# Adventures of Susan Hopley/Volume 1/Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII.
SUSAN RESOLVES TO SEEK HER FORTUNE IN LONDON.
Susan had a lover, as what young housemaid, or any other maid, at twenty, has not? His name was William Dean, and he was the son of the Miller of Mapleton—a man reputed well to do in the world. It would, therefore, have been a great match for the humble and parentless Susan, who had only her own two hands, and her good character, to make her way withal. But now, alas! the good character was gone, or at least under suspicion; and it was to be feared that the two hands, however industriously disposed, might not be able to earn her bread.
Before reaching Oakfield the coach had to pass through Mapleton, and as Susan cast her eyes towards the mill, she could not help ​feeling some anxiety as to how William Dean would meet her. As her arrival was not expected, and as the coach did not stop in the village, few people recognized her; but she fancied that in the demeanour of those few she could already perceive a difference. They looked at her, she thought, with more curiosity than kindness; and there was something in the cool nod of the head, and the nudging the elbow of the next bystander, that made poor Susan's cheek burn; and inspired an earnest wish that there were some spot in the world where, unknowing and unknown, she might earn her subsistence, however hardly, and hide her drooping head, till death relieved her from her sorrows, or justification from her shame.
When the coach reached the stile that led across the fields to Oakfield, Susan got down, and with her bundle in her hand, trudged onwards towards the park gates. No one could be on better terms with her fellow-servants than she was, and yet now she dreaded to meet them; and as she drew near the house she slackened her pace, and the big drops chased each other down her cheeks at the thought of her altered fortunes.
"Susan!" cried a well-known voice, "and she ​felt a friendly hand laid on her arm—"Susan, how are you? Let me carry your bundle, I have run all the way from the village to overtake you." It was William Dean, the faithful man.
"Oh, William!" said she, giving free vent to her tears—"I little thought you'd ever have seen me brought to this trouble."
"Keep a good heart, Susan," said the young man. "You're not to be blamed for others' faults."
"Sure, you don't think Andrew guilty, William?" said Susan indignantly.
"I hope not," answered he. "But we heard here they'd proved it against him, and that he'd gone away with Mabel."
"I have no right to be angry at any body's believing it," replied Susan. "But, it's hard to bend one's mind to it. It's one of the greatest trials I have to go through—but I must bear that, with the rest, till it please God to bring the truth to light. In the meantime, William, I am very much obliged to you for this kindness. I know it's what few would have done in your place; and I am very glad you have done it, because it gives me the opportunity of saying something that I had made up my mind to say the first time we met—that is, if I saw ​occasion—for I thought perhaps you would not wish to speak to me."
"That was a very unkind thought, Susan," said the young man.
"It would have been like the world, William," answered Susan; "but though you and I must keep company no longer, it will always be a pleasure to me to remember that you did not forsake me in my trouble."
"I have no intention of forsaking you, Susan," answered William; "I don't know whether Andrew's guilty or whether he is not—as I said before, there is no reason why you should suffer for other peoples' faults."
"But I must suffer for them, William," answered Susan. "When one member of a poor family does a bad act, he takes the bread out of the mouths of the others."
"Then you'll have the more need of friends," replied William.
"Need enough," returned Susan; "but that's not the question now. What I wish to say is—and there's no time like the present to say it in—that we must keep company no longer. I'll bring no honest man to shame; and unless I live to see the day that I can hold up my head again, I'll live and die Susan Hopley."
​Many were the arguments William used to shake this resolution, but Susan felt that she was right, and she remained unmoved. It was doubtless a severe trial to resign her lover, and to renounce the support and protection she so much needed; but the pain was much less severe than it would have been had he forsaken her; and she was sustained by the consciousness that she was giving him the best proof of her affection. "He may think himself strong enough to brave the world for me now," said she to herself, "but in after years he might meet many mortifications on my account, that would make him repent of his generosity, and blame me for taking advantage of it."
Susan remained at Oakfield but one night, and on the following day she removed to Mapleton, where she engaged a room, and gave out that she wished to take in needlework. A few charitable people sent her some; but she soon perceived that, from the smallness of the neighbourhood on the one hand, and the prejudice against her on the other, she would be obliged ere long to seek a livelihood somewhere else. In the meantime, she eked out her scanty gains by drawing on the little stock of money Miss Wentworth's liberality had supplied her ​with, and bore up against her troubles as well as she could.
One day, about a fortnight after she had been settled in her lodging, she heard a heavy foot ascending the narrow stairs, and presently Mr. Jeremy threw open her room door. It was his second visit, for he had called on her the day after he returned from Maningtree, and she saw by his manner and his portentous brow that he now came charged with ill news.
"What's the matter, Sir?" said she, "for I'm sure by your face there's something wrong."
But Mr. Jeremy only threw himself into a chair, placed his hands on his knees, puffed out his cheeks, and after blowing like a whale, folded in his lips as if he were determined the secret should not escape him; so Susan, who knew his ways, looked at him in silence, and waited his own time. "No will!" said he, after a pause of some duration, and rather appearing to speak to himself than her—"No will! Whew! they may tell that to them as knows no better, but it won't go down with John Jeremy."
"What, Sir," said Susan, "hasn't master left a will?"
"So they say," said he, "but I'll take my oath there was a will, and that I was by when ​it was signed; and not one only but two—and what's more, to my certain knowledge, master took one with him when he went away, and left the other at Oakfield; for I was myself in his dressing-room the last morning when he took one of them out of the escrutoir where they both lay, and put it into the portfolio just before I carried it down to the carriage."
"Then whoever took the money out of the portfolio took that also," said Susan.
"No doubt," answered Jeremy. "That's as plain as a pikestaff, though one can't see of what use it could be to them—but where's the other, Susan? That's the question. Master had his keys with him; and after Miss Wentworth came back, nobody ever opened the escrutoir till Mr. Rice and Mr. Franklyn, who were appointed trustees and executors, went to search for the will."
Again Susan thought of her dream; but as she had never mentioned it before, she felt that to do it now would be useless; and perhaps subject her to the suspicion of having invented it for the purpose of shifting the odium from her own family to others.
"As they can't find either," continued Jeremy, "people say he must have taken both with him; but I know better."
​"But after all, it won't signify much, will it?" said Susan. "The whole fortune will go to Miss Wentworth; and I'm sure she'll take care of Master Harry."
"Miss Wentworth won't be of age these two years," replied Jeremy, "and if she marries that Jackanapes before she's her own missus—whew!"
The marriage however was deferred for a twelvemonth, and all they had to hope was, that in that interval the lost document might be recovered.
The day before Christmas day, Susan's door was suddenly burst open, and in a moment she found Harry Leeson's arms about her neck. "Oh, Susan," he cried, bursting into tears, "do tell me the truth about Andrew. I won't believe it—I can't believe it—Andrew that was always so good—and that went into the water to save my life—and that was so kind to poor Rover when he broke his leg—nobody shall make me believe it—but tell me, Susan, where is he?"
"In heaven, my dear boy, I believe," answered Susan; "for I'm sure Andrew never did a thing in the world that he need hide his head for; and if he were alive, he'd have come forward before this to prove his innocence."
​"But, perhaps," said Harry, "some wicked people have got him, and shut him up in a dungeon. I've read of such things."
"I thought of that too," replied Susan, "but they tell me that couldn't happen now, in this country, at least."
"But if he's dead, what made him die?" said Harry. "Did any body kill him? What should they kill poor Andrew for? He'd no money, had he?"
"No, dear child," said Susan, "if they killed poor Andrew it was not for money."
"Then what was it for ?" asked Harry.
"It's hard to say," replied Susan. "Perhaps he had discovered their wicked intentions—or, perhaps, he was killed in trying to save his master."
"That's it!" cried Harry. "I'd bet any thing that's it! But, Susan, where do you think they put him when they'd killed him?"
"Ah, there's the thing, Master Harry," said Susan. "They've made up their minds that he's a thief and a murderer, and they've offered a reward for his apprehension; but if instead of that they'd offered a reward for his body, perhaps the mystery might be cleared up. And there's the misfortune of being poor, ​Harry. If we were rich gentlefolks instead of poor servants, they wouldn't have been in such a hurry to condemn him; and if I had plenty of money I might find out the truth yet."
"When I am a man," said Harry, his cheeks flushing and his eyes sparkling at the thought, "I'll find out the truth, I'm determined. Fanny says I shall be any thing I like; and I mean to be a lawyer, or a doctor; and when I am rich, I'll put in the paper that I'll give a hundred pounds to any body that will tell me the truth about Andrew Hopley."
"Although I had little hope," Susan would say, "that the dear child would ever have it in his power to do what he promised, or that if he did, the truth would be discovered by such means, yet it was a great comfort to me to hear him talk in this way; and I shed tears of joy to see the confidence his innocent mind had in Andrew's goodness; for I was sure if my poor brother was in heaven, and knew what was doing on earth, that the words of the child he had loved so much, would rise up to him sweeter than the odour of the frankincense and myrrh that in the old time was offered to God upon the altars."
About a fortnight after this, Harry, who ​since he came home for the vacation had, seldom passed two days without paying Susan a visit, entered her room with a countenance that plainly denoted something had happened to vex him. His cheeks were crimson, the heavy drops still stood on his long dark lashes, and his pretty lip was curled with indignation.
"Oh, Susan," he cried, throwing himself into a chair, "I wish I was a man!"
"What for, dear?" said Susan. "Don't be in a hurry to wish away time. We know what is, but not what is to come."
"I do though," he said, "that I might be revenged on Mr. Gaveston!"
"Hush, Harry!" answered Susan. "We must leave vengeance to God. But is Mr. Gaveston come to Oakfield?"
"Yes," said he, "he came the day before yesterday; and now I shall be very glad when my holidays are over, and I go back to school. I hate him!"
"But what has he done?" inquired Susan. "You didn't use to hate him, did you?"
"No," replied Harry, "for he didn't use to give himself such airs. When my uncle was alive, he wouldn't have dared to treat me as he does; or to say any thing against Andrew."
​"And what does he say against Andrew, dear?" said Susan.
"Why, when I told him I was coming to see you, he said, 'Upon my word, young gentleman, you show a delicate taste in the choice of your society, and remarkable gratitude towards your benefactors! A promising youth, certainly!' And, oh, Susan, he said it in such a spiteful, scornful manner that it was worse than the words; and I would have knocked him down for it if I had had strength to do it."
"And what did you answer?" inquired Susan.
"I said," replied Harry, "that I loved my uncle and Fanny too as well as ever he did, and better too, perhaps; but that I wasn't going to forget that Andrew had saved my life at the risk of his own, when other people had left me in the water to be drowned; nor that you had helped Dobbs to nurse my poor mama through all her sickness; and that I should go to see you as often as I liked."
"Well, and what then?"
"Then, he said, in the same spiteful disagreeable way, 'Pray do, Sir, by all means; I should be sorry to balk your inclinations. But I shall take care that if you choose to keep up a connexion with that rascally family, that you ​shall pay your visits to them elsewhere, and not in this neighbourhood. Pretty associates, truly, you've selected for a chap like you, that depends on charity for his bread and butter. Now, I dare say,' said he, 'if you choose, you could tell us where that scoundrel is hiding from the gallows—of course, you're in the secret.' Yes, said I, I do believe I know where Andrew is, and that's in heaven, where spiteful people can't hurt him—but when I am a man, and have got money of my own, Mr. Gaveston, I'll spend it all to find out the truth, and get justice for Andrew and Susan; and I'll advertise in the papers a great reward to any body that'll tell me what's become of him.—Oh, Susan, if you had but seen his face when I said that! He turned as white as that muslin you're hemming, with rage; and I do believe, if he dare, he would have killed me. He did lift up his hand to strike me, but though I am but a boy, I wouldn't stand still to be beat by him, for I'd have given him blow for blow as long as I could have stood up to him. But then he seemed to recollect himself. I suppose he began to think how Fanny would like his treating me so, if she heard of it; and he said in a taunting jeering way—'You're really a nice young gentleman! ​It's a pity your mother had no more like you; Go your ways, Sir, to the devil, if you please! and the sooner the better;' and then he turned away. But one thing, Susan, I'm so glad of—though I couldn't keep from crying as soon as he was gone, I did keep in my tears while he was speaking to me. I wouldn't have had him see me cry for a hundred pounds!"
This conversation alarmed Susan a good deal, for she saw in it the confirmation of what she had always feared, that whenever Gaveston had the power, he would show himself no friend to Harry; so she told him, that though his visits were the only real comfort she had known since her misfortune, that she must forbid his coming; "for," said she, "remember, dear, you have only Miss Wentworth to look to for your education, and for every thing; and although she might not herself object to your visits, yet husbands and lovers have great power over women, and can not only oblige them to do as they please, but very often can make them see with their eyes, and hear with their ears—and if you offend Mr. Gaveston there is no telling what may happen; he may do many things that you can't foresee, nor I neither. By and by, Harry, when you're a man, and your own ​master, it will be different; then, perhaps, we may meet again."
"And then," said he, brightening up with the glowing hopes of a young heart that could not believe in disappointment—"And then, Susan, when I have got a house of my own, you shall come and live with me, and be my housekeeper. Won't that be nice? I'll go back to school the very day the holidays are over, and take more pains than ever to get on, that I may soon be able to go into a profession, and keep a house;" and then he ran on with all sorts of plans for their little establishment, amongst which he proposed that Susan should be treasurer—"for," said he, "I am very bad at keeping money; somehow or another I always spend it in nonsense, and things of no use, and afterwards I'm sorry—and so, by the by, I wish you'd do me the favour to accept this half-crown that Mr. Gaveston gave me the other day. I don't want it—and, besides, if I did, I shouldn't like to keep any present of his," and as he said this, he laid the half-crown on the table.
"Keep it, my dear," said Susan, "you'll be glad of it at school; and I assure you at present I am not distressed; if I were, I wouldn't scruple to accept of it, for I know I should be ​welcome;" but as she pushed the piece of money towards Harry, she perceived something on it which led her to examine it more closely.
Over the royal effigy was cut the following inscription, "6th June, 1765." The characters appeared to have been made with a knife, and Susan felt perfectly sure that she had seen that half-crown before, and under circumstances that induced her at once to alter her mind and accept of Harry's gift.
It happened the day before Mr. Wentworth left home on his last fatal journey, that she was in his dressing-room when he was arranging some papers in the portfolio he took with him. He had emptied it of most of its contents, and laid them on the table beside him, when in turning round he jerked the table, which was but a small one, and they all fell to the ground. Susan assisted him to pick them up—and when she had done so, he asked if that was all.
"Yes, Sir," replied she—"it's all I see; but I thought I heard something roll away like money."
"No," answered Mr. Wentworth—"don't trouble yourself further—there was no money here."
​"Yes, Sir," said Susan, "there was—here it is under the drawers. It's a half-crown."
"Keep it then," said he, "for your pains," and he locked the portfolio and left the room.
Whilst Susan was yet looking at it, however, he returned.
"Show me that half-crown," said he. "Is there any thing on it? Ah!" continued he, with a sigh, as he examined it, "I must not part with this. Here's another, Susan, in its place;" and then he folded the one she had found in a bit of white paper, and replaced it in a corner of his portfolio.
Now Susan felt perfectly satisfied that this was the same half-crown; but how it should have come into Mr. Gaveston's possession she could not imagine. That Mr. Wentworth had no design of parting with it was evident; and from the manner in which he had put it away, there was no possibility of his doing so by mistake. It seemed almost certain that it must have been taken from his portfolio at the time of the murder—but it was inexplicable, not only that Gaveston should have had it, and kept it so long, but still more so, that if he knew whence it came, he should have given it to Harry.
​Susan, however, who was resolved to neglect nothing that could throw the faintest light on the mystery she was so anxious to penetrate, consented to keep the half-crown, and after making Harry observe the inscription, she folded it in paper, and deposited it in the same little box with the shirt studs.
Much did she debate whether or not to mention the circumstance, but the apprehension of not being believed on the one hand, and of injuring Harry still further with Gaveston, on the other, decided her to remain silent for the present. Indeed, although from foregone conclusions she attached much importance to the accident herself, she could not expect it to have any weight with other people. Gaveston would naturally deny any acquaintance with the previous history of the half-crown; and his having given it to the boy, would be a strong confirmation of the truth of his assertions.
The displeasure she found she was likely to bring on Harry by remaining in the neighbourhood of Oakfield, quickened a determination she had been some time forming, of trying her fortune in London; where her unhappy story being less known, she hoped she might get employment. With this view, she wrote to her ​friend Dobbs, explaining her motives, and requesting her advice; and Dobbs, whose kindly feelings towards her were in no way diminished by her misfortunes, recommended her to come up without delay, assuring her that "Lunnuners were not so nice as country people, and that she did not doubt being able to get her into a respectable situation."
With this encouragement, Susan, glad enough to leave a place where she was looked on coolly, and where she had no tie but little Harry, lost not a moment in preparing for her departure; and having with many tears embraced her dear boy, and taken a kind leave of Mr. Jeremy, she mounted the coach that passed through Mapleton, and bidding adieu to the place of her birth, and the scenes of her childhood, she started to try her fortune in London.