caution, and perceived the strong case which might be made against her, and her voice shook as she replied, “I’ve neither. She made me wretched with what she told me, and I forgot to keep the letter or to ask for a receipt.”
“Dost thou think I’ll believe that story? Thee a Lon’oner, an’ a woman of business. Tell that in t’stable an’ t’horses would kick thee brains out. It won’t do for me. I mun hev my note.”
“Indeed, sir, I tell you the truth. If you will not believe me, do as you think fit. I am weary of life. My heart’s nearly broken.” She wept aloud. Bentley was moved. He was satisfied that his sister had obtained the note, and that to carry the matter further with Julia would be cruel. Still he scarcely knew what to say. He was freed from the dilemma by Julia, who said, “Mr. Bentley, your sister—for she must have been your sister—told me that my sister, Susan, had been led off by your nephew, and had come up to town with him. Is it so? Tell me where she is, that I may go to her, and I care not what you do to me.”
Bentley turned away from her, shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head, as if he had a wager to outnod a mandarin. “That’s too bad o’ Nance,” muttered he. “She’s war nor me now. Women al’ays are.” Then, facing Julia, with a chuckling laugh, which sounded to her like the rejoicing of a fiend, said: “Whoever said that said a lie. Harry is a big scamp, and a disgrace to any decent family, an’ I hev done wi’ him, at least when I’ve fun’ him, an’ he has come to Lon’on about Susan; but he cam by himsel’, for she stopped at our house all night, an’ she’ll be here to-day.”
Julia’s heart and looks thanked him, and not her voice. Her great tribulation was passed. All else was trifling compared with this unutterable grief. Christmas would bring her sister—her only joy—who would return to her as innocent, as good, and as love-worthy as ever. She cared for no danger, no difficulty, now.
At this moment a dapper-looking man, with an air of importance, entered the shop, and when he saw Bentley, said, in a polite voice—which, however, scarcely disguised his contempt—“I beg pardon. I hope you will be prepared for me tonight,” and then withdrew, without waiting for a reply.
“Who’s that cockney fellow?” asked Bentley.
Julia replied, “My next neighbour and landlord. He wants his rent, as he’s about to leave.”
“Humph!” growled Bentley, and his glance again hopped all round the shop, now on the top shelves, and then step by step down to the floor; up again with a merry chuckle, and fluttering round the window, flew out of the door with a loud laugh.
Julia was at a loss to understand what he meant to do; and, full of perturbation, waited his pleasure.
“I’ve no objection,” said he, seeing her troubled look, “to gi’e a bit of time to mak’ up t’money, an’ I’ll call on thee to-night at home when Susan comes, an’ we’ll talk it over. Cheer up, my lass, I shan’t hurt thee.”
He darted out, and Julia saw him for a considerable time afterwards walking backwards and forwards in front of her shop and the adjoining one, examining them as intently as if counting the bricks, or expecting a sudden conflagration, and heard his bursts of laughter ring out as some merry thought seemed to strike him.
There was no doubt about it. He was merry. He was thoroughly happy; and these were his cogitations and exclamations as he walked up and down: “Thou’rt a soft-liver’d fool, Sam. But she took it so badly. Nance shouldn’t hev said Susan had gone wi’ Harry. Confound his stupidity, I’ll baste him when I catch him. A likely shop, but a snivellin’ rogue. I’ll get that chap i’ t’city to tackle him. She’d do, then. By George, I’ll finish it off. Poor lass, I thought I should hev split ’bout Susan. If she’d nobbut known she wor all the time at t’Circus gettin’ donned out—wi’ Dame Womersley—what an old cat that is—whatever mad’ me bring her—aye, an’ mak’ her come, I can’t tell, an’ she will hev that Susan’s one o’ t’lost, now when she’s just fund.” He finished with a regular peal of laughter, hailed a cab, and went Citywards.
To return to Miss Bentley. When she called in Oxford Street, she left, a few doors below Julia’s shop, the cab which had brought her from the railway station, and which was loaded inside and out with hampers; and on her return from seeing Julia, and obtaining possession of the coveted note, she drove to the neighbourhood of Tottenham Court Road, to the address given by Susan, as that of Julia’s lodgings.
On inquiring for them, she was shown into a small dingy room. “I’m come to stop wi’ her,” said she to the surprised and open-mouthed landlady, “so get my things in.”
Miss Bentley at once took off her bonnet, shawl, and wrappers, and, looking round, saw much that to her was disgraceful and unendurable. She ran the nail of her finger along the rim of the panelling, and brought it out covered with dust, and then said to the landlady, in a sharp voice, “Don’t ye call that shameful? I’ve no patience wi’ muck in-doors. Get some boilin’ water an’ soap an’ brushes, an’ see if ye can find somebody that knows how to clean. Do ye hear? Don’t stand gapin’ there, but look sharp; it isn’t fit for Christians.”
The woman hurried off, and on her return found Miss Bentley with her dress rolled up, her sleeves tucked up, the carpet rolled together, and the little furniture huddled in the middle of the room.
“Tak’ ’em all away,” said Miss Bentley, sweeping her hand round, “an’ mak’ up som’at like a fire.”
Marvelling what wild creature had taken possession of her house, the landlady obeyed in silence, and Miss Bentley was soon busy with practically instructing two charwomen in the art of cleaning down. She was occupied with this when Henry, in accordance with the instructions left for him by his aunt, came in. She ran to him, and shaking a wet brush in his face, and plenteously bedewing him with its contents, said, “Oh, Harry, Harry, it wor foolish an’ wicked on thee to mind Sam’s short temper, when he’s done so much for thee. It would hev broken his heart