said Miss Bentley, as she returned the letter to Susan, “an’ don’t exactly mak’ it out, but it seems that Sam has not known how to tak’ care of his money, an’ haz been disgracin’ himsel’ wi’ gettin’ into debt an’ dirt wi’ a poor woman that hazn’t a penny. What he wanted wi’ her I can’t imagine. I al’ays thought it would come to this. He shall know my mind when he comes in. The ungrateful beast.” In the meantime she vented her anger on the paste she was making up, belabouring it with the rolling-pin, and beating it with her hands with a spirit and zest typical of the treatment which her brother was to receive. By-and-by, as she drew a tin full of mince-pies from the oven, fragrant, crisp and hot, and was passing Susan with them, she said to her, “Tak’ one or two, my lass,” and then saw that Susan was weeping. The warmth of the fire had Hushed her face, her bright brown hair had, on one side, slipped from its fastenings and hung in long wavy curls on her shoulder. Her eyes were turned to the ground, and half closed, and thro’ the long soft lashes the tears were streaming fast.
Miss Bentley put down her tin, and went at once to Susan, took her hands within her own, and fumbled with them until she found her pulse, and then muttered “Feverish—excitement—half-starved, too.” Then, speaking to Susan, said sharply, but kindly, “What ails thee, lass?” Susan wept on. The contending emotions of the evening, added to her long struggle against illness and stinted food, to enable her to save money to return to her sister, had undermined her strength, and as she reflected, as she sat, that she was in Henry’s home, an unregarded stranger amongst the things made dear to her by his life amongst them,—she was overcome. She was vexed and ashamed of her weakness, but she could not control her emotions.
Miss Bentley had hitherto scarcely noticed her, but as she stood beside her she was struck with the beauty of her countenance, and as she looked at her it seemed as if the sight was familiar to her, or like the suddenly recalled recollection of a dream—new, yet not novel; fresh, and yet as having the dearness of long acquaintance. “What’s your name?” asked she.
“Susan Moore.”
“Where from?”
“London.”
“Oh!” and the little half-articulated sound was expressive as much of disappointment as of relief.
“Your sister’s name?”
“Julia.”
Miss Bentley’s curiosity seemed satisfied, and the cakes in the oven claimed her attention. For a while she carried on her operations in silence, but kept glancing towards Susan, and then muttered, “It may be, there was a Julia and a Susan” returned to the charge, saying, “Thy mother living?”
“No,” and this reference to her loss made her tears again gush out.
“Wert thou born in London?”
Susan brushed the tears from her eyes and tried to smile as she replied, “Oh, no, I’m a Yorkshire girl, born at Burley.”
Miss Bentley threw down her half kneaded loaf, left the table, and standing by Susan’s chair, said anxiously, “Thy mother’s name?”
“I was called after some one who died young, and they thought I was like her,—an aunt, I think—but my mother’s name was Martha.”
“Why, lass,” cried Miss Bentley, throwing her arms round Susan, and kissing her heartily, “thou’rt my own cousin. How strangely things come about, an’ I’ve wondered what had become on ye, an’ Sam, an ill-natured beggar—I’ve no patience wi’ him—wouldn’t let me find ye out, Susan, after my poor aunt. Thou’rt her very marrow, as like as twin cherries.” Again, in her warm-hearted welcoming she kissed her. Her hand slipped down Susan’s dress. She felt it was wet. “Stand up, lass,” she cried, “what’s this?”
When Susan moved, her cousin saw there was a pool of water where she had sat. The snow, which had gathered in her thin dress, had melted, and soaked through to the floor.
“Why, mercy, bairn, thou’rt wet through, an’ scarce a thing on—I mun n’t loise thee as soon as I’ve fun’ thee!”
She hurried Susan up-stairs; hunted amongst her hoarded stores, and soon produced abundant clothing, which she insisted on Susan putting on until her own things were dried, and bringing out an old-fashioned rich blue silk frock, said to her, “We read i’ t’ book about t’ killing t’ fatted calf when t’ prodigal cam* back, but I never rightly made it out, as a calf’s a poor thing for a feast, but I do understand about t’ best robe, so thou shall hev this on, an’ as to ring on t’ finger, somebody’ll do that some o’ these days, for thou’rt bonnie enough for ony on ’em. This frock wor I made for Susan Bentley, thy aunt, an’ let’s see how thou suits it. Now, don’t hurry on, I’ll tell thee when to come down.”
When her cousin left the room, Susan fell on her knees by the bed, and wept as if her heart would break. She was confused by the rapid change; excited by the thought that he was of her own family, that she was not so far removed from him as before, and alarmed lest he should return whilst she was there, and think that she had been waiting for him, or deceiving him by concealing from him the fact (hitherto undreamed of by her) of her relationship to him. In the midst of this tumult of feeling and agitation, she heard the house door open. Mr. Bentley had come in.
“Where’s Harry?” was his first inquiry; “hasn’t he been home?”
His sister, in a provoking tone, which, whilst it pierced and wounded, pretended to be considerate and restrained, replied, “I know nought ’bout I Harry, an’ I don’t want to do. I’ve plenty to think on wi’out him.”
There was a short silence. Mr. Bentley saw, from his sister’s face, that something was amiss, and he waited for the explanation or explosion, whatever it might be. It soon came.
“I’ve gotten,” said she, slowly and impressively, “some news for Sam Bentley.”
“Out wi’ ’em,” said he, a smile accompanying his usual jerk, as if to help it to say that the hawk was going to pounce down, but he was ready for it. “Out wi’ ’t at once. Missus?”
