shop. Thou mun hev been in a sore way. Here’s t’ odd change.”
She gave to Julia the balance of the money. Julia ran to her and kissed her heartily, and then turning the money over in her hand, looked at Miss Manks. Miss Bentley saw her look, and whispered to her, “If thou likes. It’s raight to mak’ her share good fortune as well as bad.” Julia joyfully threw her arms round Miss Manks, saying, “Jane, here’s my present for you.” And then turning to Bentley, said, “You must let me give you something in return, and accept the shirts which everybody forgot to pay for, and you must let your cousin Julia be the only one who can say that her rich cousin did not pay his debts, for ye owe me for the buttons yet.”
Miss Bentley spoke out before her brother could reply, and said to him, “Sam, here’s another lass here, poor Susan; as I tell’d thee, she’s no better nor she should be—it would be a shame if she wor—but she’s a good an’ a bonnie lass, and she’s a poor relation too—what on her?”
Sam quickly replied, “I’ve said my say ’bout her. She took my lad fro’ me, an’ wi’ her I’ve nought to do.”
Mrs. Womersley had long been itching to interfere, and she now cried out, “Sam Bentley, there’s nought so stupid as a man that’s said his say, he’s wor’ nor a dumb beast. I tell thee it wor thy lad’s fault; he took her character away, an’ took her through me, an’ if she be one of the Lost, more reason to gi’e her good things i’ this world, else it wouldn’t be fair; an’ so it’s thy duty to mak’ him mak’ amends.”
Sam hastily interrupted her by saying, “I’ve made my mind up, an’ so less ye say the sooner ye’ll hev done, an’ I’m not goin’ to talk wi’ Dame Womersley on Christmas Eve ’bout what’s my duty or isn’t my duty. I’m goin’ to enjoy mysel’, an’ hope she’ll do the same.”
Mrs. Womersley had no longer any doubt as to the ultimate destination of Sam Bentley; and, drawing herself up, folded her arms on her breast, and maintained a dignified silence.
In the awkward quiet which succeeded this outbreak, the sudden clang and crash of the church bells, as they heralded the fast-approaching midnight, when they would ring in the returning Christmas, sounded thro’ the room. They listened to it in silence. Unnoticed, Susan left the room. Sam pushed back the curtains, and threw open the window “for a sniff of fresh air.” The night had become sharp and frosty. Silently, but fastly, the snow was falling, casting its white coverings on the housetops, and on the yet busy streets. As Julia looked upon it, it symbolled to her the burying of all her woes and griefs, and the spreading of a beautiful veil over all the things which had annoyed and troubled her in her struggles for a livelihood. As Susan watched the falling snow, she felt the cold fear, the vacant dread fall, as snow upon her breast, and to her it imaged the death and desolation of her dearest hopes, her fondest affection. To Sam it was a familiar picture, recalling many, many years of toil and of enjoyment. Then came the crash of sound which spoke the midnight hour. Christmas had begun. Miss Bentley immediately put out the Yule candles, to be relit to light in the New Year. Her brother turned to her, kissed her affectionately, saying in a voice expressive of manly emotion, “Nance, lass, we never missed this, on this night, sin’ we were bairns together. Happy Christmas to thee, an’ to all. Harry, my lad, shake hands; I mun forgi’e thee, as it’s Christmas day.”
A tap at the door, and an inquiry, “Who’ll open for Christmas?”[1] Mrs. Womersley was about to open the door, but Miss Bentley pushed her aside, saying, “That’s my job, not thine, in this house,” and opened the door. Without it stood Susan, her shawl over her head, in factory fashion, and the snow flakes thickly hanging round it, as when she first stood at Bentley’s door. “I’ve let Christmas in for you,” said she, with a faint smile, “and may it be a merry one, and bring you all a happy New Year.”
They sat down by the fire, lighted only by the glowing log.
Bentley bid Julia and Susan come and sit on either side of him, and then spoke thus: “It’s five-an’-thirty years this day—mind it’s Christmas Day now—sin’ your mother wor married. I wor there, an’ I know we were merry, as lads could be. I rattled two penny bits in my pocket that day, an’ I got a drop—twa or three drops—too much, an’ I lost my pennies, an’ I said I’d never get drunk again, an’ I never hev; but I think that I shall treat my resolution to-night. I then hed ’bout twelve shillin’ a week, an’ now, putting one year wi’ another, an’ samming ’em all up, an’ dividin’ ’em all equal, I mun hev put away ’boon ten thousand pound every year. It’s easy makin’ brass when ye once begin”
“Raight, Sam,” interrupted Mrs. Womersley; “it’s same as dirt, so long as ye don’t care about being clean, an’ run in t’muck, it’ll keep gatherin’ on ye: but go on.”
“An’ now what I’m going to say is this, that I mad’ up my mind I’d never divide my brass; it’s my own to do as I like, an’ I’ll hev one, an’ I’d give it all to that one, an’ that wor Harry, but he’s left me; but if he like to come back, an’ gie up t’lass that took him away, he shall still hev it all. What does he say?”
Before Henry could speak, Susan said to him, “Henry, go back; forget me and go home.”
Henry’s face worked nervously, and his voice failed him at first. He came to his uncle, put his hand on his shoulder, and said, “Uncle, I am glad you forgive me, but I won’t deceive you again. I cannot promise to give up my first, my only love, so keep your money—keep it, only don’t forget me or condemn me.”
Sam jerked up in the old fashion, nodded to Henry, saying, “That’s honest, Harry; thou mun go an’ work for thy livin’ now;” and then turning to Susan, he continued, “Now, Susan, as he won’t hev nearly a hundred thousand pounds, wilt thou? It all goes in a lump, an’ it an’ thy face may mak’ a duchess on thee some day. Wilt thou hev it, and promise to hev nought to do wi’ Harry?”
Her voice was low but distinct, as she replied,
- ↑ In Yorkshire it is considered an important matter, as affects the new year, who first enters on Christmas morning, and the door kept closed until an acceptable person comes.
