Part 3 (1/2)

DIFFERENT SORT OF WORK.

Connie was a very pretty girl. She was between thirteen and fourteen years of age, and very small and delicate-looking. Her hair was of a pale, soft gold; her eyes were blue; she had a delicate complexion, pink and white--almost like a china figure, Sue said; Giles compared her to an angel. Connie was in the same trade that Sue earned her bread by; she also was a machinist in a large warehouse in the City. All day long she worked at the sewing-machine, going home with Sue night after night, glad of Sue's st.u.r.dy support, for Connie was much more timid than her companion.

Connie was the apple of Harris's eye, his only child. He did everything he could for her; he lived for her. If any one could make him good, Connie could; but she was sadly timid; she dreaded the terrible moments when he returned home, having taken more than was good for him. At these times she would slink away to visit Giles and Sue, and on more than one occasion she had spent the night with the pair rather than return to her angry father. Some months, however, before this story begins, a terrible misfortune had come to Peter Harris. He had come home on a certain evening worse than usual from the effects of drink. Connie happened to be in. She had dressed herself with her usual exquisite neatness. She always kept the place s.h.i.+p-shape. The hearth was always tidily swept.

She managed her father's earnings, which were quite considerable, and the wretched man could have had good food and a comfortable home, and been happy as the day was long, if only the craze for drink had not seized him.

Connie was very fond of finery, and she was now tr.i.m.m.i.n.g a pretty hat to wear on the following Sunday. Not long ago she had made a new friend, a girl at the warehouse of the name of Agnes Coppenger. Agnes was older than Connie. She was the kind of girl who had a great admiration for beauty, and when she saw that people turned to look at pretty Connie with her sweet, refined face and delicate ways, she hoped that by having such a pleasant companion she also might come in for her share of admiration. She therefore began to make much of Connie. She praised her beauty, and invited her to her own home. There Connie made companions who were not nearly such desirable ones as Sue and Giles.

She began to neglect Sue and Giles, and to spend more and more of her time with Agnes.

On a certain day when the two girls were working over their sewing-machines, the whir of the numerous machines filling the great warehouse, Agnes turned to Connie.

”When we go out at morning break I 'ave a word to say to yer.”

Connie's eyes brightened.

”You walk with me,” whispered Agnes again.

An overseer came round. Talking was forbidden in the great room, and the girls went on with their mechanical employment, turning out long seam after long seam of delicate st.i.tches. The fluff from the work seemed to smother Connie that morning. She had inherited her mother's delicacy.

She coughed once or twice. There was a longing within her to get away from this dismal, this unhealthy life. She felt somehow, down deep in her heart, that she was meant for better things. The child was by nature almost a poet. She could have wors.h.i.+ped a lovely flower. As to the country, what her feelings would have been could she have seen it almost baffles description.

Now, Sue, working steadily away at her machine a little farther down the room, had none of these sensations. Provided that Sue could earn enough money to keep Giles going, that was all she asked of life. She was as matter-of-fact as a young girl could be; and as to pining for what she had not got, it never once entered her head.

At twelve o'clock there was a break of half-an-hour. The machinists were then turned out of the building. It did not matter what sort of day it was, whether the sun shone with its summer intensity, or whether the snow fell in thick flakes--whatever the condition of the outside world, out all the working women had to go. None could skulk behind; all had to seek the open air.

Connie coughed now as the bitter blast blew against her cheeks.

”Isn't it cold?” she said.

She expected to see Agnes by her side, but it was Sue she addressed.

”I've got a penny for pease-pudding to-day,” said Sue. ”Will you come and have a slice, Connie? Or do yer want somethin' better? Your father, Peter Harris, can let yer have more than a penny for yer dinner.”

”Oh, yes,” answered Connie; ”'tain't the money--I 'aven't got not a bit of happet.i.te, not for nothing; but I want to say a word to Agnes Coppenger, and I don't see her.”

”Here I be,” said Agnes, coming up at that moment. ”Come right along, Connie; I've got a treat for yer.”

The last words were uttered in a low whisper, and Sue, finding she was not wanted, went off in another direction. She gave little sighs as she did so. What was wrong with pretty Connie, and why did she not go with her? It had been her custom to slip her hand inside Sue's st.u.r.dy arm.

During the half-hour interval, the girls used to repair together to the nearest cheap restaurant, there to secure what nouris.h.i.+ng food their means permitted. They used to chatter to one another, exchanging full confidences, and loving each other very much.

But for some time now Connie had only thought of Agnes Coppenger, and Sue felt out in the cold.

”Can't be helped,” she said to herself; ”but if I am not mistook, Agnes is a bad un, and the less poor Connie sees of her the better.”

Sue entered the restaurant, which was now packed full of factory girls, and she asked eagerly for her penn'orth of pease-pudding.

Meanwhile Connie and Agnes were very differently employed. When the two girls found themselves alone, Agnes looked full at Connie and said:

”I'm going to treat yer.”