Anonymous - The simple tale of Susan Aked

We used to live at the foot of the continuation of the range of the Malvern Hills, on the borders of Herefordshire and Worcestershire. That is, my father, mother, I and an old faithful servant, Martha Warmart. Martha had been my mother's maid before she married my father, and was quite a confidential member of the family. Indeed, the idea of her leaving us never entered either her head or ours. Our other servants rarely stayed longer than a year or so because we lived in such a quiet hum-drum spot, amongst such perfect clod-hoppers, that there was a scarcity of beaux; and what woman, saving a staid, elderly one, can be expected to like a place where the engaging male sex is so sadly wanting? Until I was sixteen years old I had lived in this dear old house, and so even and tranquil was my life that I never contemplated leaving the place. If my father and mother had grown any older during those years I did not notice it. To me they were ever the same, and so indeed was Martha. My father was a great reader of books, much versed in science, and his delight and my pleasure was my being taught by him. Botany, geology, animal and insect nature formed the chief and most interesting portion of our studies; but history, geography, French and Italian also found their place. I learnt to play the piano from my mother, and altogether, though completely without society, my education would have done me credit had I had the advantages of a town maiden's life. As I have said before I was as happy as the day was long, never knowing what a violent emotion was like.

But all this was to come now to an end. One fine morning in the early summer-oh! I have cause to remember the 6th of June-my mother came down to breakfast without my father. She told me she supposed it was a long walk he had taken with me the day previous which must have tried him, but that he was so sound asleep she had not the heart to waken him. We ate our breakfast as usual, only taking care to make as little clatter as possible with our knives, forks, cups and spoons, lest any little noise might reach the ears of the dear sleeper above, and waken him from a sound and refreshing sleep. Ah, me!

I went out into the garden to see which new flowers had blossomed into beauty, and to pick a nice posy for my father, who loved flowers, when I heard my mother shrieking out for Martha. The tone of her voice alarmed me, and I flew to see what was amiss. My mother, seeing me rushing upstairs, called louder still for Martha, who came running as fast as such an ancient body could, together with the servants, who were as alarmed as myself, all with faces of consternation. My poor mother, seeing us all coming, went into her bedroom, and, pointing to my father, said, 'I don't know what is the matter with him but I cannot wake him!' I ran forward, but Martha pushed me to one side, saying, 'Not yet, Miss Susan, dear!' and went and gazed earnestly in my fathers' face. He was lying on one side in the position of a person sound asleep.

Oh! He was dead! Dead! He had died probably very early in the morning, for he was quite cold and stiff: he must have been dead for hours. The agony of the discovery was unbearable. It was such a dreadful, dreadful shock, but what followed intensified our grief and horror, and made it seem as though all the miseries man was capable of enduring were being showered down upon our devoted heads. My darling mother never spoke again! She sank into a chair, gasped once or twice, and before anyone could run to her aid, she fell to the floor, literally heart-broken. I must beg permission to cease from any further details of the most excruciatingly agonizing moments I ever spent. I do not even remember how the hours, the days and the weary nights passed. I was stunned with the overwhelming grief and desolation that came upon me, and I can only liken myself to a happy bird, a native of the tropics, suddenly moved from its joyous surroundings to an Arctic desert.

The first distinct thing I can remember was old Martha telling me I should write to my father's man of business, old Penwick, whom I had seen several times when he came to see my poor dear father on business. I did so. Worcester, where he resided, was not very distant from us, but news from our part of the world travelled slowly along the country roads, and my letter reached Mr Penwick before rumour. The old gentleman was inexpressibly shocked and grieved. I find that suddenness has a great deal to do with feelings of that kind-not that I think Mr Penwick would have shown less sympathy had my parents died after a long illness instead of in the sudden manner that they did; but the blow, coming like a thunderclap as it happened, certainly caused him intense pain, and made his benevolent old heart open towards me in a most tender and fatherly manner. He advised me to think of some of my nearer relations, and to write and ask one of them to come and stay with me for a while, until some plan for the future could be made, for there would be some work for the lawyers, and much to be done before my affairs could be put into good order. I was a minor, too, and must have a guardian.

My father's will had to be discovered, and whilst all this was being done, as my presence was necessary, Mr Penwick said I ought to have someone to stay and live with me, to cheer me up and divert my unhappy thoughts into some brighter and altogether different channel. I felt too languid, too indifferent. My simple prayers were that I too might die, and go to that happy land where I had been taught to believe my beloved parents had gone, and where I might be with them for ever.

Had my cousins, the Althairs, been still at Leigh, Mr Penwick would have called in on his way in and out from Worcester, and asked my aunt to let one of the girls come to keep me company; but they had gone to live in France. There were other less well-known cousins of mine, one of whom my mother had invited to make short stays with me some six years back. I did not care much for her, as she was a town girl, with ideas and pursuits altogether different from mine, and I remembered being offended with her for sneering, as I thought, at my 'beetle and pebble hunting' occupations, which to her were tiresome and uninteresting. Somehow her name came into my head-Lucia Lovete-and it was to her that Mr Penwick wrote. Lucia had lost her parents when very young; like myself, she was an only child, and she lived at Sunninghill with another cousin a little older than herself, Gladys Spendwell. In my heart I thought Lucia would never care to come, and I really hoped she would not. I was in that morbidly unhealthy frame of mind when it seems unbearable to have to speak to others. The only person I cared to see was dear old Martha, for she would cry with me, though she too, scolded me for not trying to bear up better.

But Lucia came: the moment she heard the dreadful tidings she left all her joys behind her, packed up a trunk and came as quick as steam and horseflesh would bring her. Nothing could exceed her gentle, sweet, sympathising manner. She took my heart by storm. It is true she was the means of making my tears gush forth again, but they were not the same bitter tears of desolation and despair, for I felt I had in her a true, supporting heart to lean on. Poor old Martha had indeed given me hers; but she was old, and Lucia was new and more of my age, being nineteen whilst I was sixteen. So to Lucia I clung. Shall I tell you what she was like? Lucia was just a little above the middle height for girls. She had a most lovely figure, with beautiful arms, hands and feet. The lines of her bosom were singularly beautiful, for she was full there without being too plump, and her breasts seemed like living things. She had a waist naturally small but not in the least waspish, and from this her hips gradually and gracefully expanded to a most exquisite fullness. Her head was small and beautifully poised on a throne of snow. But her face was too exquisite. Not only had she the most lovely dark brown eyes, most perfect nose, mouth and teeth, but her expression was forever changing. It was my delight to feast upon her personal beauty, and I knew not which to admire most in her, for each point seemed perfection, and there seemed nothing to praise at the expense of something else. Lucia might be compared with another girl as a whole- with me for instance (and I have often been taken for her sister) but you could not say of her that she has lovely arms, feet, hands, breasts, etc.