COUSIN SUSAN.

Cromwell Argus, Volume I, Issue 31, 15 June 1870, Page 7

COUSIN SUSAN.

JUiSE I (From tho Australian Journal.) : M Fullbu had married a German r, (late fe. That was years ago, so, that people gentry Jdone wondering that ho had not chosen io has eo f his own countrywomen, and had’ eniisea IB ed their forebodings that no good would to tho er pome of it, for good, and nothing else, itreet; jJ C omo of it. It was “silly,” said tho , com- ■ Wilful spinster across the way, to see merit , r iti ßß Jam every evening on the very ut )or-step of the house as she ran out to aaran- eet jjim. It was “ ridiculous,” said the ihappy wife next door, to see him walkig, in the cool of the evening, about their :iLY ttle garden, with his arm around her aist; “ such a waist, too,” said Mrs 1 liarpe, for tho fair wife had grown plump ill buxom since her marriage-day, in her (Iceful life of quiet love -and comfort. <Kot that Frank Fuller was rich. Far ■cfa it; but they had enough to satisfy ihes, h 0 thrifty Gemini housewife, enough for [lO red-cheeked, tow-headed boys, and the ,iiy, osy, dimpled girls, to eat and wear ; and fever a shade of sorrow had Frank seen pon his wife’s face until this evening, rheu she sat with a letter in her hand, and L, -yes —tears in her bright blue eyes. “ But don't ery, Marguerite !” said i’ranL iet«r “ Did I ever cry before since we were named V’ asked Marguerite. “ I must ;ea them. Dear Frank, see what mother mtes. Such a good mother! I know t. hey are very old, and I am their daughter lES —their only one. Oh, Frank !” "a “If we were but rich,” said Frank, “we [would go by the next ship. But my business cannot be left—and eight children. Good heavens! fancy the expense. You *l*73 if could not be done.” “ I see it well,” said Marguerite. “ You must stay, but I must go. Yes, I must see them, my best beloved, for they are to 'L } |me what we are to our children. I will go, if needs be, in the third class to save something, but go I must.” and I ‘‘You should never do that, my darling Marguerite,” said Frank ; “ but to go all ntry alone. Would you clave ? You remember has the voyage here—how ill you were, how 8 “g terrified ” f I* 8 I “ know,” said Marguerite. “ But I I nmst see them once. The good J father, the good mother, and the little I Christine. Little ! Oh, Frank, she is a TT* I woman grown now, with a lover. I should * f like to plait her hair for her on her wed • I ding day. Little Christine, who stood on | tiptoe to kiss me when I was married, and I said, ‘ I wish I were old enough to be a [ bride, too, Marguerite.’ Ah, Frank, thou -- -A let me go and she fell into her old P foreign way of the caressing thee and thou, f| of which Frank never quite comprehended . H tho tenderness. ■ H But after a while he took up her hand H in his, and folded it to his breast. H “ You shall go, my Marguerite,” he said, I I “ and God protect and guard you, and 9 ®‘ .? bring you back to me.” ; So it was settled that Marguerite should : J take this voyage, leaving her husband, her | children, and her home—the home loved y next to those who made it. nd | Only filial lovo and duty could have to ; lured Marguerite from her fireside, could ke |3 have urged her to that voyage she dreaded )er il so. Nothing else, not gold nor silver, no J gift the world has to give save her parent’s [j blessing. The “ Fair Fraulein” sailed on an early | day, and on this ship Frank took passage b® j for his wife. How strange it seemed to as I him to walk about the clean washed deck, is I to look at the handsome cabins, to go into a, fl bis wife’s little state-room, and see the tiny i window whence her eyes would watch the d i ocean, the white pillow on which her rj lovely head should rest, the pegs ou which t j her clothes would hang, the lamp whose I rays would fall upon her as she knelt in I prayer, and to know that this would be I her dwelling for days and weeks afar from Ij him. I It as a clear, bright day, and they were 1 i making the vessel bright and fresh, wash- ■ | ing, and polishing, and painting, here and , | there. Every one on board was full of life ij and hope, and every ripple of the water J that kissed the keel held a gleam of sunshine ; but Frank’s heart felt heavy. He II thought of storms that might come—of 1 wrecks and disaster. Tho captain was smoking a cigar, and as lie brushed the .ashes away, the dying sparks whirled across 1 [I the deck spitefully, as though bent on misij chief. / I “ be afraid to smoke aboard,” said Frank to the captain. I “ Nervous, sir ?” asked the captain. I “ Well, just now—l’m thinking of my 'I wife, you see,” said Frank. “ Don’t let it | storm, captain but the laugh was a mere ;| mockery, and the jest was forced from his | lips. Hardly a jest either, for it did seem ■j incumbent to commit the folly of cominand- | ing the waves to bo at rest and the winds ; to fold their wings until his Marguerite had crossed the ocean. This day was hard to bear, but not so hard as the one on which Frank took his wife on board the “ Fail Fraulein.” He long. He could not go, it seemed. BafHe/held both her dear hands, and looked W n VJko her. eyes. She sobbed softly. It ■ nrt is their first parting. You must go now, sir, unless you’ll go ■g 4th us,” said the captain. Wf t So they tore their hands apart. 1

“ Gooil-by, Marguerite,” ho said. She only whispered “Thou.” Then it came—the parting. Two kerchiefs fluttering farther and farther apart j a vessel fading into a more speck to one, the land into a dusky line to the other. She was gone.

Frank went homo. Cousin Susan was there, keeping house. Susan, his cousin, was chosen by Marguerite, for her many good qualities, to care for her children while she was gone. Susan had assented willingly enough. She was not too rich, and to save was an object. Already she was leading tho German servant a weary life of it, though the house was always spotless. “ Heaven send tho mistress back soon,” said Gretchou, thinking of her own woes as she sulked about the kitchen. “ She was over-clean, but this one is cleaner,” But, after all, Cousin Susan did well. She kept the children like so many wax dolls, and had them in a row on either side of the tables every evening studying their catechism.

By-and-bye a letter arrived by tho mail for Frank, from bis beloved Marguerite. She found her family in mourning, for their father was buried the day before she landed. Her mother was ill, too, and she was reluctantly pressed to stay a month longer than had been her intention. The next mail brought another letter, more hopefully worded, and which concluded with love and thanks to Cousin Susan and a remembrance for Gretcheu—- “ whose brother I saw yesterday,” said good Marguerite, mindful of all, “ and to whom I will bring a present when I return.”

There was yet another letter after this, iu which Marguerite spoke of her return in the® 1 Fair Fraulein.” Her passage was taken—she longed for home. Christine's wedding was just over, and now she was coming—coming.

After the ship had started—after that date, at least—Frank did nothing but watch the sky. It was a stormy month—wofully stormy. Wrecks everywhere—disasters by the score; but Marguerite was coming—surely coming. The ship was due, and overdue; but Frank could not believe, would nob believe, that Marguerite was not coming. In a kind of frenzy, he haunted the places where it would be first known if she were “ spoken.” Men looked at him gravely, and shrunk from saying what they thought. At last there was no thinking, but certainty.

The “ Fair Fraulein” was lost. Her wreck had been seen: two wretched sailors, taken from a raft, had told her story—how she went to pieces at midnight, and how, to the best of their belief, all besides themselves had perished. That night, when the door-hell rung, and a white-faced, ghostly, trembling creature tottered in, Susan could not believe it was her handsome cousin, Frank.

“ She’s gone, Susan,” he said, as though he had just seen his wife die. “She’s gone !” Then Susan took hold of his arms, as though ho had been a baby, and led him to his room and laid him ou his bed, covering him with blankets, and taking off his boots with her own strong hands. She was good to him beyond expression, after her own light. She made him ginger-tea, and shut the shutters tight. She sent Gretchou for the doctor, with a message to the effect that “ Cousin Francis was redhot, and talkin’ wild about her bones being coral-made, and them was gems what was eyes, and must be out of his mind.” And through fever and delirium, Cousin Susan nursed him, caring for his children, and doing her strict and earnest and not unloving duty all the while. - He was well at last—a broken-hearted man, hollow of cheek, and stooping at tho shoulders, bent, as it were, witli grief,—and went about bis work as before, only with no real care for it, or anything. Some time passed on—nearly a year of it. The children, in their black clothes, went about tho bouse on tip-toe, frightened by their father’s woful face. Susan did her best, and her sharpish face had grown more tender. It was never quite an ugly face. Sometimes she shed a few tears by stealth. One day she had a “ good cry.” It was the day before she spoke to her cousin as follows ;

“ Cousin Francis,” she said, “ I’m very sorry, but I’ve got to go.” “ To go 1” asked Frank, bewildered.

“ Not cf my will,” she said. “I am pleased to do for you, l*.n sure ; but they say it ain’t proper. While poor Mrs Fuller lived ’twas different; but they say, Uncle Brown, and Aunt Browm, and Mrs Jonas Buffer—that now you are a widower folks’ll talk. You see it’s got to be done.” And Susan stopped a sigh from being hoard.

“What will my children do?” asked Frank. “ What will /do t—l’m fit for nothing. I can’t think of them as I used to. I—Susan ”

He looked at her. There was a panic. He thought of his children, left alone—of his comfortless home—of her patient goodness. It made no difference to him whether she was plain or pretty, young or old. The world held no woman whom he could lovo now ; but he felt like a drowning man whose last hold is wrenched from him.

“ Susan,” lie said, “ will you take my. c ares upon you for life I —will you be a

mother to ray children ?—will you murry me 1"

Susan timidly folded her hands in her lap. There had never been a human being so great and good and beautiful, in her eyes, as Francis Fuller. She folded her hands, and looked down upon the carpet.' After a while, a red color stole into her cheeks. She looked up again.

“ Yes, Cousin Francis, I will," she said

He offered her his hand. She took it—as people shako hands at meeting. Neither thought of kissing the other; but Susan was glad to hide in her own room a while. The re-awakening of long-dead thoughts, strangled sensibly years before, was too much for her.

Once, when she was very young, everyone had thought that her cousin liked her —and she had really loved him. Was she to be his wife, after all 1 Poor Susan!

The ship had been lost a year, when one day Susan was making a gray silk dress to fit herself. She had already a white bonnet, and blue dresses for the girls and jackets for the boys were ready. They were to do it quietly, but they were to be carried the next day. It was a secret yet, unless Grotchen guessed ; but it being once done at the minister’s, Uncle and Aunt Brown and Cousin Jonas Buffer and his wife were to be asked to tea, and told. Already Mrs Buffer had thought it would be a good thing. She would approve, Susan knew. She put the last hook and eye on, and hung the dress away. She pinned the bonnet up in paper ; she peeped at a pair of white gloves—No. 7 ; she folded up a pair of silk stockings, and put them away. No gay thoughts, no very hopeful ones were in her mind, but she meant to make her husband happy, if she could. Now, only his housekeeper still, she went down to make tea. The baby—the youngest was called baby still—was put to bed in its crib; the rest were swinging on the porch; Frank was not home yet. Even Susan must dream a little ; just now she put her head down upon her hand, and sat softly smiling to herself. The evening shadows grew thicker; the room was veiled in gloijm. Suddenly something darker than a shadow seemed to pass Susan—pass her and glide into the room where the babe slept. Susan started to her feet in a tremble ; she crept to the door ; there it was darker still ; but bending over the cradle she saw a figure—the outline of Marguerite’s—the baby’s mother’s figure, and none else. Susan staggered back to the door with a crash. A ghost had appeared to her. What did it mean 1 Was she wrong in marrying Marguerite’s husband 1 Was this a sign of anger on the part of the dead wife 1 She sat quite still, not daring to move. Suddenly a step smote* the sill. Frank had returned. He walked up to Susan, and, remorseful perhaps for the utter coldness of his wooing, bent to kiss her, for. the first time. She put him back. “Stop, Cousin Francis,” she said. “ Wait a minute. I’ve seen something to-night. I’ve had a warning. She came to me ” “ She 1”

“ Your wife,” said Susan “ I saw her iu the next room. If you dare, go in. She may speak to you. I believe she is angry. Happy spirits never come so.”

Frank looked at her in horror. She pointed to the inner room. He passed her and looked in, A figure stood there, indeed !

“ Marguerite,” he cried. It moved. He remained, frozen with horror. “ Marguerite,” he sobbed.

It came nearer. Living arms encircled his neck ; warm lips were pressed to his. No ghost, but a living woman ! His own dear Marguerite sobbed upon Frank Fuller’s bosom ! Susan sat still—as still as a woman of marble. She could neither speak nor move. Neither noticed nor remembered her until she found strength to glide from the room.

The old, old story : a shipwreck—a sojourn on a desert island—succoured, at last, by a ship not homeward bound, and carried far away—letters written that never could be sent, others lost on their way—and at last a return to the German home, whence she could come as soon as the news of her safety. It was like a wild dream to Frank.

“ I have been here a whole day,” she said, “in the city. I feared that, after all, there might be no home for me. They told me you were married—married to Cousin Susan. 1 ”

“If it had been so, Marguerite ?” asked Frank, trembling. “ I should have gone away—away from my children and my home,” she said, “back to the old mother and family. I would never have let you know T lived. I would not have shamed her, and grieved you, and harmed both so much by being seen and known.” “Ah, Marguerite!”

“ There are so many children, and Susan is so good,” she said. “ But thank God it was not so.”

“ Thank God !’’ said Frank. “ Ah, thank God, darling Marguerite.” An hour after, Susan plucked him by the sleeve in the hall.

“ Cousin Francis,” she said, “ not a soul knows but you and mo; don’t you tell her. "Sou owo me that respect; Aunt and

Undo Brown and Mm Jonas Buffer will come over to-morrow, t shan’t tell but what they was asked to see your wife, and if you don’t hev the prayer-mootin’ to your home next Wednesday, you ain’t done your duty. You’d orter bo happier than over you was in your life, I am.”

And then, heartily and iu brotherly fashion, Frank kissed his Cousin Susan, and she kissed him. And never a face at the tea table next night was so bright us Susan’s, shining over the gray silk gown in which she had meant to be married. As for the bonnet and gloves, Susan kept them, for no one know who might come along somo day; and lace is lace, and kid kid, in these hard times.