if it hadn’t been for Susan, who’s a relation, we find. He’s mighty savage yet, but he’ll forgi’e thee if thou promise to gi’e her up an’ come back.”
“Aunt, I can’t give her up.”
“Well, well, lad, but thou mun, for Sam says he’ll hev nought to do wi’ neither on ye if thou don’t, an’ he al’ays keeps his word when he shouldn’t. But thou shall see her again. She’ll be here to-night, an’ I mun hev t’place tidied up a bit. It’s a sad hole. Oh dear, I wonder how folk can live at all in Lun’on. We mun hev some evergreens, an’ mak’ it look some’at like home.” She then gave him directions to get what she wanted, and continued: “I shall pay Sam out for his deceit. I’ve got his fifty-pund note, and thou mun get it changed. It’s stopped, an’ so thou mun go to t’agent, an’ then get what I’ve tell’d thee, an’ bring me t’change, for I mean to spend it all. He shan’t see a penny on’t; an’ there’s chairs, an’ tables, an’ spoons, an’ everything to get;—t’ poor lass has nought at all, an’ look here,” continued she, taking some bits of card from her pocket, “I’ve fun these.”
Henry looked at them, and then said, “What are they?”
“Thou may well say that, lad; we know nought about them at our house; but she’ll been forced to part wi’ all her sheets an’ linen an’ good things. I mun get them all back.”
Henry hastened away, delighted with his errand, and with the prospect of seeing Susan, and as to the rest, in imitation of his uncle, whistling down all thoughts of trouble.
Miss Bentley, with great bustling and exercise of voice and hands, at length got her staff into working order. She had at first a wild notion of having the room re-papered, but was obliged to give it up for want of time, and then called the landlady to inquire for additional rooms. She found there were two which she might have, but the landlady was sulky, and showed signs of rebellion. This rather gratified Miss Bentley, who, however, took no notice of it, but gave directions for her hampers to be carried into one of the empty rooms, and proceeded to unpack them. As they were emptied, the astonishment of the landlady grew beyond bounds. There seemed to be no end to the stores of good things which were produced from them—a huge ham, a fat goose, hares, game pies, mince tarts, loaves of spiced bread, unboiled plum puddings, a huge piece of beef, cakes, and bottles—a prodigality of edible wealth. Last came a large can of milk and a pot of butter. “Good honest milk,” said Miss Bentley, “such as ye never see here;” and then, observing the landlady’s two children, sallow-faced but bright-eyed, who had crept up to the half-opened door, and were looking longingly at the good things scattered around, she continued, “Poor things, it would be a treat for them,” and pouring out a large jug full, she passed it to them, then casting her eyes around till they fell on a pile of mince pies, she cried to the children, “Hold out your brats, for some’at good.” The children stared at her, but did not stir.
“Drat ’em,” said she, “they don’t even understand plain English—what helpless things Lun’oners are!” and suiting her action to her words, she took up their pinafores and filled them with pies, and then muttered, “They’ll mak’ ’em poorly, they’re too good for ’em, but it ’ill be more like Christmas.” She then made her selection of viands for the Christmas dinner, for which she set apart the huge piece of beef, the goose, a hare, game pies and puddings.
When Henry returned, he had a cab laden with holly, laurel, larch, and ivy, and a large “Yule log,” tied on the top. Nearly an hour passed whilst he and his aunt transformed the dull room into a bright verdant arbour, full of “Christmas” in every corner and on every side. He was then dismissed with positive injunctions not to return until nine o’clock, and Miss Bentley then went out to make her purchases of furniture and other articles, and to enjoy the spending of “Sam’s fifty-pund note.”
Meanwhile the day passed, and at last evening came, when Julia closed her shop, and walked homewards with Miss Marks, to whom she hastily communicated the day’s adventures. Their talk ran almost entirely on Susan, but Julia’s thoughts were mixed. She could not but fear that she was liable for the note, and her inability to pay her rent troubled her. Both chattered pleasantly together until they reached the house. They were surprised by the littering of green leaves and of straw which lay around the door, and by seeing a knot of excited children in front of the window of Julia’s room. Looking up, they were astonished to see a strong blaze of light shining through bright red curtains “where no curtains used to be.”
“We can’t have made a mistake,” said Julia; “what can it mean?”
Miss Manks could not even venture on an explanation, and they hurried into the house. When they opened the room door, they started back in astonishment. “Oh, how beautiful,” cried Miss Manks. There was a bright cheerful fire, which filled the grate, on it a log of wood, spluttering, cracking, and hissing, and sending long tongues of flame and coruscations of fire up the chimney, and glittering and flickering on the green boughs, blushing among the holly berries, casting a rosy glow on the snow-white cloth which covered the table, in the middle of the room, and glancing and sparkling on the shining cups, glittering spoons and knives, that were interspersed amongst the many dishes of meats, cakes, and pies. By the fire sat a stranger, who rose as they entered, went to Julia, flung her arms around her neck, and then Julia saw it was Mr. Bentley’s sister who hugged her, kissed her, and told her that they were cousins, and bid her sit down and be happy. The words sounded in her ears, but the meaning scarcely reached her brain. She was bewildered. She could not speak for the throbbing, the dancing of her heart. Again the kind voice spoke to her, the loving hands were busy unwrapping her from her outdoor coverings. “Aye, lass,” it said, “thou’rt my own cousin. We fun’ thee out thro’ Susan, and we fun’ Susan thro’ Sam’s fifty-pund note, and we’ve come to bring her home—if anybody can hev a home in Lon’on, an’ to fetch our lad back, an’ to keep Christmas together, as we