did when thy mother was a child. That’s right, lass, cry on, it’ill do thy heart good, an’ then thou can tak’ a cup o’ tea till supper’s ready.”
“Where is Susan?” was Julia’s sole inquiry, as it was her only thought.
“She’ll be here soon, wi’ Sam. But didn’t Sam storm when he fun his fifty-pund wor gone? Never heed him, I’ve served him out, a mean, deceitful beggar, as he al’ays wor.”
A loud knock at the door, the cheerful voice of Bentley, the pattering of lighter feet, and then, he, Mrs. Womersley, and Susan, were in the room. Susan ran to her sister, and those were tears of joy which then fell on each other’s cheeks in their close and sisterly embrace.
When their emotion had subsided a little, Mrs. Womersley and Miss Manks were severally and duly introduced, and they gathered round the fire—all except Miss Bentley, who was continually coming and going, as she superintended some important culinary process.
Another knock, and Henry entered. He looked doubtfully round, shrunk back as he observed his uncle, but brightened when he saw Susan.
“Come in, Harry,” said his uncle, “I hevn’t forgi’en thee, but we’ll hev that out another time, we won’t spoil Christmas Eve wi’ that; but thou rascal,” continued he, his irascibility getting the better of his resolution, “if ever thou plays that trick again, I’ll be”
“No, no,” came hastily in the clear, sweet voice of Susan, “you promised me you would not.” The reproof checked him, and he said no more.
Henry could look at or notice no one and nothing but Susan. She was dressed in mourning, good in quality, correct in cut and fashion, and arranged with taste. She was no longer the factory girl, but apparently of a rank higher than his own. Her face was beaming, nay, sparkling with joy. She was lovelier than ever, but, alas! farther than ever from him. He sought to catch her eye—he could not. He spoke to her. She answered coldly, and evidently and intentionally avoided him. He grew sulky and taciturn. The mystic preparations of Miss Bentley were now complete. Basins of hot, smoking furmity stood round the table: in the middle was a ponderous cheese, flanked with loaves of spiced bread. “Come to,” said she, in general invitation, “we’ll keep Christmas right, Sam, as t’ old folk did, in good Yorkshire fashion, tak’ your furmity, cut the Christmas cake and cheese, and then for oysters, pies, lambs’-wool, grog, snap-apple, or what ye will. God bless all these things, both to our bodies an’ souls, for I believe Christmasing is good for both, an’ brings goodwill to us all.”
In the midst of the glee which followed, and in which all joined except Susan and Henry, who grew more and more reserved and moody, another knock was heard. It announced Julia’s landlord, who inquired not for her but for Mr. Bentley. When he came in, he appeared altogether surprised at the scene before him. “Hev ye the letter?” asked Sam. He produced one, which Bentley took and read, muttering to himself as he did so. It was from Bentley’s city agent, who had, at his request, been down to Oxford-street to ascertain if the bearer was intending to leave, and if so, to form some estimate of bis stock. It stated the approximate value, assuming the statement of quantities and quality to be correct, and concluded by saying that the bearer was obliged to leave, and discontinue business.
“Well, sir,” said Sam, when he had finished reading, “I’m Yorkshire.” The man bowed.
Sam continued, “An’ of course I’m fond of a bargain, but in this case I can’t treat mysel’—I’ve no time for’t to-night. I see your stock, fixtures, goodwill (not worth a groat) an’ all, is worth ’bout 2000l., ta’en as it stands.” The bearer of the letter and owner of the stock blandly remonstrated and expostulated—the value was considerably higher.
“Don’t speak till you’re asked,” thundered Sam, highly displeased with the manner of his visitor. “It’s worth that, an’ not a penny more, an’ that by instalments—one down, one at six, an’ one at twelve months—discount the instalments at say seven an’ a half, an’ it’s worth that, knock off all stock not accordin’ to list, an’ I’ll tak’ it.
The owner of the stock hesitated. Sam’s temper had been warmed by his potations during the day, and as he expressed it, he “was not going to stand any nonsense,” so turning fiercely round, he said, “It’s a bargain, or it isn’t—ye needn’t stay—ye see we’re busy—a small family party. If you’ll tak’ it, go to t’ city, and ye’ll get your brass, and tell him to knock that trumpery partition down.” A jerk of the head towards the door and a nod dismissed him.
Julia was wondering what Bentley was intending to do, when he suddenly jumped up, jerked his head as though he intended it to follow the stockowner, and with his eyes twinkling with fun, said to her, “I hate poor relations, an’ I’ve gotten one in thee. I can’t abide them. They’re a disgrace both ways, so I’m determined to be rid on ’em. I don’t mean to gie thee a penny, but I’ll lend thee enough for t’ new shop, at five per cent., good security on all there is—so fill my glass and say nought about it. I hate thanks wor’ nor poor relations.”
Julia’s heart was full. Miss Manks looked upon Bentley as a prodigy of benevolence. Julia spoke of the greatness of her obligation. Sam stopped her. “It’s nobbut a flea-bite. It’s nought at all, but if thou wants to tak’ a weight off thy mind ’bout it thou mun tak’ Dame Womersley here, for as she’s thy aunt, she’ll be turning up a poor relation some day, an’ she’ll keep house for thee, an’ keep t’men away, except they be o’ t’raight Chosen lot: an’ thou can tak’ that round-faced lass besides thee into t’shop to help thee—nobbut don’t say that I’ve done it to do thee good, for I ain’t; it’s ’cause I don’t like to hev a poor relation.”
Julia would not be gainsayed, but would express her thanks, when Miss Bentley interrupted her by saying to Bentley, “Thou thinks thou’s done a fine trick, but I tell thee thou hesn’t got thy fifty-pund, an’ what’s more—it’s gone. I’ve spent it all but three or four pund, an’ I’ve bought all these things; an’, Julia, they’re my Christmas-box to thee, an’ I hope thou’ll never tak’ thy things thou knows where. I’ve fetched ’em out, though I wor raight shamed to go into a pledge