know that what folk say isn’t al’ays gospel nor believed by theirselves. So cheer up. I’m sure Harry will be in here again. Gi’e him this bit of a letter, an’ don’t fret. We’ll make it all right some way, nobbut gi’e me t’ note as I mun be goin’.”
Julia endeavoured to compose herself, and, with a sorrowful look, took out the bank-note, saying:
“Take it and go. It has brought me nothing but sorrow.”
Miss Bentley, as she left the shop, clutched the note with delighted fingers, and muttered:
“I wor determined to hev it before Sam cam’, but she wouldn’t hev gi’en it up if I hadn’t rapped at Susan. It wor too bad, but Sam shan’t see it again; I’ll hev my revenge now, if he nobbut don’t frighten t’ poor lass again.”
When Julia’s sorrow had abated, and she was able to review the matter with some degree of calmness, her confidence in Susan returned. She then thought it was singular and rather suspicious that Mr. Bentley’s sister (if indeed she were his sister) had not recalled to her recollection what she had, in her distress, forgotten—namely, the sum due to her from Mr. Bentley for the shirts. Whilst pondering on this she observed Henry Bentley loiter past the shop-door, and then back again, casting wistful glances within. She beckoned to him, and on his going in, gave him the note left for him, saying: “The person who left this has made me wretched by what she has told me. I cannot bear to think it true; but if it be, bring her home at once. Oh! is it true?—did you come alone? or did you” She paused for his reply, but he, being confounded with her agitation and perplexed with her questions, knew not what to say. She misinterpreted his silence, and in a voice of utter anguish implored him, “Oh! where is my sister? Give her back to me! Where—where is she?”
Henry was not in a mood to be trifled with, and he was irritated with this question, which seemed to mock him; he had come for no other purpose than to find out Susan, and to ascertain where, who, and what she was, and the only source to which he could apply—her sister—had, in the first instance, driven him out of her shop, and now, forsooth, asked him where Susan was!
He was put out of temper, and grumblingly replied:
“I came to tell you all about it, and you kicked me out. I shall say no more to you about her,” and then walked suddenly out of the shop.
This was “confirmation strong” of all Julia’s worst fears. All the merriment and joy of the blessed Christmastide were now no more for her. Dashed from her were the pleasure of the long-schemed surprise and the anticipated delights of the great holiday and festive assembly of scattered families, drawn together in a sweet and joyous participation of customs hallowed by the memory of their parents, and beautified by the hope that the glad tradition would be handed down by their children so as to keep for ever—long as the earth should roll around the sun—undimmed and unforgot the mingled recollections and hopes which fill all hearts as they welcome the advent of Christmas. Bleak misery, desecrated affection, and the inconsolable bereavement, worse than death; the falling into sin of the beloved; the ever-gnawing pang of doubt; the dread of gazing on the dearly-cherished face, the old familiar countenance, lest it should turn from the loving gaze oppressed with shame and loadened with guilt. These must now be the Christmas guests of her heart, gibe at her intended joy, and turn even her prayers into heaviness and anguish of spirit. Those who hurried along the street, in the cold and wet, had happy looks and merry voices, as though they caught the radiance from afar of the coming happiness. She heard their gaiety and merriment run over in superabundant congratulations and mutual good wishes, as friends or acquaintances met, and she saw their hearty joy displayed in closely clasped hands, in glowing countenances, and in happy smiles. But, to her, all was an empty fearful mockery. She hated to look upon it. The light of her heart had gone out—the star of her hope washed away by a terrible raging sea. Would that it were night that she might hide herself from sight, and in secret weep for the sister “that was not!”
But other troubles awaited her. In a short time Mr. Bentley came in, glowing like a peony, both hands thrust deep down in their usual quarters, and performing their usual chinking duet. With a quick nod and jerk over his shoulder towards the street, as if to say that he had left the hawks abroad, he went up to Julia, pulled out his hand, and, giving her a hearty shake, said: “Come again, like Dame Gurnett’s pig. Glad to see thee. Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. Miserable day. Trade any better? Humph. Old stock, I see.”
Julia could not reply to him. Her heart gave a jump when he came in, and whispered fear and trouble came with him.
“Got thy letter, lass; much obliged to thee, an’ called for t’note.”
“I’ve not got it, sir?” replied she, with trepidation.
“Not gotten it!” shouted he, with the most incredulous look, and a long whistle, as plainly expressive of contempt and disbelief as any words could have made out. The hands were again busy, and the jerk came towards her telling her most unmistakeably to prepare for the hawks of the law.
“I’ve not got it, sir,” repeated Julia. “An hour ago a woman, tallish, thin, sharp-featured, bright-eyed, dressed in black, came with my letter to you, and said she was your sister, and had come for the note, which I gave to her.”
A long, low, prolonged whistle, and a sudden ceasing of the moneyed duet, was Bentley’s answer to this, and he, with great difficulty, prevented himself putting his thoughts into words, and blurting out, “Egad, Nance hes do neme, makin’ me stop for ould Dame Womersley that she might get t’brass. She’s got t’blind side on me.” Checking himself from thus committing himself, he said, with assumed sternness to Julia, “Then of course thou’s gotten my note and her receipt for t’brass.”
Julia was struck at once with her want of