Half a LifeTime Ago.........................................................................................................................................1

Elizabeth Gaskell.....................................................................................................................................1

Half a lifetime ago, there lived in one of the Westmoreland dales a single woman, of the name of Susan

Dixon. She was owner of the small farmhouse where she resided, and of some thirty or forty acres of land

by which it was surrounded. She had also an hereditary right to a sheepwalk, extending to the wild fells that

overhang Blea Tarn. In the language of the country she was a Stateswoman. Her house is yet to be seen on

the Oxenfell road, between Skelwith and Coniston. You go along a moorland track, made by the carts that

occasionally came for turf from the Oxenfell. A brook babbles and brattles by the wayside, giving you a

sense of companionship, which relieves the deep solitude in which this way is usually traversed. Some miles

on this side of Coniston there is a farmsteada gray stone house, and a square of farmbuildings

surrounding a green space of rough turf, in the midst of which stands a mighty, funereal umbrageous yew,

making a solemn shadow, as of death, in the very heart and centre of the light and heat of the brightest

summer day. On the side away from the house, this yard slopes down to a darkbrown pool, which is

supplied with fresh water from the overflowings of a stone cistern, into which some rivulet of the brook

beforementioned continually and melodiously falls bubbling. The cattle drink out of this cistern. The

household bring their pitchers and fill them with drinkingwater by a dilatory, yet pretty, process. The

watercarrier brings with her a leaf of the hound'stongue fern, and, inserting it in the crevice of the gray

The house is no specimen, at the present day, of what it was in the lifetime of Susan Dixon. Then, every small

diamond pane in the windows glittered with cleanliness. You might have eaten off the floor; you could see

yourself in the pewter plates and the polished oaken awmry, or dresser, of the state kitchen into which you

entered. Few strangers penetrated further than this room. Once or twice, wandering tourists, attracted by the

lonely picturesqueness of the situation, and the exquisite cleanliness of the house itself, made their way into

this houseplace, and offered money enough (as they thought) to tempt the hostess to receive them as

lodgers. They would give no trouble, they said; they would be out rambling or sketching all day long; would

be perfectly content with a share of the food which she provided for herself; or would procure what they

required from the Waterhead Inn at Coniston. But no liberal sumno fair wordsmoved her from her stony

manner, or her monotonous tone of indifferent refusal. No persuasion could induce her to show any more of

the house than that first room; no appearance of fatigue procured for the weary an invitation to sit down and

rest; and if one more bold and less delicate did so without being asked, Susan stood by, cold and apparently

deaf, or only replying by the briefest monosyllables, till the unwelcome visitor had departed. Yet those with

whom she had dealings, in the way of selling her cattle or her farm produce, spoke of her as keen after a

bargaina hard one to have to do with; and she never spared herself exertion or fatigue, at market or in the

field, to make the most of her produce. She led the haymakers with her swift, steady rake, and her noiseless

evenness of motion. She was about among the earliest in the market, examining samples of oats, pricing

She was served faithfully and long by those who were rather her fellowlabourers than her servants. She was

even and just in her dealings with them. If she was peculiar and silent, they knew her, and knew that she

might be relied on. Some of them had known her from her childhood; and deep in their hearts was an

unspokenalmost unconsciouspity for her, for they knew her story, though they never spoke of it.

Yes; the time had been when that tall, gaunt, hardfeatured, angular womanwho never smiled, and hardly

ever spoke an unnecessary word had been a finelooking girl, brightspirited and rosy; and when the

hearth at the Yew Nook had been as bright as she, with family love and youthful hope and mirth. Fifty or

fiftyone years ago, William Dixon and his wife Margaret were alive; and Susan, their daughter, was about

eighteen years oldten years older than the only other child, a boy named after his father. William and

Margaret Dixon were rather superior people, of a character belongingas far as I have seenexclusively to

the class of Westmoreland and Cumberland statesmenjust, independent, upright; not given to much

speaking; kindhearted, but not demonstrative; disliking change, and new ways, and new people; sensible

and shrewd; each household selfcontained, and its members having little curiosity as to their neighbours,

with whom they rarely met for any social intercourse, save at the stated times of sheepshearing and

Christmas; having a certain kind of sober pleasure in amassing money, which occasionally made them

miserable (as they call miserly people up in the north) in their old age; reading no light or ephemeral

literature, but the grave, solid books brought round by the pedlars (such as the "Paradise Lost" and

"Regained,'" "The Death of Abel," "The Spiritual Quixote," and "The Pilgrim's Progress"), were to be found

in nearly every house: the men occasionally going off laking, i.e. playing, i.e. drinking for days together, and

having to be hunted up by anxious wives, who dared not leave their husbands to the chances of the wild

precipitous roads, but walked miles and miles, lantern in hand, in the dead of night, to discover and guide the

solemnlydrunken husband home; who had a dreadful headache the next day, and the day after that came

forth as grave, and sober, and virtuous looking as if there were no such thing as malt and spirituous liquors in

the world; and who were seldom reminded of their misdoings by their wives, to whom such occasional

outbreaks were as things of course, when once the immediate anxiety produced by them was over. Such

weresuch are the characteristics of a class now passing away from the face of the land, as their

compeers, the yeomen, have done before them. Of such was William Dixon. He was a shrewd clever farmer,

in his day and generation, when shrewdness was rather shown in the breeding and rearing of sheep and cattle

than in the cultivation of land. Owing to this character of his, statesmen from a distance from beyond Kendal,

or from Borrowdale, of greater wealth than he, would send their sons to be farmservants for a year or two

with him, in order to learn some of his methods before setting up on land of their own. When Susan, his

daughter, was about seventeen, one Michael Hurst was farmservant at Yew Nook. He worked with the

master, and lived with the family, and was in all respects treated as an equal, except in the field. His father

was a wealthy statesman at Wythburne, up beyond Grasmere; and through Michael's servitude the families

had become acquainted, and the Dixons went over to the High Beck sheep shearing, and the Hursts came

down by Red Bank and Loughrig Tarn and across the Oxenfell when there was the Christmastide feasting at

Yew Nook. The fathers strolled round the fields together, examined cattle and sheep, and looked knowing

over each other's horses. The mothers inspected the dairies and household arrangements, each openly

admiring the plans of the other, but secretly preferring their own. Both fathers and mothers cast a glance from

time to time at Michael and Susan, who were thinking of nothing less than farm or dairy, but whose unspoken

attachment was, in all ways, so suitable and natural a thing that each parent rejoiced over it, although with

characteristic reserve it was never spoken aboutnot even between husband and wife.

Susan had been a strong, independent, healthy girl; a clever help to her mother, and a spirited companion to

her father; more of a man in her (as he often said) than her delicate little brother ever would have. He was his

mother's darling, although she loved Susan well. There was no positive engagement between Michael and

SusanI doubt whether even plain words of love had been spoken; when one winter time Margaret Dixon

was seized with inflammation consequent upon a neglected cold. She had always been strong and notable,

and had been too busy to attend to the early symptoms of illness. It would go off, she said to the woman who

helped in the kitchen; or if she did not feel better when they had got the hams and bacon out of hand, she

would take some herbtea and nurse up a bit. But Death could not wait till the hams and bacon were cured:

he came on with rapid strides, and shooting arrows of portentous agony. Susan had never seen illnessnever

knew how much she loved her mother till now, when she felt a dreadful, instinctive certainty that she was

losing her. Her mind was thronged with recollections of the many times she had slighted her mother's wishes;

her heart was full of the echoes of careless and angry replies that she had spoken. What would she not now

give to have opportunities of service and obedience, and trials of her patience and love, for that dear mother

who lay gasping in torture! And yet Susan had been a good girl and an affectionate daughter.

The sharp pain went off, and delicious ease came on; yet still her mother sunk. In the midst of this languid

peace she was dying. She motioned Susan to her bedside, for she could only whisper; and then, while the

father was out of the room, she spoke as much to the eager, hungering eyes of her daughter by the motion of

"Susan, lass, thou must not fret. It is God's will, and thou wilt have a deal to do. Keep father straight if thou

canst; and if he goes out Ulverstone ways, see that thou meet him before he gets to the Old Quarry. It's a dree

bit for a man who has had a drop. As for lile Will"Here the poor woman's face began to work and her

fingers to move nervously as they lay on the bedquilt"lile Will will miss me most of all. Father's often

vexed with him because he's not a quick strong lad; he is not, my poor lile chap. And father thinks he's saucy,

because he cannot always stomach oatcake and porridge. There's better than three pound in th' old black

teapot on the top shelf of the cupboard. Just keep a piece of loafbread by you, Susan dear, for Will to come

to when he's not taken his breakfast. I have, may be, spoilt him; but there'll be no one to spoil him now."

She began to cry a low, feeble cry, and covered up her face that Susan might not see her. That dear face!

those precious moments while yet the eyes could look out with love and intelligence. Susan laid her head

"Mother I'll take tent of Will. Mother, do you hear? He shall not want ought I can give or get for him, least of

all the kind words which you had ever ready for us both. Bless you! bless you! my own mother."

"Thou'lt promise me that, Susan, wilt thou? I can die easy if thou'lt take charge of him. But he's hardly like

other folk; he tries father at times, though I think father'll be tender of him when I'm gone, for my sake. And,

Susan, there's one thing more. I never spoke on it for fear of the bairn being called a telltale, but I just

comforted him up. He vexes Michael at times, and Michael has struck him before now. I did not want to

make a stir; but he's not strong, and a word from thee, Susan, will go a long way with Michael."

Susan was as red now as she had been pale before; it was the first time that her influence over Michael had

been openly acknowledged by a third person, and a flash of joy came athwart the solemn sadness of the

moment. Her mother had spoken too much, and now came on the miserable faintness. She never spoke again

coherently; but when her children and her husband stood by her bedside, she took lile Will's hand and put it

into Susan's, and looked at her with imploring eyes. Susan clasped her arms round Will, and leaned her head

Henceforward she was all in all to her brother. She was a more spirited and amusing companion to him than

his mother had been, from her greater activity, and perhaps, also, from her originality of character, which

often prompted her to perform her habitual actions in some new and racy manner. She was tender to lile Will

when she was prompt and sharp with everybody elsewith Michael most of all; for somehow the girl felt

that, unprotected by her mother, she must keep up her own dignity, and not allow her lover to see how strong

a hold he had upon her heart. He called her hard and cruel, and left her so; and she smiled softly to herself,

when his back was turned, to think how little he guessed how deeply he was loved. For Susan was merely

comely and fine looking; Michael was strikingly handsome, admired by all the girls for miles round, and

quite enough of a country coxcomb to know it and plume himself accordingly. He was the second son of his

father; the eldest would have High Beck farm, of course, but there was a good penny in the Kendal bank in

store for Michael. When harvest was over, he went to Chapel Langdale to learn to dance; and at night, in his

merry moods, he would do his steps on the flag floor of the Yew Nook kitchen, to the secret admiration of

Susan, who had never learned dancing, but who flouted him perpetually, even while she admired, in

accordance with the rule she seemed to have made for herself about keeping him at a distance so long as he

lived under the same roof with her. One evening he sulked at some saucy remark of hers; he sitting in the

chimney corner with his arms on his knees, and his head bent forwards, lazily gazing into the woodfire on

the hearth, and luxuriating in rest after a hard day's labour; she sitting among the geraniums on the long, low

windowseat, trying to catch the last slanting rays of the autumnal light to enable her to finish stitching a

shirtcollar for Will, who lounged full length on the flags at the other side of the hearth to Michael, poking

the burning wood from time to time with a long hazel stick to bring out the leap of glittering sparks.

"And if you can dance a threesome reel, what good does it do ye?" asked Susan, looking askance at Michael,

who had just been vaunting his proficiency. "Does it help you plough, reap, or even climb the rocks to take a

"If you were a man, you'd be glad to do anything which made the pretty girls stand round and admire."

"What would then?" asked he, after a pause, during which he had expected in vain that she would go on with

"Am I hard and headstrong?" asked she, with as indifferent a tone as she could assume, but which yet had a

"No, Susy! You're wilful at times, and that's right enough. I don't like a girl without spirit. There's a mighty

pretty girl comes to the dancing class; but she is all milk and water. Her eyes never flash like yours when

you're put out; why, I can see them flame across the kitchen like a cat's in the dark. Now, if you were a man, I

should feel queer before those looks of yours; as it is, I rather like them, because"

"Because what?" asked she, looking up and perceiving that he had stolen close up to her.

"Can you?" said she, wrenching herself out of his grasp and panting, half with rage. "Take that, by way of

proof that making right is none so easy." And she boxed his ears pretty sharply. He went back to his seat

discomfited and out of temper. She could no longer see to look, even if her face had not burnt and her eyes

dazzled, but she did not choose to move her seat, so she still preserved her stooping attitude and pretended to

"Eleanor Hebthwaite may be milkandwater," muttered he, "but Confound thee, lad! what art thou

doing?" exclaimed Michael, as a great piece of burning wood was cast into his face by an unlucky poke of

Will's. "Thou great lounging, clumsy chap, I'll teach thee better!" and with one or two good round kicks he

sent the lad whimpering away into the backkitchen. When he had a little recovered himself from his

passion, he saw Susan standing before him, her face looking strange and almost ghastly by the reversed

position of the shadows, arising from the firelight shining upwards right under it.

"I tell thee what, Michael," said she, "that lad's motherless, but not friendless."

"His own father leathers him, and why should not I, when he's given me such a burn on my face?" said

"His father's his father, and there is nought more to be said. But if he did burn thee, it was by accident, and

"He howls loud enough, I'm sure. I might ha' kicked many a lad twice as hard, and they'd ne'er ha' said ought

but 'damn ye;' but yon lad must needs cry out like a stuck pig if one touches him;" replied Michael, sullenly.

Susan went back to the windowseat, and looked absently out of the window at the drifting clouds for a

minute or two, while her eyes filled with tears. Then she got up and made for the outer door which led into

the backkitchen. Before she reached it, however, she heard a low voice, whose music made her thrill, say

Her heart melted within her, but it seemed like treachery to her poor boy, like faithlessness to her dead

mother, to turn to her lover while the tears which he had caused to flow were yet unwiped on Will's cheeks.

So she seemed to take no heed, but passed into the darkness, and, guided by the sobs, she found her way to

"Come out wi' me, lad;" and they went out into the orchard, where the fruittrees were bare of leaves, but

ghastly in their tattered covering of gray moss: and the soughing November wind came with long sweeps

over the fells till it rattled among the crackling boughs, underneath which the brother and sister sat in the

"Thou should'st na' play wi' fire. It's a naughty trick. Thoul't suffer for it in worse ways nor this before thou'st

done, I'm afeared. I should ha' hit thee twice as lungeous kicks as Mike, if I'd been in his place. He did na'

"Yes but he did. He turned me quite sick." And he let his head fall languidly down on his sister's breast.

"Come, lad! come, lad!" said she anxiously. "Be a man. It was not much that I saw. Why, when first the red

cow came she kicked me far harder for offering to milk her before her legs were tied. See thee! here's a

peppermintdrop, and I'll make thee a pasty tonight; only don't give way so, for it hurts me sore to think that

Willie roused himself up, and put back the wet and ruffled hair from his heated face; and he and Susan rose

up, and handinhand went towards the house, walking slowly and quietly except for a kind of sob which

Willie could not repress. Susan took him to the pump and washed his tearstained face, till she thought she

had obliterated all traces of the recent disturbance, arranging his curls for him, and then she kissed him

tenderly, and led him in, hoping to find Michael in the kitchen, and make all straight between them. But the

blaze had dropped down into darkness; the wood was a heap of gray ashes in which the sparks ran hither and

thither; but even in the groping darkness Susan knew by the sinking at her heart that Michael was not there.

She threw another brand on the hearth and lighted the candle, and sat down to her work in silence. Willie

cowered on his stool by the side of the fire, eyeing his sister from time to time, and sorry and oppressed, he

knew not why, by the sight of her grave, almost stern face. No one came. They two were in the house alone.

The old woman who helped Susan with the household work had gone out for the night to some friend's

dwelling. William Dixon, the father, was up on the fells seeing after his sheep. Susan had no heart to prepare

"Susy, darling, are you angry with me?" said Willie, in his little piping, gentle voice. He had stolen up to his

sister's side. "I won't never play with the fire again; and I'll not cry if Michael does kick me. Only don't look

so like dead motherdon'tdon't please don't!" he exclaimed, hiding his face on her shoulder.

"I'm not angry, Willie," said she. "Don't be feared on me. You want your supper, and you shall have it; and

don't you be feared on Michael. He shall give reason for every hair of your head that he toucheshe shall."

When William Dixon came home he found Susan and Willie sitting together, handinhand, and apparently

pretty cheerful. He bade them go to bed, for that he would sit up for Michael; and the next morning, when

Susan came down, she found that Michael had started an hour before with the cart for lime. It was a long

day's work; Susan knew it would be late, perhaps later than on the preceding night, before he returnedat

any rate, past her usual bedtime; and on no account would she stop up a minute beyond that hour in the

kitchen, whatever she might do in her bedroom. Here she sat and watched till past midnight; and when she

saw him coming up the brow with the carts, she knew full well, even in that faint moonlight, that his gait was

the gait of a man in liquor. But though she was annoyed and mortified to find in what way he had chosen to

forget her, the fact did not disgust or shock her as it would have done many a girl, even at that day, who had

not been brought up as Susan had, among a class who considered it no crime, but rather a mark of spirit, in a

man to get drunk occasionally. Nevertheless, she chose to hold herself very high all the next day when

Michael was, perforce, obliged to give up any attempt to do heavy work, and hung about the outbuildings

and farm in a very disconsolate and sickly state. Willie had far more pity on him than Susan. Before evening,

Willie and he were fast, and, on his side, ostentatious friends. Willie rode the horses down to water; Willie

helped him to chop wood. Susan sat gloomily at her work, hearing an indistinct but cheerful conversation

going on in the shippon, while the cows were being milked. She almost felt irritated with her little brother, as

if he were a traitor, and had gone over to the enemy in the very battle that she was fighting in his cause. She

was alone with no one to speak to, while they prattled on regardless if she were glad or sorry.

Soon Willie burst in. "Susan! Susan! come with me; I've something so pretty to show you. Round the corner

of the barnrun! run!" (He was dragging her along, half reluctant, half desirous of some change in that

weary day. Round the corner of the barn; and caught hold of by Michael, who stood there awaiting her.

"O Willie!" cried she "you naughty boy. There is nothing pretty what have you brought me here for? Let

"Only one word. Nay, if you wish it so much, you may go," said Michael, suddenly loosing his hold as she

struggled. But now she was free, she only drew off a step or two, murmuring something about Willie.

"You are going, then?" said Michael, with seeming sadness. "You won't hear me say a word of what is in my

"How can I tell whether it is what I should like to hear?" replied she, still drawing back.

"That is just what I want you to tell me; I want you to hear it and then to tell me whether you like it or not."

"Well, you may speak," replied she, turning her back, and beginning to plait the hem of her apron.

"You hurt him very badly," she replied. "But you are right to be sorry. I forgive you."

"Stop, stop!" said he, laying his hand upon her arm. "There is something more I've got to say. I want you to

"I don't know," said she, halflaughing, but trying to get away with all her might now; and she was a strong

"I tell you I don't know, and you had best be quiet, and just let me go in, or I shall think you're as bad now as

"And how did you know what I was last night? It was past twelve when I came home. Were you watching?

Ah, Susan! be my wife, and you shall never have to watch for a drunken husband. If I were your husband, I

would come straight home, and count every minute an hour till I saw your bonny face. Now you know what I

She did not speak for some time. Then she only said "Ask father." And now she was really off like a lapwing

round the corner of the barn, and up in her own little room, crying with all her might, before the triumphant

The "Ask father" was a mere form to be gone though. Old Daniel Hurst and William Dixon had talked over

what they could respectively give their children before this; and that was the parental way of arranging such

matters. When the probable amount of worldly gear that he could give his child had been named by each

father, the young folk, as they said, might take their own time in coming to the point which the old men, with

the prescience of experience, saw they were drifting to; no need to hurry them, for they were both young, and

Michael, though active enough, was too thoughtless, old Daniel said, to be trusted with the entire

management of a farm. Meanwhile, his father would look about him, and see after all the farms that were to

Michael had a shrewd notion of this preliminary understanding between the fathers, and so felt less daunted

than he might otherwise have done at making the application for Susan's hand. It was all right, there was not

an obstacle; only a deal of good advice, which the lover thought might have as well been spared, and which it

must be confessed he did not much attend to, although he assented to every part of it. Then Susan was called

down stairs, and slowly came dropping into view down the steps which led from the two family apartments

into the houseplace. She tried to look composed and quiet, but it could not be done. She stood side by side

with her lover, with her head drooping, her cheeks burning, not daring to look up or move, while her father

made the newlybetrothed a somewhat formal address in which he gave his consent, and many a piece of

worldly wisdom beside. Susan listened as well as she could for the beating of her heart; but when her father

solemnly and sadly referred to his own lost wife, she could keep from sobbing no longer; but throwing her

apron over her face, she sat down on the bench by the dresser, and fairly gave way to pentup tears. Oh, how

strangely sweet to be comforted as she was comforted, by tender caress, and many a lowwhispered promise

of love! Her father sat by the fire, thinking of the days that were gone; Willie was still out of doors; but Susan

and Michael felt no one's presence or absencethey only knew they were together as betrothed husband and

In a week, or two, they were formally told of the arrangements to be made in their favour. A small farm in the

neighbourhood happened to fall vacant; and Michael's father offered to take it for him, and be responsible for

the rent for the first year, while William Dixon was to contribute a certain amount of stock, and both fathers

were to help towards the furnishing of the house. Susan received all this information in a quiet, indifferent

way; she did not care much for any of these preparations, which were to hurry her through the happy hours;

she cared least of all for the money amount of dowry and of substance. It jarred on her to be made the

confidante of occasional slight repinings of Michael's, as one by one his future fatherinlaw set aside a beast

or a pig for Susan's portion, which were not always the best animals of their kind upon the farm. But he also

complained of his own father's stinginess, which somewhat, though not much, alleviated Susan's dislike to

being awakened out of her pure dream of love to the consideration of worldly wealth.

But in the midst of all this bustle, Willie moped and pined. He had the same chord of delicacy running

through his mind that made his body feeble and weak. He kept out of the way, and was apparently occupied

in whittling and carving uncouth heads on hazelsticks in an outhouse. But he positively avoided Michael,

and shrunk away even from Susan. She was too much occupied to notice this at first. Michael pointed it out

"Look at Willie! he might be a castoff lover and jealous of me, he looks so dark and downcast at me."

Michael spoke this jest out loud, and Willie burst into tears, and ran out of the house.

"Let me go. Let me go!" said Susan (for her lover's arm was round her waist). "I must go to him if he's

fretting. I promised mother I would!" She pulled herself away, and went in search of the boy. She sought in

byre and barn, through the orchard, where indeed in this leafless wintertime there was no great concealment;

up into the room where the wool was usually stored in the later summer, and at last she found him, sitting at

"What are ye gone for, lad, and me seeking you everywhere?" asked she, breathless.

"I did not know you would seek me. I've been away many a time, and no one has cared to seek me," said he,

"Nonsense," replied Susan, "don't be so foolish, ye little goodfor nought." But she crept up to him in the

hole he had made underneath the great, brown sheafs of wood, and squeezed herself down by him. "What for

should folk seek after you, when you get away from them whenever you can?" asked she.

"They don't want me to stay. Nobody wants me. If I go with father, he says I hinder more than I help. You

used to like to have me with you. But now, you've taken up with Michael, and you'd rather I was away; and I

can just bide away; but I cannot stand Michael jeering at me. He's got you to love him and that might serve

"Which on us do you like best?" said he, wistfully, after a little pause, putting her arm away, so that he might

"You should not ask such questions. They are not fit for you to ask, nor for me to answer."

"And so I do. And so I ever will do. Lover nor husband shall come betwixt thee and me, ladne'er a one of

them. That I promise thee (as I promised mother before), in the sight of God and with her hearkening now, if

ever she can hearken to earthly word again. Only I cannot abide to have thee fretting, just because my heart is

"Always, and ever. And the morethe more thou'lt love Michael," said she, dropping her voice.

"I'll try," said the boy, sighing, for he remembered many a harsh word and blow of which his sister knew

nothing. She would have risen up to go away, but he held her tight, for here and now she was all his own, and

he did not know when such a time might come again. So the two sat crouched up and silent, till they heard

the horn blowing at the fieldgate, which was the summons home to any wanderers belonging to the farm,

and at this hour of the evening, signified that supper was ready. Then the two went in.

Susan and Michael were to be married in April. He had already gone to take possession of his new farm,

three or four miles away from Yew Nookbut that is neighbouring, according to the acceptation of the word

in that thinlypopulated district,when William Dixon fell ill. He came home one evening, complaining of

headache and pains in his limbs, but seemed to loathe the posset which Susan prepared for him; the

treacleposset which was the homely country remedy against an incipient cold. He took to his bed with a

sensation of exceeding weariness, and an odd, unusual lookingback to the days of his youth, when he was a

The next morning he had forgotten all his life since then, and did not know his own children; crying, like a

newlyweaned baby, for his mother to come and soothe away his terrible pain. The doctor from Coniston

said it was the typhusfever, and warned Susan of its infectious character, and shook his head over his

patient. There were no near friends to come and share her anxiety; only good, kind old Peggy, who was

faithfulness itself, and one or two labourers' wives, who would fain have helped her, had not their hands been

tied by their responsibility to their own families. But, somehow, Susan neither feared nor flagged. As for fear,

indeed, she had no time to give way to it, for every energy of both body and mind was required. Besides, the

young have had too little experience of the danger of infection to dread it much. She did indeed wish, from

time to time, that Michael had been at home to have taken Willie over to his father's at High Beck; but then,

again, the lad was docile and useful to her, and his fecklessness in many things might make him harshly

treated by strangers; so, perhaps, it was as well that Michael was away at Appleby fair, or even beyond

Her father grew worse; and the doctor insisted on sending over a nurse from Coniston. Not a professed

nurseConiston could not have supported such a one; but a widow who was ready to go where the doctor

sent her for the sake of the payment. When she came, Susan suddenly gave way; she was felled by the fever

herself, and lay unconscious for long weeks. Her consciousness returned to her one spring afternoon; early

spring: April,her weddingmonth. There was a little fire burning in the small cornergrate, and the

flickering of the blaze was enough for her to notice in her weak state. She felt that there was some one sitting

on the windowside of her bed, behind the curtain, but she did not care to know who it was; it was even too

great a trouble for her languid mind to consider who it was likely to be. She would rather shut her eyes, and

melt off again into the gentle luxury of sleep. The next time she wakened, the Coniston nurse perceived her

movement, and made her a cup of tea, which she drank with eager relish; but still they did not speak, and

once more Susan lay motionlessnot asleep, but strangely, pleasantly conscious of all the small chamber

and household sounds; the fall of a cinder on the hearth, the fitful singing of the half empty kettle, the cattle

tramping out to field again after they had been milked, the aged step on the creaking stairold Peggy's, as

she knew. It came to her door; it stopped; the person outside listened for a moment, and then lifted the

wooden latch, and looked in. The watcher by the bedside arose, and went to her. Susan would have been glad

to see Peggy's face once more, but was far too weak to turn, so she lay and listened.

"Better," replied the other. "She's been awake, and had a cup of tea. She'll do now."

The door was shut. A weak feeling of sorrow and selfpity came over Susan. What was wrong? Whom had

she loved? And dawning, dawning, slowly rose the sun of her former life, and all particulars were made

distinct to her. She felt that some sorrow was coming to her, and cried over it before she knew what it was, or

had strength enough to ask. In the dead of night,and she had never slept again,she softly called to the

"Who what?" replied the woman, with a conscious affright, illveiled by a poor assumption of ease. "Lie still,

there's a darling, and go to sleep. Sleep's better for you than all the doctor's stuff."

"Oh, dear!" said the woman. "There's nothing wrong. Willie has taken the turn, and is doing nicely."

"Well! he's all right now," she answered, looking another way, as if seeking for something.

"Then it's Michael! Oh, me! oh, me!" She set up a succession of weak, plaintive, hysterical cries before the

nurse could pacify her, by declaring that Michael had been at the house not three hours before to ask after

"Bless the lass, no, for sure! I've ne'er heard his name named since I saw him go out of the yard as stout a

It was well, as the nurse said afterwards to Peggy, that Susan had been so easily pacified by the equivocating

answer in respect to her father. If she had pressed the questions home in his case as she did in Michael's, she

would have learnt that he was dead and buried more than a month before. It was well, too, that in her weak

state of convalescence (which lasted long after this first day of consciousness) her perceptions were not sharp

enough to observe the sad change that had taken place in Willie. His bodily strength returned, his appetite

was something enormous, but his eyes wandered continually; his regard could not be arrested; his speech

became slow, impeded, and incoherent. People began to say that the fever had taken away the little wit Willie

Dixon had ever possessed and that they feared that he would end in being a "natural," as they call an idiot in

The habitual affection and obedience to Susan lasted longer than any other feeling that the boy had had

previous to his illness; and, perhaps, this made her be the last to perceive what every one else had long

One Jane evening, she sat out of doors under the yewtree, knitting. She was pale still from her recent illness;

and her languor, joined to the fact of her black dress, made her look more than usually interesting. She was no

longer the buoyant selfsufficient Susan, equal to every occasion. The men were bringing in the cows to be

milked, and Michael was about in the yard giving orders and directions with somewhat the air of a master, for

the farm belonged of right to Willie, and Susan had succeeded to the guardianship of her brother. Michael

and she were to be married as soon as she was strong enoughso, perhaps, his authoritative manner was

justified; but the labourers did not like it, although they said little. They remembered a stripling on the farm,

knowing far less than they did, and often glad to shelter his ignorance of all agricultural matters behind their

superior knowledge. They would have taken orders from Susan with far more willingness; nay, Willie

himself might have commanded them; and from the old hereditary feeling toward the owners of land, they

would have obeyed him with far greater cordiality than they now showed to Michael. But Susan was tired

with even three rounds of knitting, and seemed not to notice, or to care, how things went on around her; and

Williepoor Willie!there he stood lounging against the doorsill, enormously grown and developed, to

be sure, but with restless eyes and everopen mouth, and every now and then setting up a strange kind of

howling cry, and then smiling vacantly to himself at the sound he had made. As the two old labourers passed

She spoke feebly, and Willie did not seem to hear; at any rate, he continued his howl from time to time.

"Hold thy noise, wilt'a?" said Michael, roughly, as he passed near him, and threatening him with his fist.

Susan's back was turned to the pair. The expression of Willie's face changed from vacancy to fear, and he

came shambling up to Susan, who put her arm round him, and, as if protected by that shelter, he began

making faces at Michael. Susan saw what was going on, and, as if now first struck by the strangeness of her

brother's manner, she looked anxiously at Michael for an explanation. Michael was irritated at Willie's

"It's just that the fever has left him sillyhe never was as wise as other folk, and now I doubt if he will ever

Susan did not speak, but she went very pale, and her lip quivered. She looked long and wistfully at Willie's

face, as he watched the motion of the ducks in the great stablepool. He laughed softly to himself every now

"Willie likes to see the ducks go overhead," said Susan, instinctively adopting the form of speech she would

"Willie, boo! Willie, boo!" he replied, clapping his hands, and avoiding her eye.

"Speak properly, Willie," said Susan, making a strong effort at self control, and trying to arrest his attention.

"You know who I amtell me my name!" She grasped his arm almost painfully tight to make him attend.

Now he looked at her, and, for an instant, a gleam of recognition quivered over his face; but the exertion was

evidently painful, and he began to cry at the vainness of the effort to recall her name. He hid his face upon

her shoulder with the old affectionate trick of manner. She put him gently away, and went into the house into

her own little bedroom. She locked the door, and did not reply at all to Michael's calls for her, hardly spoke to

old Peggy, who tried to tempt her out to receive some homely sympathy, and through the open easement

After the stun of the blow came the realization of the consequences. Susan would sit for hours trying patiently

to recall and piece together fragments of recollection and consciousness in her brother's mind. She would let

him go and pursue some senseless bit of play, and wait until she could catch his eye or his attention again,

when she would resume her selfimposed task. Michael complained that she never had a word for him, or a

minute of time to spend with him now; but she only said she must try, while there was yet a chance, to bring

back her brother's lost wits. As for marriage in this state of uncertainty, she had no heart to think of it. Then

Michael stormed, and absented himself for two or three days; but it was of no use. When he came back, he

saw that she had been crying till her eyes were all swollen up, and he gathered from Peggy's scoldings (which

she did not spare him) that Susan had eaten nothing since he went away. But she was as inflexible as ever.

"Not just yet. Only not just yet. And don't say again that I do not love you," said she, suddenly hiding herself

And so matters went on through August. The crop of oats was gathered in; the wheatfield was not ready as

yet, when one fine day Michael drove up in a borrowed shandry, and offered to take Willie a ride. His

manner, when Susan asked him where he was going to, was rather confused; but the answer was straight and

He had business in Ambleside. He would never lose sight of the lad, and have him back safe and sound

Before night they were at home again: Willie in high delight at a little rattling paper windmill that Michael

had bought for him in the street, and striving to imitate this new sound with perpetual buzzings. Michael, too,

looked pleased. Susan knew the look, although afterwards she remembered that he had tried to veil it from

her, and had assumed a grave appearance of sorrow whenever he caught her eye. He put up his horse; for,

although he had three miles further to go, the moon was upthe bonny harvestmoonand he did not care

how late he had to drive on such a road by such a light. After the supper which Susan had prepared for the

travellers was over, Peggy went upstairs to see Willie safe in bed; for he had to have the same care taken of

"Susan," said he, "I took Will to see Dr. Preston, at Kendal. He's the first doctor in the county. I thought it

"Well!" said Susan, looking eagerly up. She saw the same strange glance of satisfaction, the same instant

change to apparent regret and pain. "What did he say?" said she. "Speak! can't you?"

"No; never. It's a long word, and hard to bear. And there's worse to come, dearest. The doctor thinks he will

get badder from year to year. And he said, if he was usyouhe would send him off in time to Lancaster

Asylum. They've ways there both of keeping such people in order and making them happy. I only tell you

"There was no harm in his saying it," she replied, with great self constraint, forcing herself to speak coldly

They sat silent for a minute or two, her breast heaving with suppressed feeling.

"He may be. He's none of my clever men, nor am I going to be guided by him, whatever he may think. And I

don't thank them that went and took my poor lad to have such harsh notions formed about him. If I'd been

"Well! I'll not say more tonight, Susan. You're not taking it rightly, and I'd best be gone, and leave you to

think it over. I'll not deny they are hard words to hear, but there's sense in them, as I take it; and I reckon

you'll have to come to 'em. Anyhow, it's a bad way of thanking me for my pains, and I don't take it well in

"Michael, I'm beside myself with sorrow. Don't blame me if I speak sharp. He and me is the only ones, you

see. And mother did so charge me to have a care of him! And this is what he's come to, poor lile chap!" She

"Don't," said she. "It's no use trying to make me forget poor Willie is a natural. I could hate myself for being

happy with you, even for just a little minute. Go away, and leave me to face it out."

"I can't forget," said she. She meant she could not forget what the doctor had said about the hopelessness of

her brother's case; Michael had referred to the plan of sending Willie to an asylum, or madhouse, as they

were called in that day and place. The idea had been gathering force in Michael's mind for some time; he had

talked it over with his father, and secretly rejoiced over the possession of the farm and land which would then

be his in fact, if not in law, by right of his wife. He had always considered the good penny her father could

give her in his catalogue of Susan's charms and attractions. But of late he had grown to esteem her as the

heiress of Yew Nook. He, too, should have land like his brotherland to possess, to cultivate, to make profit

from, to bequeath. For some time he had wondered that Susan had been so much absorbed in Willie's present,

that she had never seemed to look forward to his future, state. Michael had long felt the boy to be a trouble;

but of late he had absolutely loathed him. His gibbering, his uncouth gestures, his loose, shambling gait, all

irritated Michael inexpressibly. He did not come near the Yew Nook for a couple of days. He thought that he

would leave her time to become anxious to see him and reconciled to his plan. They were strange lonely days

to Susan. They were the first she had spent face to face with the sorrows that had turned her from a girl into a

woman; for hitherto Michael had never let twenty four hours pass by without coming to see her since she

had had the fever. Now that he was absent, it seemed as though some cause of irritation was removed from

Will, who was much more gentle and tractable than he had been for many weeks. Susan thought that she

observed him making efforts at her bidding, and there was something piteous in the way in which he crept up

to her, and looked wistfully in her face, as if asking her to restore him the faculties that he felt to be wanting.

"I never will let thee go, lad. Never! There's no knowing where they would take thee to, or what they would

do with thee. As it says in the Bible, 'Nought but death shall part thee and me!'"

The countryside was full, in those days, of stories of the brutal treatment offered to the insane; stories that

were, in fact, but too well founded, and the truth of one of which only would have been a sufficient reason for

the strong prejudice existing against all such places. Each succeeding hour that Susan passed, alone, or with

the poor affectionate lad for her sole companion, served to deepen her solemn resolution never to part with

him. So, when Michael came, he was annoyed and surprised by the calm way in which she spoke, as if

following Dr. Preston's advice was utterly and entirely out of the question. He had expected nothing less than

a consent, reluctant it might be, but still a consent; and he was extremely irritated. He could have repressed

his anger, but he chose rather to give way to it; thinking that he could thus best work upon Susan's affection,

so as to gain his point. But, somehow, he overreached himself; and now he was astonished in his turn at the

"Thou wilt not bide in the same house with him, say'st thou? There's no need for thy biding, as far as I can

tell. There's solemn reason why I should bide with my own flesh and blood and keep to the word I pledged

my mother on her deathbed; but, as for thee, there's no tie that I know on to keep thee fro' going to America

or Botany Bay this very night, if that were thy inclination. I will have no more of your threats to make me

send my bairn away. If thou marry me, thou'lt help me to take charge of Willie. If thou doesn't choose to

marry me on those termswhy, I can snap my fingers at thee, never fear. I'm not so far gone in love as that.

But I will not have thee, if thou say'st in such a hectoring way that Willie must go out of the houseand the

house his own toobefore thoul't set foot in it. Willie bides here, and I bide with him."

"Thou hast maybe spoken a word too much," said Michael, pale with rage. "If I am free, as thou say'st, to go

to Canada, or Botany Bay, I reckon I'm free to live where I like, and that will not be with a natural who may

turn into a madman some day, for aught I know. Choose between him and me, Susy, for I swear to thee, thou

"I have chosen," said Susan, now perfectly composed and still. "Whatever comes of it, I bide with Willie."

"Very well," replied Michael, trying to assume an equal composure of manner. "Then I'll wish you a very

good night." He went out of the house door, halfexpecting to be called back again; but, instead, he heard a

"Whew!" said he to himself, "I think I must leave my lady alone for a week or two, and give her time to come

So he went past the kitchenwindow in nonchalant style, and was not seen again at Yew Nook for some

weeks. How did he pass the time? For the first day or two, he was unusually cross with all things and people

that came athwart him. Then wheatharvest began, and he was busy, and exultant about his heavy crop. Then

a man came from a distance to bid for the lease of his farm, which, by his father's advice, had been offered

for sale, as he himself was so soon likely to remove to the Yew Nook. He had so little idea that Susan really

would remain firm to her determination, that he at once began to haggle with the man who came after his

farm, showed him the crop just got in, and managed skilfully enough to make a good bargain for himself. Of

course, the bargain had to be sealed at the public house; and the companions he met with there soon became

friends enough to tempt him into Langdale, where again he met with Eleanor Hebthwaite.

How did Susan pass the time? For the first day or so, she was too angry and offended to cry. She went about

her household duties in a quick, sharp, jerking, yet absent way; shrinking one moment from Will,

overwhelming him with remorseful caresses the next. The third day of Michael's absence, she had the relief

of a good fit of crying; and after that, she grew softer and more tender; she felt how harshly she had spoken to

him, and remembered how angry she had been. She made excuses for him. "It was no wonder," she said to

herself, "that he had been vexed with her; and no wonder he would not give in, when she had never tried to

speak gently or to reason with him. She was to blame, and she would tell him so, and tell him once again all

that her mother had bade her to be to Willie, and all the horrible stories she had heard about madhouses, and

And so she watched for his coming, intending to apologise as soon as ever she saw him. She hurried over her

household work, in order to sit quietly at her sewing, and hear the first distant sound of his wellknown step

or whistle. But even the sound of her flying needle seemed too loudperhaps she was losing an exquisite

instant of anticipation; so she stopped sewing, and looked longingly out through the geranium leaves, in order

that her eye might catch the first stir of the branches in the woodpath by which he generally came. Now and

then a bird might spring out of the covert; otherwise the leaves were heavily still in the sultry weather of early

autumn. Then she would take up her sewing, and, with a spasm of resolution, she would determine that a

certain task should be fulfilled before she would again allow herself the poignant luxury of expectation. Sick

at heart was she when the evening closed in, and the chances of that day diminished. Yet she stayed up longer

than usual, thinking that if he were comingif he were only passing along the distant roadthe sight of a

light in the window might encourage him to make his appearance even at that late hour, while seeing the

Very sick and weary at heart, she went to bed; too desolate and despairing to cry, or make any moan. But in

the morning hope came afresh. Another dayanother chance! And so it went on for weeks. Peggy

understood her young mistress's sorrow full well, and respected it by her silence on the subject. Willie

seemed happier now that the irritation of Michael's presence was removed; for the poor idiot had a sort of

antipathy to Michael, which was a kind of heart's echo to the repugnance in which the latter held him.

As Susan went into Coniston, to sell her butter, one Saturday, some inconsiderate person told her that she had

seen Michael Hurst the night before. I said inconsiderate, but I might rather have said unobservant; for any

one who had spent halfanhour in Susan Dixon's company might have seen that she disliked having any

reference made to the subjects nearest her heart, were they joyous or grievous. Now she went a little paler

than usual (and she had never recovered her colour since she had had the fever), and tried to keep silence. But

"At Thomas Applethwaite's, in Langdale. They had a kind of harvest home, and he were there among the

young folk, and very thick wi' Nelly Hebthwaite, old Thomas's niece. Thou'lt have to look after him a bit,

She neither smiled nor sighed. The neighbour who had been speaking to her was struck with the gray stillness

of her face. Susan herself felt how well her selfcommand was obeyed by every little muscle, and said to

herself in her Spartan manner, "I can bear it without either wincing or blenching." She went home early, at a

tearing, passionate pace, trampling and breaking through all obstacles of briar or bush. Willie was moping in

her absencehanging listlessly on the farmyard gate to watch for her. When he saw her, he set up one of

his strange, inarticulate cries, of which she was now learning the meaning, and came towards her with his

loose, galloping run, head and limbs all shaking and wagging with pleasant excitement. Suddenly she turned

from him, and burst into tears. She sat down on a stone by the wayside, not a hundred yards from home, and

buried her face in her hands, and gave way to a passion of pentup sorrow; so terrible and full of agony were

her low cries, that the idiot stood by her, aghast and silent. All his joy gone for the time, but not, like her joy,

turned into ashes. Some thought struck him. Yes! the sight of her woe made him think, great as the exertion

was. He ran, and stumbled, and shambled home, buzzing with his lips all the time. She never missed him. He

came back in a trice, bringing with him his cherished paper windmill, bought on that fatal day when Michael

had taken him into Kendal to have his doom of perpetual idiocy pronounced. He thrust it into Susan's face,

her hands, her lap, regardless of the injury his frail plaything thereby received. He leapt before her to think

how he had cured all heartsorrow, buzzing louder than ever. Susan looked up at him, and that glance of her

sad eyes sobered him. He began to whimper, he knew not why: and she now, comforter in her turn, tried to

soothe him by twirling his windmill. But it was broken; it made no noise; it would not go round. This seemed

to afflict Susan more than him. She tried to make it right, although she saw the task was hopeless; and while

"It won't do," said she, at last. "It will never do again." And, somehow, she took the accident and her words as

omens of the love that was broken, and that she feared could never be pieced together more. She rose up and

To her surprise, Michael Hurst sat in the houseplace. Houseplace is a sort of better kitchen, where no

cookery is done, but which is reserved for state occasions. Michael had gone in there because he was

accompanied by his only sister, a woman older than himself, who was well married beyond Keswick, and

who now came for the first time to make acquaintance with Susan. Michael had primed his sister with his

wishes regarding Will, and the position in which he stood with Susan; and arriving at Yew Nook in the

absence of the latter, he had not scrupled to conduct his sister into the guestroom, as he held Mrs. Gale's

worldly position in respect and admiration, and therefore wished her to be favourably impressed with all the

signs of property which he was beginning to consider as Susan's greatest charms. He had secretly said to

himself, that if Eleanor Hebthwaite and Susan Dixon were equal in point of riches, he would sooner have

Eleanor by far. He had begun to consider Susan as a termagant; and when he thought of his intercourse with

her, recollections of her somewhat warm and hasty temper came far more readily to his mind than any

And now she stood face to face with him; her eyes tearswollen, her garments dusty, and here and there torn

in consequence of her rapid progress through the bushy bypaths. She did not make a favourable impression

on the wellclad Mrs. Gale, dressed in her best silk gown, and therefore unusually susceptible to the

appearance of another. Nor were Susan's manners gracious or cordial. How could they be, when she

remembered what had passed between Michael and herself the last time they met? For her penitence had

But she was hospitable in substance. She bade Peggy hurry on the kettle, and busied herself among the

teacups, thankful that the presence of Mrs. Gale, as a stranger, would prevent the immediate recurrence to

the one subject which she felt must be present in Michael's mind as well as in her own. But Mrs. Gale was

withheld by no such feelings of delicacy. She had come readyprimed with the case, and had undertaken to

bring the girl to reason. There was no time to be lost. It had been prearranged between the brother and sister

that he was to stroll out into the farmyard before his sister introduced the subject; but she was so confident

in the success of her arguments, that she must needs have the triumph of a victory as soon as possible; and,

accordingly, she brought a hailstorm of good reasons to bear upon Susan. Susan did not reply for a long

time; she was so indignant at this intermeddling of a stranger in the deep family sorrow and shame. Mrs. Gale

thought she was gaining the day, and urged her arguments more pitilessly. Even Michael winced for Susan,

and wondered at her silence. He shrank out of sight, and into the shadow, hoping that his sister might prevail,

Suddenly Susan turned round from the occupation she had pretended to be engaged in, and said to him in a

low voice, which yet not only vibrated itself, but made its hearers thrill through all their obtuseness:

Both women looked at him for his answer; Mrs. Gale without anxiety, for had she not said the very words

they had spoken together before? had she not used the very arguments that he himself had suggested? Susan,

on the contrary, looked to his answer as settling her doom for life; and in the gloom of her eyes you might

"I ask you," said Susan, trying to give a crystal clearness both to her expressions and her pronunciation, "if,

knowing as you do how Will is afflicted, you will help me to take that charge of him which I promised my

mother on her deathbed that I would do; and which means, that I shall keep him always with me, and do all

in my power to make his life happy. If you will do this, I will be your wife; if not, I remain unwed."

"But he may get dangerous; he can be but a trouble; his being here is a pain to you, Susan, not a pleasure."

"I ask you for either yes or no," said she, a little contempt at his evading her question mingling with her tone.

"And I have told you. I answered your question the last time I was here. I said I would ne'er keep house with

"Come, now," said Mrs. Gale, encouraged by the sigh; "one would think you don't love Michael, Susan, to be

"Don't I? Haven't I?" asked Susan, her eyes blazing out fire. She left the room directly, and sent Peggy in to

make the tea; and catching at Will, who was lounging about in the kitchen, she went up stairs with him and

bolted herself in, straining the boy to her heart, and keeping almost breathless, lest any noise she made might

cause him to break out into the howls and sounds which she could not bear that those below should hear.

It was her only cry for sympathy; and the old servant understood it. She sent them away, somehow; not

"Good go with them," said Peggy, as she grimly watched their retreating figures. "We're rid of bad rubbish,

anyhow." And she turned into the house, with the intention of making ready some refreshment for Susan,

after her hard day at the market, and her harder evening. But in the kitchen, to which she passed through the

empty houseplace, making a face of contemptuous dislike at the used teacups and fragments of a meal yet

standing there, she found Susan, with her sleeves tucked up and her working apron on, busied in preparing to

make clapbread, one of the hardest and hottest domestic tasks of a Daleswoman. She looked up, and first

met, and then avoided Peggy's eye; it was too full of sympathy. Her own cheeks were flushed, and her own

"Where's the board, Peggy? We need clapbread; and, I reckon, I've time to get through with it tonight."

Her voice had a sharp, dry tone in it, and her motions a jerking angularity about them.

Peggy said nothing, but fetched her all that she needed. Susan beat her cakes thin with vehement force. As

she stooped over them, regardless even of the task in which she seemed so much occupied, she was surprised

by a touch on her mouth of somethingwhat she did not see at first. It was a cup of tea, delicately sweetened

and cooled, and held to her lips, when exactly ready, by the faithful old woman. Susan held it off a hand's

breath, and looked into Peggy's eyes, while her own filled with the strange relief of tears.

"Lass!" said Peggy, solemnly, "thou hast done well. It is not long to bide, and then the end will come."

"It is but a day sin' I were young," replied Peggy; but she stopped the conversation by again pushing the cup

with gentle force to Susan's dry and thirsty lips. When she had drunken she fell again to her labour, Peggy

heating the hearth, and doing all that she knew would be required, but never speaking another word. Willie

basked close to the fire, enjoying the animal luxury of warmth, for the autumn evenings were beginning to be

chilly. It was one o'clock before they thought of going to bed on that memorable night.

The vehemence with which Susan Dixon threw herself into occupation could not last for ever. Times of

languor and remembrance would cometimes when she recurred with a passionate yearning to bygone days,

the recollection of which was so vivid and delicious, that it seemed as though it were the reality, and the

present bleak bareness the dream. She smiled anew at the magical sweetness of some touch or tone which in

memory she felt and heard, and drank the delicious cup of poison, although at the very time she knew what

"This time, last year," thought she, "we went nutting togetherthis very day last year; just such a day as

today. Purple and gold were the lights on the hills; the leaves were just turning brown; here and there on the

sunny slopes the stubblefields looked tawny; down in a cleft of yon purple slaterock the beck fell like a

silver glancing thread; all just as it is today. And he climbed the slender, swaying nuttrees, and bent the

branches for me to gather; or made a passage through the hazel copses, from time to time claiming a toll.

Or, as the evening closed in, she would allow herself to imagine that she heard his coming step, just that she

might recall time feeling of exquisite delight which had passed by without the due and passionate relish at the

time. Then she would wonder how she could have had strength, the cruel, selfpiercing strength, to say what

she had done; to stab himself with that stern resolution, of which the sear would remain till her dying day. It

might have been right; but, as she sickened, she wished she had not instinctively chosen the right. How

luxurious a life haunted by no stern sense of duty must be! And many led this kind of life; why could not she?

O, for one hour again of his sweet company! If he came now, she would agree to whatever he proposed.

It was a fever of the mind. She passed through it, and came out healthy, if weak. She was capable once more

of taking pleasure in following an unseen guide through briar and brake. She returned with tenfold affection

to her protecting care of Willie. She acknowledged to herself that he was to he her allinall in life. She

made him her constant companion. For his sake, as the real owner of Yew Nook, and she as his steward and

guardian, she began that course of careful saving, and that love of acquisition, which afterwards gained for

her the reputation of being miserly. She still thought that he might regain a scanty portion of senseenough

to require some simple pleasures and excitement, which would cost money. And money should not be

wanting. Peggy rather assisted her in the formation of her parsimonious habits than otherwise; economy was

the order of the district, and a certain degree of respectable avarice the characteristic of her age. Only Willie

was never stinted nor hindered of anything that the two women thought could give him pleasure, for want of

There was one gratification which Susan felt was needed for the restoration of her mind to its more healthy

state, after she had passed through the whirling fever, when duty was as nothing, and anarchy reigned; a

gratification that, somehow, was to be her last burst of unreasonableness; of which she knew and recognised

The week before the Christmas of this memorable year, she went out in the dusk of the early winter evening,

wrapped close in shawl and cloak. She wore her dark shawl under her cloak, putting it over her head in lieu of

a bonnet; for she knew that she might have to wait long in concealment. Then she tramped over the wet

fellpath, shut in by misty rain for miles and miles, till she came to the place where he was lodging; a

farmhouse in Langdale, with a steep, stony lane leading up to it: this lane was entered by a gate out of the

main road, and by the gate were a few bushesthorns; but of them the leaves had fallen, and they offered no

concealment: an old wreck of a yewtree grew among them, however, and underneath that Susan cowered

down, shrouding her face, of which the colour might betray her, with a corner of her shawl. Long did she

wait; cold and cramped she became, too damp and stiff to change her posture readily. And after all, he might

never come! But, she would wait till daylight, if need were; and she pulled out a crust, with which she had

providently supplied herself. The rain had ceased,a dull, still, brooding weather had succeeded; it was a

night to hear distant sounds. She heard horses' hoofs striking and splashing in the stones, and in the pools of

the road at her back. Two horses; not wellridden, or evenly guided, as she could tell.

Michael Hurst and a companion drew near: not tipsy, but not sober. They stopped at the gate to bid each other

a maudlin farewell. Michael stooped forward to catch the latch with the hook of the stick which he carried; he

dropped the stick, and it fell with one end close to Susan,indeed, with the slightest change of posture she

could have opened the gate for him. He swore a great oath, and struck his horse with his closed fist, as if that

animal had been to blame; then he dismounted, opened the gate, and fumbled about for his stick. When he

had found it (Susan had touched the other end) his first use of it was to flog his horse well, and she had much

ado to avoid its kicks and plunges. Then, still swearing, he staggered up the lane, for it was evident he was

By daylight Susan was back and at her daily labours at Yew Nook. When the spring came, Michael Hurst was

married to Eleanor Hebthwaite. Others, too, were married, and christenings made their firesides merry and

glad; or they travelled, and came back after long years with many wondrous tales. More rarely, perhaps, a

Dalesman changed his dwelling. But to all households more change came than to Yew Nook. There the

seasons came round with monotonous sameness; or, if they brought mutation, it was of a slow, and decaying,

and depressing kind. Old Peggy died. Her silent sympathy, concealed under much roughness, was a loss to

Susan Dixon. Susan was not yet thirty when this happened, but she looked a middleaged, not to say an

elderly woman. People affirmed that she had never recovered her complexion since that fever, a dozen years

ago, which killed her father, and left Will Dixon an idiot. But besides her gray sallowness, the lines in her

face were strong, and deep, and hard. The movements of her eyeballs were slow and heavy; the wrinkles at

the corners of her mouth and eyes were planted firm and sure; not an ounce of unnecessary flesh was there on

her bonesevery muscle started strong and ready for use. She needed all this bodily strength, to a degree

that no human creature, now Peggy was dead, knew of: for Willie had grown up large and strong in body,

and, in general, docile enough in mind; but, every now and then, he became first moody, and then violent.

These paroxysms lasted but a day or two; and it was Susan's anxious care to keep their very existence hidden

and unknown. It is true, that occasional passersby on that lonely road heard sounds at night of knocking

about of furniture, blows, and cries, as of some tearing demon within the solitary farm house; but these fits

of violence usually occurred in the night; and whatever had been their consequence, Susan had tidied and

redded up all signs of aught unusual before the morning. For, above all, she dreaded lest some one might find

out in what danger and peril she occasionally was, and might assume a right to take away her brother from

her care. The one idea of taking charge of him had deepened and deepened with years. It was graven into her

mind as the object for which she lived. The sacrifice she had made for this object only made it more precious

to her. Besides, she separated the idea of the docile, affectionate, loutish, indolent Will, and kept it distinct

from the terror which the demon that occasionally possessed him inspired her with. The one was her flesh and

her bloodthe child of her dead mother; the other was some fiend who came to torture and convulse the

creature she so loved. She believed that she fought her brother's battle in holding down those tearing hands, in

binding whenever she could those uplifted restless arms prompt and prone to do mischief. All the time she

subdued him with her cunning or her strength, she spoke to him in pitying murmurs, or abused the third

person, the fiendish enemy, in no unmeasured tones. Towards morning the paroxysm was exhausted, and he

would fall asleep, perhaps only to waken with evil and renewed vigour. But when he was laid down, she

would sally out to taste the fresh air, and to work off her wild sorrow in cries and mutterings to herself. The

early labourers saw her gestures at a distance, and thought her as crazed as the idiot brother who made the

neighbourhood a haunted place. But did any chance person call at Yew Nook later on in the day, he would

Once this fit of violence lasted longer than usual. Susan's strength both of mind and body was nearly worn

out; she wrestled in prayer that somehow it might end before she, too, was driven mad; or, worse, might be

obliged to give up life's aim, and consign Willie to a madhouse. From that moment of prayer (as she

afterwards superstitiously thought) Willie calmedand then he droopedand then he sankand, last of all,

But he was so gentle and tender as he lay on his dying bed; such strange, childlike gleams of returning

intelligence came over his face, long after the power to make his dull, inarticulate sounds had departed, that

Susan was attracted to him by a stronger tie than she had ever felt before. It was something to have even an

idiot loving her with dumb, wistful, animal affection; something to have any creature looking at her with such

beseeching eyes, imploring protection from the insidious enemy stealing on. And yet she knew that to him

death was no enemy, but a true friend, restoring light and health to his poor clouded mind. It was to her that

death was an enemy; to her, the survivor, when Willie died; there was no one to love her.

You now know why no wandering tourist could persuade her to receive him as a lodger; why no tired

traveller could melt her heart to afford him rest and refreshment; why long habits of seclusion had given her a

moroseness of manner, and how care for the interests of another had rendered her keen and miserly.

In spite of Peggy's prophecy that Susan's life should not seem long, it did seem wearisome and endless, as the

years slowly uncoiled their monotonous circles. To be sure, she might have made change for herself, but she

did not care to do it. It was, indeed, more than "not caring," which merely implies a certain degree of vis

inertiae to be subdued before an object can be attained, and that the object itself does not seem to be of

sufficient importance to call out the requisite energy. On the contrary, Susan exerted herself to avoid change

and variety. She had a morbid dread of new faces, which originated in her desire to keep poor dead Willie's

state a profound secret. She had a contempt for new customs; and, indeed, her old ways prospered so well

under her active hand and vigilant eye, that it was difficult to know how they could be improved upon. She

was regularly present in Coniston market with the best butter and the earliest chickens of the season. Those

were the common farm produce that every farmer's wife about had to sell; but Susan, after she had disposed

of the more feminine articles, turned to on the man's side. A better judge of a horse or cow there was not in

all the country round. Yorkshire itself might have attempted to jockey her, and would have failed. Her corn

was sound and clean; her potatoes well preserved to the latest spring. People began to talk of the hoards of

money Susan Dixon must have laid up somewhere; and one young ne'erdoweel of a farmer's son

undertook to make love to the woman of forty, who looked fiftyfive, if a day. He made up to her by opening

a gate on the roadpath home, as she was riding on a bare backed horse, her purchase not an hour ago. She

was off before him, refusing his civility; but the remounting was not so easy, and rather than fail she did not

choose to attempt it. She walked, and he walked alongside, improving his opportunity, which, as he vainly

thought, had been consciously granted to him. As they drew near Yew Nook, he ventured on some expression

of a wish to keep company with her. His words were vague and clumsily arranged. Susan turned round and

coolly asked him to explain himself, he took courage, as he thought of her reputed wealth, and expressed his

wishes this second time pretty plainly. To his surprise, the reply she made was in a series of smart strokes

"Take that!" said she, almost breathless, "to teach thee how thou darest make a fool of an honest woman old

enough to be thy mother. If thou com'st a step nearer the house, there's a good horsepool, and there's two

And she strode into her own premises, never looking round to see whether he obeyed her injunction or not.

Sometimes three or four years would pass over without her hearing Michael Hurst's name mentioned. She

used to wonder at such times whether he were dead or alive. She would sit for hours by the dying embers of

her fire on a winter's evening, trying to recall the scenes of her youth; trying to bring up living pictures of the

faces she had then knownMichael's most especially. She thought it was possible, so long had been the

lapse of years, that she might now pass by him in the street unknowing and unknown. His outward form she

might not recognize, but himself she should feel in the thrill of her whole being. He could not pass her

What little she did hear about him, all testified a downward tendency. He dranknot at stated times when

there was no other work to be done, but continually, whether it was seedtime or harvest. His children were

all ill at the same time; then one died, while the others recovered, but were poor sickly things. No one dared

to give Susan any direct intelligence of her former lover; many avoided all mention of his name in her

presence; but a few spoke out either in indifference to, or ignorance of, those bygone days. Susan heard every

word, every whisper, every sound that related to him. But her eye never changed, nor did a muscle of her face

Late one November night she sat over her fire; not a human being besides herself in the house; none but she

had ever slept there since Willie's death. The farmlabourers had foddered the cattle and gone home hours

before. There were crickets chirping all round the warm hearthstones; there was the clock ticking with the

peculiar beat Susan had known from her childhood, and which then and ever since she had oddly associated

within the idea of a mother and child talking together, one loud tick, and quicka feeble, sharp one

The day had been keen, and piercingly cold. The whole lift of heaven seemed a dome of iron. Black and

frostbound was the earth under the cruel east wind. Now the wind had dropped, and as the darkness had

gathered in, the weatherwise old labourers prophesied snow. The sounds in the air arose again, as Susan sat

still and silent. They were of a different character to what they had been during the prevalence of the east

wind. Then they had been shrill and piping; now they were like low distant growling; not unmusical, but

strangely threatening. Susan went to the window, and drew aside the little curtain. The whole world was

whitethe air was blinded with the swift and heavy fall of snow. At present it came down straight, but Susan

knew those distant sounds in the hollows and gulleys of the hills portended a driving wind and a more cruel

storm. She thought of her sheep; were they all folded? the newborn calf, was it bedded well? Before the

drifts were formed too deep for her to pass in and outand by the morning she judged that they would be six

or seven feet deepshe would go out and see after the comfort of her beasts. She took a lantern, and tied a

shawl over her head, and went out into the open air. She had tenderly provided for all her animals, and was

returning, when, borne on the blast as if some spiritcryfor it seemed to come rather down from the skies

than from any creature standing on earth's levelshe heard a voice of agony; she could not distinguish

words; it seemed rather as if some bird of prey was being caught in the whirl of the icy wind, and torn and

tortured by its violence. Again up high above! Susan put down her lantern, and shouted loud in return; it was

an instinct, for if the creature were not human, which she had doubted but a moment before, what good could

her responding cry do? And her cry was seized on by the tyrannous wind, and borne farther away in the

opposite direction to that from which the call of agony had proceeded. Again she listened; no sound: then

again it rang through space; and this time she was sure it was human. She turned into the house, and heaped

turf and wood on the fire, which, careless of her own sensations, she had allowed to fade and almost die out.

She put a new candle in her lantern; she changed her shawl for a maud, and leaving the door on latch, she

sallied out. Just at the moment when her ear first encountered the weird noises of the storm, on issuing forth

into the open air, she thought she heard the words, "O God! O help!" They were a guide to her, if words they

were, for they came straight from a rock not a quarter of a mile from Yew Nook, but only to be reached, on

account of its precipitous character, by a roundabout path. Thither she steered, defying wind and snow;

guided by here a thorntree, there an old, doddered oak, which had not quite lest their identity under the

whelming mask of snow. Now and then she stopped to listen; but never a word or sound heard she, till right

from where the copsewood grew thick and tangled at the base of the rock, round which she was winding,

she heard a moan. Into the brakeall snow in appearancealmost a plain of snow looked on from the little

eminence where she stoodshe plunged, breaking down the bush, stumbling, bruising herself, fighting her

way; her lantern held between her teeth, and she herself using head as well as hands to butt away a passage, at

whatever cost of bodily injury. As she climbed or staggered, owing to the unevenness of the snowcovered

ground, where the briars and weeds of years were tangled and matted together, her foot felt something

strangely soft and yielding. She lowered her lantern; there lay a man, prone on his face, nearly covered by the

fastfalling flakes; he must have fallen from the rock above, as, not knowing of the circuitous path, he had

tried to descend its steep, slippery face. Who could tell? it was no time for thinking. Susan lifted him up with

her wiry strength; he gave no helpno sign of life; but for all that he might be alive: he was still warm; she

tied her maud round him; she fastened the lantern to her apronstring; she held him tight: halfcarrying,

halfdraggingwhat did a few bruises signify to him, compared to dear life, to precious life! She got him

through the brake, and down the path. There, for an instant, she stopped to take breath; but, as if stung by the

Furies, she pushed on again with almost superhuman strength. Clasping him round the waist, and leaning his

dead weight against the lintel of the door, she tried to undo the latch; but now, just at this moment, a

trembling faintness came over her, and a fearful dread took possession of herthat here, on the very

threshold of her home, she might be found dead, and buried under the snow, when the farmservants came in

the morning. This terror stirred her up to one more effort. Then she and her companion were in the warmth of

the quiet haven of that kitchen; she laid him on the settle, and sank on the floor by his side. How long she

remained in this swoon she could not tell; not very long she judged by the fire, which was still red and

sullenly glowing when she came to herself. She lighted the candle, and bent over her late burden to ascertain

if indeed he were dead. She stood long gazing. The man lay dead. There could be no doubt about it. His filmy

eyes glared at her, unshut. But Susan was not one to be affrighted by the stony aspect of death. It was not

She was convinced he was dead; but after a while she refused to believe in her conviction. She stripped off

his wet outergarments with trembling, hurried hands. She brought a blanket down from her own bed; she

made up the fire. She swathed him in fresh, warm wrappings, and laid him on the flags before the fire, sitting

herself at his head, and holding it in her lap, while she tenderly wiped his loose, wet hair, curly still, although

its colour had changed from nutbrown to irongray since she had seen it last. From time to time she bent

over the face afresh, sick, and fain to believe that the flicker of the firelight was some slight convulsive

motion. But the dim, staring eyes struck chill to her heart. At last she ceased her delicate, busy cares: but she

still held the head softly, as if caressing it. She thought over all the possibilities and chances in the mingled

yarn of their lives that might, by so slight a turn, have ended far otherwise. If her mother's cold had been early

tended, so that the responsibility as to her brother's weal or woe had not fallen upon her; if the fever had not

taken such rough, cruel hold on Will; nay, if Mrs. Gale, that hard, worldly sister, had not accompanied him on

his last visit to Yew Nookhis very last before this fatal, stormy might; if she had heard his cry,cry

uttered by these pale, dead lips with such wild, despairing agony, not yet three hours ago!O! if she had but

heard it sooner, he might have been saved before that blind, false step had precipitated him down the rock! In

going over this weary chain of unrealized possibilities, Susan learnt the force of Peggy's words. Life was

short, looking back upon it. It seemed but yesterday since all the love of her being had been poured out, and

run to waste. The intervening years the long monotonous years that had turned her into an old woman

The labourers coming in the dawn of the winter's day were surprised to see the firelight through the low

kitchenwindow. They knocked, and hearing a moaning answer, they entered, fearing that something had

"It is Michael Hurst. He was belated, and fell down the Raven's Crag. Where does Eleanor, his wife, live?"

How Michael Hurst got to Yew Nook no one but Susan ever knew. They thought he had dragged himself

there, with some sore internal bruise sapping away his minuted life. They could not have believed the

superhuman exertion which had first sought him out, and then dragged him hither. Only Susan knew of that.

She gave him into the charge of her servants, and went out and saddled her horse. Where the wind had drifted

the snow on one side, and the road was clear and bare, she rode, and rode fast; where the soft, deceitful heaps

were massed up, she dismounted and led her steed, plunging in deep, with fierce energy, the pain at her heart

The gray, solemn, winter's noon was more nightlike than the depth of summer's night; dimpurple brooded

the low skies over the white earth, as Susan rode up to what had been Michael Hurst's abode while living. It

was a small farmhouse carelessly kept outside, slatternly tended within. The pretty Nelly Hebthwaite was

pretty still; her delicate face had never suffered from any longenduring feeling. If anything, its expression

was that of plaintive sorrow; but the soft, light hair had scarcely a tinge of gray; the woodrose tint of

complexion yet remained, if not so brilliant as in youth; the straight nose, the small mouth were untouched by

time. Susan felt the contrast even at that moment. She knew that her own skin was weatherbeaten, furrowed,

brown,that her teeth were gone, and her hair gray and ragged. And yet she was not two years older than

Nelly,she had not been, in youth, when she took account of these things. Nelly stood wondering at the

strangeenough horsewoman, who stopped and panted at the door, holding her horse's bridle, and refusing

"Well, I can't rightly say. He should have been at home last night, but he was off, seeing after a publichouse

"He did not come home last night?" said Susan, cutting short the story, and halfaffirming, halfquestioning,

by way of letting in a ray of the awful light before she let it full in, in its consuming wrath.

"No! he'll be stopping somewhere out Ulverstone ways. I'm sure we've need of him at home, for I've no one

but lile Tommy to help me tend the beasts. Things have not gone well with us, and we don't keep a servant

now. But you're trembling all over, ma'am. You'd better come in, and take something warm, while your horse

Susan took her horse there; loosened his girths, and rubbed him down with a wisp of straw. Then she hooked

about her for hay; but the place was bare of feed, and smelt damp and unused. She went to the house,

thankful for the respite, and got some clapbread, which she mashed up in a pailful of lukewarm water.

Every moment was a respite, and yet every moment made her dread the more the task that lay before her. It

would be longer than she thought at first. She took the saddle off, and hung about her horse, which seemed,

somehow, more like a friend than anything else in the world. She laid her cheek against its neck, and rested

Eleanor had brought down one of her own gowns, which hung on a chair against the fire, and had made her

unknown visitor a cup of hot tea. Susan could hardly bear all these little attentions: they choked her, and yet

she was so wet, so weak with fatigue and excitement, that she could neither resist by voice or by action. Two

children stood awkwardly about, puzzled at the scene, and even Eleanor began to wish for some explanation

This respect of silence came like balm to Susan: balm not felt or heeded at the time it was applied, but very

"He is at my house," continued Susan, determined not to stop or quaver in the operationthe pain which

"At your house? Yew Nook?" questioned Eleanor, surprised. "How came he there?"half jealously. "Did he

"O! would to God! would to God!" shrieked out Eleanor, learning all from the woful import of those dreary

eyes. Her cries thrilled through the house; the children's piping wailings and passionate cries on "Daddy!

Daddy!" pierced into Susan's very marrow. But she remained as still and tearless as the great round face upon

At last, in a lull of crying, she said,not exactly questioning, but as if partly to herself

"Loved him! he was my husband! He was the father of three bonny bairns that lie dead in Grasmere

churchyard. I wish you'd go, Susan Dixon, and let me weep without your watching me! I wish you'd never

"Alas! alas! it would not have brought him to life. I would have laid down my own to save his. My life has

The tone in which she said this was so utterly mournful and despairing that it awed Nelly into quiet for a

time. But byandby she said, "I would not turn a dog out to do it harm; but the night is clear, and Tommy

shall guide you to the Red Cow. But, oh, I want to be alone! If you'll come back tomorrow, I'll be better, and

I'll hear all, and thank you for every kindness you have shown him,and I do believe you've showed him

She said somethingher words came thick and unintelligible. She had had a paralytic stroke since she had

last spoken. She could not go, even if she would. Nor did Eleanor, when she became aware of the state of the

case, wish her to leave. She had her laid on her own bed, and weeping silently all the while for her lest

husband, she nursed Susan like a sister. She did not know what her guest's worldly position might be; and she

might never be repaid. But she sold many a little trifle to purchase such small comforts as Susan needed.

Susan, lying still and motionless, learnt much. It was not a severe stroke; it might be the forerunner of others

yet to come, but at some distance of time. But for the present she recovered, and regained much of her former

health. On her sickbed she matured her plans. When she returned to Yew Nook, she took Michael Hurst's

widow and children with her to live there, and fill up the haunted hearth with living forms that should banish

And so it fell out that the latter days of Susan Dixon's life were better than the former.