SUSAN OLIPHANT

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1636, 8 July 1903, Page 7

SUSAN OLIPHANT

A TRUE TALE.

At one end of a village near the celebrated Palis of the Clyde-, and close on the river’s brink, was situated, .some years ago, a near coinage. J-t could not. from its siae. be tire vLla of a gentleman, yet ii wore a superior look to the dwellings in its neighbourhood. Surrounded by a garden and orchard, the exterior of this cottage dwelling spoke of modest plenty and humble contentment ; nor did its interior disappoint the opinion formed of it. us inmates were a man, now descending into the va.o of years, yet stall hale and vigorous; his wife, past middle age; and a lovely girl, their only child. James Oliphant was by profession a gardener ; but though his fruit trees yielded abundantly, and his flowers an-d vegetables were the finest in the neighbourhood ; though his wire’s dairy was the neatest, and her cream and butter the sweetest, yet could not their apparent means of livelihood account for many of the comforts, and even luxuries, which were to be found in their cottage; and, indeed, there-is no reason for concealing the fact, so much to (Jiiphant’s credit, that, having been gardener for many years to an .English, nobleman, the latter, at bis death, left him ia-n annuity which., though small, being husbanded with, frugality, and seconded by industry, went a long way. James’s wife was an Englishwoman. andl this will account for tile air of order, cleanliness and comfort in and around, their little abode; for, though we would not be harsh on o-ur country-women, who does not know that the things intended by these expressions are only known in perfection in the dwelling of the English peasant ? Mrs Oliphant was somewhat arbitrary, and very reserved!. She liked to rule, without giving reasons fox her conduct; yet she ruled so well, and was so active and attentive to all her duties, that she merited neither unkindnessi nor reproof, and the voice of discord was never heard in their habitation, where each knew and performed their own part, for the benefit of the whole. It is true the girl Susan, with her fine forehead and sunny smile, and the depth of feeling in her dark blue eyes, sometimes longed for more cheeful society than that of her parents, or a more unreserved and congenial mind than her mother’s, oo which to pour forth all its longings, all its aspirations. It would appear they wished 1 hereto receive an education and breeding somewhat superior to wuat a cottage girl might require for she was exempted by her mother from any part in the menial offices of the little household; and, from a desire to exclude her from the contamination of low companionship, her father was her only instructor; but he was a well-educated intelligent man, as many of his class are known to be in Scotland, so that he was quite competent to direct his child’s early education. She was always dressed too, with a ladylike simplicity, equally remote from coarse plainness and flaunting vulgarity, and her own little room was adorned with care, and

furimmed with books of eiegant iiteraLUre. ni lot wed to cnoos-e in a great measure, xier own empi.oym.ent, sue loved to tend tne . non uawt-rs ter mtiler’s care procured tor ner, to Alston to uie nappy notes of the birds among tne fruit trees; but ,above an, to wander on tne banns of tne <Jiyde, wuu some improving boons, from wnose silent but eloquent companionsnip tne tone of her mind and feelings was insensibly raised to ingli communing and graceful thougnts, wmoii again dmused a charm over ner daily uepomment. hardly to be expected from her rank, in Life. Treated thus with lavish indulgence, without a care or sorrow to .cioud iier clays, what -could our young heroine desire more for happiness? nut yet, somehow, she envied the fond caresses and unrestrained interenange of reeling and affection winch she had witnessed m poorer dwellings than' theirs. Ehe wished her mother were not so distant, and that she were invited to twine ner arms around her father’s neck, when sue had repeated to linn her daily taslt; but such were net then* winning ways. So she looked the loving emotions of her heart the closer in that pure sanctuary, and -contented herself with returning her dear parents’ kindness by devoted meekness, and dutiful obedience to ail their wishes.

Thus passed Susan’s childhood and early youth. V/ hen verging, however, on womanhood, she earnestly sought to be allowed to go to the school of the adjoining parish, not so much to seek society, as to acquire some branches of useful knowledge which her father was not competent to impart. After short demurring, and a private consultation, father and mother consented. Eager to improve, the ardent girl pursued diligently and successfully the studies pointed out to her; but ere many months had elapsed, a sudden stroke compelled the aged teacher to call to his assistance a clever young man, the son of an early friend, whowas studying for the church, and who wished to fill up his leisure by instucting the young. From this new instructor Susan obtained stores of knowledge of a higher kind than she had received at the hands of the old schoolmaster; and it will readily be anticipated that these were rendered all the more de>lightful to her, by their coming from a being possessed of the natural qualities which were calculated to awaken a class of sympathies appropriate to her age. With her, the mastering of a task, and the receiving for it the mead of approbation, were now matters of a deeper interest than before; in short, without being conscious of it, she had given her heart to the young .teacher. It was not long after this that, a second stroke carrying off the old master, the new one sought and obtained, the appointment to his situation; a humble one, but presenting a reasonable security against want. William Macdonald thought he might now, without impropriety, seek the hand of his young pupil, and it required but a few words to make him aware that lie already possessed some advantages for the accomplishment of this object. After that revelation —abrupt, and almost unpremeditated on either side —Susan returned no more to school. She shrunk with instinctive maiden delicacy from

throwing herself in her lover’s way; but we cannot doubt her heart beat rapturously as, after a few days of ner unwonted absence, she saw her t earner on a lovely spring evening come to her home to learn tne reason. Again and again he caane, and she suffered herseuf to be led by him along the flowery bank of ike Clyde. >She had found what long sue nacl yearned for, a congenial heart ■and cultivated mind with wmcli to commune, and she readily promised, provided that her parents views were in harmony with her own, to be his wife. INeed it be said they gave glad consent. Tnough of humble birth, \vliliam's education had been liberal. MiS bearing ing was that, we might almost say, of a genulemail; his situation was comfortable; Ins prospects encouraging. So Susan, only m her seventeentn year, was wedded to William Macdonald.

Mrs Oliphant, exuiting, gave her only child a liberal wardrobe and substantially furnished her bedroom; her father gave her some articles, with his fervent blessing; and Susan took possession of a smaii hut neat dwelling adjoining her husband’s school.

Two or three days after the wedding, the young wife was unpacking her trunks, aud arranging tunny her clothes, when Macdonald entered. “What! is scixool over so soon? I did not think it was so late.”

“Why, you know this is Saturday,” replied the husband, “leave off fatiguing younseif, and come and take a walk; but what is all this you have spread around you?” “Dear William, any mother has been very generous and very kind,” replied Susan; “she has stocked me with clothes and with good house linens; and see, here is a piece of Holland, for shirts for you. I mean to begin them immediately.”

It is marvellous how small a cirouinstance will serve to reveal a propensity hitherto prevented from showing itself; Macdonald possessed many gooct qualities, but he was envious and avaricious; and the sight of the few articles of value now spread out befor& him stimulated these hideous feelings into a state of unhappy activity. “It is very strange how your mother should have sc many fine things,” he observed; “where had she the money to buy them?”

“I know not—how should I? She tells not me her secrets, if any she has; bnt you forget, dear William, she was for a long time ladies’-maid, and then housekeeper, to a rich and noble family. Doubtless sbe saved something; but it is so kind to bestow it thus on me, that I think we had better take it gratefully, and never trouble ourselves about bow she got it.” This was sail gaily and innocently; yet the next instant, as if stung by an after-thought, a crimson blush spread over the fair face and brow, and sbe exclaimed energetically , “Honestly, William, I’ll swear it was made. Often, often I’ve heard my father say how her master’s family valued her incorruptible fidelity i and honesty.” “Oh, I doubt not that; I am quite sure of that, my dear girl,” promptly replied the husband; ‘‘but”—-the demon spirit of avarice was knocking at his breast —“but do you think your motner has anything considerable?”

“I have not even an idea. We hava had every comfort, and lived well. All she has will be mine at her death (I pray (rod it. may be long till thank She told me so the nignt before wd were married; and, by the way, Wiliiam, what do you think of this? I had almost forgot I was just going to show it to you. .My mother gave me this at the same' time,” putting into his hands a very small and elegant lady 7 s gold waten; ‘‘it was her young lady's gift qn ner death-bed—for my mother sat up with her many xugnts—• mother told me to keep it safely; it was the most valuable thing she had, and I had never seen it before. But it ia

only to look lat, William, for me; it is not fit for me to wear, you know; but is it not beautiful?”

“It is a valuable thing, Susan., dear; lay it up carerully.” The demon, of avarice was knawang at his heart. He sat buried in meditation while his young wife wound up the watch, put it to her ear, and after looking at it a few moments with girlish delight, replaced, it in its case, and locked it in her drawer.

A few weeks after this unhappy event, Macdonald found it necessary to permit his wife to attend the bedside of her father, who was seized with a fatal illness. Susan was most sedulous in her attentions, and sometimes fancied the invalid looked anxiously, as if wishing to speak to her alone. At length, one day, having hastened to the cottage, she found her mother absent in the village on some necessary errand. The child of a neighbour was in the kitchen, who told her her father slept. Stealing to his bedside, however, in a few moments he awoke. “Is it you, Susan?” asked he feebly; “where is your mother?” “Gone out for a few minutes, but X shall get you anything you require.” “It is to say a few words to you X want, my child. Your mother has a will of her own; but I fear I am dying, and I will not leave the world in peace with a lie mmy right hand. Susan, dear, though I have striven to be a father to you, you are no child of mine. Forgive me, Susan, for ever deceiving you thus. I say, Susan, you are noo my daughter,” repeated he' anxiously, as she answered not at first. “Ok, do not talk so, father —'father. He is raving !” hurriedly exclaimed the terrified girl.

“Nay, hear me; I am in my senses, and speak the truth. When I am gone, tell your mother what I have told yon, and that I conjure her to confide in you, and make provision for you out of what is justly yours, not hers.” But at this instant the sound of Mrs Olipkant’s return met his ear, and he stopped suddenly, apparently leaving, his well-intentioned but " injudicious communication incomplete. Shrinking from the idea of his wife’s reproach, and trembling under her ascendency, he left one exposed to the storm which he avoided, the person whom he ought rather to have sheltered if he could; so thoughtlessly selfish are many even whom the world calls worthy characters. Darting a penetrating glance at the uncertain troubled looks of her husband and daughter, Mrs Oiipkant bustled to his side. He had fainted, and his end approached rapidly. Susan whispered to her mother that he b©-

lieved Trim self dying, which explained, or appeared to do so,- the agitation she had witnessed .on her entrance, though Susan said it not with that intention; indeed she knew not what to think, nor how to act, so strangely had her father’s words bewildered her. Remaining with the dying man till her husband came to fetch her, they together watched the close of the scene, then leaving a neighbour with the newmade widow, they returned to their home, thus early visited with sorrow. William tenderly soothed bis weeping wife; but when she reached her dwelling, she shut herself in her room, to ask her sorely agitated heart what she ought to do. “Can it be true ? Am I, indeed, not his child?” A thousand corroborative circumstances flashed on her recollection. “Whose, then, am IP The concealment tells me.” Raving made the communication to her husband without suppressing a word, the poor girl clung to his breast with passionate fervour, as if fearful he would drive tier thence; but, pressing Tier effectionately closer, he said “Well my dear; compose yourself. What is that to us, that it should disturb our happiness for a moment? Are you not my wife—my own Susan still ?” These few words lightened the load of poor Susan’s sorrow of more than half its weight; but she knew not that her William cherished in his bosom an adder which was to poison his peace and wreck her happiness. What did it signify to him who was her father, provided he could get possession of the ample provision Oiiphant’s last words pointed at?

The poor gardener laid in the grave, his widow's grief was decent, yet composed. Busan put olf her bridal attire for appropriate mourning; and her husband suppressed, with effort. the impatience of tue demon-disturber of his repose. After questioning and crossquestioning ms poor wife, who now began to be aware of the passion which possessed him, Macdonald at length insisted that Busan should deliver Janies Oiipnant's last instructions to the widdiow. it had been Mrs Oiiphant’s habit, as was natural, never to pass her daughter’s doer without calling; and each evening, when they had not so met during the day, and now, especially, in the retirement of her new-made widowhood, Busan’s walk with William was to her cottage. But again and again the sensitive daughter shrunk from her hateful task, till Macdonald! threatened to undertake it himself; therefore* knowing he was irritable and her mother resolute, for fear of an outbreak of temper between the only two beings in the world she had to love, the devote-. young wife set out alone to perform her mission. Her mother’s cottage was trim and snug as usual; the widow’s grief had not hindered her accustomed cares. Susan trembled violently, but at last faltered out the substance of her last conversation with him she had ever called her father. The widow heard her out with marvellously little change of countenance and manner. At the conclusion she wept. “Yes, my poor girl, there is a mystery about your birth that had better be left as it is, for it has already cost much sorrow. I beg you will, at least ask no more on the subject at present. A time may come when you will know all.”

Maoclonald was not at all satisfied with his wife’s report of this interview. Bent on bettering his condition, the good-will of a school in the next town was to be sold, and he coveted the possession ; but his wife’s mother approved not of the plan and refused the means. Several violent altercations consequently took place between him and the widow Oliphau.t on the subject of what he insisted was Susan’s portion ; and no asseverations of the widow, that she. possessed only her own —and that, except by her choice, his v T ife was entitled to no part of it —nor yet the sorrowful pleadings of the distressed Susan, could stop the unseemly and unwonted strife. At length Macdonald, hoping to force his mother-in-law to meet his views, positively forbade any intervourse between her and bis wife, and became harsh and unkind to the young and lovely being who had so lately surrendered her happiness to his keeping. The struggle between avarice and his better nature now became deadly in his breast; and one bitter autumn day he took his way to the cottage of Mrs Oliphant. Outrageous was the war of words in the scene that ensued; and the school master returned to his young wife in a state of horrible excitement. The fiend had triumphed, and was raging uncontrolled within. He vociferated words of reproach to the unoffending Susan; yea, with coward hand; drove lier from him, and then fled from the house. The cold chill of despair struck to the heart of the hapless Susan; but when, after a period of time, she found that her husband returned not, she flew rather than walked to the home of her contented happy childhood. Here she immediately perceived that an angry interview had taken place between her husband and mother. “My dear mother, tell me all, I beseech you ” “Mother! I am—for I must now reveal what I hoped to remain secret—l ann not your mother.” “Tell me. tell me in pity,” said Susan, “have I indeed no mother to fly to in this dismal hour? .Oh! I will bless you

for ever, if you will only let me call you my mother 1” More moved than she had ever been by the piteous looks and Avords, and yet more piteous situation of the gentle, forlorn and so lately happy girl, the widow raised her kindly, and besought her to he calm, and hear the tale which the selfish passions of her husband had, by his frenzied provocations, wrung from the long unmoved and imperious woman. Susan fixed a glazed yet anxious eye on tue speaker as she proceeded. “I shall be as brief as possible. The time, however, is come when you must know the truth; and, remember, the disclosure has not been of my seeking. I was, as you know, housekeeper in the noble family of . My lovely youngest lady was your mother!” Susan, m an agony of distress, shuddered, but remained calm. “There had been, as I learnt from indistinct expressions of my dying mistress, a species of marriage between her and your father, a gentleman of high degree, but it had been secret and irregular. There was not at any rate a vestige of evidence of the deed, and therefore there hung over your birth all the disgrace of illegitimacy. Your father was absent with his regiment. To shield your mother and her family’s proud name, I conveyed you secretly to James, my late husband, who Avas head gardener, and then my suitor. He succeeded in placing you in safety with a nurse, while I remained, for the few days life was granted, with the poor mother. I never left her or her remains till I saAv them laid, in unsuspected purity, in a lamented grave. The night of her death she gave me the watch you have, faintly whispering, “Give it to my child, if she survives.”

| “Oh! dear and precious legacy of her who gave me being!” Avept the desolate orphan, as if over a mother’s grave. “Hear me out, my poor girl. After a short time I joined him avlio then became my husband ; and communicating with your father, Avho Avas abroad, Avas commanded by him to keep the birth of his child secret as the grave that had sheltered its mother, bestOAving on me a sum of money, vested in my own name ; but (such Avas the confidence reposed in me) trusting to me to provide for the offspring of error and sorrow. Not unworthy Avas I of the trust thus confided in me,” proceeded she proudly. “You know, Susan, I have cared for you ; I have educated and provided for you far beyond our seeming station. It was my pride and joy to surround you even Avith elegancies. NotAvithstanding Avhat I told you, after the unfortunate disclosure my late husband made to you, your father yet lives; and some of the books and articles you have Avere sent to me by him for your use.” “Which —AA r hich are they?” again interrupted the anxious Susan. “You shall know that by and by,” soothingly replied the woman. “I alAvays intended you should have abundantly sufficient for your moderate and reasonable wants; but in such a form, and at such times, as I saiv best. But the violence, pertinacity and avarice of your husband has provoked this disclosure, and to his own complete discomfiture; since I have at length convinced him,” she bitterly added, “that neither the law he threatened me with, nor any power he could appeal to. can procure him what he seeks. The name of your father I am bound to conceal, and neither coaxing nor violence shall force it from me. The only other being who knew it, sleeps now in the silence of death. Even you, poor innocent sufferer for the faults of others must not ask me this.” But she spoke to nearly insensible ears. Susan’s brain had hardly comprehended the latter part of her communications. Seeing the condition of the unfortunate girl, she immediately accompanied her home. The AA’retched Macdonald, already half-repenting, yet writhing under resentment and disappointment, saw them pass his school window, but forbore to intrude upon them. Hardly conscious as she AA r as, Avhen placed n her oavu bed, the heart-stricken mourner pointed to her drawer, and eagerly persisted that her noAV pitying and anxious attendant should bring lier somewhat from thence. The Avid'OAv at length comprehended her, and placed in the trembling hands of her protege the Avatch, the legacy of her dyiim mother. Clasping and kissing it, she hung its chain around her neck, and hid the bauble in her bosom. Vvhen Mrs 01 ipbant had done Avhat she could for the comfort of the nearly unconscious invalid, she left her to seek medical aid, first calling Macdonald, Avho, consciencestricken at what had been his cruel work, hung with tender grief and selfreproach over the uncomplaining sufferer. A dry and burning kiss, a feAv murmured AA r ords of fondness, were all ber reply to his flood of tears and passionate intreaties for forgiveness. The same night Susan’s senses Avholly forsook her: and, notwithstanding all that human skill could do, ©re five days more her spirit had fled, the, victim of parental error, and of the selfish passions of her protectress and her husband. When the solemn scene was finally closed,- what must have been the sensations of the survivors? We would not seek to veil errors everyone must condemn —selfishness and avarice persisted in, and terminating in the untimely death of a youthful wife, tlie only being blameless in this domestic tragedy. Macdonald obtained employment in a das-

taut town and returned no more to the banka of the Clyde. We trust he has spent his days in penitence and humble contentment. Mrs O'liphant remained in her cottage and hired a person to cultivate her garden. It must have appeared, if we have faithfully sketched her character, that she was not a woman of much sentiment or sensibility ; yet she mourned for the being she had brought up as her own with a quiet, yet moresettled grief, than was to have been expected. Not many weeks after Susan’s death, a plain travelling chariot stopped at the village inn. and a noble-looking man, its only occupant, inquired for Mrs Oliphant. Alighting, he was snown to her dwelling, and dismissed his little guide thither, with a liberal recompense. Great was the widow’s surprise—much greater than usual the trial of her ha,bitual self-possession —when he stood before her; for, though eighteen years had passed over them, ©he at once recognised him. After ascertaining that uo one was within hearing, “I come to see you my good friend, the stranger said, “to thank you for your care of my child. Your last letter told me of her comfortable marriage. I may not indulge all I feel; but I would fain for once see her—see the living resemblance, as you have often told me, of my poor unhappy ” Agitation choked his utterance; but his faithful servant wept bitterly. “Ah I what is this I see?” glancing at her weeds; “you are lately become a widow; I had not at first observed it. Well, but, j.u.rs Oliphant”—and he was proceeding with, some commonplace words of consolation. “’Tis not. my widowhood I mourn, my lord, though that now seems more sorrowful than before. You have come to see your lovely child; and oh.! how wou/ld h(er poor heart now have been satisfied 1 but she sleeps in the cold grave. Alas! do I live to tell it?” —wringing her hands in a paroxysm of distress. The 6hock was great; but the father listened with deep interest to the particulars Mrs Oliphant chose to give him of the last illness and death of his hapless child, the circumstances leading to which, it may be believed, were smoothed over, perhaps in kindness. The stranger looked around him—he saw the books he had sent her —the flowers she had reared—her fav»urite canary, in its spacious cage, carolling the cheerful

notes she has so often listened to. He asked to have something that had belonged to her, and the watch, which tJhe widow had taken from the inanimate remains, together with its history, was given to him; finally, he shed tears in bitter anguish over the humble grave of the being who bad been wronged so deeply. Such were the emotions wrung by remorse from a heart not wholly lost t-o the better feelings of our nature. A| humble, childless, unhonoured man, ho returned to those scenes of high life, where there are many bosoms besides his concealing under a gay outside a sinful and sorrow-stricken heart. Oh! that the rich and great would reflect in time on the oonsequenoes that may flow from selfishness and error, not only to - themselves, but to others, and, above all, to the one party who ever is the most innocent, though the most wronged. Here, indeed, we have seen that an effort was made to provide a moderate happiness for the unfortunate victim.; but. even if her married lot had been happier, was it altogether appropriate?, Alas! no. Inheriting by nature the high-toned mind and delicate tastes of her parents, she was cast in a field where these never could have received their proper gratifications, and where unhappiness consequently must have sooner or later befallen her; where, as it was, the shock which they received from o-ne set of adverse circumstances proved the cause of her lamentable fate—a broken, heart and an early grave.