Grannie felt that matters had arrived at a crisis. Whatever the
doctors chose to call the suffering which she endured, her right hand
was fast becoming useless. It was with her right hand that she
supported her family; if it failed her, therefore, her livelihood was
cut off. She was a brave little woman; never in all her long life had
she feared to look the truth in the face. She looked at it now quietly
and soberly. Night after night she gazed at it as she lay in her tiny
bed in her tiny bedroom, with a grandchild fast asleep at each side of
her. She lay motionless then, in too great pain to sleep, and with the
future staring at her.
To-night she went to bed as usual. There was no manner of use in
sitting up burning lamps and fire; it was far cheaper to lie down in
the dark in bed. She lay down and gazed straight out into the deep
shadows which filled the little room. It was a moonlight night, and
some of the moon's rays pierced through the tiny window, but most of
the room lay in shadow, and it was toward the shadow Grannie turned her
eyes.
"It's all true," she said to herself, "there aint no manner of use in
denying it, or turning my face from it--it's true--it's the will o' the
Lord. My mother said to me--her as was a Simpson and married a
Phipps--she said when my father died, 'Patty, it's the will o' the
Lord.' I didn't like, somehow, to hear her say it--the will o' the
Lord seemed so masterful like, so crushing like, so cruel. And now the
will o' the Lord has come to me. It wor the Lord's will to bless me
all my life hitherto, but now it is his will to make things sore dark.
Somehow I can't trust and I can't hope, for there's nothing to hope
for, and there are the children, four of 'em unable to earn their
bread. Harry must make shift to do something, but there are three
little ones. Oh, good Lord, don't ever let me hear the children cry
for bread!"
As Grannie whispered these words out into the darkness, she laid her
left hand tenderly on the flaxen head of her youngest grandchild. Her
hand stroked down the smooth, round head; the child stirred in her
dreams, murmured "Grannie," and turned over on her other side. She was
very well, and very happy--as plump as a little button--a bonny,
bright-eyed creature. Grannie used to adore her stout legs.
"Kitty have always been so well fed," she used to say; "that's the
secret--there's nothink like it--nothink."
And she had held the fat baby, and by and by the fat little girl, up
admiringly for less fortunate neighbors to criticise.
Now the fiat had fallen; the bread-winner could no longer earn the
family meal, and Kitty and the others would have to do without their
bread and butter.
"It is true, and it must be faced," thought the old woman. "The p'int
to be considered now is, how is it to be faced? Wot's the best way?"
Grannie thought matters over very carefully. Before the morning she
had marked out a line of action for herself. Christmas Day should come
and go before any of the dark shadow which filled her own breast should
descend upon the younger members of the household. David and Alison
knew about it, or at least they partly knew, although it was impossible
for them to quite realize the extent of the disaster. It was arranged,
too, that Harry was to leave school, so he also must partly guess that
something was up; but the little ones had never known sorrow yet, and
Grannie resolved that they should have a perfect Christmas Day.
Afterward, if Alison would only consent to marry Jim, half the family
would be provided for. For Grannie, although she was proud, had no
false pride, and she felt that a man who was earning such magnificent
wages as two pounds a week might undertake the care, at any rate for a
time, of two little children. But even granted that Alison and the two
youngest were off her hands, there were still David, Harry, and Annie
to provide for. Grannie could not see her way plain with regard to
these three members of the family. She resolved to ask the advice of
an old clergyman of the name of Williams, who had often before given
her valuable counsel. Mr. Williams was most kind; he was full of
resources; he took a great interest in the poor; he had known Grannie
for close on twenty years; he might be able to help her in this
critical moment of her fate, Having made up her mind so far, the little
woman fell asleep.
When she heard at an early hour the following morning that Alison was
still fully resolved to seek for a new situation, she suggested that
she should call at the shop in Regent Street, see the manager, and
explain to him as best she could that it was out of Grannie's power to
do any more needlework.
"You had best go," said Grannie, looking up at the girl with her bright
blue eyes, and a determined expression steeling her sweet old mouth
almost to sternness. "Jest see the manager, Mr. Squire, and tell him
the simple truth. Take him back this underclothing; it is finished
beautiful all but the feather-stitching. I know he'll be put out, but
I suppose he'll give me half pay--o' course, I don't expec' more. Ef
that cambric had been properly feather-stitched there was thirty
shillings to be got on it; but I'll be glad of fifteen, and you can let
Mr. Squire know. I am pleased that Dave knows the stitch, for he can
teach it to his wife when he gets one. He have promised, dear lad;
there's a fortin' in it yet, for a member of the fam'ly wot _hasn't_
learned handwriting. It's them schools wot are at the bottom of all
this trouble, Alison. Talk of edication! My mother, wot was a Simpson
by birth, could only put a cross agin her name, but Lor', wot a fine
woman she was with sprigs!--we called the beginning of the
feather-stitching sprigs in them days. It was she invented sprigs, and
she had no writers' cramp, nor a chance o' it, bless her! Now then,
dearie, run off, and bring me back the fifteen shillings. We'll try to
keep up 'eart till after Christmas Day."
Alison was very silent and depressed, but she promised to do exactly as
her grandmother wished in the matter of the feather-stitching; and with
the cambric made up into a neat parcel she soon left the little flat.
Grannie sighed deeply when she saw her go. The little woman felt that
she had burned her boats; there was no going back on anything now. She
had severed with her own hands her best connection, and nothing could
ever be the same again. A sort of agony came over her as she heard
Alison running downstairs, a fierce desire to call her back, to beg of
her not to go to Mr. Squire at all that day; but one glance at the
swollen, useless hand made her change her mind. She sat down limp on
the nearest chair, and one or two slow tears trickled out of her eyes.
By dinner time Alison was back; she was full of her own concerns, and
considered Grannie and the feather-stitching, for the time being, quite
a secondary matter.
"The shop is a very good one," she said, "and they want a girl. If I
can bring a good character, I am very likely to get the situation. It
is twelve shillings a week, four--four shillings more than Shaw used to
give me. If only I can get Shaw to give me a character I'll be all
right, and on twelve shillings a week we can keep up the house somehow;
can't we, Grannie?"
Grannie pursed up her lips, but did not speak.
She knew far better than Alison that these small wages, although an
immense help, could not possibly do the work which her
feather-stitching money had accomplished.
"Well, dearie," she said, after a pause, "I am glad that things are so
far good; but have you quite made up your mind not to marry poor Jim,
then, Alison?"
"No, no, not quite," she replied, coloring; "but the fact is, I want
two strings to my bow. By the way, I did not tell you that the Clays
have invited me to a party there to-morrow night?"
"The Clays!" exclaimed Grannie. "Sakes! you aint goin' to them?"
"Yes, but I am. I have promised."
"I don't think the Clays are the sort of people that a girl of your
breed ought to know, Alison. Poor as we are, we hold up our heads, and
why shouldn't we, being----"
"Oh, Grannie, here is your fifteen shillings," interrupted Alison. "I
saw Mr. Squire, and he said he was sorry, but he really could not offer
more, as the feather-stitching was not done."
"He were put out, weren't he?" said Grannie, her little face puckered
up in her intense anxiety to know how Mr. Squire bore the calamity.
"After a fashion, yes," said Alison; "but he said the new embroidery
which is coming in so much would do quite as well, and he knew a woman
who would do the things in a hurry. He said: 'Give my compliments to
Mrs. Reed, and say I am sorry to lose her nice work,' and he paid me my
money and bowed me out of the shop."
"It is all over, Grannie," continued the girl, cruel in her severity,
and not knowing she was stabbing the old woman's heart at every word.
"You place wonderful store by that feather-stitching, but the new
embroidery will do quite as well for all the fine ladies, and other
women will get the money."
"Yes, yes," said Grannie, "yes, it is the will o' the Lord. Somehow,
that seems to steady me up--to bear it like."
She went out of the room tottering a little, but came back quite
cheerful when the children returned home for the midday meal.
After dinner Alison went to see Mr. Shaw. She did not like this job at
all, but she knew she had no chance of getting another place unless she
could induce Shaw to give her a character. She planned how best to go
to the shop without being observed by the rest of the shop people. She
was too handsome a girl not to have created a great deal of attention
during her stay at Shaw's, and now, with this story about the theft
hanging over her head, she would be more interesting and more worthy of
criticism than ever. She dreaded beyond words being seen at Shaw's,
more particularly by Louisa Clay and Jim Hardy. She crept in by a side
entrance, and as the shop was very full at this hour (Christmas being
so close at hand, the crowd this afternoon was denser than ever), she
managed to escape attention. She could see without being noticed. She
observed Louisa flaunting about the shop, looking very handsome, and on
every possible occasion appealing to Jim for advice or help. Jim was
the walker to-day, and Louisa was always calling him to her on one
pretext or another. It seemed to Alison's jealous eyes that the young
man did not dislike her too-evident attentions. He always replied to
her with courtesy, and, according to Alison, stood by her side longer
than was necessary.
"I must get that situation in Oxford Street," muttered the girl to
herself. "I shall feel fit to kill those two if ever they are wed, and
the further I am off the better."
Her angry and excited feelings gave her courage, and she was able to
ask a comparative stranger--a girl who scarcely knew her--if she could
see Mr. Shaw.
"I am afraid you cannot to-day," was the reply. "The manager is too
busy, but if you like to call again----"
"No, no, I see him there. I'll ask him myself," was the reply.
"Lor', what cheek!" muttered the new shop-girl; but Alison was too far
away to hear her.
She had approached Mr. Shaw as he was wishing one of his customers "A
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year." He turned round with a smile on
his lips. Things were doing remarkably well, and he could afford to be
cheerful. Suddenly his rather staring, bloodshot eyes encountered the
full gaze of Alison's clear blue ones.
"Eh, Miss Reed?" he said, stepping back in astonishment.
"Yes, sir; can I speak to you?" said Alison.
"Certainly, my dear, certainly; come this way. She has found out who
the thief is, and will come back once more," muttered the manager to
himself. "She's the best and most attractive shopwoman I ever had; she
shall come back immediately after Christmas."
He hurried Alison through the shop into his own little counting-house.
He shut the door then, and asked her to seat herself.
"How are you?" he said, fixing his eyes with a sort of coarse
admiration on her face. "You have got at the truth of this miserable
matter, have you not? Now, I wonder who the thief is, eh? Well, all I
can say is this: I am right glad that you know. We miss you, Miss
Reed, in the shop. Your services have been of great value to us. I
shall have the person who took that money prosecuted; there's not the
least doubt about that. Your character will be abundantly cleared, and
you can resume your post here immediately after the Christmas holidays."
"I thought," said Alison, "that you had got someone else to fill my
place."
"So I have, so I have--that Jenkins girl--the daughter of poor Tom
Jenkins, who died in the autumn; but, bless you, she's no good; she
don't even know the meaning of drawing on a customer! You see, Miss
Reed, I don't mean to flatter you, but you have got the tact, and just
when the sales are beginning you will be invaluable. I can offer you a
percentage on all the remnants you dispose of. Come, now, that's a
bargain; you'll be right welcome back. You have got tact, and if I may
be allowed to say so--_looks_."
Here the manager gave Alison another broad stare.
"By the way, who is the thief?" he continued.
"You quite misunderstand me, sir," said Alison. "I have not found the
thief--I have not the faintest idea who stole that money; I only know
that I did not, and that nothing will induce me to set foot again in
this shop as one of the staff until I am cleared."
"Then, my good girl, may I ask what in the world you are wasting my
time for?"
He approached the door of his tiny counting-house, and half opened it
as he spoke.
"One minute, sir, please. Although I cannot of course come here, I
naturally want to get another situation."
"I dare say; but that is not my affair."
"Oh, yes, please, sir, it is! I have just heard of a very good post in
Oxford Street. I saw the manager this morning, and he said that he
would give me the situation if you could recommend me. Will you, sir;
will you give me a character, Mr. Shaw?"
"You have cheek," said Shaw, in a deliberate voice. "Do you suppose I
am going to recommend a thief?"
"But, oh, sir, oh, Mr. Shaw, you know I am not that!"
"I don't know anything of the kind; I only know that you are a brazen,
unreasonable hussy. You know perfectly well that when you left here
you forfeited your character. Yes, your attitude, let me tell you,
Miss Reed, cuts both ways. If you don't choose to come here until you
are cleared, I don't give you a character until you are cleared. Come,
now, that's a fair bargain, is it not?"
"Oh, sir, it is so hard of you!" said Alison. "Sir, if you would but
be merciful!"
"That's my last word," said Shaw. "I must go back to attend to my
customers."
He left the counting-house abruptly, and Alison did not take long in
following his example.
"It is no good, Grannie," she said, when she entered her little home
half an hour afterward. "Shaw is as hard as a millstone. He won't
give me a character until I am cleared; and, as I never shall be
cleared, why, I'll never get a character, and I cannot get a situation.
What is to become of me, Grannie; oh, Grannie, what is to become of me?"
At these words Alison gave way to the most terrible, overpowering
grief. She did not know how to comfort Grannie, but Grannie knew how
to comfort her. She patted her as if she were a baby; she stroked her
soft hair, and kissed her hot cheeks, and laid her head on her own
little shoulder, and made tea, although the supply in the caddy was
getting very low, and then talked to her as she knew how, and with
wonderful cunning and power of Jim, Jim, Jim.
As Alison loved Jim this subject could not but be of interest to her.
"There's no other way out of it," said Grannie finally. "He is yer
sweetheart, faithful and true--he don't suspect you; he never will
suspect you. You whisper 'yes' to him on Christmas night, dearie, and
don't wait for next Tuesday. It's the right thing to do, it's the only
right thing to do."