hold, and was gone before he could say, “Good night.”
When Susan reached home, her aunt was sitting in her usual attitude and place before the fire.
“The rain has made me late,” said Susan, going to the fire, and leaning on her aunt’s chair.
“An’ nought else? I thought I saw thee in Westgate?”
Susan cowered down on the hearth.
“Thou’s brought his umbrella. Dost thou know who he is?”
“No, aunt; he would follow me. I got away as soon as I could. Indeed I did not want him. It was not my fault.”
“Noa, it never is; it’s nobody’s fault, I knows that. But it’s no matter.” She swayed herself to and fro with her arms folded tightly on her breast. “The thing mun go on. It’s no matter who picks t’shuttle if Satan lays t’web. No manner of cardin’ can mak’ burdocks into locks.”
“Aunt, hear me—I’ll tell you all.”
“Noa, lass, tell me nought about it. There’s no devil so handy as an excuse, an’ noan wi’ so long a tail. But rain or no rain, if thou tak’s up wi’ him again, thou mun bundle out o’ here.”
She leant her head down on her knees, and Susan could hear, from stray expressions, that she was praying earnestly for relief against some fearful doubt. Susan waited awhile in silence, and then crept in the dark, hungry and faint, to bed.
She arose in the morning before daylight to go to her work. She was ill and unable to eat, but went out at the usual hour. She found in her pocket the card. On it was written: “For Mr. Henry Bentley,” with an address. Turning the card over, she was surprised to find that it was one of her sister’s. It recalled to her in her sorrow the dear sister to whom, week after week, she had neglected to write, and to whom her heart now turned with increased affection. She was perplexed at finding the card, and anxious to discover how it had come into the possession of Mr. Bentley, for such it seemed was his name, and to know if he was acquainted with her. This she must discover. She went at noon to the address he had given—a woolstapler’s warehouse—but though now desirous to see him, she did not venture to inquire for him, but merely left what she brought, and went away disappointed.
During the afternoon she thought she might find out who he was from some of her fellow-workers. With this intention, she asked the girl next to her if she knew him. The answer was a loud giggle, and then her question was repeated to the next, who in like manner passed it on, so that in a few minutes it was known throughout the floor that Susan was asking after her man. She then saw the folly of what she had done, and to vindicate herself showed the card to her neighbour, and was about to give her an explanation, when it was snatched out of her hand, and her companion, reading the written address aloud, said, in a pert and meaning tone, “He’s written down where she’s to go for what she wants,” and then, looking at the other side, burst into a scornful laugh, and added, “An’ he goin’ to mak’ a fine lady on her, and send for clothes fro’ Lun’on.”
Susan had made the matter worse, and felt that whatever she might say it would be repeated, and distorted, and all would believe that she had met him clandestinely, and that her character must now be like that of the rest. Her cheeks burned with shame, but with a sudden effort she refrained from any further explanation or denial, knowing that it would not be believed, and would only expose her to further insults and ridicule. She must bear the reproach. That which she had endeavoured most strenuously to guard—her good name—would now be sullied by common talk. With an aching heart she went on with her work. After the first burst of merriment at the discovery was over, she might, if she had not been so deeply immersed in her own painful reflections, have noticed that those around her were now disposed to treat her with greater consideration. There was a feeling that the barrier which had separated her from them was now thrown down—the reproach which her reserve and womanliness had silently cast upon them, and which they had unconsciously owned in their tauntings and ill-will towards her, was now removed. She was as one of them, but only more clever. She had made a conquest greater than any of them could have expected, and, being so successful, deserved congratulation for having made so much of her charms. She was treated with more familiarity, but at the same time with greater respect. Her companion shortly came to her, and said, “Dost thou mean to say thou doesn’t know who thy chap is?”
Susan remained silent, and the other went on: “Thou needn’t be so pawky, lass, if thou has ta’en up wi’ our master’s nephew. Thou’ll be turned off if it’s fun’ out, for Sam Bentley isn’t the man to let his nephew gallivant with the like of us—an’ I’ll tell thee this”—waxing warm at Susan’s indifference, “if thou gives us any more of thy airs, I’ll tell Sam mysel’ that Harry keeps company wi’ thee.”
Susan let her run on without interruption or reply. It was indifferent to her what was said. She was convinced that he would not disguise the truth, and that if the whole were fairly stated no blame could fall on her, but if it did, she could not parley with those who had so wrongfully condemned her. If she must suffer from the double loss of character and employment, she would suffer in silence. To one alone could she tell it—to her sister. She would write to her—irksome as the task would be—before anyone else could by a false account prejudice her. She saw how wilful she had been in leaving home, and the desire of her heart was to go to her sister—to be comforted by her, to learn to forget him, and to be at rest. Again her thoughts went back to the question, What knowledge had Henry Moore of Julia? how had he become possessed of the card? This she must ascertain, even if she had to see him again. This would be dangerous and painful, almost impossible to undergo if, in the meantime, he should hear the factory report, and believe that even in thought she could have deserved it. Then she recalled his looks, the tone of his voice, and his manner towards her, and was satisfied that hitherto he had respected her position, and must have approved of her conduct. She lived over again