and again the few minutes of their interview. He stood before her mental vision as distinctly as he had ever done before her bodily eyes. It was pleasant to dwell upon these pictures, but the pleasure was too sweet—it became painful. She sighed and endeavoured to dismiss the thought, but it would return—fancies would grow around it, her heart beat faster as she remembered him, and she could not but confess that he had, from the first, been dear to her; but what was she to him—what could she, the poor factory girl, ever be to him, the only nephew of the wealthy spinner?
A few evenings afterwards she unexpectedly met him near her home. When she saw him, she hesitated, and was about to stop. He saw this, and came up to her with a pleasant smile, and said “I am glad to meet you.”
Susan hastily replied, “Let me thank you for your kindness, and permit me to ask you one question.”
“A hundred, Susan, if you will, but let us walk on.” He turned back with her.
“You gave me a card—do you know what was on it? I mean printed on it?” He shook his head, and she continued, “It was the address of a shop in London, kept by my sister.”
“Your sister!” he exclaimed, with sudden interest.
“Yes. I want to know how you got it. Do you know her—have you seen her?”
He studied for a minute or two, and then replied, “Oh, I remember. It is one my uncle brought down in October. He had been at the shop, and something queer happened, but I don’t know what.”
Just as he had said this, two girls overtook them, looked back at him and Susan, and then gave a loud laugh. One shouted out, “There’s modest Susan with her man. Let’s know, Harry, when the fine things come down fro’ Lun’on?”
Susan stood still, and could not look up. Henry was somewhat disconcerted, and, at the moment, inclined to suspect that Susan had been boasting of her connection with him. One look at her haggard and pain-stricken face dispelled the suspicion. He drew her arm within his, and led her on, saying, “Saucy, impudent sluts! they think all as bad as themselves.”
Susan tried to free herself. “Leave me, leave me!” she repeated earnestly, though in scarcely more than a whisper. “Oh, sir, if you had never spoken to me, you would have spared me much.”
“Is then my company so distasteful to you? Must I never see you again?”
“Never, never! They say—oh! I know not what they say, but it is more than I can bear.”
She put her hand to her side, and Henry saw that she staggered. He held her up with his arm round her waist. They were then in the dark lane which led from Westgate to Mrs. Womersley’s. No one was in sight. She hung heavily on his arm. He called her by name. He looked down at her face and felt that for him it was the loveliest that ever beautified the earth. He could not resist the impulse. He bent down in act to kiss her. As if divining his intention she started up, burst from him, and in a quivering voice exclaimed, “No, no, not from you, never!” and darted away. He was about to follow her, when immediately in front of him and between him and Susan, a woman came from one of the yards opening into the lane. He followed closely down on the opposite side, and at the first lamp discovered it was Mrs. Womersley. He then retraced his steps and went slowly homewards. The pale, beautiful face of Susan was before him all the way; the words and tone of her parting sentence rung unceasingly in his ears—“Not from you.” It ought to have annoyed him, this strong emphasis on you. She would think less of it from any one else. Yet it did not annoy him—he could not tell how, and yet there seemed to be something pleasant in the very strength of the rejection—a something of hope for him, which he laid to his heart, for Susan was now to him the realisation of all his youthful dreams of beauty and happiness.
As Susan was opening her aunt’s door on her return she was tapped on the shoulder, and on looking round saw her aunt had followed her. She had no time to speak, for her aunt thrust her back, unlocked the door, and then stood with arms akimbo on the threshold.
“Aunt,” said Susan, “won’t you let me in?”
“I’m no aunt to thee now, thou trash. I gav’ thee fair warnin’, an’ I looked ower it t’ first time, but thou’rt as bad as t’ rest. Don’t speak to me!” raising her voice, and hurrying on with increased passion. “I saw it wi’ my own eyes. I saw him cuddle thee an’ kiss thee, thou unsaved sinner! Thou won’t bide peaking. Thou never sets foot in this house again.”
“Oh, you will not turn me out at night—only till morning.”
“I do not turn thee out. A bargain’s a bargain, an’ I should be a liar if I brak’ my word an’ let thee in, an’ thou’lt be as bad if thou brake thine. Thou hast turned thysel’ out. Go to him. Nay, nay, I won’t ha’ thee. The curse of God is on thee, an’ will be on thy—”
“Stop!” screamed Susan. “You shall not say that. I may be foolish, but sinful I am not. If you can think that thought of me, I will not enter your house again. Good night.”
She walked rapidly away. Her aunt stood at the door looking after her, wrapped her arms in her apron and folded them on her breast, and then walked after Susan to the top of the lane, and there listened until Susan’s footsteps died away. She then slowly returned home, fastened her door, and took her old seat before the fire. She did not sit long. She rose and walked up and down, “tidying things.” The few trifling articles belonging to Susan which she found she put carefully away, and, as she did so, furtively wiped her eyes, and then coughed vehemently as if to convince herself that the necessity for having done so arose entirely from physical causes. When she had no longer anything which she could set in order, she again seated herself.
The room was now almost dark, the fire having burnt down. “She’s a bonnie lass,” muttered she, “an’ it wor pleasant to see her. But all her bonnie looks were wor nor the filthy rags of personal holiness. She’s one of the lost I hav’ little doubt, an’ so it doesn’t matter what becomes on