Maria Edgeworth - The Parent's Assistant; Or, Stories for Children

When Susan heard her father's story, she quite forgot her guinea-hen, and her whole soul was intent upon her poor mother, who, notwithstanding her utmost exertion, could not support herself under this sudden stroke of misfortune.

In the middle of the night Susan was called up; her mother's fever ran high for some hours; but towards morning it abated, and she fell into a soft sleep with Susan's hand locked fast in hers.

Susan sat motionless, and breathed softly, lest she should disturb her. The rushlight, which stood beside the bed, was now burnt low; the long shadow of the tall wicker chair flitted, faded, appeared, and vanished, as the flame rose and sank in the socket. Susan was afraid that the disagreeable smell might waken her mother; and, gently disengaging her hand, she went on tiptoe to extinguish the candle. All was silent: the gray light of the morning was now spreading over every object; the sun rose slowly, and Susan stood at the lattice window, looking through the small leaded, crossbarred panes at the splendid spectacle. A few birds began to chirp; but, as Susan was listening to them, her mother started in her sleep, and spoke unintelligibly. Susan hung up a white apron before the window to keep out the light, and just then she heard the sound of music at a distance in the village. As it approached nearer, she knew that it was Philip playing upon his pipe and tabor. She distinguished the merry voices of her companions 'carolling in honour of the May,' and soon she saw them coming towards her father's cottage, with branches and garlands in their hands. She opened quick, but gently, the latch of the door, and ran out 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 upon her lips, and pointed to her mother's window. Philip's pipe stopped instantly.

'Thank you,' said Susan, 'my mother is ill; I can't leave her, you know.' Then gently putting aside the crown, her companions bid her say who should wear it for her.

'Will you, dear Rose?' said she, placing the garland upon her friend's head. 'It's a charming May morning,' added she, with a smile; 'good-bye. We shan't 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 mind to play any more.'

'Good-bye, poor Susan. It is a pity you can't come with us,' said all the children; and little Mary ran after Susan to the cottage door.

'I forgot to thank you,' said she, 'for the double cowslips; look how pretty they are, and smell how sweet the violets are in my bosom, and kiss me quick, for 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?' said Susan to herself, as she bent over her sleeping mother's pale countenance.

Her mother's unfinished knitting lay upon a table near the bed, and Susan sat down in her wicker arm-chair, and went on with the row, in the middle of which her hand stopped the preceding evening. 'She taught me to knit, she taught me everything that I know,' thought Susan, 'and the best of all, she taught me to love her, to wish to be like her.'

Her mother, when she awakened, felt much refreshed by her tranquil sleep, and observing that it was a delightful morning, said 'that she had been dreaming she heard music; but that the drum frightened her, because she thought it was the signal for her husband to be carried away by a whole regiment of soldiers, who had pointed their bayonets at him. But that was but a dream, Susan; I awoke, and knew it was a dream, and I then fell asleep, and have slept soundly ever since.'

How painful it is to awake to the remembrance of misfortune. Gradually as this poor woman collected her scattered thoughts, she recalled the circumstances of the preceding evening. She was too certain that she had heard from her husband's own lips the words, ' I must leave you in three days '; and she wished that she could sleep again, and think it all a dream.

'But he'll want, he'll want a hundred things,' said she, starting up. 'I must get his linen ready for him. I'm afraid it's very late. Susan, why did you let me lie so long?'

'Everything shall be ready, dear mother; only don't hurry yourself,' said Susan. And indeed her mother was ill able to bear any hurry, or to do any work this day. Susan's affectionate, dexterous, sensible activity was never more wanted, or more effectual. She understood so readily, she obeyed so exactly; and when she was left to her own discretion, judged so prudently, that her mother had little trouble and no anxiety 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 out. 'How does your mother do, in the first place?' said Rose. 'Better, thank you.' 'That's well, and I have a little bit of good news for you besides – here,' said she, pulling out a glove, 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, I assure you. Now we are a match for Miss Barbara. You won't like to leave home; I'll go to Barbara, and you shall see your guinea-hen in ten minutes.'

Rose hurried away, pleased with her commission, and eager to accomplish her business. Miss Barbara's maid, Betty, was the first person that was visible at the attorney's house. Rose insisted upon seeing Miss Barbara herself, and she was shown into a parlour to the young lady, who was reading a dirty novel, which she put under a heap of law papers as they entered.

'Dear, how you startled me! Is it only you?' said she to her maid; but as soon as she saw Rose behind the maid, she put on a scornful air. 'Could not ye say I was not at home, Betty? Well, my good girl, what brings you here? Something to borrow or beg, I suppose.'

May every ambassador – every ambassador in as good a cause – answer with as much dignity and moderation as Rose replied to Barbara upon the present occasion. She assured her that the person from whom she came did not send her either to beg or borrow; that she was able to pay the full value of that for which she came to ask; and, producing her well-filled purse, 'I believe that this is a very good shilling,' said she. 'If you don't like it, I will change it, and now you will be so good as to give me Susan's guinea-hen. It is in her name I ask for it.'

'No matter in whose name you ask for it,' replied Barbara, 'you will not have it. Take up your shilling, if you please. I would have taken a shilling yesterday, if it had been paid at the time properly; but I told Susan, that if it was not paid then, I should keep the hen, and so I shall, I promise her. You may go back, and tell her so.'

The attorney's daughter had, whilst Rose opened her negotiation, measured the depth of her purse with a keen eye; and her penetration discovered that it contained at least ten shillings. With proper management she had some hopes that the guinea-hen might be made to bring in at least half the money.

Rose, who was of a warm temper, not quite so fit a match as she had thought herself for the wily Barbara, incautiously exclaimed, 'Whatever it costs us, we are determined to have Susan's favourite hen; so, if one shilling won't do, take two; and if two won't do, why, take three.'

The shillings sounded provoking upon the table, as she threw them down one after another, and Barbara coolly replied, 'Three won't do.' 'Have you no conscience, Miss Barbara? Then take four.' Barbara shook her head. A fifth shilling was instantly proffered; but Bab, who now saw plainly that she had the game in her own hands, preserved a cold, cruel silence. Rose went on rapidly, bidding shilling after shilling, till she had completely emptied her purse. The twelve shillings were spread upon the table. Barbara's avarice was moved; she consented for this ransom to liberate her prisoner.