things—such as, if you had a sister, and were going to give her a pleasant surprise, you would choose.”
Julia began to make her selection, and he then somewhat timidly asked, “Have you a sister?”
Julia’s face brightened, for the question recalled to her the happy thought that to-morrow her sister would be with her, and she smilingly replied, “Yes, I have.”
“Of course you live together?”
Julia did not approve of the inquiry being pushed so closely, but as she was in a cheerful mood, and had apparently a good customer, she would answer it. She did so, coolly saying:
“Not yet—she comes from the country to-morrow, and then we shall live together.”
Her customer fidgetted about as if he was impatient, so Julia hastily finished her selection, and said: “Any of these will do—not too expensive if she be a poor girl—not too coarse if she be not.”
He scarcely looked at them, but said moodily, “What’s the price for the lot?”
Julia could scarcely believe it was true. She reckoned up the prices, and replied, “They come to five pounds, sir.”
“Wrap them up.” He put down the money and took up the parcel, and loitered as though there was something else to be done, and then abruptly said, “Is your sister’s name Susan?”
“It is.”
“And she’s coming from Bradford, where she’s been working at a mill?”
“Yes; but how do you know this, sir! Who are you?”
Julia became not only interested but also alarmed.
“Stop a bit,” said he. “You sent a message lately by her to my—to a Mr. Bentley?”
“Yes: are you come about the note?”
“No, no—I know nothing about any note, and I want to know nothing about it, or anything else,” said he, growing red in the face, and hot with tremulous excitement, “except about Susan. It’s through me that she got into trouble—and—and I must know—” He stopped a moment, and then hurriedly said, “It’s no matter, I must know—they talk about her before she left London, and I’ve come to know—is she a good, honest lass or no? There, it’s out, whether ye like it or not. My uncle, that’s Mr. Bentley, has turned me out, but I don’t care if—ye know what I mean—I can’t say it, but for Heaven’s sake speak truth, and I’ll be satisfied.”
“Then you,” replied Julia, contemptuously, but without passion, “are Mr. Henry Bentley, and you have met my sister, have persecuted her, I may say, with your attentions, which have been both to her and others of a suspicious kind. You have tried to lead her astray;—don’t speak, sir,—I repeat you have tried to lead her astray, driven her from her friends, injured her character, and—” Julia could no longer control her passion, her eyes flamed, her voice deepened and quivered, “and after that you dare to come to me, and insinuate vile doubts as to her conduct, and repeat wicked calumnies. Leave the shop this instant!”
He impassionately entreated to be heard—he would explain, he would apologise, he would retract—anything, if she would but hear him. It was in vain; her passion was lord of the hour, and Henry was driven ignominiously and dejected from the shop.
This incident would have given Julia much food for thought had not her reverie been cut short by the entrance of another customer. Julia’s hopes rose,—trade was certainly improving. There might, after all, be good cheer for Susan tomorrow.
The fresh customer was a thin, spare woman, who came straight to the counter, asked for what she wanted, selected it without delay or comment, handling the goods in a manner which showed that she was fully acquainted with their quality and value, but, at the same time, scrutinising Julia very closely without being observed. She paid for her small purchase, took a minute survey of the shop, and then said to Julia:
“Some time ago ye had a customer who lost a note—one Sam Bentley o’ Bradford, an’ ye sent him word about it—here’s your letter to him, an’ that other paper hes t’number an’ all particulars o’ t’note, an’ I’ve come for’t.”
Julia replied that she had the note, and would gladly give it up, but she was not free from doubt about the right of her present visitor to claim it.
Miss Bentley (for of course it was she) replied:
“Ye see I ken all ’bout it. He cam’ in an’ had a button set on, an’ he finished by orderin’ shirts, which I should never hev forgi’en him but for other troubles; but Sam’s t’first of t’ family that had ’em made but by his own woman folk, tho’ in a manner it’s some’ut of t’same now, nobbut he didn’t know, so it’s more good luck nor good meanin’ as lawyers get to heaven—but I’ve forgi’en him, though I’m his ain sister, an’ by rights oughtn’t to hev done so, but it wor sore again t’grain, an’ if it hedn’t been for his bein’ put out ’bout Harry”
Julia interrupted her at once.
“Do you mean young Mr. Henry Bentley? If so, he’s been here a few minutes ago.”
“I wor comin’ to that. Of course he’s been here, an’ he’ll be dawdling about, an’ he’ll hev seen me come in, nobbut he were flayed, an’ daren’t let himsel’ be seen. He’s crazed, an’ they say it’s ’bout a factory lass that he brought up to Lun’on wi’ him last night.”
“They came together!” cried Julia, pale and trembling with anxiety.
“Why so they say. I didn’t see ’em, but ye know it’s like enough. Mill hands hev no souls ye know, an’ are of no use, nobbut to work for their maisters an’ to sin on their own account. If ye’ll find t’note I’ll be goin’.”
Julia leant down resting on the counter, and with struggling sobs and tears, exclaimed piteously:
“Oh! Susan, Susan!—my poor sister! Would thou hadst died!—anything but this!”
Miss Bentley looked at her most sorrowfully, and, gently stroking her head, endeavoured to cheer her by saying:
“Don’t tak’ on so. It mayn’t be true, an’ I