of her plans, “there’s a new mill by the canal—Bentley’s—where I can be taken on at once. I shall try in the morning.”
Her aunt was sitting right in front of the fire, her feet crossed and resting on the fender as she swayed herself backwards and forwards as if weighing opposing reasons or arguments. It was not until after a long pause that she replied, “Now, Susan, let us have a fair understandin’. So long as thou stops here, pays me what’s agreed on, and ’s a good girl, thou’rt welcome; an’ thou’ll be a sort of company for me, an’ I’ll mak’ thee comfortable; but if thou begin to stop out at nights—don’t come raight home—goes wi’ t’other lasses, or tak’s up wi’ a chap, then thou leaves me, there and then, for I know what it’ll come to, and I won’t ha’ my door darkened wi’ them that won’t walk in th’ raight way, or that begin to peep over t’wall down into t’other way. Dost thou understand me?”
“Yes. I will be like your own bairn, if you will let me; and you’ll be my mother, won’t you?”
As she said this, she went to her aunt and laid her hand on her arm. Her aunt pressed it closely, and without once looking away from the fire, said energetically, “I hope thou wilt. I shall watch thee. If thou does raight, as a young woman ought to do, thou’lt cheer up my ould heart better nor wine or med’cine; but if thou don’t, thou’lt be to me as that!” With a fierce gesture she dashed Susan’s hand away, and starting up, shook off from her shoe the ashes which had dropped on it from the fire.
Susan was startled and astonished, and said, “Aunt, aunt, what is the matter?”
Mrs. Womersley walked up and down the room with a short quick step, put aside Susan who tried to cling to her, and then standing before her, said in a low voice, like that of one who is faint from inward wrestling, “I will, Susan, on the day thou deceive me—I will cast thee off, though it be not thy fault—though it ha’ been predestinated for thee. Thou mun then go thy own gate, up to the moors and fells, or down into the pits, but no’ by the green pastures. So, Susan, keep thysel’ from fooilish ways, and thy foot fro’ the scorner’s walk.”
Next morning Susan laid aside her mourning dress, and putting on a far-worn dark-coloured print, and folding, in factory-girl style, her grey shawl over her head, went to the new factory by the canal and obtained employment.
Through September and October, and on into November, she worked in cheerless routine. She was at first oppressed by the irksomeness and newness of the life she had entered on, and the unpleasant strangeness and boldness of her companions. On her first entering the factory her conversation had been free from the provincialisms or dialect of the district. At this the roisterous girls around her had giggled and sneered, and so, partly from a wish to be at peace, and partly from becoming daily accustomed to the speech of those around her, she soon assimilated her language to theirs. She knew that her aunt kept a strict watch upon her, for on more than one occasion when some ardent youth or potential overlooker, unable to resist the attraction of her beauteous face, would insist upon walking with her, or waylay her as she returned home, her aunt had suddenly appeared and put them to flight.
She always, when she returned from work, found a tidy house, a cheerful fire, and a substantial meal. Her aunt was not unkind, but time seemed to develope more strongly her peculiarities, and these were as a separating barrier preventing full communion of thought or feelings. Her aunt was a member of one of the most thorough Calvinistic congregations, such as at that time were to be frequently met with in the rising towns and manufacturing villages of the West Riding. In no part of the kingdom were the doctrines of the Institutes more completely believed, and more uncompromisingly preached, undiluted by any modern sentiment. To Mrs. Womersley, as to the other members of this congregation (on the site of whose chapel now stands a German warehouse), there were but two classes of human beings—the Elect, who could not escape Heaven by any repugnancy they showed to Good, nor improve their hope of it by any abstinence from Evil, and the Non-elect, who could not avoid Hell though their lives were as pure as an angel’s. She had had an assurance, and possessed a conviction, that she was among the Elect, but she was in grievous doubt—a very agony of doubt—lest her niece should be of the other class, and have been devoted, long before her birth, to perdition. These opinions and fears acting upon her naturally reserved disposition threw a coldness around the intercourse between the aunt and niece which robbed it of all enjoyment or hilarity. A laugh was never heard in her house, and a smile scarcely known. There was a gravity amounting almost to positive gloom always around the hearth. There was, it is true, with this a depth of feeling and even of affection which would, if the heart could have been read, have done much to reconcile the most impulsive and susceptible; but Susan could only at rare intervals catch a glimpse of this silver lining of the home-cloud, whilst its shadow was constantly on her heart. She longed for sympathy, for recreation, for something which should contrast with her daily drudgery, which should give an aim to her industry. The rigour of her aunt and the many dull and weary hours which were spent at home were often contrasted with the happiness of her first week, and put in dangerous juxtaposition with the attention and the undisguised interest of the Stranger, which she had then so strongly—and, as she now felt, too strongly—reprehended. A longing arose to see him again—a desire to hear, though but for a minute, a voice speaking to her in the tones of affection. Still she worked on, keeping resolutely to her aunt’s instructions, and endeavouring to overcome all the annoyances of her present life by making her own thoughts and fancies the world of her pleasure and the sole sources of her happiness. One annoyance, however, she could not remove; on the contrary, it continued to increase. Her work-companions, the girls of the factory, were flippant, bold in speech, and lax in morals. It is well known in the neighbourhood that, at that time, the factory labourers of the town were sadly