Two days after this, which remained unanswered, her father came to her in great agitation and said to her: “Have you a mind to have a man's death upon your conscience?”
“Father!”
“I have seen John Meadows, and he is going to kill himself. What sort of a letter was that to write to the poor man? Says he, 'It has come on me like a thunder-clap.' I saw a pistol on his table, and he told me he wouldn't give a button to live. You ought to be ashamed of yourself trifling with folks' hearts so.”
“I trifle with folks' hearts! Oh! what shall I do!” cried Susan.
“Think of others as well as yourself,” replied the old man in a rage. “Think of me.”
“Of you, dear father? Does not your Susan think of you?”
“No! what will become of me if the man kills himself? He is all I have to look to, to save me from ruin.”
“What, then?” cried Susan, coloring scarlet, “it is not his life you care for, it is his means of being useful to us! Poor Mr. Meadows! He has no friend but me. I will give you a line to him.” The line contained these words: “Forgive me.”
Half an hour after receipt of it Meadows was at the farm. Susan was going to make some faint apology. He stopped her and said: “I know you like to make folk happy. I have got a job for you. A gentleman, a friend of mine in Cheshire, wants a bailiff. He has written to me. A word from me will do the business. Now is there any one you would like to oblige? The place is worth five hundred a year.” Susan was grateful to him for waiving disagreeable topics. She reflected and said: “Ah! but he is no friend of yours.”
“What does that matter if he is yours?”