden; sometimes she was weeding the paths; sometimes she was kneeling at her beehive with fresh flowers for her bees, and sometimes she was in the hen-yard scattering corn among the eager little chickens. In the evening Barbara often saw her sitting in the summer-house over which sweet honeysuckle crept, and there, with a clean three-legged pine table before her upon which to lay her work, Susan would sew busily. Her seams were even and neat, for Mrs. Price had taught her daughter that what is worth doing is worth doing well.
Both Susan and her mother were great favorites in the village. It was at Mrs. Price's door that the children began their Mayday rounds, and it was Susan who was usually Queen of the May.
It was now time for the village children to choose their queen. The setting sun was shining full upon the pink blossoms of the hawthorn when the merry group met to make their plans for the morrow.
Barbara Case, sulkily walking alone in her father's garden, heard the happy voices and, crouching behind the hedge that divided her from the other children, she listened to their plans.
"Where is Susan?" were the first words she overheard.
"Yes, where is Susan?" repeated a boy called Philip, stopping short in a tune he was playing on his pipe: "I want her to sing me this air, I can't remember how it goes."
"And I wish Susan would come, I'm sure," cried Mary, a little girl whose lap was full of primroses. "She will give me some thread to tie up my nosegays, and she will show me where the fresh violets grow, and she has promised to give me a great bunch of her cowslips to wear to-morrow. I wish she would come."
"Nothing can be done without Susan!" cried another child. "She always shows us where the nicest flowers are to be found in the lanes and meadows."
"Susan must help to weave the garlands," said another.
"Susan must be Queen of the May!" shouted several together.
"Why does she not come?" grumbled Philip.
Rose, who was Susan's special friend, now came forward to remind them that when Susan was late it was always because she was needed at home.
"Go, Rose, and tell her to make haste," cried the impatient Philip. "Attorney Case is dining at the Abbey to-day, and if he comes home and finds us here, perhaps he will drive us away. He says this bit of ground belongs to his garden, but that is not true, for Farmer Price says we have all as much right to it as he has. He wants to rob us of our playground. I wish he and Bab, or Miss Barbara, as I suppose we must now call her, were a hundred miles away, I do. Just yesterday she knocked down my ninepins on purpose as she passed with her gown trailing in the dust."
"Yes," cried Mary, "her gown is always trailing. She does not hold it up nicely like Susan, and in spite of all her fine clothes she never looks half so neat. Mamma says she hopes I shall grow like Susan, and so do I. I should not like to be vain like Barbara were I ever so rich."
"Rich or poor," said Philip, "it does not become a girl to be vain, much less bold, as Barbara was the other day. She stood at her father's door, and stared at a strange gentleman who stopped near by, to let his horse drink. I know what he thought of Bab, by his looks, and of Susan too; for Susan was in her garden, bending down a branch of the laburnum-tree, looking at its yellow flowers which had just come out, and when the gentleman asked her how many miles it was to the next village, she answered him modestly, not bashfully as if she had never seen any one before, but just right. Then she pulled on her straw hat that had fallen back while she was looking up at the laburnum, and went her way home, and the gentleman said to me after she was gone, 'Pray, who is that neat, modest girl?' But I wish," cried Philip, interrupting himself, "I wish Susan would come!"
Barbara, still crouching on the other side of the hedge, heard everything that was said.
Susan was all this time, as her friend Rose had guessed, busy at home. She had been kept by her father's returning later than usual. His supper was ready for him nearly an hour before he came home, and Susan swept the hearth twice, and twice put on wood to make a cheerful blaze for him. At last, when he did come in, he took no notice of the blaze or of Susan; and when his wife asked him how he was, he made no answer, but stood with his back to the fire, looking very gloomy. Susan put his supper upon the table, and set his own chair for him, but he pushed away the chair and turned from the table, saying, "I shall eat nothing, child. Why have you such a fire to roast me at this time of year?"
"You said yesterday, father, I thought, that you liked a little cheerful wood-fire in the evening, and there was a great shower of hail. Your coat is quite wet. We must dry it."
"Take it, then, child," he said, pulling it off, "I shall soon have no coat to dry. Take my hat, too," he went on, throwing it upon the ground.
Susan hung up his hat, put his coat over the back of a chair to dry, and then stood looking at her mother, who was not well. She had tired herself with baking, and now, alarmed by her husband's strange conduct, she sat down pale and trembling. The father threw himself into a chair, folded his arms, and gazed into the fire.
Susan was the first who ventured to break the silence. Fondling her father, she tried to coax him to eat the supper prepared for him. This, however, she could not persuade him to do, but he said, with a faint smile, that he thought he could eat one of her guinea-hen's eggs. Susan thanked him, and showed her eagerness to please her dear father by running as fast as she could to her neat chicken-yard. Alas! the guinea-fowl was not there. It had strayed into the garden of Mr. Case. She could see it through the paling. Going to the garden-gate, Susan timidly opened it, and seeing Miss Barbara walk slowly by, she asked if she might come in and take her guinea-fowl.
Barbara, who at that moment was thinking of all she had heard the village children say, started when she heard Susan's voice.
"Shut the gate," she said crossly, "you have no business in our garden. As for the hen, I shall keep it; it is always flying in here and plaguing us, and my father told me I might catch it and keep it the next time it got in, and it is in now." Then Barbara called to her maid Betty and bid her catch the mischievous bird.
"Oh, my guinea-hen! my pretty guinea-hen!" cried Susan, as mistress and maid hunted the frightened, screaming creature from corner to corner.
"Now we have it!" said Betty, holding it fast by the legs.
"Then pay damages, Queen Susan, or you may say good-by to your pretty guinea-hen," said Barbara in a rude tone.
"It has done no damage," said Susan; "but tell me what I must pay."
"A shilling," said Barbara.
"Oh, if only sixpence would do!" said Susan; "I have but sixpence of my own in the world, and here it is."
"It won't do," said Barbara, turning her back.
"Nay, but hear me," cried Susan, "let me at least come in to look for its eggs. I only want one for my father's supper. You shall have all the rest."
"What is your father or his supper to us; is he so particular that he can eat none but guinea-hen's eggs?" said Barbara. "If you want your hen and your eggs, pay for them, and you shall have them."
"I have only sixpence and you say that won't do," said Susan with a sigh, as she looked at her favorite which was in the maid's cruel hands, struggling and screaming in vain.
Susan went away feeling very sad. At the door of her father's cottage she saw her friend Rose, who had just come to summon her to the hawthorn-bush.
"They are all at the hawthorn, and I have come for you. We can do nothing without you, dear Susan," cried Rose, running to meet her the moment she saw her, "You are chosen Queen of the May—come, make haste. But what is the matter? Why do you look so sad?"
"Ah!" said Susan, "don't wait for me; I can't come to you, but," she added, pointing to the tuft of cowslips in the garden, "gather those for little Mary; I promised them to her, and tell her the violets are under a hedge just beside the stile, on the right as we go to church. Good-by! never mind me; I can't come—I can't stay, for my father wants me."
"But don't turn away your face; I won't keep you a moment; only tell me what is the matter," said her friend, following her into the cottage.
"Oh, nothing, not much," said Susan; "if I had not wanted the egg in a great hurry for father, it would not have vexed me—to be sure I should have clipped my guinea-hen's wings, and then she could not have flown over the hedge; but let us think no more about it now," she added, trying to hide a tear.
When Rose, however, learned that her friend's guinea-hen was kept a prisoner by Barbara, she was hot with indignation, and at once ran back to tell the story to her companions.
As Susan entered the cottage parlor, Farmer Price drew his chair close to his wife. "You see there is something amiss with me," he said; "I must tell you what it is." Her father lowered his voice, and Susan, who was not sure that he wished her to hear what he was going to say, moved from behind his chair.
"Susan, don't go; sit down here, sweet Susan," he said, making room for her beside him. "I am afraid I was cross when I came in to-night, but I had something to vex me, as you shall hear."
Then the farmer told how, a fortnight before, lots had been drawn in the nearest town, to see which men there and in the surrounding villages should leave home to be trained as soldiers. For a hundred years ago it was in this way that men were found to defend their country. Only if they were under eighteen or above forty years of age could they escape drawing lots.
"Now, as I would be forty in ten days," said the farmer, "I was told just to call myself forty then and there; but the truth is the truth, and should be spoken at all times, come what may. And when the lots were drawn, it fell to me among others to leave home to be trained to fight. I was thinking how unhappy we should be to part, when I heard that if I paid nine guineas to another man, he would take my place, and I could remain at home with you. I had not the money, for you know the bad luck we had with the sheep this year, and how they died one after the other. But I went to Mr. Case and asked him to lend me the money. He said he would if I handed over to him my lease, for he said, 'If you do not repay me the guineas I shall keep the lease until you do.'"
"That was a fortnight ago, and to-night Attorney Case tells me he has discovered that, owing to some mistake in the lease, we may be turned out of the farm at any time. But I've not come to the worst part yet."
Here Farmer Price stopped short, and his wife and Susan gazed anxiously into his face.
"The truth must be told," he said with a deep sigh, "I must now leave you in three days."
"Must you?" said his wife faintly. "Susan dear, open the window." Susan ran to do as she was bid, and then returned to her mother's side. The fresh air soon revived the poor woman, and she begged her husband to go on with his story, and to hide nothing from her.
Farmer Price had no wish to hide anything from those he loved so well. He believed that the truth should be spoken at all times, but never had he found it so difficult as at this moment. What had happened was this. Attorney Case had met Farmer Price that evening. The farmer was coming home, whistling, from a new-plowed field. The Attorney was on horseback, and had just dined at the Abbey with Sir Arthur Somers. The Abbey had until lately belonged to Sir Arthur's elder brother, but now that he was dead, Sir Arthur owned the estate.
Attorney Case had looked after the property for the elder brother, and was anxious to be employed by Sir Arthur. There were many farms on the estate, and it had been part of the Attorney's work to look after the repairs and to collect the rents. Unfortunately, he had an unpleasant way of dealing with the farmers, ordering them as he had no right to do, and being harsh with those who, through misfortune, had not enough money to to pay their rent in full. As the Attorney met Farmer Price he stopped him, saying, "A word with you, Farmer Price, if you please. Walk alongside my horse, and listen. You know the field with the pink hawthorn where the village children play? I am going to add it to my garden. I hear you say it does not belong to me. What do you mean by that?"
"I mean what I say," said Price; "the field is not yours." So angry was the Attorney on hearing this, that he at once made up his mind to hurt the farmer as much as he could.
"My good man," he said, "you will remember that a fortnight ago I lent you nine guineas. To-morrow morning you must return them to me."
"Those guineas," replied the farmer, "I paid, as you know, to the man who said he would go instead of me to be trained as a soldier. But he has not yet gone, and I can still get the guineas back from him and go myself to be trained."
The Attorney was not prepared for this answer. "I do not want to drive you to that," he said, pretending to be kind. "Now about the field—you do not want to add it to the farm, do you?"
"Certainly not, for it is not mine."
"Then why object to my having it?"
"Because it is not yours. The children who play there have the right. It belongs to the village. Truth is truth."
"And a debt is a debt," shouted the angry Attorney, "and must be paid. Bring me my nine guineas!"
With a heavy heart Farmer Price walked on. He passed the door of his cottage and went in search of the man to whom he had paid the money. The man was quite willing to return it, as there were many others, he said, who would be willing to give him the same sum or more for his services. The moment Price got the money he took it straight to Mr. Case, laid it on his desk and was going away, when the Attorney called out, "Not so fast, you have forgotten your lease."
"Ah yes! my lease, I had forgotten it. Let me have it."
"Pardon me," said the Attorney with a cruel smile, "but I cannot let you have it. On reading it over I find that owing to a mistake you may be turned out of the farm at any time. I must keep it to show to Sir Arthur. I have no doubt he will want me to look after things for him as I did for his brother. Now perhaps you wish you had quietly let me add the field to my garden."
Farmer Price said nothing, but dragged himself home a sad man.
When Susan had heard her father's story, she quite forgot the loss of her guinea-hen, and thought only of her poor mother who, try as she might, could not bear the bad news. In the middle of the night Susan was roused, as Mrs. Price had become ill, and it was not until early morning that the poor woman fell asleep, her daughter's hand locked fast in hers. Susan remained sitting by the bedside, breathing quietly. Then seeing the candle burn low, she gently withdrew her hand, and on tiptoe went to put out the light, lest the unpleasant smell should wake her mother. All was silent. The gray light of dawn stole into the little room; the sun rose slowly, and Susan peered through the small panes of the lattice window at the glorious sight. A few birds began to chirp, and as the little girl listened to them, her mother started and spoke in her sleep. Susan quickly hung up a white apron before the window to keep out the light, and at the same moment she heard in the distance the voices of the village children singing their Mayday songs. Soon she could see them, Philip leading the way playing upon his pipe and tabor, the others following with nosegays and garlands in their hands. They were coming towards the cottage. Quickly but quietly Susan unlatched the door and ran to meet them.
"Here she is!—here's Susan!" they exclaimed joyfully.
"Here's the Queen of the May!"
"And here's her crown!" cried Rose, pressing forward.
But Susan put her finger to her lips, and pointed to her mother's window. Philip's pipe stopped at once.
"Thank you," said Susan, "but my mother is ill. I can't leave her, you know." Then as she gently put aside the crown, her companions asked her to say who should wear it for her.
"Will you, dear Rose?" she said, placing the garland upon her friend's head. "It's a charming May morning," she added, with a smile; "good-by. We shall not hear your voices or the pipe when you have turned the corner into the village, so you need only stop till then, Philip."
"I shall stop for all day," said Philip: "I've no wish to play any more."
"Good-by, poor Susan! It is a pity you can't come with us," said all the children.
Little Mary ran after Susan to the cottage door. "I forgot to thank you," she said, "for the cowslips. Look how pretty they are, and smell how sweet the violets are that I wear, and kiss me quick or I shall be left behind."
Susan kissed the little breathless girl, and returned softly to the side of her mother's bed. "How grateful that child is to me for a cowslip only! How can I be grateful enough to such a mother as this?" she said to herself, as she bent over the pale face of her sleeping mother.
Her mother's unfinished knitting lay upon a table near the bed, and Susan sat down in her wicker armchair, and went on with the row, in the middle of which Mrs. Price had stopped the evening before. "She taught me to knit, she taught me everything that I know," thought Susan, "and best of all, she taught me to love her, to wish to be like her." Mrs. Price, when she awoke, felt much better, but slowly there came back to her memory the sad news she had heard the evening before. She asked herself if it could have been a dream, but no, it was all too true. She could recall her husband's look as he had said, "I must leave you in three days." Then suddenly she roused herself. "Why! he'll want, he'll want a hundred things," she said. "I must get his linen ready for him. I'm afraid it's very late. Susan, why did you let me sleep so long?"
"Everything shall be ready, dear mother; only don't hurry," said Susan. And indeed her mother was not able to bear any hurry, or to do any work that day. Susan's loving help was never more wanted. She understood so well, she obeyed so exactly, and when she was left to herself, judged so wisely, that her mother had little trouble in directing her. She said that Susan never did too little or too much.
Susan was mending her father's linen, when Rose tapped softly at the window, and beckoned to her to come out. She went.
"How is your mother, in the first place?" said Rose.
"Better, thank you."
"That is nice, and I have a little bit of good news for you besides—here," she said, pulling out a purse, in which there was money. "We'll get the guinea-hen back again—we have all agreed about it. This is the money that has been given to us in the village this May morning. At every door they gave silver. See how generous they have been—twelve shillings. Now we are a match for Miss Barbara. You won't like to leave home, so I'll go to her, and you shall see your guinea-hen in ten minutes."
Rose hurried away, filled with joy at the thought that soon she would return to Susan with her lost bird.
Miss Barbara's maid, Betty, was the first person she saw on reaching the Attorney's house. Rose said she must see Barbara and was shown into a parlor where the young lady sat reading a book.
"How you startled me! Is it only you?" she said, looking up and seeing no one but the maid. Then, as she caught sight of Rose, she went on, "You should have said I was not at home. Pray, my good girl, what do you want?" she said, turning to Rose. "Is it to borrow or to beg that you are here?"
"The person from whom I come does not wish either to borrow or to beg, but to pay for what she asks," answered Rose. Then opening her well-filled purse, she held out to Barbara a bright shilling, saying, "Now please be so good as to give me Susan's guinea-hen."
"You may keep your shilling," replied Barbara. "It would have been enough if it had been paid yesterday when I asked for it, but I told Susan that as it was not paid then I should keep the hen, and I shall. You may go back and tell her so."
While Barbara spoke she had been looking into the open purse in Rose's hand. She thought she could count at least ten shillings. Could she not manage to get at least five of them for the guinea-hen, she wondered?
Rose little guessed what was going on in Barbara's mind, and exclaimed angrily, "We must have Susan's favorite hen, whatever it costs. If one shilling won't do, take two. If two won't do, take three," and she flung the coins one after the other on the table.
"Three won't do," said Barbara.
"Then take four."
Barbara shook her head.
A fifth shilling was offered, but Barbara, seeing that she had the game in her own hands, was silent.
Then Rose threw down shilling after shilling, till twelve bright pieces lay on the table, and her purse was empty.
"Now you may take the guinea-hen," said Barbara.
Rose pushed the money towards the greedy girl, but at the same moment remembered that it had not belonged to herself alone. At once she seized the silver coins, and saying that she must first see if the friends with whom she shared them were willing to part with them, she ran off.
When the children heard Rose's story, they were amazed, that even Barbara could be so mean, but they all agreed that at any cost the guinea-fowl must be set free. In a body they went to Susan and told her so, at the same time handing her the purse. Then they ran off without waiting to be thanked. Rose only stayed behind. Susan knew that she must accept the present gladly, just as she would give one gladly. She was much touched by the kindness of her friends, but she took the purse as simply as she would have given it.
"Well," said Rose, "shall I go back for the guinea-hen?"
"The guinea-hen!" said Susan, starting from a dream into which she had fallen as she looked at the purse. "Certainly I do long to see my pretty guinea-hen once more; but I was not thinking of her just then—I was thinking of my father."
Now Susan had often that day heard her mother wish that she had but money enough in the world to pay to the man who was willing to be trained to fight instead of her husband.
"This, to be sure, will go but a little way," thought Susan; "but still it may be of some use." She told her thought to Rose, and ended by saying that if the money was given to her to spend as she pleased, she would give it to her father.
"It is all yours, my dear, good Susan!" cried Rose. "This is so like you!—but I'm sorry that Miss Bab must keep your guinea-hen. I would not be her for all the guinea-hens, or guineas either, in the whole world. Why, the guinea-hen won't make her happy, and you'll be happy even without it, because you are good. Let me come and help you to-morrow," she went on, looking at Susan's work, "if you have any more mending to do—I never liked work till I worked with you. I won't forget my thimble or my scissors," she added, laughing—"though I used to forget them when I was a wilder girl. I assure you I am clever with my needle now—try me."
Susan told her friend that she would most gladly accept her help, but that she had finished all the needlework that was wanted at present. "But do you know," she went on, "I shall be very busy to-morrow. I won't tell you what it is that I have to do, for I am afraid I shall not succeed, but if I do succeed, I'll come and tell you directly, because you will be so glad."
Susan, who had always been attentive to what her mother taught her, and who had often helped her when she was baking bread and cakes for the family at the Abbey, now thought that she could herself bake a batch of bread. One of the new servants from the Abbey had been sent all round the village in the morning in search of loaves, and had not been able to procure any that were eatable. Mrs. Price's last baking had failed for want of good yeast. She was not now strong enough to attempt another herself, and when the brewer's boy came to tell her that he had some fine fresh yeast, she thanked him, but sighed and said she feared it would be of little use to her. But Susan went to work with great care, and the next morning when her bread came out of the oven, it was excellent: at least her mother said so, and she was a good judge. It was sent to the Abbey, and as the family had not tasted any good bread since they had come there, they also were warm in its praise. With some surprise, they heard from the housekeeper that this excellent bread was made by a young girl only twelve years old. The housekeeper, who had known Susan since she was a child, was pleased to have a chance to speak about her.
"She is the busiest little creature, ma'am, in the world," she said to her mistress. "I can't so well call her little now though, since she's grown tall and slender to look at; and glad I am she is grown up good to look at; for handsome is that handsome does, ma'am. She thinks no more of her being handsome than I do myself; yet she has as proper a respect for herself, ma'am, as you have; and I always see her neat, and she is always with her mother, or fit people, as a girl should be. As for her mother, she dotes upon her, as well she may; for I should myself if I had half such a daughter, ma'am; and then she has two little brothers, and she's as good to them and, my boy Philip says, taught them to read more than the school-mistress did; but I beg your pardon, ma'am, I cannot stop myself when I once begin to talk of Susan."
"You have really said enough to make me wish to see her," said her mistress. "Pray send for her now; we can see her before we go out to walk."
The kind housekeeper gladly sent off her boy Philip for Susan, who was never so untidy that she could not come at once when sent for. She had been very busy, but orderly people can be busy and neat at the same time. Putting on her usual straw hat, she set out for the Abbey. On the way she overtook Rose's mother, who was going there too with a basket of fresh muslin. When Susan reached the Abbey, her simple dress and manners and the good sense with which she answered the questions put to her, pleased the ladies greatly. They saw that the housekeeper had not spoken too highly of the farmer's daughter.
These two ladies were the sisters of Sir Arthur Somers. They were kind and wise; kind in wishing to spread happiness among their poor neighbors, and wise in wishing these people to be happy in their own way. They did not wish to manage them, but only to help them. As Sir Arthur was always willing to aid his sisters, it seemed as if they would prove a blessing in in the village near which they had come to live. When Susan took leave of the ladies, she was told they would call at her home that evening at six o'clock. Such a grand event as Susan's visit to the Abbey soon became known to Barbara Case and her maid, and together they watched for her return.
"There she is! She has just gone into her garden," cried Bab; "we'll run in at once and hear all about it."
Susan was gathering some marigolds and parsley for her mother's soup. "Well, Susan, and how are things going with you to-day?" asked Barbara.
"My mother is rather better, she says; thank you, ma'am."
"'Ma'am, how polite we have grown all of a sudden!" said Bab, winking at her maid. "One can see you have been in good company. Come, tell us all about it."
"Did you see the ladies themselves," asked Betty, "or only the housekeeper?"
"What room were you in?" went on Bab. "Did you see Miss Somers or Sir Arthur?"
"Miss Somers," replied Susan.
"Betty, she saw Miss Somers! I must hear about it. Susan, stop gathering those things, and have a chat with us."
"I can't indeed, Miss Barbara, for my mother wants her soup, and I am in a hurry." And Susan ran home.
"Would you believe it, her head is full of soup now?" said Bab to her maid. "She seems to think nothing of her visit to the Abbey. My papa may well call her Simple Susan. But simple or not I mean to get what I want out of her. Maybe when she has settled the grand matter of the soup, she'll be able to speak. I'll step in and ask to see her mother. That will put her in a good humor in a trice."
Barbara went to the cottage and found Susan standing over a pot on the fire. "Is the soup ready?" she asked. "I'll wait till you take it in to your mother and go in with you. I want to ask her how she is, myself."
"Sit down then, miss," said Susan, "I have put in the parsley, so the soup is nearly ready."
Barbara sat down and plied Susan with questions. How was Miss Somers dressed? Were the sisters dressed alike? What were they having for dinner at the Abbey? Above all, what could Miss Somers mean by saying she would call at Farmer Price's cottage at six o'clock that evening? "What do you think she could mean?" asked Barbara.
"What she said," replied Susan, "that she would be here at six o'clock."
"That's plain enough," said Barbara, "but what else do you think she meant? People, you know, often mean more or less than they say."
"They do," answered Susan, with a smile that made Barbara guess of whom she was thinking.
But Bab did not mean Susan to know that she guessed, so she said, "I suppose you think that Miss Somers meant more than she said?"
"I was not thinking of Miss Somers when I said what I did," replied Susan.
There was a pause, and then Bab remarked, "How nice the soup looks!"
Susan had poured it into a basin, and as she dropped over it the bright yellow marigold, it looked very tempting. She tasted it and added a little salt; tasted it again, and added a little more. Then she thought it was just as her mother liked it.
"Oh, I must taste it!" said Bab, seizing the basin greedily.
"Won't you take a spoon?" said Susan, trembling as she saw the big mouthfuls Barbara took with a loud noise.
"Take a spoon, indeed!" exclaimed Bab. "How dare you, how dare you speak so to me? 'Take a spoon, pig!' was what you meant to say! I'll never enter your cottage again!" And she flounced out of the house.
Susan stood still, amazed at the beginning of Barbara's speech, but her last words explained the sudden outburst.
Some years before this time, when Susan was a very little girl and could scarcely speak, as she was eating a basin of bread and milk for supper at the cottage door, a great pig came up and put his nose into the basin. Susan was willing that the pig should have some share of the bread and milk, but as she ate with a spoon and he with his large mouth, she soon found that he was likely to have more than his share; and she said to him, "Take a poon, pig." The saying became a proverb in the village, and Susan's little companions quoted it when any one claimed more than his share of anything good. Barbara, who was then not Miss Barbara, but plain Bab, and who played with all the poor children in the village, was often reproved by Susan's proverb. Susan, as she grew up, forgot the childish saying, but Barbara remembered it, and it was this that she thought was in Susan's mind when she asked her to take a spoon.
"Indeed, miss," said Betty, when she found Barbara in a passion upon her return from the cottage, "indeed I wonder you set your foot within the door. Your own papa has been at the Abbey all morning, and you can hear all you wish to know from him."
Barbara at once ran to her father's parlor, but saw at a glance that he was in no mood to answer questions. Instead of leaving him alone, she did all in her power to find out why he had been at the Abbey, and what he had seen and heard there. And when she found that her father would tell her nothing, she ran back to her maid, saying, "Papa is so cross! I cannot put up with him."
It is true that Attorney Case was not in a happy mood. His visit to the Abbey had made him feel sure that Sir Arthur and he would not agree about the treatment of the farmers who lived on the estate. One matter they had talked about was Sir Arthur's wish to enlarge his grounds and make a drive round them. A map of the estate lay upon the table and they looked at it together.
"Ah! but I see this new road for the drive would run through Farmer Price's garden," said Sir Arthur. "That would never do."
"It need not trouble you," said Attorney Case, "you may do as you like with Price's land."
"How so?" asked Sir Arthur. "His lease will not be out for ten years, I believe."
"True, that would have been the case had there not been a mistake in it. I have the lease and can show you." The heartless man then went on to explain to Sir Arthur what the mistake was.
Sir Arthur remained silent.
"Oh! I see," said the Attorney. "You do not wish to annoy Farmer Price. But just put the matter into my hands and I will manage it for you."
"You seem to forget that to take the farm out of this poor man's hands would be to ruin him," replied Sir Arthur, quietly.
"Indeed," said the wicked Attorney, "indeed I should be sorry for that, if it were not that Farmer Price is such an unruly, stubborn man."
"An unruly man, is he? If that be so, the sooner he leaves the place the better. When you go home, you will be good enough to send me the lease that I may, for myself, see the mistake."
Attorney Case got up to go. But before he went, he thought he must try to find out if Sir Arthur was going to employ him to look after the estate, that is, if he was to be the agent. "I will not trouble you about this lease, Sir Arthur," he said, "but will hand it to your agent, if you will inform me who is to have that post."
"I mean to be my own agent," answered Sir Arthur, "and will myself look after the happiness of the people among whom I have come to live."
It was the surprise of this reply that had sent Attorney Case home so cross that Barbara had said to Betty she could not put up with him.
When his daughter had left him atone, the Attorney walked up and down the room deep in thought. "At any rate," he said to himself at last, "if Sir Arthur means to manage the estate himself in summer, he at least will need an agent in winter. I must try to get the post." And he still walked up and down, trying to think of some plan by which he would find favor at the Abbey. Now that morning he had heard the housekeeper at the Abbey ask the servants if any lamb were to be had in the village, as Sir Arthur would like to have it one day soon for dinner.
Knowing that he himself treated those farmers best who from time to time gave him presents, Attorney Case thought that if he sent a gift to Sir Arthur, it might help him to get what he wished.
No sooner had the idea struck him than the Attorney went to the kitchen. Standing at the door was a shepherd-boy. Barbara, too, was there.
"Do you know of a nice fat lamb?" the Attorney asked the lad.
Before the shepherd-boy could answer, Barbara exclaimed, "I know of one. Susan Price has a pet lamb that is as fat as fat can be."
At once Attorney Case walked over to Farmer Price's cottage. He found Susan packing her father's little wardrobe, and as she looked up, he saw she had been in tears.
"How is your mother to-day, Susan?" inquired the Attorney.
"Worse, sir. My father goes to-morrow."
"That's a pity."
"It can't be helped," said Susan, with a sigh.
"It can't be helped—how do you know that?" said Mr. Case.
"Sir, dear sir!" cried she, looking up at him, and a sudden ray of hope beamed in her sweet face.
"What if you could help it, Susan?" he said.
Susan clasped her hands in silence.
"You can help it, Susan." She started up. "What would you give now to have your father at home for a whole week longer?"
"Anything!—but I have nothing."