Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/33

 22 she had carefully arranged her hair. The conversation which she overheard filled her with grief—she was unacquainted with the character and eccentricities of Bentley and his sister, and she feared there would be a complete breach between them; and besides this, and more clearly, more oppressively that anything beside, she understood that Bentley’s anger against Henry was occasioned solely on her account—that that had led to the quarrel between them, and there, as she knelt weeping by the bedside, she vowed that that impediment to the restoration of Henry to his uncle’s favour should at once and for ever be removed; he could never be anything to her; time became precious, he might return any moment, he must not find her there; she would explain all, she would justify him, and then go back to her old world of trouble and of labour.

Miss Bentley, when she gave her answer to her brother’s last question, was standing facing the stairs, which with an open staircase came down behind her brother’s chair. As she answered him she saw Susan coming softly down the steps. There instantly flashed across her a scheme by which she could alarm or astonish her brother. By a sign she stopped Susan, and then said to him:

“I tell thee, Sam, that if thou goes on as thou ha’ been doin’, thou’ll sooin hev to go to t’ workhouse or t’ treadmill, I don’t know which. Thou knows thou’rt in debt. I never fun’ thee out till now, but I believe thou’s al’ays been in debt. How much thou owes I don’t know—maybe more nor thou can pay i’ this world, but thy dun’s here, an’ thou mun speak for thysel’.”

She beckoned to Susan to come forward, then tapping her brother on the shoulder, said, “Sam, get up, look thy dun in t’ face, can thou say who it is, aye, my lad?”

Following his sister’s pointing finger he looked round and saw Susan, in the antique blue dress, her long light hair floating like a glory round her pale and lovely countenance. His pipe dropped from his hand and fell down upon the hearth; in a voice of excitement and terror, he exclaimed, “Almighty goodness! what is it? My own dear Susan come back again! Oh, what dost thou want wi’ me?” and shrinking in fear back from the figure, he covered his eyes with his hands and dropt back into his chair, and scalding tears streamed from between his fingers. Susan glided forwards, knelt by his side, put her arm round his neck, and said, in her sweet, ringing voice, “I am Susan, Susan Moore.”

“Who art thou?” cried Bentley, looking up with wild excitement, and fixing on her his glowing eyes. “Who did thou say?” He turned inquiringly to his sister. She pointed to Susan and said, “Martha’s daughter—Susan Moore.”

He gazed at her half bewildered, sat some time absorbed in thought, his head resting on his hand. Then his looks brightened, a saucy smile ran over his face—the sparrow jerked about in defiance of the crafty hawk, for now he could unravel the mystery—Susan was Julia’s sister, and from her had his sister derived her information. He could now re-assert himself; he coolly relit his pipe, and turning to Susan, said, “Thou’rt the pictur’ o’ thy aunt. If missus bad thee welcome, I say amen.”

“Gi’e him the letter,” said Miss Bentley, handing it to Susan. He hastily read it over, then crumpled it up in his hand, saying, “Aye, aye, I’m the man—it’s all right—it will be seen to—all right.”

Miss Bentley’s thought and resolve were these: “Humph, Sam thinks he’s master an’ he won’t tell me, but I’ll get that letter an’ t’ brass an’ all if I can.”

A loud knock at the door prevented her from giving some audible expressions of her opinion of Sam’s conduct. She opened it; a rough mill lad, with a most impudent and saucy expression on his face stood there, and in a loud voice that might be heard all down the street, shouted out, “Harry Bentley has sent me to tell ye that he’s goan to Lun’on. I’ve just seen him off by t’ last train wi’ pretty Sue, an’ so he won’t be home to-night, wi’ his compliments an’ me own to t’ master, an’ a happy Christmas.”

“Gone,” cried Bentley, “an’ it’s my fault. In my passion I said to t’ folks I met that I hoped he’d go to Lon’on, for I wouldn’t hev him here again, but I never meant it, an’ he’s ta’en me at my word an’ gi’en himsel’ up to a wicked trash, an’ he’ll be lost and done for.”

“Didst thou say so?” asked his sister lowly and slowly, “that thou’d turn him out for his first fault? How could thou do so to him? He never mistrusted thee, an’ is trust to be all on one side? Thou’rt a hard-hearted money-bag, an’ not a man, let alone a Christian; an’ I tell thee, Sam, tho’ thou’rt my awn an’ me only brother, as there’s a God aboon us, if any harm happens to my poor lad, I’ll never forgi’e thee, never, an’ I shall leave thee i’ t’ mornin’, an’ go an’ seek him till I find him.”

Bentley was frantic. He railed at Henry, at the supposed companion of his flight, and at his own hasty passion. Susan endeavoured to explain, but neither of them would hear her; they had no knowledge that she was acquainted with Henry, and her attempts were wholly useless. Bentley, as he stamped up and down, working himself into a greater rage, exclaimed, “Cursed be—”

“Hush,” instantly cried Susan, interrupting him by pressing her little hand upon his lips, “Hush, no wicked curse on Henry Bentley—if you will but hear me—I know all—he is honest—he is blameless to you in this.”

They turned to her with a vague surprise, scarcely crediting what she said; and Bentley, exasperated at her interference, fiercely asked, “What does thou know of him?”

In a low voice, but firmly and clearly, Susan replied, “It was me he sought. I would not hear him. It was me he wanted, but I would not listen to him because I am but a poor factory girl. It is for me that he has gone away. Oh, let me go back to my sister, far away from here, and let him come home again. Oh, cousin, let me go—I am a stranger to you and he is your own; let me go and never see him again.”

They endeavoured to soothe her, and thereby comforted themselves. The sting was taken from their grief—Harry had left them, but not criminally, with no wrongful companion of his flight, and it was easy to conclude that he would make