Both Alison and Mrs. Reed were quite of the opinion that, somehow or
other, the affair of the five-pound note would soon be cleared up. The
more the two women talked over the whole occurrence, the more certain
they were on that point. When Grannie questioned her carefully, Alison
confessed that while she was attending to her two rather troublesome
customers, it would have been quite within the region of possibility
for someone to approach the till unperceived. Of course Alison had
noticed no one; but that would not have prevented the deed being done.
"The more I think of it, the more certain I am it's that Clay girl,"
said Grannie. "Oh, yes, that Clay girl is at the bottom of it. I'll
tell Jim so the next time he calls."
"But I don't expect Jim to call--at least at present," said Alison,
heaving a heavy sigh, and fixing her eyes on the window.
"And why not, my dearie, why shouldn't you have the comfort of seeing
him?"
"It aint a comfort at present, Grannie; it is more than I can bear. I
won't engage myself to Jim until I am cleared, and I love him so much,
Grannie, and he loves me so much that it is torture to me to see him
and refuse him; but I am right, aint I? Do say as I'm right."
"Coming of the blood of the Simpsons, the Phippses and Reeds, you can
do no different," said Grannie, in a solemn tone. "You'll be cleared
werry soon, Alison, for there's a God above, and you are a poor orphin
girl, and we have his promise that he looks out special for orphins;
oh, yes, 'twill all come right, and in the meantime you might as well
take a lesson in the feather-stitching."
But though Grannie spoke with right good faith, and Alison cheered up
all she could, things did not come right. The theft was not brought
home to the wicked Clay girl, as Grannie now invariably called her;
Shaw did not go on his knees to Alison to return; and one day Jim, who
did still call at the Reeds' notwithstanding Alison's prohibition,
brought the gloomy tidings that Shaw was seeing other girls with a view
to filling up Alison's place in the shop. This was a dark blow indeed,
and both Alison and Grannie felt themselves turning very pale, and
their hearts sinking, when Jim brought them the unpleasant news.
"Set down, Jim Hardy, set down," said Grannie, but her lips trembled
with passion as she spoke. "I don't want to see anyone in my house
that I don't offer a chair to, but I can't think much of your detective
powers, lad, or you'd have got your own gel cleared long ere this."
"I aint his own girl, and he knows it," said Alison, speaking pertly
because her heart was so sick.
Jim hardly noticed her sharp words--he was feeling very depressed
himself--he sank into the chair Grannie had offered him, placed his big
elbows on his knees, pushed his huge hands through his thick hair, and
scratched his head in perplexity.
"It's an awful mystery, that it is," he said; "there aint a person in
the shop as don't fret a bit for Ally--she was so bright and
genteel-looking; and no one thinks she's done it. If only, Alison, you
hadn't gone away so sharp, the whole thing would have blown over by
now."
"Coming of the blood----" began Grannie; but Alison knew the conclusion
of that sentence, and interrupted her.
"Bygones is bygones," she said, "and we have got to face the future.
I'll look out for another post to-day; I'll begin to study the papers,
and see what can be done. It aint to be supposed that this will crush
me out and out, and me so young and strong."
"But you'll have to get a character," said Jim, whose brow had not
relaxed from the deep frown which it wore.
Alison gave her head another toss.
"I must do my best," she said. She evidently did not intend to pursue
the subject further with her lover.
Jim was not at all an unobservant man. He had seen many signs which
distressed him, both in Grannie's face and Alison's; he knew also that
Harry had been taken from school quite a year too soon; he knew well
that Alison's bread winnings were necessary for the family, and that it
was impossible to expect an old body like Grannie to feed all those
hungry mouths much longer.
"Look here," he said, rising suddenly to his feet, "I have got
something to say."
"Oh, dear, dear, why will you waste our time?" said Alison.
"It aint waste, and you have got to listen--please, Mrs. Reed, don't go
out of the room; I want you to hear it too. Now, you look at me,
Alison Reed. I am big, aint I, and I'm strong, and I earn good wages,
right good--for a man as isn't twenty-five yet. I'm getting close on
two pounds a week now, and you can see for yourselves that that's a
good pile."
"Bless us!" said Grannie, "it's a powerful heap of money."
"Well, I'm getting that," said Jim, with a sort of righteous pride on
his face, "and no one who knows what's what could complain of the same.
Now, this is what I'm thinking. I am all alone in the world; I haven't
kith nor kin belonging to me, only an uncle in Australia, and he don't
count, as I never set eyes on him. I'd have never come to London but
for father and mother dying off sudden when I was but a bit of a lad.
I'm sort of lonely in the evenings, and I want a wife awful bad."
"Well, there's Louisa Clay, and she's willing," said Alison, who,
notwithstanding that her heart was almost bursting, could not restrain
her flippant tone.
Jim gave her a steady look out of his dark gray eyes, but did not
reply. She lowered her own eyes then, unable to bear their true and
faithful glance.
"What I say is this," said Jim, "that I know you, Alison; you aint no
more a thief than I am. Why shouldn't you come home to me? Why
shouldn't you make me happy--and why shouldn't I help the lads and
Grannie a bit? You'd have as snug a home as any girl in London; and
I'd be proud to work for you. I wouldn't want you to do any more
shopwork. Why should we wait and keep everybody wretched just for a
bit of false pride? Why should you not trust me, Ally? And I love
you, my dear; I love you faithful and true."
"I wish you wouldn't say any more, Jim," said Alison.
The note in her voice had changed from sharp petulance to a low sort of
wail. She sank on a chair, laid her head on the table which stood
near, and burst into tears.
"Grannie, I wish you would try and persuade her," said the young man.
"I'll talk to her," said Grannie; "it seems reasonable enough. Two
pounds a week! Lor' bless us! why, it's wealth--and ef you love her,
Jim?"
"Need you ask?" he answered.
"No, I needn't; you're a good lad. Well, come back again, Jim; go away
now and come back again. We'll see you at the end of a week, that we
will."
Jim rose slowly and unwillingly. Alison would not look at him. She
was sobbing in a broken-hearted way behind her handkerchief.
"I don't see why there should be suspense," he said, as he took up his
cap. "It's the right thing to do; everything else is wrong. And see
here, Alison, I'll take a couple of the children; they don't cost much,
I know, and it will be such a help to Grannie."
"To be sure, that it will," said Grannie. "That offer about the
children is a p'int to be considered. You go away, Jim, and come back
again at the end of a week."
The young man gave a loving glance at Alison's sunny head as it rested
on the table. His inclination was to go up to her, take her head
between his hands, raise the tearful face, kiss the tears away, and, in
short, take the fortress by storm. But Grannie's presence prevented
this, and Alison would not once look up. The old woman gave him an
intelligent and hopeful glance, and he was obliged to be content with
it and hurry off.
"I'll come again next Tuesday to get my answer," he said.
Alison murmured something which he did not hear. The next instant he
had left the room.
The moment his footsteps had died away Alison raised her tearful face.
"You had no right to do it, Grannie," she said. "It was sort of
encouraging him."
"Dry your tears now, child," said Mrs. Reed. "We'll talk of this later
on."
"You said yourself I'd have no proper pride to marry Jim at present,"
continued the girl.
"We'll talk of this later on," said Grannie; "the children will be home
in a minute to tea. After tea you and me will talk it over while they
are learning their lessons."
Grannie could be very immovable and determined when she liked. Having
lived with her all her life, Alison knew her every mood. She perceived
now, by her tightly shut up lips, and the little compression, which was
scarcely a frown, between her brows, that she could get nothing more
out of her at present.
She prepared the tea, therefore; and when the children came in she cut
bread and margerine for them, for butter had long ago ceased to appear
on Grannie's board.
After tea the children went into Grannie's bedroom to learn their
lessons, and the old woman and the young found themselves alone. The
lamp was lit, and the little room looked very cheerful; it was warm and
snug. Grannie sat with her hands before her.
"I thought I wouldn't tell you, but I must," she said. "It's a month
to-day, aint it, Ally, since you lost your place?"
"Yes, a month exactly," replied Alison. "It is close on Christmas now,
Grannie."
"Aye," said the old woman, "aye, and Christmas is a blessed, cheerful
time. This is Tuesday; Friday will be Christmas Day. We must have a
nice Christmas for the children, and we will too. We'll all be
cheerful on Christmas Day. Jim might as well come, whatever answer you
give him next week. He's all alone, poor lad, and he might come and
join our Christmas dinner."
"But we haven't much money," said Alison. "We miss what I earned at
the shop, don't we?"
"We miss it," said Grannie, "yes."
She shut up her lips very tightly. At this moment quick footsteps were
heard running up the stairs, and the postman's sharp knock sounded on
the little door. Alison went to get the letter. It was for Grannie,
from a large West End shop; the name of the shop was written in clear
characters on the flap of the envelope.
Grannie took it carefully between the thumb and finger of her left
hand--she used her right hand now only when she could not help it. No
one remarked this fact, and she hoped that no one noticed it. She
unfastened the flap of the envelope slowly and carefully, and, taking
the letter out, began to read it. It was a request from the manager
that she would call at ten o'clock the following morning to take a
large order for needlework which was required to be completed in a
special hurry. Grannie laid the letter by Alison's side.
Alison read it. She had been accustomed to such letters coming from
that firm to Grannie for several years. Such letters meant many of the
comforts which money brings; they meant warm fires, and good meals, and
snug clothes, and rent for the rooms, and many of the other necessaries
of life.
"Well," said the girl, in a cheery tone, "that's nice. You have nearly
finished the last job, haven't you, Grannie?"
"No, I aint," said Grannie, with a sort of gasp in her voice.
"I thought I saw you working at it every day."
"So I have been, and in a sense it is finished and beautiful, I am
sure; but there aint no feather-stitching. I can't manage the
feather-stitching. I can never featherstitch any more, Alison. Maybe
for a short time longer I may go on with plain needlework, but that
special twist and the catching up of the loop in the quilting part of
the feather-stitching, it's beyond me, darlin'. 'Taint that I can't
see how to do it, 'taint that I aint willing, but it's the finger and
thumb, dearie; they won't meet to do the work proper. It's all over,
love, all the money-making part of my work. It's them letters to
Australia, love. Oh, dear! oh, dear!"
Grannie laid her white head down on the table. It was a very sad sight
to see it there, a much more pathetic sight than it had been to see
Alison's golden head in the same position an hour or two ago. There
was plenty of hope in Alison's grief, heart-broken as it seemed, but
there was no hope at all in the old woman's despair. The last time she
had given way and spoken of her fears to Alison she had sobbed; but she
shed no tears now--the situation was too critical.
"_Ef_ you had only learned the stitch," she said to her granddaughter.
There was a faint shadow of reproach in her tone. "I can't show it to
you now; but ef you had only learned it."
"But I do know it," said Alison, in distress.
"Not proper, dear; not as it should be done. I fear that I can never
show you now."
"And that is why you want me to marry Jim?" said Alison. "I wonder at
you, Grannie--you who have such pride!"
"There are times and seasons," said Grannie, "when pride must give way,
and it seems to me that we have come to this pass. I looked at Jim
when he was talking to-day, and I saw clear--clear as if in a
vision--that he would never cast up to you those words that you dread.
If you are never cleared of that theft, Alison, Jim will never call his
wife a thief. Jim is good to the heart's core, and he is powerful
rich, and ef you don't marry him, my gel, you'll soon be starving, for
I can't do the feather-stitching. I can't honestly do the work. I'll
go and see the manager to-morrow morning; but it's all up with me,
child. You ought to marry Jim, dear, and you ought to provide a home
for the two little ones--for Polly and little Kitty."
"And what's to become of you, Grannie, and Dave, and Harry, and Annie?"
"Maybe Jim would take Annie too, now that he is so rich."
"Do you think it would be right to ask him?"
"No, I don't; no, I don't. Well, anyhow, it is good to have half the
fam'ly put straight. You will think of it, Ally, you will think of it;
you've got a whole week to think of it in."
"I will think of it," said Alison, in a grave voice.
She got up presently; she was feeling very restless and excited.
"I think I'll go out for a bit," she said.
"Do, child, do; it will bring a bit of color into your cheeks."
"Is there anything I can get for you, Grannie--anything for Christmas?
You said we were to be happy till after Christmas."
"So we will; I have made up my mind firm on that p'int. We'll have a
right good Christmas. There's three pounds in my purse. We'll spend
five shillings for Christmas Day. That ought to give us a powerful lot
o' good food. Oh, yes, we'll manage for Christmas."
"This is Tuesday," said Alison, "and Christmas Day comes Friday. Shall
I get any of the things to-night, Grannie?"
Grannie looked up at the tall girl who stood by her side. She saw the
restless, agitated expression on the young face.
"She'll like to have the feel of money in her hands again," thought the
little woman. "I'll trust her with a shillin'. Lor', I hope she'll be
careful with it. Twelve pennies can do a mint ef they're spent
careful."
She went slowly to her cupboard, took her keys out of her pocket,
unlocked it with her left hand, and, taking her little purse from a
secret receptacle at the back of the cupboard, produced a shilling from
her hoard.
"There," she said, "for the Lord's sake don't drop it; put it safe in
your pocket. You might get the raisins for the puddin' and the sugar
and the flour out o' this. You choose from the bargain counter, and
use your eyes, and don't buy raisins what have got no fruit in 'em.
Sometimes at bargain counters they are all skin, and good for nothink;
but ef you are sharp you can sometimes pick up right good fruity fruit,
and that's the sort we want. Now, don't be long away. Yes, for sure,
we may as well have the stuff for the puddin' in the house."
Alison promised to be careful. She put on her neat black hat and
jacket and went out. She had scarcely gone a hundred yards before she
came straight up against Louisa Clay. Louisa looked very stylish in a
large mauve-colored felt hat, and a fur boa round her neck; her black
hair was much befrizzed and becurled. Alison shrank from the sight of
her, and was about to go quickly by when the other girl drew up
abruptly.
"Why, there you are," she said; "I was jest thinking of coming round to
see yer."
Alison stood still when she was addressed, but she did not make any
remark. Her intention was to go on as soon as ever Louisa had finished
speaking. Louisa's own intention was quite different.
"Well, I am glad," she continued. "I have a lot of things to say. Do
you know your place is filled up?"
"Yes," said Alison, flushing. "Jim told me."
"Jim!" repeated Louisa, with a note of scorn. "Don't you think you are
very free and easy with Mr. Hardy? And when did you see him?" she
added, a jealous light coming into her eyes.
"He was at our house this afternoon. I must say good-evening now,
Louisa. I am in a hurry; I am doing some errands for Grannie."
"Oh, I don't mind walking a bit o' the way with you. You are going
shopping, is it?"
"Well, yes; Christmas is near, you know."
Alison felt herself shrinking more and more from Louisa. She hated her
to walk by her side. It irritated her beyond words to hear her speak
of Jim. She dreaded more than she could tell Louisa finding out how
poor they were; nothing would induce her to get the bargain raisins or
any of the other cheap things in her presence.
"I am rather in a hurry," she said; "perhaps you won't care to go so
fast."
"As it happens, I have nothing special to do. I'll go with you now, or
I'll call in by and by and have a chat. I don't know that old Grannie
of yours, but folks say she's quite a character. Jim said so last
night when he was supping at our house."
"I am sure he didn't," muttered Alison under her breath angrily; but
she refrained from making any comment aloud.
"Well," said Louisa, "you'd like to know what sort of girl is coming to
Shaw's to take up your work?"
"I don't think I would," replied Alison; "I am really not interested."
"I wonder you care to tell such lies, Alison Reed! Anyone can tell by
your face that you are just burning with curiosity and jealousy."
"You mustn't say such things to me," said Alison; "if you do, I won't
walk with you."
"Oh, my word, how grand we are!" said the other girl; "how high and
mighty, and all the rest of it! To be sure, Alison, you were a flat to
run off the way you did that day. There is not a person in the shop
that don't think you guilty, and small blame to 'em, I say. Poor Jim
did fret a bit the first day or two, but I think he's pretty happy now;
he comes to our house constant. He's very fine company is Jim, he
sings so well; and did you know he had a turn for acting? We're
getting up a little play for Christmas Eve, and Jim's to be the hero;
I'm the heroine. My word! it's as pretty a bit of love-making as you'd
often see. I tell you what it is, Alison; I'll give you an invitation.
You shall come and see it; you will now, won't you? I'll think you're
devoured with jealousy if you don't. You will; say you will."
Alison paused for a moment--a sort of inward rage consumed her. How
dared Jim profess such love for her, and yet give up so much of his
time to Louisa--how dared he make love to her even in play! A sudden
fierce resolve came into her heart. Yes, she would see the acting--she
would judge for herself. Christmas Eve, that was Thursday
night--Thursday was a good way off from Tuesday, the day when she was
to give Jim her answer. As she walked now by Louisa's side, she
guessed what her answer would be--she would be careful and
cautious--oh, yes, she would see for herself.
"I will come," she said suddenly, and to Louisa's great surprise--"I
will come, if you promise me one thing."
"What's that?"
"Don't tell Jim Hardy--don't say anything about it. When he sees me
he'll know, but don't tell him beforehand."
Louisa burst into a loud, scathing laugh.
"To hear you speak, Alison," she said, "one would think that you were
somebody of consequence to Mr. Hardy. Oh, dear--oh, dear, the conceit
of some folks! Do you suppose it would make any _difference_ to him
whether you came or not? But take my word for it, I won't tell him."
"Thank you," said Alison. "Yes, I'll be there. What time shall I
come?"
"The acting begins at nine o'clock, but there's supper first at eight;
you had best come to supper. I will put you in a corner where you
can't get even a sight of Jim's face, then you'll be easy and happy in
your mind."
"No, I won't come to supper, but I'll come in time for the acting. I
am very much obliged, I am sure."
Louisa gave vent to a great yawn.
"Seems to me," she said, "that you aint up to much shopping; you
haven't gone into one shop yet."
"No more I have," said Alison. "I have changed my mind; I won't buy
the things I meant to to-night. I'll go home now; so I'll say
good-evening."
"Good-evening," said Louisa, accompanying her words with a sweeping
courtesy which she considered full of style and grace.
She went home chuckling to herself.
"I guess that acting will finish up Alison's love affair," she thought.
"It won't be any fault of mine if it doesn't. Oh, good-evening, Mr.
Sampson."
George Sampson, who had been looking out for Louisa, now joined her,
and the two walked back to the pawnshop arm in arm, and talking very
confidentially together, Louisa had been true to her own
predictions--she had so flattered and so assiduously wooed George
Sampson that he was her devoted slave by this time. He came to see her
every night, and had assured Jim Hardy long ago that of all people in
the world Louisa was the last who had anything to do with the stealing
of the five-pound note. Louisa's own charms were the sort which would
appeal to a man like Sampson, but whether he would have made up his
mind to marry her, if he did not know that she was safe to have a nice
little sum down from her father on her wedding-day, remains an open
question.
As Alison walked home, many angry and jealous thoughts whirled through
her brain. Was Jim really false to her?--she forgot all about his face
that afternoon; she forgot his earnest words. She only recalled
Louisa's look of triumph and the little play which was to be acted in
her presence.
"Yes, I'll be there," thought the girl; "yes, Christmas Eve shall
decide it."
She ran upstairs and entered the kitchen. Grannie and David were
sitting side by side, engaged in earnest conversation. David blushed
when he saw Alison, and suddenly slipped something under the table;
Grannie patted his arm softly with her left hand.
"Well, Ally, you are home in double-quick time," she said.
"Too quick, is it?" said Alison, taking off her hat and flinging
herself wearily into the nearest chair.
"No, no, my child, never too quick," said the old lady; "and did you
get a good bargain?" she added the next minute anxiously. "Were you
careful in the spending of that shillin'? Why, I don't see any
parcels. For mercy's sake child, don't tell me that you dropped the
shillin'."
"No, I didn't, Grannie; here it is. Somehow I am out of humor for
bargains to-night--that's why I come back."
Grannie took back the precious shilling tenderly. She went to the
cupboard and restored it to her purse. As she did so, she gave a sigh
of relief. She was full of respect for Alison's powers, but not as a
bargainer; she was certain she could get a penny-worth more value out
of the shilling than her grand-daughter would.
"Dave," she said, turning to the lad as she spoke, "Ally and I have
made up our minds that, whatever happens, we'll have a right good
Christmas. We'll have a puddin' and snap-dragon, and a little bit of
beef, and everything hot and tasty, and we'll have the stockings hung
up just as usual by the children's beds; bless 'em, we'll manage it
somehow--somehow or other it has got to be done. Who knows but perhaps
cheerful times may follow Christmas? Yes, who knows? There's never no
use in being downhearted."
"I suppose you are thinkin' of a wedding," said Alison suddenly.
"Well, dear child, and why not?"
"There's not much chance of it," was the reply, in a defiant tone.
"Anyhow," continued Alison, "I've made up my mind to look for another
situation to-morrow."
Grannie's little white face became clouded.
"I am going to Oxford Street, to a registry office," said Alison. "I
know lots about counter work, and I don't doubt that I may get a very
good place; anyhow, I'm going to try."
"Well, that's sperit, there's no denying that," said the old lady;
"it's in the breed, and it can't be crushed."
"David, what are you hiding under the table?" said Alison, in a fretful
tone. She felt too unhappy to be civil to anyone.
"I have got spirit, too, and I'm not ashamed," said David suddenly.
"It's a bit o' stuff I'm feather-stitching; there--I am learning the
stitch."
"Well!" said Alison; "you, a boy?"
"Yes, I--a boy," he replied, looking her full between the eyes.
There was something in the fearless glance of his gray eyes that caused
her to lower her own--ashamed.
"Dave's the blessing of my life," said Mrs. Reed; "he has learned the
stitch, and though he do it slow, he do it true and beautiful. It
shan't never now die out of the fam'ly."