“Not yet,” said the attorney, jingling the money triumphantly in his hand. “We’ll give you a taste of the law, my good sir, or I’m mistaken. You forgot the flaw in your lease, which I have safe in this desk.”
“Ah, my lease,” said the farmer, who had almost forgot to ask for it till he was thus put in mind of it by the attorney’s imprudent threat. “Give me my lease, Mr. Case. I’ve paid my money; you have no right to keep the lease any longer, whether it is a bad one or a good one.”
“Pardon me,” said the attorney, locking his desk, and putting the key into his pocket, “possession, my honest friend,” cried he, striking his hand upon the desk, “is nine points of the law. Good night to you. I cannot in conscience return a lease to a tenant in which I know there is a capital flaw. It is my duty to show it to my employer; or, in other words, to your new landlord, whose agent I have good reasons to expect I shall be; you will live to repent your obstinacy, Mr. Price. Your servant, sir.”
Price retired with melancholy feelings, but not intimidated. Many a man returns home with a gloomy countenance, who has not quite so much cause for vexation.
When Susan heard her father’s story, she quite forgot her guinea-hen, and her whole soul was intent upon her poor mother, who, notwithstanding her utmost exertion, could not support herself under this sudden stroke of misfortune.
In the middle of the night Susan was called up; her mother’s fever ran high for some hours; but towards morning it abated, and she fell into a soft sleep with Susan’s hand locked fast in hers.
Susan sat motionless, and breathed softly, lest she should disturb her. The rushlight, which stood beside the bed, was now burnt low; the long shadow of the tall wicker chair flitted, faded, appeared, and vanished, as the flame rose and sunk in the socket. Susan was afraid that the disagreeable smell might waken her mother; and, gently disengaging her hand, she went on tiptoe to extinguish the candle. All was silent: the grey light of the morning was now spreading over every object; the sun rose slowly, and Susan stood at the lattice window, looking through the small leaded, cross-barred panes at the splendid spectacle. A few birds began to chirp; but, as Susan was listening to them, her mother started in her sleep, and spoke unintelligibly. Susan hung up a white apron before the window to keep out the light, and just then she heard the sound of music at a distance in the village. As it approached nearer, she knew that it was Philip playing upon his pipe and tabor. She distinguished the merry voices of her companions “carolling in honour of the May,” and soon she saw them coming towards her father’s cottage, with branches and garlands in their hands. She opened quick, but gently, the latch of the door, and ran out to meet them.
“Here she is!—here’s Susan!” they exclaimed, joyfully. “Here’s the Queen of the May.” “And here’s her crown!” cried Rose, pressing forward; but Susan put her finger upon her lips, and pointed to her mother’s window. Philip’s pipe stopped instantly.
“Thank you,” said Susan, “my mother is ill; I can’t leave her, you know.” Then gently putting aside the crown, her companions bid her say who should wear it for her.
“Will you, dear Rose?” said she, placing the garland upon her friend’s head. “It’s a charming May morning,” added she, with a smile; “good-bye. We sha’n’t hear your voices or the pipe when you have turned the corner into the village; so you need only stop till then, Philip.”