Produced by Al Haines
GOOD LUCK
BY
MRS. L. T. MEADE
Author of Polly, A Sweet Girl Graduate, Etc.
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
CHICAGO ------------ NEW YORK
1896
GOOD LUCK
CHAPTER I.
Amongst the crowd of people who were waiting in the Out-Patients'
Department of the London Hospital on a certain foggy day toward the
latter end of November might have been seen an old cherry-cheeked
woman. She had bright blue eyes and firm, kindly lips. She was a
little woman, slightly made, and her whole dress and appearance were
somewhat old-fashioned. In the first place, she was wonderfully
pretty. Her little face looked something like a russet apple, so clear
was her complexion and so bright and true the light in her eyes. Her
hair was snow-white, and rather fluffy in texture; it surrounded her
forehead like a silver halo, adding to the picturesque effect of apple
cheeks and deep blue eyes. Her attire was quaint and old-fashioned.
She wore a neat black dress, made without the least attempt at
ornament; round her neck was a snowy kerchief of somewhat coarse but
perfectly clean muslin; over her shoulders a little black shawl was
folded corner-ways, and pinned neatly with a large black-headed pin at
her breast. A peep of the snowy handkerchief showed above the shawl;
the handkerchief vied with the white of her hair. On her head was a
drawn black silk bonnet with a tiny border of white net inside. Her
hands were clothed in white cotton gloves. She stood on the borders of
the crowd, one of them, and yet apart from them, noticeable to everyone
present by her pretty, dainty neatness, and by the look of health which
to all appearance she possessed. This had evidently been her first
visit to the Out-Patients' Department. Some _habitués_ of the place
turned and stared at her, and one or two women who stood
near--burdened, pallid, ill-looking women--gave her a quick glance of
envy, and asked her with a certain show of curiosity what ailed her.
"It's my hand, dear," was the reply. "It pains awful--right up to the
shoulder."
"It's rheumatis you've got, you poor thing," said one of the women who
had addressed her.
"No, I don't think it's exactly that," was the reply; "but the doctor
'll tell. I can't hold my needle with the pain; it keeps me awake o'
nights. Oh, we must all have our share," she added cheerfully; "but ef
it were the will of the Almighty, I'd rayther not have my share o' pain
in my right hand."
"You does needlework fer a living, I suppose?" said a man who stood
near.
"Yes. I only 'opes to the Lord that my working hand isn't going to be
taken from me--but there, I'll soon know."
She smiled brightly at these words, and addressed one of her neighbors
with regard to the state of that neighbor's baby--the child was
evidently suffering from ophthalmia, and could scarcely open its eyes.
It was cold in the out-patients' waiting-room, and the crowd became
impatient and anxious, each for his or her turn to see the doctors who
were in attendance. At last the little woman with the white hair was
admitted to the consulting-room. She was shown in by a dresser, and
found herself face to face with the doctor. He said a few words to
her, asked her some questions with regard to her symptoms, looked at
the hand, touched the thumb and forefinger, examined the palm of the
hand very carefully, and then pronounced his brief verdict.
"You are suffering from what is equivalent to writers' cramp, my good
woman," he said.
"Lor', sir," she interrupted, "I respec'fully think you must be
mistook. I never take a pen in my 'and oftener nor twice a year. I
aint a schollard, sir."
"That don't matter," was the reply; "you use your needle a good deal."
"Of course, and why shouldn't I?"
"How many hours a day do you work?"
"I never count the hours, sir. I work all the time that I've got. The
more I work, the more money there be, you understand."
"Yes, I quite understand. Well, you must knock it off. Here! I shall
order you a certain liniment, which must be rubbed into the hand two or
three times a day."
"But what do you mean by knocking it off, sir?"
"What I say--you must stop needlework. Johnson," continued Dr. Graves,
raising his eyes and looking at the dresser, "send in another patient."
He rose as he spoke.
"I am sorry for you, my poor woman," he said, "but that hand is
practically useless. At your age, there is not the most remote chance
of recovery. The hand will be powerless in a few months' time,
whatever you do; but if you spare it--in short, give it complete
rest--it may last a little longer."
"And do you mean, sir, that I'm never to do sewing again?"
"I should recommend you to knock it off completely and at once; by so
doing you will probably save yourself a good deal of suffering, and the
disease may not progress so rapidly--in any case, the power to sew will
soon leave you. Use the liniment by all means, take care of your
health, be cheerful. Good-morning."
The doctor accompanied the little woman to the door of the
consulting-room; he opened the door for her, and bowed as she passed
out. He treated her almost as if she were a lady, which in very truth
she was in every sense of the word. But she did not notice his
politeness, for his words had stunned her. She walked slowly, with a
dazed look in her eyes, through the crowd of people who were waiting to
be admitted to the different physicians, and found herself in the open
street. Her name was Patience Reed, she was sixty-eight years of age,
and was the grandmother of six orphan children.
"Good Lord, what do it mean?" she murmured as she walked quickly
through the sloppy, dark, disagreeable streets. "I'm to lose the power
of this 'and, and I'm not to do any more needlework. I don't believe
it's true. I don't believe that doctor. I'll say nothing to Alison
to-day. Good Lord, I don't believe for a moment you'd afflict me in
this awful sort of way!"
She walked quickly. She had by nature a very light and cheerful heart;
her spirit was as bright and cheery as her appearance. She picked up
her courage very soon, stepped neatly through the miry, slippery
streets, and presently reached her home. Mrs. Reed and the six
grandchildren lived in a model lodging-house in a place called Sparrow
Street, off Whitechapel Road. The house possessed all the new sanitary
improvements, a good supply of water was laid on, the rooms were well
ventilated, the stoves in the little kitchens burned well, the rents
were moderate, there was nothing at all to complain of in the home.
Mrs. Reed was such a hearty, genial, hard-working woman that she would
have made any home bright and cheerful. She had lived in Whitechapel
for several years, but her work lay mostly in the West End. She
belonged to the old-fashioned order of needlewomen. She could do the
most perfect work with that right hand which was so soon to be useless.
Machine-made work excited her strongest contempt, but work of the best
order, the finest hand-made needlework, could be given over to her care
with perfect satisfaction. She had a good connection amongst the West
End shops, and had year after year earned sufficient money to bring up
the six orphan children comfortably and well. Alison, the eldest girl,
was now seventeen, and was earning her own living in a shop near by.
David was also doing something for himself, but the four younger
children were still dependent on Grannie. They were all like her as
regards high spirits, cleanliness, and a certain bright way of looking
at life.
"I'll not be discouraged, and I'll not believe that doctor," she
murmured, as she mounted the long flight of stairs which led to the
fifth floor. "Aint I always 'ad good luck all the days o' a long
life?" She reached her own landing at last, panting a little for
breath as she did so. She opened her hall door with a latch-key and
entered the kitchen. The kitchen was absolutely neat, the stove shone
like a looking-glass, the dinner was cooking in the oven, and the table
round which the entire family were soon to dine already wore its coarse
white cloth.
"There, I'm not going to murmur," said the old woman to herself.
She went into her bedroom, took off her shawl, shook it out, folded it
neatly, and put it away. She took off her bonnet and dusted it, pinned
it into an old white cambric handkerchief, and laid it beside the shawl
on a little shelf. Her white gloves and white handkerchief shared the
same attention. Then she brushed her white hair, put on a neat cap,
and returned to the kitchen.
Ten minutes afterward this kitchen was full of noise, life, and
confusion. The four younger children had come back from Board school.
Harry, the eldest boy, had rushed in from a bookseller's near by, and
Alison, who served behind a counter in one of the shops in Shoreditch,
had unexpectedly returned.
Alison was a very tall and pretty girl. She had dark blue eyes and an
upright carriage; her hair was golden with some chestnut shades in it.
She had a clear complexion like her grandmother's, and firm lips, with
a sweet expression. As a rule she had a cheerful face, but to-day she
looked anxious. Grannie gave her one quick glance, and guessed at once
that something was troubling her.
"Now, I wonder what's up?" she thought. "Well, I shan't burden the
child with my troubles to-day."
"Come," she said in a hearty voice, "sit you all down in your places.
Kitty, my girl, say your grace. That's right," as the child folded her
hands, closed her eyes, raised her piping voice, and pronounced a grace
in rhyme in a sing-song tone.
The moment the grace was finished a huge potato pie made its appearance
out of the oven, and the meal--good, hearty, and nourishing--began.
Grannie helped all the children. She piled the daintiest bits on
Alison's plate, watching the girl without appearing to do so as she
played with her dinner.
"Come, Ally, you are not eating," said Grannie. "This will never do.
It's a real pleasure to have you back in the middle of the day, and you
must show it by making a good meal. Ah, that's better. Help your
sister to some bread, David."
David was between fifteen and sixteen years of age, a fine well-grown
lad. He looked attentively at Alison, opened his lips as if to say
something, caught a warning glance from her eyes, and was instantly
silent. Alison forced herself to eat some of the nourishing pie, then
she looked full at Grannie.
"By the way, Grannie," she said, "you were to see the doctor at the
London Hospital this morning, were you not?"
"Yes, child; what about it? I'll have a piece of bread, David, if you
will cut it for me."
David did so. Alison detected some concealment in Grannie's voice, and
pursued her inquiries.
"What did he say?" she asked.
"Oh, what didn't he say. Nothing special--the old kind of story. I
never thought much of plaguing a doctor for a common sort of thing like
this. I'm to rub the hand with liniment three times a day. There's
the bottle on that shelf. I 'spect I'll be all right in a week or a
fortnight. Now, children, hurry up with your dinner; you'll have to be
off to school in less than ten minutes, so there's no time to lose."
The children began to eat quickly. Alison and David again exchanged
glances. Harry suddenly pushed back his chair.
"You say your grace before you go," said Grannie, fixing him with her
bright blue eyes.
He blushed a little, muttered a word or two, and then left the room.
"Harry is a good lad," said the old lady when he had gone, "but he is
getting a bit uppish. He's a masterful sort. He aint like you, Dave."
"I am masterful in my own way," answered David.
He crossed the room, bent over the little old woman, and kissed her on
the forehead.
"Harry and I will be a bit late to-night," he said. "We've joined a
boys' club in Bethnal Green."
"A club?" said Grannie. "You're young to be out at nights by yourself.
What sort of club?"
"Oh, It's a first-rate sort. It has been opened by a good man. He's a
right down jolly fellow, though he is a swell. There's boxing and all
kinds of good games going on there."
"It's all right, Grannie," interrupted Alison. "Boys must grow into
men," she added, in a quick voice.
"Dear me," answered the old woman, "I don't know nothing, I suppose!
When I was young, boys in their teens stayed at home. But there! you
are a good lad, Dave, and I'll trust you to keep Harry out of mischief."
"Harry is well enough, Grannie, if you'd only trust him."
"Well, I suppose I must. Give me a kiss, Dave, and be off. Children,
loves, what are you pottering about for?"
"We're ready to go now, Grannie," said the little ones.
They shouldered their bags, put on their hats, and left the room with
considerable clatter, only first of all each small pair of legs made
for Grannie's chair, each rosy pair of lips bestowed a vigorous kiss
upon her apple-blossom cheeks. She patted them on their shoulders,
smiled at them with happy eyes full of love; and they rushed off to
school, grumbling a little at her quick, abrupt ways, but loving her
well deep down in their hearts.
Alison stood up and began to put away the dinner things. Alison and
Mrs. Reed were now alone. The old woman looked anxiously at the girl.
Alison's figure was very slight and graceful. She wore her shop dress,
too, a neat black alpaca. The young ladies in the shops in High
Street, Shoreditch, could not afford black silk, but the shop in
question was a good one, and black alpaca, neatly made, had quite as
good an effect. Alison's hair was put up stylishly on her head. She
wore a little bit of cheap lace round her throat, and a bit of the same
came from under the neat wrists of her dress. Two or three small
chrysanthemums were pinned at her bosom. Grannie thought her quite the
lady.
"I wish, child, you wouldn't slave yourself!" she said at last
impatiently. "What's the old woman for if it isn't to wash up and put
in order? and I'm quite certain you ought to be back at the shop by
now."
"I'm not going back," said Alison, in a low tone.
Grannie had guessed this from the first. She did not speak at all for
a minute, then she chose to dally with the evil tidings.
"It's a holiday you are having most like," she said. "I didn't know
they gave 'em at this time of the year, but I'm real glad. I expect
you let Jim Hardy know. He'll be sure to be round bimeby when his
work's over, and you'd like the kitchen to yourselves, wouldn't you?"
"No, Grannie, no," said Alison abruptly. "There's no Jim for me any
more, and there's no work, and--and--I'm in _trouble_--I'm in trouble."
She crossed the room impulsively, went on her knees, swept her two
young arms round Grannie's frail figure, laid her head on the little
woman's sloping shoulder, and burst into tears.
Grannie was wonderfully comforting and consoling. She did not express
the least surprise. She patted Alison on her cheek. She allowed the
girl to grasp her painful right hand and swollen arm without a word of
protest.
"There, lovey, there, cry your heart out," she exclaimed. "You 'a'
lost your situation. Well, you aint the first; you'll soon get
another, dearie, and you'll be a rare bit of comfort to me at home for
a few days. There, set down close to me, darlin', and tell me
everythink. Wot's up, my pretty, wot's wrong?"
"I thought I wouldn't tell you," said Alison, stopping to wipe her
tears away, "but I can't keep it back. They have accused me in the
shop of stealing a five-pound note out of the till. Yes, Grannie, no
wonder you open your eyes. It is true; I am accused of being a thief.
They are all sure that I have done it. A five-pound note is missing;
and you know how Mr. Shaw has sometimes trusted me, and sometimes, when
he has been very busy, he has allowed me to go to the desk and open the
till and take out change. Well, that was what happened to-day. A
customer came in and asked Mr. Shaw to change a five-pound note for
him, and Mr. Shaw went to the till to get the change, and then he shut
it up, but he left the key in the lock, meaning to get back to his
place at the desk in a minute; but business kept him, and I was the
very next person to go to the till. I locked it after I had taken out
the change, and gave him the key. He went back in a minute or two to
take out the money to carry to the bank, and the five-pound note was
missing. He asked me out sharp if I had taken it--you know how red I
get when anyone suspects me. I felt myself blushing awfully, and then
the other girls stopped working and the men, even Jim, stared at me,
and I blushed hotter and hotter every minute. Then Mr. Shaw said: 'You
were overcome by temptation, Alison Reed, and you took the money; but
give it back to me now at once, and I'll promise to forgive you, and
say nothing more about it.'
"Oh, I was so angry, and I said they might search me, and Mr. Shaw got
angry then, and he got one of the girls to feel me all over and to turn
my pockets inside out, and he called himself real kind not to get in
the police. Oh, Grannie, of course they couldn't find it on me, but I
was searched there in the shop before everyone. How am I ever to get
over the shame? I was nearly mad with passion, and I gave notice on
the spot, and here I am. I told Mr. Shaw that I would never enter his
shop again until I was cleared, and I mean to keep my word.
"Mr. Shaw seemed more angry with me for giving notice than he was at
the loss of the note. He said he was certain I took it, for no one
else could, and that I had hid it somewhere, and that I was afraid to
stay, and he said he wouldn't give me any character. So here I am,
Grannie. I have lost my eight shillings a week, and I have lost my
character, and I am suspected of being a thief--here I am, good for
nothing. I have just got my neat shop dress and that is all."
"And does Jim Hardy know?" asked Grannie.
"He was in the shop, of course, and heard everything. I saw he wanted
to speak, but they wouldn't let him; if he asks me again to be his
wife, I shall say 'no' to him. I never was quite certain whether I'd
do right or wrong in marrying him, but now I'm positive. Jim's a right
good fellow, but he shan't ever have it to say that his wife was
accused of theft. I'm going to refuse him, Grannie. I suppose I'll
bear all this as well as another. I'm young, anyway, and you believe
in me, dont you?"
"Believe in you? of course!" said Mrs. Reed. "I never heard of such a
shameful thing in all my life. Why, you are as honest as the day. Of
course that note will be found, and Mr. Shaw, who knows your value,
will ask you to go back fast enough. It 'll be all right, that it
will. I know what I'll do, I'll go straight to the shop and speak
about it. I'm not going to stand this, whoever else is. It aint a
slight thing, Alison; it aint the sort of thing that a girl can get
over. There are you, only seventeen, and so pretty and like a real
lady. Yes, you are; you needn't pertend you aint. Me and my people
were always genteel, and you take after us. I'll see to it. You
shan't be accused of theft, my dear, ef I can help it."
"But you can't help it, Grannie dear. Whatever you say they won't
believe you. There is a girl I hate at the shop, and only that I know
it is impossible, I could believe that she had a finger in the pie.
Her name is Louisa Clay. She is rather handsome, and at one time we
used to be friends, but ever since Jim and I began to keep company she
has looked very black at me. I think she has a fancy that Jim would
have taken to her but for me; anyhow, I could not help seeing how
delighted she looked when I went out of the shop. Oh, let it be,
Grannie; what is the use of interfering? You may talk yourself hoarse,
but they won't believe you."
"Believe me or not, Mr. Shaw has got to hear what I say," answered the
old woman. "I am not going to see my girl slighted, nor falsely
accused, nor her good name taken from her without interfering. It is
no use talking, Alison; I will have my way in this matter."
Grannie rose from her chair as she spoke. Her cheeks were quite
flushed new, her eyes were almost too bright, and her poor hand ached
and ached persistently. Alison, who had been sitting on the floor
shedding tears now and then, rose slowly, walked to the window, and
looked out. She was feeling half stunned. She was by nature a very
bright, happy girl. Until this moment things had gone well with her in
life. She was clever, and had carried all before her at the Board
school. She was also pretty, and, as Grannie expressed it, "genteel."
She had got a good post in a good shop, and until to-day had been
giving marked satisfaction. Her earnings were of great value to the
little home party, and she was likely before long to have a rise. Mr.
Shaw, the owner of the haberdasher's shop in which she worked, talked
of making Alison his forewoman before long. She had a stylish
appearance. She showed off his mantles and hats to advantage; she had
a good sharp eye for business; she was very civil and obliging; she won
her way with all his customers; there was not a girl in the shop who
could get rid of remnants like Alison; in short, she was worth more
than a five-pound note to him, and when she was suddenly accused of
theft, in his heart of hearts he was extremely sorry to lose her.
Alison was too happy up to the present moment not to do her work
brightly and well.
The foreman in Shaw's shop was a young man of about four-and-twenty.
His name was Hardy. He was a handsome fellow; he had fallen in love
with Alison almost from the first moment he had seen her. A week ago
he had asked her to be his wife; she had not yet given him her answer,
but she had long ago given him her heart.
Now everything was changed; a sudden and very terrible blow had fallen
on the proud girl. Her pride was humiliated to the very dust. She had
held her head high, and it was now brought low. She resolved never to
look at Hardy again. Nothing would induce her to go back to the shop.
Oh, yes, Grannie might go to Mr. Shaw and talk as much as she liked,
but nothing would make matters straight now.
Mrs. Reed was very quick about all she said and did. She was tired
after her long morning of waiting in the Out-Patients' Department of
the London Hospital, but mere bodily fatigue meant very little to her.
One of her nurslings--the special darling of her heart--was humiliated
and in danger. It was her duty to go to the rescue. She put on her
black bonnet and neat black shawl, encased her little hands once again
in her white cotton gloves, and walked briskly through the kitchen.
"I'm off, Ally," she said. "I'll be back soon with good news."
Then she paused near the door.
"Ef you have a bit of time you might go on with some of the
needlework," she said.
She thought of the hand which ached so sorely.
"Yes, Grannie," replied Alison, turning slowly and looking at her.
"You'll find the basket in the cupboard, love. I'm doing the
feather-stitching now; don't you spoil the pattern."
"No, Grannie," answered the girl. Then she added abruptly, her lips
quivering: "There aint no manner of use in your going out and tiring
yourself."
"Use or not, I am going," said Mrs. Reed.
"By the way, if Jim should happen to come in, be sure you keep him. I
have a bit of a saveloy in the cupboard to make a flavor for his tea.
Don't you bother with that feather-stitching if Jim should be here."
"He won't be here," said Alison, compressing her lips.
Mrs. Reed pottered down the long steep flight of steps, and soon found
herself in the street. The fog had grown thicker than ever. It was
very dense indeed now. It was so full of sulphuric acid that it
smarted the eyes and hurt the throats and lungs of the unfortunate
people who were obliged to be out in it. Grannie coughed as she
threaded her way through the well-known streets.
"Dear, dear," she kept muttering under her breath, "wot an evil world
it is! To think of a young innocent thing being crushed in that sort
of cruel way! Wot do it mean? Of course things must be set right.
I'll insist on that. I aint a Reed for nothing. The Reeds are
well-born folks, and my own people were Phippses, and they were
well-born too. And as to the luck o' them, why, 'twas past tellin'.
It don't do for one who's Phipps and Reed both, so to speak, to allow
herself to be trampled on. I'll soon set things straight. I've got
sperrit, wotever else I aint got."
She reached Shaw's establishment at last. It was getting well into the
afternoon, and for some reason the shop was more full than usual. It
was a very cheap shop and a very good one--excellent bargains could be
found there--and all the people around patronized it. Alison was
missed to-day, having a very valuable head for business. Shaw, the
owner of the shop; was standing near the doorway. He felt cross and
dispirited. He did not recognize Mrs. Reed when she came in. He
thought she was a customer, and bowed in an obsequious way.
"What can I serve you with, madam?" he said. "What department do you
want to go to?"
"To none, thank you, sir," answered Mrs. Reed. "I have come to see Mr.
Shaw. I'll be much obleeged if I can have a few words with him."
"Oh, Mr. Shaw! Well, I happen to be that gentleman. I am certainly
very much occupied at present; in fact, my good woman, I must trouble
you to call at a less busy time."
"I must say a word to you now, sir, if you please," said Mrs. Reed,
raising her eyes and giving him a steady glance. "My name is Reed. I
have come about my grandchild."
"Oh," said the owner of the shop, "you are Mrs. Reed." His brow
cleared instantly. "I shall be pleased to see you, madam. Of course
you have come to talk over the unpleasant occurrence of this morning.
I am more grieved than I can say. Step this way, madam, if you please."
He marched Grannie with pomp through the crowd of customers; a moment
later she found herself in his private office.
"Now," he said, "pray be seated. I assure you, Mrs. Reed, I greatly
regret----"
"Ef you please, sir," said Grannie, "it is not to hear your regrets
that I have come here. A great wrong has been done my granddaughter.
Alison is a good girl, sir. She has been well brought up, and she
would no more touch your money than I would. I come of a respectable
family, Mr. Shaw. I come of a stock that would scorn to steal, and I
can't say more of Alison than that she and me are of one mind. She
left her 'ome this morning as happy a girl as you could find, and came
back at dinner time broken-'earted. Between breakfast and dinner a
dreadful thing happened to her; she was accused of stealing a
five-pound note out of your till. She said she were innocent, but was
not believed. She was searched in the presence of her fellow shop
people. Why, sir, is it likely she could get over the shame o' that?
Of course you didn't find the money on her, but you have broke her
heart, and she 'ave left your service."
"Well, madam, I am very sorry for the whole thing, but I do not think I
can be accused of undue harshness to your granddaughter. Circumstances
were strongly against her, but I didn't turn her off. She took the law
into her own hands, as far as that is concerned."
"Of course she took the law into her own hands, Mr. Shaw. 'Taint
likely that a girl wot has come of the Phippses and the Reeds would
stand that sort of conduct. I'm her grandmother, born a Phipps, and I
ought to know. You used rough words, sir, and you shamed her before
everyone, and you refused her a _character_, so she can't get another
place. Yes, sir, you have taken her character and her bread from her
by the same _h_act, and wot I have come to say is that I won't have it."
Mr. Shaw began to lose his temper--little Mrs. Reed had long ago lost
hers.
"Look here, my good woman," he said, "it's very fine for you to talk in
that high-handed style to me, but you can't get over the fact that five
pounds are missing."
"I 'aven't got over it, sir; and it is because I 'aven't that I've come
to talk to you to-day. The money must be found. You must not leave a
stone unturned until it is found, for Alison must be cleared of this
charge. That is wot I have come to say. There's someone else a thief
in your house, sir, but it aint my girl."
"I am inclined to agree with you," said Shaw, in a thoughtful voice,
"and I may as well say now that I regret having acted on the impulse of
the moment. The facts of the case are these: Between eleven and twelve
o'clock to-day, one of my best customers came here and asked me to give
him change for a five-pound note. I went to the till and did so,
taking out four sovereigns and a sovereign's worth of silver, and
dropped the five-pound note into the till in exchange. In my hurry I
left the key in the till. Miss Reed was standing close to me, waiting
to ask me a question, while I was attending to my customer. As soon as
he had gone she began to speak about some orders which had not been
properly executed. While I was replying to her, and promising to look
into the matter, a couple of customers came in. Miss Reed began to
attend to them. They bought some ribbons and gloves, and put down a
sovereign to pay for them. She asked me for change, and being in a
hurry at the moment, I told her to go to the till and help herself.
She did so, bringing back the change, and at the same time giving me
the key of the till. I put the key into my pocket, and the usual
business of the morning proceeded. After a time I went to open the
till to take out the contents in order to carry the money to the bank.
I immediately missed the five-pound note. You will see for yourself,
Mrs. Reed, that suspicion could not but point to your granddaughter.
She had seen the whole transaction. To my certain knowledge no one
else could have gone to the till without being noticed. I put the
five-pound note into the till with my own hands. Miss Reed went at my
request to get change for a customer. She locked the till and brought
me the key, and when I next went to it the five-pound note had
disappeared."
"And you think that evidence sufficient to ruin the whole life and
character of a respectable girl?" said Mrs. Reed.
"There is no use in your taking that high tone, madam. The evidence
against Miss Reed was sufficient to make me question her."
"Accuse her, you mean," said Mrs. Reed.
"Accuse her, if you like then, madam, of the theft."
"Which she denied, Mr. Shaw."
"Naturally she would deny it, Mrs. Reed."
"And then you had her searched."
"I was obliged to do so for the credit of the whole establishment, and
the protection of my other workpeople; the affair had to be gone
properly into."
"But you found nothing on her."
"As you say, I found nothing. If Miss Reed took the money she must
have hidden it somewhere else."
"Do you still think she took it?"
"I am inclined to believe she did not, but the puzzle is, who did? for
no one else had the opportunity."
"You may be certain," said Mrs. Reed, "that someone else did have the
opportunity, even without your knowing it. Clever thieves can do that
sort of thing wonderful sharp, I have heard say; but Alison aint that
sort. Now, what do you mean to do to clear my granddaughter?"
"I tell you what I'll do," said Shaw, after a pause. "I like your
granddaughter. I am inclined to believe, in spite of appearances, that
she is innocent. I must confess that she acted very insolently to me
this morning, and for the sake of the other shop people she must
apologize; but if she will apologize I will have her back--there, I
can't act fairer than that."
"Nothing will make her step inside your shop, sir, until she is
cleared."
"Oh, well!" said Mr. Shaw, rising, "she must take the consequence. She
is a great fool, for she'll never get such a chance again. Suspicion
is strong against her. I am willing to overlook everything, and to let
the affair of the five pounds sink into oblivion. Your granddaughter
is useful to me, and, upon my word, I believe she is innocent. If she
does not come back, she will find it extremely difficult to get another
situation."
"Sir," said Mrs. Reed, "you don't know Alison. Nothing will make her
set her foot inside this shop until the real thief is found. Are you
going to find him or are you not?"
"I will do my best, madam, and if that is your last word, perhaps you
will have the goodness not to take up any more of my valuable time."