face almost close to Susan, exclaimed, “Bless the bairn, is there no work in Lun’on!”
“Aunt,” replied Susan, “when my mother died, Julie had all to pay—had all to do. Whilst mother lived, I didn’t go out. They would not let me. They said I was too young, and too—I don’t know that I am, but they said—pretty. But I do think there’s too little and too much work in London for girls like me. I knew sister could not leave her shop, and menfolk bothered me, and so I thought I’d come to my ain folk, and then Julie could not fret about me, and I could get work somehow, and be a trouble to nobody, and so I’ve come to you, and you must tell me what to do.”
Her aunt listened attentively, but almost frowningly to her: then deliberately and slowly surveyed her from head to foot, and for the first time became aware how pretty her niece was. A clear, fair complexion almost white from fatigue and grief, an oval face with finely arched brow, bearing the indescribable impress of thought and pure feeling, her cheeks now, from agitation, flushing bright beneath the soft shadow of her long light brown hair, pensive meditative eyes; a face which once seen and noticed could never be forgotten, and having only one noticeable fault—the thinness and lightness of the eyebrows, which was rendered more conspicuous by the length and silkiness of the eyelashes; a tall, slim, symmetrical figure, and a voice deliciously sweet and metallic.
When Mrs. Womersley had finished her survey, she said, with a sigh, “Aye, thou’rt raight, lass. Thou’rt too bonnie to be let alone—too bonnie, I’m ’fraid, to be one of the Chosen, but may be not—we mun think about it—poor motherless bairn!” As she spoke, she got up, crossed to Susan, kissed her, and at the same time pushed her from her chair, saying, “We’ll ha’ no more chat to-night. Thou’rt tired, so come away to bed.”
Next morning at breakfast it was decided by Mrs. Womersley that for a week Susan should be a visitor, and in all respects treated as such, and that at the end of the week she should ascertain what work she could do and could obtain.
The week was a pleasant holiday for Susan. She rambled about at her own will, uninterfered with, in the fields and woods. Fond of the rural scenes among which her childhood had been passed, she never wearied of her walks and of gathering the wild-flowers which seemed to her more beautiful than ever. After the first day, she noticed that, in her rambles, vary them as she would, she frequently met a young man, who, judging from his dress and deportment, was of considerable better position in the world than herself. Their meetings appeared to be accidental. There was nothing in his manner to suggest that they were intentional on his part, and yet Susan soon felt that they were. He scarcely looked at her, as she thought, as they passed; and yet their glances occasionally met, and he showed by his look that there was to him a pleasure in meeting her. She could not say that he followed her, though she knew that it was a certainty that she would meet him if she went out. She was half vexed and displeased at this, but still would have missed something if she had not seen him. Towards the end of the week, as she was endeavouring, in a lonely field-walk, to reach a tuft of harebells which were growing beyond the ditch under a woodside, she saw him coming towards her. She at once desisted from her attempt, and walked hurriedly on. In a few minutes he came up to her, and when, as she thought, he was about to pass her, he suddenly paused and said, in a courteous and deferential manner,
“Don’t think me rude. I have seen that you, like myself, are fond of wild-flowers—Will you accept these? They were gathered for you.” He offered them as he spoke, and she, confused by his sudden address, and scarcely knowing that she did so, accepted them. He bowed, and bid her good morning, and walked on.
Her first impulse was to throw the flowers away. She was angry with herself that there should have been anything in her conduct or look which could have emboldened him to offer them to her. She stood in the path where he had left her, undecided whether to walk on or to return; she did the latter, still carrying the flowers. When her excitement subsided she noticed the beauty of the flowers, among which were many which were quite new to her, and which could therefore have been procured only by much searching and considerable walking. She thought she ought not to keep them, and yet they were too pretty to throw away. On examining them more closely she discovered that on the paper which was wrapped round the stems there was writing. She tore it off. On it were verses, addressed to her. This was an indignity—she threw the flowers on the ground, and passionately tore the paper, without reading, into fragments, which she flung into the grass. She walked on; her breast heaving with anger. After a while she stopped—turned back and walked to the place where the flowers lay, picked out a few and carried them home, saying, “They are so pretty.” When at home she put them between the leaves of her Bible, repeating her words of self-excuse, “only because they are so pretty.”
Next day—the last of the week—she again went out, but did not see him. She speculated much on the reason;—had he seen her throw the flowers away—was he ashamed of what he had done? Though she would not own it, she yet felt disappointed that she did not see him.
At the end of a week, Susan and her aunt endeavoured to find work for her. Dressmaking and plain sewing, to which she had been accustomed, could not be obtained without considerable waiting, and Susan was determined to go at once to work and rigorously fulfil her agreement with her aunt. At night she said she would go to the Factory until something better could be met with. There was then a great demand for “hands,” and wages were good.
Mrs. Womersley did not disapprove of the decision. She was neither able nor willing to keep a young and able girl in idleness. The labour Susan was going to was honest, well remunerated, and such as the great majority of women in Mrs. Womersley’s rank had, at one time or another, been practically acquainted with.
“They say,” continued Susan, in explanation