wait for her—he would see her—and if she had changed so vilely a look would show it, and he would go and tear her from his heart.
His torture followed him into the inn, for soon after he had entered two young men came in and sat down within earshot. Their conversation was at first carried on in an undertone, but in a short time it became louder, and he then heard that they were speaking of Susan, or as they called her, “pretty Sue fro’ Lon’on.” The first words, which he heard distinctly, were: “I don’t know ’bout that, but Bouncing Bess, who knows more nor a thing or two, says she cam’ fro’ Lon’on becos she had quarrelled wi’ a fellow there, an’ nearly killed him, an’ so wer forced to run, an’ that she has a sister in Lon’on that’s quite a grand body.”
“But what,” said the other sceptically, “does Bess know ’bout her?”
“Why of course she lodges there. Her aunt turned her out one night becos she fun’ her wi’ a man in t’ loining. Some fellow that wor goin’ to tak’ her to Lon’on again, nobbut she took up wi’ another an’ wouldn’t go, an’ so Bess met her walking i’ t’ street, as she left her aunt, an’ not knowin’ where to go, so she took her in, an’ they’ll hev’ had fine doins ever sin.”
“Then, who’s her chap, now?”
“I don’t know. Lots, I dare say—at all rates, if she’s like Bess—she’s a rum one, is Bess. She’ll soon mak’ her as bad as hersel’; but Bess says she’s awfu’ bad, an’ tak’s on sorely about—some trouble. I dare say it’s what we may all guess, an’ talks on goin’ back to Lon’on. It’s certain she’s writ there, for Bess saw t’ letter, nobbut she couldn’t read.”
This conversation ministered to Henry’s excitement. He could bear it no longer. Their words filled him now with doubt, and now with indignation: he hurriedly left the house, and walked through the streets. He knew not what to do; there was a fierce passion flaming in his heart, which would not let him rest, and which he could not control. She had a sister in London, that he knew. She was going back to London. Once there, he should lose all traces of her. He might go and find out all there. As these thoughts were struggling into shape and consistency, he met one of his uncle’s friends, who told him of his uncle’s threat and anger. “Quite right,” said he, and walked on. The decision was made. He would go to London, and find out all—he scarcely knew what he meant or wanted, but his uncle had rejected and cast him off, so if Susan were like his picturings of her, they would now be nearer each other in all respects.
When the factory bells rung out, he placed himself by the entry or passage to the court in which Susan lodged. It was within two days of Christmas. The night was bitter cold—a cutting wind, and the snow began to fall. He waited a long time before he saw Bess come. She was alone. Still he stayed, and felt the cold freeze up his strength and his limbs grow stiff. The snow fell thickly upon him, and still he waited. He heard a feeble step, a short, sharp cough, and then he saw Susan pass under the lamp. As she did so, she looked up, and he was shocked with the wretched and careworn expression of her face. In a moment he was by her side, and said:—
“Turn back, Susan, I want you.”
A wan smile of irrepressible pleasure passed over her face, as she replied:—
“I must not meet you any more. You must go. I’m busy to-night.”
“One word, Susan.”
She stood patiently in the storm, as if resigned to hear what he wished to say, but anxious for him to go.
“Susan,” said he, with a broken voice. “I have sought you daily since I last saw you. I have just heard that you have been blamed, and have suffered on my account. Tell me how I can make recompense.”
“No way. I don’t blame you. I think you meant kindness, but you should not have spoken to me.”
“Oh, say not so. I could not help it. I think of you only.”
“No, no: you must not. You must forget me. I am going away—to my sister—I must not stay here, good-night and good-bye.”
“I will not leave you—I cannot. All else is as nothing.”
“Remember who you are, and what I am. There can be nothing between us.” She stopped, seemed suddenly to recollect something, and then laid her hand on his arm, and said. “You have not thought ill of me?”
“Never, never.”
“And you would do something to please me?”
“Anything you can ask.”
“Then go not home for a couple of hours to-night. I have a message from my sister to your uncle.”
She walked on. He followed. She waved him back, but he still followed, until they were within the shade of the passage, and there in answer to her supplicating appeal, “You must leave me,” he took her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. As he did so he felt a tear fall upon it, heard her mutter “Good-bye,” and was left alone. He loitered about until he saw her again come out, guarded her unseen to his uncle’s door, and then saying, “Now for a messenger,” turned back into the town, and walked towards the railway station.
When Susan knocked at Bentley’s door she was answered by Miss Bentley, who called out to her to open for herself. When she had done so, and inquired for him, she was told that he was not at home, with a cross-question as to who Susan was.
“I work in the mill,” was her reply.
“Then go to t’ manager.”
“But I have a letter for Mr. Bentley from London. It’s about money. I must see him to-night.”
Miss Bentley was by no means devoid of curiosity, and Susan’s words were well calculated to awaken it. She called out. “Mak’ thy feet clean an’ come in.”
When Susan pushing open the door came into the light she saw that her questioner was a tall, thin, wiry woman, between fifty and sixty years old. At a glance she observed the cleanliness, tidiness, and brightness of the house. On a large deal table which stood behind the door, and which