Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/32

. 29, 1861.] Miss Bentley was more than usually intent upon the elaborate finishing off of her pie-crusts, and continued to stand with her back to her brother, contriving to get a sly look at him without being perceived, as she replied, “But I’m sadly ’fraid, Sam, thou can’t ’bide them. They’re shocking bad news,news. [sic] Some ’at about a Lun’on lass.”

“Hang it!” cried Sam, jumping up and stamping on the hearth, “bad news fly like t’ wind—has thou heard it? An idle good-for-nothing! Could mak’ no better use o’ his time an’ his brass than to tak’ up wi’ a common hand—a hussey—that’s known all over t’ town. Let him show his face here to-night, an’ I’ll thrash him within an inch o’ his life, as sure as his name ’s Harry Bentley.”

Miss Bentley, at the commencement of this tirade, gave a cunning smile, and chuckled at the trap which she thought he had fallen into; but as her brother continued, she became puzzled to know his meaning, and when he finished by naming her nephew she turned round, and leaning against the table with a mixture of indignation and surprise, said, “What’s all this rigmarole about? What has Harry to do with it? It’s thee I’m talking about.”

Bentley replied, “An’ its Harry I’m talkin’ on. He’s ta’en up wi’ a common factory-lass, and been spendin’ all he has on her, got into debt an’ dirt, an’ he’s out wi’ her now. A hypocritical villain! If he comes here again, I’ll turn him out!”

He soused himself into his chair, leaving his sister standing in the middle of the floor, rolling-pin in hand, lost in amazement.

“Thou may looik at me,” continued Sam. “I tell thee it’s true, Harry is a scamp—he’s bad at t’ heart. He wants to tak’ her to Lun’on, an’ they say he ’s spent fifty pund on fine clothes an’ things for her—he’s stol’n it if he haz.”

“I don’t believe it,” said his aunt. “Ask him when he comes. He never telled me a lie. He’ll speak truth if he speak at all. I’d very much sooiner believe that thou gav’ somebody fifty pund when thou were in Lun’on. I know thou does such things. I wonder thou can hold thy head up when thou comes back, and can tell such fond tales about thy own flesh an’ blood. I’ve ’bout done wi’ thee. Here hev’ I been toilin’ an’ moilin’ for thee all my life, an’ I know no more how things go nor t’ engine-driver, nor so much. I daresay thou does talk wi’ him at times. Thou says there’s brass, but I don’t know what to think ’bout it—I see little on it, but fine folk in Lun’on can hev’ a fifty pund note like winkin’ fro’ Sam Bentley that can’t thoil his own sister sixpence. Thou’rt on t’ road to t’ workhous’ at last an’ to auld Nick afterwards. I mun look out for a place soon. I’ve stopped wi’ thee until I’m too auld for t’ mill; what’ll become on me I don’t know, and thou won’t care, or thou’d ta’en better care of thy money, an’ not hev’ thrown it about in that sinful way.”

As Miss Bentley began, Sam settled himself comfortably in his corner-chair, pulled off his boots, put his feet in the best position for being comfortably toasted, lit his pipe, and determined to weather out the storm as usual, expecting it to be only an ordinary squall. The allusion to the note took him by surprise. His irritation on Henry’s account made him impatient, and he was anxious that the matter might drop, or the conversation be turned back to Henry, and therefore when his sister paused to gain breath, he said:

“Thy tongue weaves fast, Nance; but it’s light stuff, and not to order. What’s t’use o’ flytin’ ’bout I don’t know what, when Harry’s makin’ a fooil o’ himsel’ or some’at war for a trumped-up factory lass.”

Without suspending her work to which she had returned, as soon as he began to speak, Miss Bentley replied:

“I won’t believe it. He’s not the lad to do’t. Tho’ for the matter o’ that, if he did, there’s nobody to blame but thysel’, who’s set him t’ example wi’ that woman i’ Lon’on. Thou said nought to me ’bout it. I wonder what devilry wor afoot then. Thou little thought o’ them that’s dead an’ gone, or of t’ livin’ either, or thou would hev’ gi’en an account of thysel’ when thou cam’ back. Thou ’st hev better paid thy debts, for I hear thou got sadly in debt up there.”

Bentley could not bear this insinuation—it wounded him in the tenderest part. He thumped the table with his clenched fist until she ceased, and then shouted out:

“It’s a lie! Hold thy tongue, thou blating calf! Who dare say that Sam Bentley owes a farthin’—that he does not pay everything as soon as it’s due?”

“I dare!” said Miss Bentley, calmly stepping up to him, and shaking her hand in his face, “an’ what’s more, I say thou ’s been dunned for it—that I’ve been asked for it. Now, be quiet, Sam, thy sister’s been dunned in thy own house for thy debts.”

He was infuriated. He jumped up, swore, stamped up and down the room, and savagely kicked aside whatever came in his way. His sister went quietly back to her occupation, leaving him to calm down at his own pleasure. A long series of violent gyrations and jerkings—in which the poor sparrow seemed to be beat down by the hawk—worked off his passion, and he returned to his seat and re-lit his pipe, spurting out occasional testy ejaculations and imprecations as parting shots. He longed to ask for an explanation, but he did not know what might be the extent of his sister’s information, and so was afraid to open the subject. He hoped that she would resume her attack, but she pursed up her mouth and maliciously kept silent. In the calm which followed Bentley’s burst of rage, he was startled by a loud noise as of something falling in the room above, and he eagerly asked:

“What’s that? Is Harry up-stairs?”

Miss Bentley, who had for the moment forgotten Susan, now remembered her, and she hastily replied:

“No, Harry isn’t. It’s nought particular. May-be t’ cat, or a winder open, or—it don’t matter what it is.”

The noise was occasioned by Susan. She had listened to the contention until she was greatly excited, and moving suddenly and incautiously she overthrew a chair. She had dressed herself as her cousin had desired, and yielding to the impulse of the moment and to the effect which her own smiling face as seen in the glass produced on her,