Soon after the departure of the two young men, the rest of the guests
left the Clays' house. There was no special run on the pawnshop that
night. Saturday night was the real night for business; then work went
on until far into the small hours of the morning, and Louisa was
obliged to turn to and help her father, but to-night there was nothing
to prevent her going to bed. She lit her candle in the hall, and
turned to say "good-night" to her parents.
"That's a likely young man wot came here to-night," said the mother.
"What young man?" asked Louisa, her eyes flashing.
"Why, Mr. Sampson; they say he's right well off. Don't you know who he
is, Loo?"
"No, that I don't," answered Louisa. "I never set eyes on him before.
I thought he was just a friend of Jim Hardy's. I thought it was Jim
you spoke of, mother, when you mentioned a likely young man."
"Oh, Jim! he's well enough," said Mrs. Clay. "I don't go for to deny
that 'e's handsome to look at, but my thought is this, 'andsome is as
'andsome does. Now, that young man Sampson, as you call him, will make
his fortin' some fine day. He's in the private detective line, and
your father says there aint a sharper man in the trade. A sharp
detective makes his fortin' in these days, no doubt on that p'int."
Louisa's face slightly lost its color; a puzzled expression, an almost
frightened look, crept into her eyes.
"So George Sampson is a detective," she said slowly; "a detective, and
he is a friend of Jim's. I wonder why he came here?"
"Why he come 'ere!" said the old woman. "Why do any young men come
'ere? Oh, we needn't say why; but we know. Good-night, child,
good-night."
"Good-night, mother," said the daughter.
She went upstairs to her own good-sized bedroom, just over the
pawnshop. She occupied the best bedroom in the house. She set her
candle on her chest of drawers now, and sat down where she could see
her handsome, striking-looking figure in the looking-glass. There was
a long glass in the door of her wardrobe, and there she could see her
reflection from head to foot. The red dress suited her well; it
accentuated the carmine in her cheeks, and brought out the brilliancy
of her eyes. She pushed back her mass of black hair from her low brow,
and gazed hard at her own image.
"Yes," she said to herself, "I am handsome. Ef I were a lady I'd be a
queen. I'm handsome enough for anythink. But what do it matter! Good
Lor', what do _anythink_ matter when you can't get what you are
breaking your heart for! I'd give all the world for Jim, and Jim don't
care nothink for me."
She sighed heavily. Presently she drew herself upright, pushed her
chair back so that she could no longer see her image in the glass,
placed her two elbows on the table, pressed her cheeks down on her open
palms, and thought hard.
"Why did that man, George Sampson, come here to-night?" she said to
herself. "Did Jim bring him knowing that he is a detective; did he
bring him because he suspects me? Oh, he couldn't suspect me; Jim aint
that mean sort. Still, I don't like Sampson; I don't like his coming
'ere; I don't like the way he fixes me with his ferret eyes. Jim is
mad about Alison. He can't suspect me, of course; but he is mad about
it all. He is half broken-hearted, and he thinks less of me than ever.
Oh, Jim, Jim! and I do love you so terrible bad. Why don't you love me
even a little bit back again? I'd be good ef you loved me; I know I'd
be good. What is there in Alison Reed for you nearly to die for her?
She aint got my looks, she aint got my eyes, she aint got my bit of
money. I'm handsome, and I know it, and I'll have a tidy lot of money
when I'm married, for father tells me so. What is Alison compared to
me? Oh, nothing, nothing at all! just a mealy-faced, white-cheeked
slip of a girl. But somehow or other he loves her, and he don't love
me a bit; I'd do anything under the sun to win him. Why to-day, to-day
I did a _crime_, and 'twas for him, 'twas to win him; and, after all, I
failed. Oh, yes, I saw it to-night, I failed horribly."
Louisa pressed her hands to her aching eyes; tears rose and smarted her
eyelids; they rolled down her cheeks.
"I'm fit to kill myself!" she cried. "I did a crime for Jim, and I
dragged a girl into it, and I failed. Yes, I'll be straight with
myself, I did it for him. Oh, God knows what I've suffered lately, the
mad fire and the pain that has been eating me here," she pressed her
hand to her breast; "and then to-day I was passing the desk and I saw
the note, not in the till, but lying on the floor, and no one saw me,
and it flashed on me that perhaps Alison would be accused, and anyhow
that the money would come in handy. Shaw thought he put the note into
the till, but he never did. It fell on the floor, and 'twas open, and
I picked it up. I have it now; no one saw me, for I did it all like a
flash. The whole temptation come to me like a flash, and I took the
money in a twinkling. And now Alison is accused, and I am the real
thief. I did it--yes, I know why I did it: to turn Jim agen Alison, so
that I might have a chance to win him for myself. Yes, I have got the
money. I'll jest have a look at it now."
Louisa rose as she spoke; she took a key from her pocket, opened a
small drawer in her wardrobe, and extracted from an old-fashioned purse
a crumpled five-pound note. She stared at this innocent piece of paper
with big, wide-open black eyes.
"I wish I'd never touched it," she said, speaking her thoughts out
loud. "But of course Jim couldn't suspect me. Not a soul saw me when
I jest stooped and put the paper in my pocket. No, not a living soul
saw me. Shaw had gone away, and Alison was serving a customer, and I
did it like a flash. I had a fine time when they accused Alison, and
she turned first white and then red; but I didn't like it when I saw
Jim shiver. Why did he take that vow that he would marry nobody but
her? See ef I don't make him break it! I haven't got my looks for
nothink, and I don't love, as I love Jim, for nothink. Yes; I'll win
him yet--I have made up my mind. I think I know a way of blinding that
detective's eyes. I'll jest let him think that I like him--that I'm
losing my heart to him. _That 'll_ fetch him! He aint married; I know
he aint, from the way he spoke. I can soon turn a feller like that
round my little finger. Trust _me_ to blind his eyes. As to Jim! oh,
Jim, you _can't_ guess wot I done; it aint in you to think meanly of a
gel. Why, Jim, I could even be _good_ for a man like you; but there!
now that I have done this thing I can't be good, so there is nothink
for me but to go on being as bad as possible; only some day--some day,
if I win yer, perhaps I'll tell yer all. No, no; what am I saying? Of
course you must never know. You'd hate me if I were fifty times yer
wife, ef yer knew the bitter, bitter truth. Alison is nothing at all
to me; I don't care whether she breaks her heart or not, but I do care
about Jim. It is Jim I want. I'd make him a right good wife, for I
love him so well--yes, I will get him yet--I vow it; and perhaps my
vow, being a woman's, may be stronger than his."
Louisa undressed slowly and got into bed. Her conscience was too hard
to trouble her; but the thought of Jim and his despair stood for some
time between her and sleep. She was tired out, for the day had been
full of excitement, but it was quite into the small hours before her
tired eyes were closed in heavy slumber.
Not far away, in a small flat in Sparrow Street, another girl slept
also. This girl had cried herself to sleep; the tears were even still
wet upon her eyelashes. Grannie had come into the room and looked at
Alison. Alison and Polly slept together in the tiniest little offshoot
of the kitchen--it was more a sort of lean-to than a room; the roof
sloped so much that by the window, and where the little dressing-table
stood, only a very small person could keep upright. Grannie belonged
to the very small order of women. She always held herself upright as a
dart, and though it was late now, she did not show any signs of fatigue
as she stood with a shaded candle looking down at the sleeping girl.
Alison's face was very pale; once or twice she sighed heavily. As
Grannie watched her she raised her arm, pushed back her hair, which lay
against her cheek, turned round, sighed more deeply than ever, and then
sank again into unbroken slumber.
"She's dreaming of it all," thought the old woman. "I wonder if Jim,
bless him, will clear her. I know he'll do his best. I believe he's a
good lad. I wish Alison would get engaged to him right away. Jim's
doing well in the shop, and they might be married and--dear, dear, I
_wish_ my hand didn't ache so bad. Well, there's one good thing about
it anyway--I needn't waste time in bed, for sleep one wink with this
sort of burning pain I couldn't, so I may jest as well set up and put
that feather-stitching straight. It's certain true that there aint a
single thing in the world what hasn't some good p'int about it, and
here is the good p'int in this pain of mine: I needn't waste the hours
of darkness laying and doing nothink in bed."
Grannie stole out of the room as softly as she had entered. She shut
the door behind her without making the least sound; she then lit a
little lamp, which was much cheaper than gas, saw that it burned trim
and bright, and set it on the center-table in the kitchen. The night
was bitterly cold; the fog had been followed by a heavy frost. Grannie
could hear the sharp ringing sound of some horses' feet as they passed
by, carrying their burdens to the different markets. It was long past
twelve o'clock. The little kitchen was warm, for the stove had burned
merrily all day. Grannie opened the door of the stove now and looked
in.
"Shall I, or shall I not, put on an extry shovelful of coals?" she said
to herself; "an extry shovelful will keep the heat in all night; I have
a mind to, for I do perish awful when the heat goes out of the kitchen;
but there, it would be sinful waste, for coals are hard to get. Ef
that doctor were right, and it were really writers' cramp, I mightn't
be able to earn any more money to buy coals; but of course he aint
right; how silly of me to be afraid of what's impossible! Yes, I'll
put on the coals. Thank the good Lord, this feather-stitching means a
real good income to us; and now that Ally can't bring in her eight
shillings a week, I must work extry hard, but it's false savin' to
perish of cold when you have it in you to earn good money, so here
goes."
Grannie filled a very tiny shovel, flung the precious coals into the
opening of the stove, shut it up again, and, taking the cambric from
the cupboard in the wall, sat down with needle and thread just where
the full light of the lamp could best fall on her work. Her right hand
ached and ached--it not only ached, but burned; the pain seemed to go
up her arm; it sometimes gave her a sort of sick feeling.
"Of course it's rheumatis," she said to herself. "Well now, what a
silly I am! Why don't I try the liniment? There, I'll rub some on
afore I begin to work."
She took the bottle from the mantelpiece, opened it, and poured a
little of the mixture into the palm of her left hand. The liniment was
hot and comforting; it smarted a little, and relieved the dull inside
pain. Grannie found herself able to move her thumb and forefinger
without much difficulty.
"There!" she said; "it's stiffening of the j'ints I'm getting. This
liniment is fine stuff. I must be very careful of it, though; why, I'm
a sight better already. Now then, first to wash my 'ands, and then to
unpick the feather-stitching poor Ally did to-day. Poor darlin', she
couldn't be expected to do it proper, but I'll soon set it right."
Mrs. Reed poured some warm water from the tap into the basin beneath,
washed her old hands very carefully, dried them well, and sat down in
quite a cheerful mood in her warm, snug, bright little kitchen to
unpick Alison's work. The liniment had really eased the pain. She was
able to grasp without any discomfort the very finely pointed scissors
she was obliged to use, and after an hour and a half of intricate
labor, during which she strained her old eyes in order to avoid cutting
the delicate cambric, she had at last undone the mischief which Alison
had caused that day.
"Now then, here we are, as straight as possible," she said aloud, in
her cheery way. "It's wonderful how fresh I do feel, and this hand's a
sight better. I declare it's a sort of Providence that the old don't
want much sleep--why, the church clock has gone two, and I aint a bit
drowsy. I know what I'll do, I'll work till five, that's three hours;
then I'll go to bed till seven. My hand's so comfortable that I'm sure
to sleep like a top, and seven is time enough for me to rise. Two
hours aint such a bad lot of sleep for a woman of my years. Let's see,
I'm sixty-eight. In one sense sixty-eight is old, in another sense
it's young. You slack down at sixty-eight; you don't have such a draw
on your system, the fire inside you don't seem to require such poking
up and feeding. When you get real old, seventy-eight or eighty, then
you want a deal of cosseting; but sixty-eight is young in one sense of
the word. This is the slack time--this is the time when you live real
cheap. What a deal of mercies I have, to be sure; and them beautiful
grandchildren, so fat and hearty, and Alison and me to keep the house
so snug, and tight, and neat, and not a debt in the world. Now, then,
I expect I'll get a lot of work through in these three hours. I can
set up for the next few nights, till Ally gets her place back again,
and make up all the difference, and more, that her eight shillings a
week brings in. Oh, thank the Lord, it's wonderful fortinit that I've
come to the easy time of life. If I were younger now, I must have my
sleep; but at sixty-eight you, so to speak, slacks down your fire, and
_werry_ little keeps it goin'."
As Grannie thought these last vigorous and contented thoughts, she
pulled the lamp nearer, seized her needle and thread, and commenced her
feather-stitching. For the first quarter of an hour or twenty minutes
the work went well--the mysterious twists, and turns, and darts, and
loops were all made with fidelity and exactitude--the lovely crinkled
ornament stood out boldly on the delicate cambric. Grannie looked at
her work with intense pride and happiness.
"It's a fortin'--I do wish that gel would learn it. Why, ef the two of
us were at it, she'd make a sight more than she do in the shop. I
declare I'll give her a lesson to-morrow---- Oh, my God! what's that?
Oh, my God, help me!"
The needle fell through her powerless fingers; the finger and thumb
were drawn apart, as though they had not the power to get together
again. Grannie gazed at her right hand in a sort of panic.
"There; it has happened once or twice afore," she said to
herself--"that dreadful prick and stab, and then all the power goin'
sudden-like--of course it's rheumatis--there, I've no cause to be
frightened; it's passing off; only it do make me sick and faint. I'll
have a cup of tea and then another rub of the liniment."
The great agony frightened her very much; it took some of her high
spirits away. She rose slowly, and made her tea, drank it off scalding
hot, and then rubbed some more liniment on the hand. It was not quite
so comforting nor quite so warming this time as it was on the former
occasion. She washed her hands again, and set to work.
"Oh, good Lord, give me strength!" she murmured, as she seized her
needle and thread. "Think of all the children, Lord, and the little
ones so fat and well fed; remember me, good Lord, and take the
rheumatis away, _ef_ it's your good will."
She took up her needle with renewed courage, and once more began to
perform those curious movements of wrist and hand which were necessary
to produce the feather-stitching. In ten minutes the pain returned,
the powerless finger and thumb refused to grasp the needle. Large
drops of sweat stood out now on Grannie's forehead.
"Wot do it mean?" she said to herself. "I never heerd tell of
rheumatis like this, and for certain it aint writers' cramp, for I
never write. Oh, what an awful sort of thing writing is, when a letter
once in six months knocks you over in this way. Dear, dear, I'm
a-shaking, but I 'a' done a nice little bit, and it's past three
o'clock. I'll go to bed. The doctor spoke a deal about rest; I didn't
mind him much. He was all wrong about the pain, but perhaps he were
right about the rest, so I'll go straight to bed."
Grannie carefully slacked down the fire, put out the lamp, and stole
into the little bedroom which she shared with the two younger children.
Harry and David were already asleep in the lean-to at the other side of
the kitchen, the opposite room to Alison's. The well-fed children in
Grannie's bed breathed softly in their happy slumbers; the little old
woman got in between them and lay down icy cold, and trembling a good
deal. The children slept on, but the little woman lay awake with her
wide-open eyes staring straight into the darkness, and the dreadful
pain in hand and arm banishing all possibility of slumber.