deficient in all the purer feelings of womanhood, and were brazen in their expression of this deficiency. Susan was shocked with the language and conduct of those with whom she was forced to mix during work-hours, and unflinching in her determination to have no private acquaintance with them. This they resented and ascribed to pride and hypocrisy. They gibed at her, taunted her, and coarsely told her that she was more cunning than they, perhaps looked higher, but was at heart like themselves.
Thus matters went on until the end of November, when, as Susan was returning one evening from the mill, a sudden and heavy shower drove her for shelter to the covered way which leads from the foot of Ivygate to the post-office. As she stood there waiting for the ceasing of the rain, she looked upon the open space in front of the Sun and Bowling-green hotels, which was dotted with stalls, noisy and chattering cabmen and troops of factory girls, who hurried across, unbonnetted, with gaily-coloured handkerchiefs or shawls drawn tight round their heads and tied below the chins, laughing merrily, chattering or singing as they clattered along the muddy roads. Girls of all ages and sizes, but all alike ready with a loud taunt or scoff at the peculiarities of any one who impeded their progress, and at bandying coarse jests with each other and with the “chaps” they met.
Others besides Susan sought shelter, and the place was soon crowded. She was anxious to reach home. She feared what her aunt would say if she were late—her clothes were already partly wet—she was chilled, and, besides this, she much disliked remaining out in the evening—her beauty attracted the idle and designing, and rude staring and bold remarks gave her pain. As she stood close to the entrance from the street, peering out for the first signs of the ceasing of the rain, a young man, who was passing by, caught sight of her face, and appeared to be struck with it, for after walking on a few yards he returned, and, putting down his umbrella, entered the passage. Susan instantly recognised him as the one whom she had met in her walks, and who had given her the flowers. He seemed to be in doubt, for, coming near her, he looked at her attentively for some time. She had on a plain dark brown cotton dress, which the wet had pressed close to her figure; over her head, and drawn round the lower part of her face, was a grey shawl, worn thin and threadbare, on which were specks of waste or “fluff,” brought from the mill. It was a poor and ignoble setting of a beauteous picture; but from the sordid wrapping shone forth a lovely face which, though pinched with cold, worn with work, and paled with thought, was expressive of grace not to be surpassed. He started with joyful surprise as his doubts passed away, and, drawing close to her, emboldened by his discovery of her social position and the circumstances under which he found her, said abruptly:
“What! are you a factory girl after all?”
There was something in the tone and manner in which this question was put which jarred with Susan’s cherished thoughts of the questioner, but as she had no wish to disguise for a moment her real position, she replied:
“I am, sir.”
“Do you remember me?” was the next question.
“I do,” replied Susan, without flinching, and without looking towards him, but steadily watching the rain.
He saw, however, that her cheek flushed, and that she nervously twitched her shawl more closely over her face, as though she would hide herself from observation.
“Do you live where you did—with Mrs. Womersley?”
Susan gave no answer. Her heart was beating fast. If her bold-faced fellow workers should come by—if her aunt were to see her—would they not misjudge her? Ought she not at once to bid him go? She could not—there was pleasure in listening to his voice.
He continued:
“If you do, you had better avail yourself of the help of this,” holding up his umbrella, “as far as we go together.”
She looked up to him with a timid but pleased look, as if to thank him for and to decline the proffered civility.
“Surely,” he continued, “you may trust me so far.” He saw she hesitated. “Come at once,” he whispered, “you know not how much pleasure it gives me.”
She went with him.
On the way he endeavoured to lead Susan into conversation, but she only replied to his questions in monosyllables. Her heart was too busy to yield words for her lips. She was with him. It was a pleasure which her cooler judgment condemned, and when they had gone a short distance down Westgate, she stopped, and said the rain was over. He showed her that it was falling in torrents. She then insisted that she needed no further help; that she would, she must go alone. Though her companion was evidently greatly disappointed, he did not press his services upon her when he found that she was in earnest, but said, “I have a friend living close by. I will not force myself upon you. Take the umbrella and go on, tho’ I must say you misjudge me, as I am mistaken in you.”
Susan would have refused the umbrella, but she feared that if she did he would follow her. As he gave her it, he had taken hold of her hand—he felt that she was trembling, and, looking at her, saw that she was much agitated, and that she glanced round on all sides, as if she were afraid of being seen. “Oh, sir,” she cried, “do go—if you—go, sir, my aunt would never forgive me!”
“Can you remember where to take it to?” said he. “No, I see you are too much alarmed to remember anything. One moment.” He took out a card, wrote on it, and gave it to her. She thrust it within her dress, and was hurrying away, when his hand laid on her arm stayed her. “I won’t detain you, Susan. You see I know your name. You will not see me when you call at the address I’ve given you. I’m not afraid nor ashamed of being seen with you, if you are of being seen with me; I think, too much ”
With a sudden spring she freed herself from his