Grannie pottered about and got the tea. As she did so she shook her
old head, and once a dim moisture came to her eyes. Her hand ached so
painfully that if she had been less brave she would have sat down and
given herself up to the misery which it caused her. But Grannie had
never thought much of herself, and she was certainly not going to do so
to-day when her darling was in such trouble.
"Whatever I do, I mustn't let out that Ally failed in the
feather-stitching," she said to herself. "I'll unpick it to-night when
she is in bed. She has enough to bear without grieving her. I do hope
Jim will come in about supper time. I should think he was safe to. I
wonder if I could rub a little of that liniment onto my 'and myself.
It do burn so; to think that jest a little thing of this sort should
make me mis'rible. Talk of breed! I don't suppose I'm much, after
all, or I'd not fret about a trifle of this sort."
The tea was laid on the table--the coarse brown loaf, the pat of
butter, the huge jug of skim milk, and the teapot full of weak tea.
The children all came in hungry from school. Alison returned from her
bedroom with red eyes. She cut the bread into thick slices, put a
scrape of butter on each slice, and helped her brothers and sisters.
The meal was a homely one, but perfectly nourishing. The children all
looked fat and well cared for. Grannie took great pride in their rosy
faces, and in their plump, firm limbs. She and Alison between them
kept all the family together. She made plenty of money with her
beautiful needlework, and Alison put the eight shillings which she
brought home every Saturday night from the shop into the common fund.
She had her dinner at the shop, which was also a great help. Dave was
beginning to earn about half a crown a week, which kept him in shoes
and added a very tiny trifle to the general purse; but Harry was still
not only an expense, but an anxiety to the family. The three younger
children were, of course, all expense at present, but Grannie's
feather-stitching and lovely work and Alison's help kept the little
family well-off. As the old woman watched them all to-night, she
laughed softly under her breath at the stupid mistake the doctor had
made.
"Ef he had said anything but writers' cramp, I might 'a' been nervous,"
she said to herself, "but writers' cramp aint possible to anyone as
don't write. I don't place much store by doctors after that stoopid
mistake; no, that I don't."
Alison's face was very pale. She scarcely spoke during tea. The
children were surprised to see her at home both for dinner and tea, and
began to question her.
"Now, you shet up, you little curiosity boxes," said Grannie, in her
brisk, rather aggressive voice. "Ally is at home--well, because she
is."
"Oh, Grannie! what sort of answer is that?" cried Polly, the youngest
girl.
"It's the only one you'll get, Miss Pry," replied Grannie.
The other children laughed, and began to call Polly "Miss Pry," and
attention was completely diverted from Alison.
After the tea-things had been washed and the children had settled down
to their books and different occupations, there came a knock at the
door, and Hardy entered.
Alison was in her bedroom.
"Set down, Mr. Hardy," said Grannie, if her cheerful voice. "You've
come to see Ally, I suppose?"
"Yes, if I may," answered the young man, an anxious expression on his
face.
"To be sure you may; who more welcome? Children, run into my bedroom,
dears. I'll turn on the gas and you can study your books in there.
Run now, and be quick about it."
"It's so cold," said Polly.
"Tut, tut, not another word; scatter, all of you."
The children longed particularly to stay; they were very fond of Hardy,
who generally brought them sweets. Polly's quick eyes had seen a white
parcel sticking out of his pocket. It was horrid to have to go into
Grannie's bedroom. It was an icy-cold room; just, too, when the
kitchen was most enticing. They had to go, however, and Grannie shut
the door behind them.
"Poor things, it will be cold for them in there," said the young man.
"Tut, tut," answered Grannie again, "you don't want 'em to be brought
up soft and lazy and good for naught. Now then, Jim, set down and make
yourself at home."
"How is she?" asked Hardy, speaking in a low voice, and raising his
handsome eyes to the old lady's face.
Grannie's eyes blazed in reply.
"How do you expect her to be?" she answered. "Publicly shamed as she
were; I wonder you didn't take her part, Jim, that I do."
"I felt stunned," replied Hardy; "it was all so sudden. I tried to
push forward and to speak, but I was prevented. There was such an
excitement, and Mr. Shaw was in a towering passion--there's no doubt of
that. I'm sorry she has left, though."
"Well," said Grannie, "she's had the offer to take her place again if
she likes."
"Has she? Then he doesn't believe her to be guilty?"
"No; who would who knew her?"
"Who would, indeed?" answered the young man, a glow of pride and
pleasure o& his face.
"I'll tell her you are here in a minute," said Grannie, "and then I'll
leave you two the kitchen to yourselves. But before I go away I jest
want to say one thing--Alison won't go back."
"Won't?"
"No, nor would I let her. Alison will stay here till she's cleared.
You are in the shop, Jim, and it's your business to find the
thief--that is, ef you love my girl, wot I take it you do."
"With all my heart, that I do," he replied.
"Then your work's cut out for you. Now you may see her."
Grannie stepped across the kitchen. She opened Alison's door a quarter
of an inch.
"Jim's here, Ally," she said. "I've a job of work in my bedroom, and
the children are out of the way. You two can have the kitchen to
yourselves ef you want to talk."
Alison's low reply was scarcely discernible. Grannie went into her
bedroom, clicking the door behind her. A moment or two later Hardy
heard Alison step lightly across her room. She came out of it, crossed
the kitchen, and approached his side. Her face was perfectly white,
her lips trembled with emotion. She still wore her shop dress, but
there was a disheveled sort of look about her which the young man had
never noticed before.
Her beautiful fair hair was rumpled and in disorder, her deep-blue eyes
looked pathetic owing to the tears she had shed. The young man's whole
heart went out to her at a great bound. How beautiful she was! How
unlike any other girl he had ever seen! How much he loved her in her
hour of trouble!
"Oh, Alison," he said, speaking the first words that came to his lips,
"I could die for you--there!"
Alison burst into tears. Jim put his arm round her; she did not
repulse him. He drew her close to him, and she laid her head on his
shoulder. He had never held her so close to him before; he had never
yet kissed her; now he kissed her soft hair as it brushed against his
cheek.
"There, there," he said, after a moment or two, during which she sobbed
in a sort of luxury of grief and happiness; "there, there, my darlin',
I am between you and all the troubles of this hard world."
"Oh, Jim, but I can't have it," she answered.
She remembered herself in a moment, withdrew her head from his
shoulder, pressed back his hands, which struggled to hold her, and
seated herself on a low stool at the opposite side of the little stove.
"It's all over, dear Jim," she said. "I do love you, I don't deny it;
but I must say 'no' to-night."
"But why," said Hardy, "why should a nasty, spiteful bit of
misadventure like what happened to-day divide you and me? There is no
sense in it, Alison."
"Sense or no, we can't be engaged," replied Alison. "I won't have it;
I love you too well. I'll never marry anybody while it's held over me
that I'm a thief."
"But, darlin', you are no more a thief than I am; you are jest the most
beautiful and the best girl in all the world. I'll never marry anybody
ef I don't marry you, Ally. Oh, I think it is cruel of you to turn me
away jest because you happen to be the last person seen going to the
till."
"I'm sorry if I seem cruel, Jim," she replied, "but my mind is quite
made up. It's a week to-night since you asked me to be your wife. I
love yer, I don't pretend to deny it; I've loved yer for many a month,
and my heart leaped with joy when you said you loved me, and of course
I meant to say 'yes.' But now everything is changed; I'm young, only
seventeen, and whatever we do now means all our lives, Jim, yours and
mine. This morning I were so happy--yes, that I were; and I just
longed for to-night to come, and I was fit to fly when I went to the
shop, although there was a fog, and poor Grannie's hand was so painful
that she had to go to see the doctor at the hospital; but then came the
blow, and it changed everything, just everything."
"I can't see it," interrupted Jim; "I can't see your meaning; it has
not changed your love nor mine, and that's the only thing that seems to
me of much moment. You jest want me more than ever now, and I guess
that if you loved me before, you love me better now, so why don't you
say 'yes'?"
"I can't," she replied; "I have thought it all over. I was stunned at
first, but for the last hour or two everything has been very plain to
me. I am innocent, Jim. I no more took that note out of the till than
you did; but it's gone, and I'm suspected. I was accused of taking it,
before the whole shop. I'm branded, that's what I feel, and nothing
can take away the brand, and the pain, and the soreness, except being
cleared. If I were to say 'yes' to you to-night, Jim, and let you love
me, and kiss me, and by and by take me afore the parson, and make me
your lawful wife--I--I wouldn't be the sort of girl you really love.
The brand would be there, and the soreness, and the shame, and the
dreadful words would keep ringing in my ears, 'You are a thief, you are
a thief'--so I couldn't be a good wife to yer, Jim, for that sort of
thing would wear me out, and I'd be sort of changed; and well as you
love me now, it would come back to you that once the girl what was your
wife was called a thief, so I'll never say 'yes'--never, until I'm
cleared; and somehow I don't expect I ever will be cleared, for the one
that did me this mischief must be very clever, and deep, and cunning.
So it's 'good-by,' Jim dear, and you'd better think no more of me, for
I'll never go back to the shop, and I'll never wed you until I'm
cleared of this dark, dark deed that is put down to me."
"Then I will clear you; I vow it," said Hardy.
He rose to his feet; he looked very strong, and firm, and determined.
"You don't suppose that I'll lose you for the sake of a five-pound
note," he said. "I'll clear you. Grannie has put it on me, and now
you put it on me more than ever. It 'll be only a day or two most like
that we'll be parted, sweetheart. Only I wish you wouldn't stick to
this, Ally. Let me kiss you, and let me feel that you are my own dear
love, and I'll work harder than ever to prove that you are innocent as
the beautiful dawn that you are like. There was no one ever so
beautiful as you, like you."
Alison smiled very faintly while Jim was speaking to her, but when he
approached her and held out his arms, and tried to coax her to come
into them, she drew back.
"No," she said, "I'm a thief until I'm cleared, and you shan't kiss a
thief, Jim Hardy, that you shan't."
Her tears broke out afresh as she uttered these words; she flung
herself on the little settle, and sobbed very bitterly.