and an old woman who held his arm as if she needed to feel him at the moment of leaving her native land. This old woman had hated and denounced his sins, and there was scarce a point of morality on which she thoroughly agreed with him. Yet at threescore years and ten she left her native land with two sole objects—to comfort this stout man, and win him to repentance.
“He shall repent,” said she to herself. “Even now his eyes are opening, his heart is softening. Three times he has said to me, 'That George Fielding is a better man than I am.' He will repent. Again he said to me, I have thought too little of you, and too much where it was a sin for me even to look.' He will repent—his voice is softer—he bears no malice—he blames none but himself. It is never too late to mend. He will repent, and I shall see him happy and lay my old bones to rest contented, though not where I thought to lay them, in Grassmere churchyard.”
Ah, you do well to hold that quaint little old figure with that strong arm closer to you than you have done this many years, ay, since you were a curly-headed boy. It is a good sign, John; on neither side of the equator shall you ever find a friend like her.
'Tis like the mirage of the desert that appears
A cool refreshing water, and allures
The thirsty traveler, but flies anon
And leaves him disappointed, wondering
So fair a vision should so futile prove.
A mother's love is like unto a well
Sealed and kept secret, a deep-hidden fount
That flows when every other spring is dry.” *
* Sophia Woodrooffe.
Peter Crawley, left to his own resources, practices at the County Courts in his old neighborhood, and drinks with all his clients, who are of the lowest imaginable order. He complains that “he can't peck,” yet continues the cause of his infirmity, living almost entirely upon cock-a-doodle broth—eggs beat up in brandy and a little water. Like Scipio, he is never less alone than when alone; with this difference, that the companions of P. C.'s solitude do not add to the pleasure of his existence. Unless somebody can make him see that it is never too late to mend, this little rogue, fool and sot will “shut up like a knife some day” (so says a medical friend), and then it will be too late.
It is nine in the evening. A little party is collected of farmers and their wives and daughters. Mrs. George Fielding rises and says, “Now I must go home.” Remonstrance of hostess. “George will be at home by now.”
“Well, wait till he comes for you.”
“Oh, he won't come, for fear of shortening my pleasure.”
Susan then explains that George is so foolish that he never will go into the house when she is not in it. “And here is a drizzle come on, and there he will be sitting out in it, I know, if I don't go and drive him in.”
Events justify the prediction. The good wife finds her husband sitting on the gate kicking his heels quite contented and peaceable, only he would not pay the house the compliment of going into it when she was not there. He told her once he looked on it as no better than a coal-hole when she was not shining up and down it.
N. B.—They have been some years married. A calm but very tender conjugal love sits at this innocent hearth.
George has made a great concession for an Englishman. He has solemnly deposited before witnesses his sobriquet of “Unlucky George,” not (he was careful to explain) because he found the great nugget, nor because the meadow he bought in Bathurst for two hundred pounds has just been sold by Robinson for twelve thousand pounds, but on account of his being Susan's husband.
And Susan is very happy. Besides the pleasure of loving and being loved, she is in her place in creation. The class of women (a very large one) to which she belongs comes into the world to make others happy. Susan is skillful at this and very successful. She makes everybody happy round her, “and that is so pleasant.” She makes the man she loves happy, and that is delightful.
My reader shall laugh at her; my unfriendly critic shall sneer at her. As a heroine of a novel she deserves it; but I hope for their own sakes neither will undervalue the original in their passage through life. These average women are not the spice of fiction, but they are the salt of real life.
William Fielding is godfather to Susan's little boy.
He can stand by his brother's side and look without compunction on Anne Fielding's grave, and think without an unmanly shudder of his own.