wholly uneducated. She could attach herself strongly to any one in whom she found more firmness of character, and a more practical intellect. It was as natural and as necessary to her to have some one to cling to, as for the ivy or bindweed to twine around a stronger plant, and the result was as graceful. She was pretty, and rather little—pretty in the style of those waxen effigies of humanity, which decorate the windows of artistes in hair or clothes—as fair, smooth, and rounded a face, and just as little of expression. A pretty plaything for a good-hearted sister friend; a passing toy for any evil-intentioned and designing pretended friend of the other sex. She was now an assistant in a large mantle and jacket warehouse, not far from Miss Moore’s shop, where her services of ten or twelve hours each day were considered to be properly remunerated by the weekly payment of nine shillings, out of which sum her worthy employers, Messrs. Ridge, Bridge, and Widge (who were very liberal contributors to advertised charities), expected her to find food, pay rent, dress well, and keep herself honest and “unspotted from the world.” When Miss Moore opened her establishment, Miss Manks looked up to her as to one who had attained to a station far superior to her own, and was enthusiastic in her praises of that establishment to her fellow assistants; and unbounded, on all possible occasions, in her prognostications of the importance to which it would eventually attain.
On the evening in question Miss Manks’s first inquiry, on joining Miss Moore, was, as usual, as to the success of the business.
“Any customers to-day, Julia?”
Miss Moore communicated to her very briefly the fact that she had had only one customer, who had not paid for what he purchased. This was said with some asperity, which led Miss Manks to infer that there was something even more unpleasant, which was yet uncommunicated to her; and being unwilling and rather afraid to make further inquiries, she walked on for sometime in silence, hoping that Miss Moore would become more communicative. This, however, she did not appear inclined to do, and few words passed between them during their walk home.
During the evening Miss Moore was very thoughtful and abstracted, and Miss Manks became, in consequence, more curious and desirous of having a full account of the day’s occurrences.
“One would think,” said she, “to look at you, Julia, that your customer made an impression upon you, and left his bill unpaid as an excuse to call again. Was he a nice man? I suppose I shall be losing you soon. I knew you could not be there long without some one finding you out—you have all the airs of a superior woman.”
Miss Moore smiled sadly as she replied: “He did make an impression, Jane, but it was a painful one.”
“Oh, I knew there would be quite a tale,—do let me hear it. Did he propose at once? I wish it had been me.”
“There’s very little of a tale—he came from my own part—he said he knew my father, and he knew of Susan, but he went away before I could ask him more.”
“He’ll be sure to come again—and take you away.”
“Nothing of the kind, you silly girl. It may be all right for you to sigh for a husband, but marrying is not in my way. If even
Might we lasses nobbut go
And sweetheart them we like,
I’d neither sweetheart nor be sweethearted. There’ll never be any tale about me. I have a trader’s soul, and wish to make money—money for Susan, for she has a lady’s heart if ever girl had. She would be happy as a wife. I think I’ve more of my mother and she of her father. Bentleys were always fond of getting money, and the Moores always knew how to spend it. There’s nothing but work for me, and I’m fond of it.”
They talked long together, but Julia never alluded to the loss of the note.
Next morning Miss Moore, in looking through her boxes to find something which a customer asked for, found in one of them the missing note. She then remembered that this box was on the counter when the owner of the note paid his first visit, and that immediately after he left she had closed it and put it away.
She hastily concealed the note. As soon as she was alone she spread it out on the counter to examine it. It was, as she had been told, a Bank of England note for fifty pounds. This was to her a large sum, and she was perplexed what to do with it.
She was too poor and too much engrossed with her work to be able or desirous to read the newspapers, and therefore she was ignorant that the morning papers contained advertisements of the loss and offered a reward to the finder of the note. Her experience in life had not been such as to make her acquainted with banking operations, and she was not aware that, on application at any of them, either to pass the note or for information, she would learn to whom it was to be returned; neither did it occur to her to give notice to the police authorities. She was not by nature dishonest, nor had she any wish to do otherwise than to restore it to the owner; but still the possession of it was a temptation and a trouble. It was a burden to her to have the care of it. She was afraid of losing it, and she knew not how to dispose of it with safety. She was not free from more painful thoughts. She had denied having it at the time when it was in her shop, and concealed it, as might seem, with design. She might be suspected of having acted improperly. Even if she now returned it she might be supposed to have done so only from a feeling of remorse or the fear of detection. The stigma of an original intention to retain it might attach to her. She was almost tempted to destroy it lest it should criminate her, but this feeling was instantly checked by the reflection that this would be the wanton destroying of so much money, as well as a wrong to the owner. She could not make up her mind to speak to any one about it. Her morbid anxiety prevented her seeking any advice. She would be silent and wait—wait until the owner again called—and then she would tell him everything, and throw herself upon his mercy. If he never came, then—she would not finish the thought—she thrust it away;