Kitabı oku: «Good Luck», sayfa 6

CHAPTER VIII

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."

CHAPTER IX

On Christmas Eve, Grannie went out and stayed away for about an hour. She looked mysterious when she came back. She wore her zebra-pattern shawl, which was quite bulged out with parcels. These she conveyed quickly into her bedroom, notwithstanding the devouring eyes which the children cast upon them.

"Out of that," she said, pushing them all aside; "none of your curiosity, or you'll get nothing. What right have you to suppose as I'm agoin' to waste my money a-giving presents to little brats like you? Now, out of the way, out of the way. For goodness' sake Polly, set down and finish stoning 'em raisins. Annie, is that a currant I see in yer mouth, you bad, greedy girl? I'll whack you, as sure as my name's Grannie."

Then Grannie disappeared into her room and locked the door amid the screams of excitement and laughter of the happy children. "I am an old fool to do it," she said to herself, trembling a good deal, for somehow she had been feeling very weak the last few days; the constant pain and anxiety had told upon her. "I am an old fool to spend seven and sixpence on nothing at all but gimcracks to put into the Christmas stockings; but there, I must see 'em happy once again – I must – I will. Afterwards there'll be a dark time, I know; but on Christmas Day it shall be all light – all light, and cheerfulness, and trust, for the sake of the dear Lord wot was born a babe in Bethlehem."

Grannie very carefully deposited her parcels in the old-fashioned bureau which stood in the corner of the tiny bedroom. She locked it up and put the key in her pocket, and returned to the little sitting room.

Alison was busy trimming her party dress. She had a party dress, and quite a stylish one. It was made of pink nun's-veiling, which she had got very cheap as a bargain at Shaw's when the summer sale was over. The dress was made simply, quite high to the throat, with long sleeves, but the plain skirt and rather severe-looking bodice, with its frill of lace round the throat and wrists, gave Alison that curiously refined, ladylike appearance which was so rare in her station of life. She had a sort of natural instinct which kept her from overdressing, and she always looked the picture of neatness. She was furbishing up the lace on the dress now, and Polly was seated by the little table stoning the raisins for the Christmas pudding, and gazing with admiration at her sister all the while. The Christmas bustle and sense of festivity which Grannie had insisted on bringing into the air, infected everyone. Even Alison felt rather cheerful; as she trimmed up the old dress she kept singing a merry tune. If it was her bounden duty to marry Jim – to return the great love he bore her – to be his faithful and true wife – then all the calamity of the last few days would be past. Good luck would once more shine upon her. Once again she would be the happiest of the happy.

"Oh, yes, I love him!" she murmured to herself. "I love him better every day, every hour, every minute; he is all the world to me. I think of him all day long, and dream of him all through the night. I could be good for him. If he is strong enough and great enough to get over the fact of my being accused of theft, why, I'll take him; yes, I'll take him. It will make Grannie happy too. Poor old Grannie! she don't look too well the last day or two. It is wonderful, but I think she is fretting sore about that feather-stitching. Poor dear! she thinks more of that feather-stitching than of most anything else in the world; but, Lor' bless her, they'll soon be putting something else in its place in the West End shops. The feather-stitching will be old-fashioned beside the embroidery. Poor old Grannie, it is hard on her!"

By this time the tea hour had arrived. Alison took her dress into her little bedroom, laid it on the bed, and came back to help to get ready the family meal. David and Harry both came noisily upstairs to partake of it. They were going out immediately afterward to the boys' club, and told Grannie that they would not be back to supper.

"There are going to be real high jinks at the club to-night," said Harry; "a magic lantern and a conjurer, and afterward we are to play leapfrog and billiards, and end up with a boxing match. That swell, Mr. Rolfe, is the right sort. Anyone would think that he had known boys from this part of the world all his days."

"Boys is boys all the world over," said Grannie; "be they rich or poor, high or low, they are just the same – mischeevous, restless young wagabones. Now then, Harry, for goodness gracious, don't spill your tea on the cloth. My word! wot a worry you all are."

"You know you don't think so, Grannie," said the audacious boy. His black eyes laughed into her blue ones; she gave him a smile into which she threw her whole brave heart. He remembered that smile in the dark days which were to follow.

Tea was over, and presently Alison went into her room to dress. She did not intend putting in an appearance at the Clays' before nine o'clock, and she told Grannie not to sit up for her. Of course Jim would see her home. It occurred to her, and her heart beat faster at the thought, that she might be able to give Jim his final answer on her way home; if so, what a glorious Christmas present would be hers. Accordingly, as she dressed her hair she sang a cheerful little song under her breath. Grannie heard her in the kitchen, paused with her finger on her lip, and enjoined silence for a moment, and then smiled in a very heart-whole manner.

"To be sure," she murmured to herself "the will of the Lord seems full o' mercy to-night. Wot do it matter about an old body like me, ef things go right for the children? Oh, good Lord, I commit these children to thy care; do for 'em wot is right, and don't trouble about an old body. I don't count; I know my place is safe enough for me in the Kingdom. I need not fret about wot is left for this world."

When Alison came out of her room, looking beautiful, and fifty times too good for the company she was to be with, Grannie gave her a kiss, which was so full of gladness and meaning as to be almost solemn.

"And Jim will see you home," said the old lady. "Oh, yes, yes!"

"To be sure; but don't sit up, Grannie," said Alison.

"I won't ef you don't wish it, love. You'll find the key under the mat; now go off, and a Christmas blessin' with you."

Alison departed, and soon afterward the younger children were hustled off to bed. They were very much excited, and did not at all wish to retire at this comparatively early hour, but Grannie was peremptory. She had plenty of work to do after the rogues were asleep, she murmured. So off to bed they went, with a couple of raisins each by way of comfort; and when she thought they were snoring she slipped softly into her room to fetch the brown paper parcels, and the long woolen stockings which year after year had done duty for the Santa Claus gifts. If she suspected it, she took good care not to look; nevertheless, the fact remains that the three little snorers did open their eyes for a brief moment, and did see the parcels going out, and the stockings following them, and then turned round to hug each other in an ecstacy of bliss. On this occasion Alison's companion slept with her two sisters, and they kept up a little chatter, like birds in a nest, for quite five minutes after Grannie had left them. She heard them, of course, – for every sound could be heard in the little flat, – but she took no notice.

"Bless 'em, how happy they are!" she said to herself. "Bless the Lord, oh, my soul. I do declare there's a sight o' good to be got out of life, writers' cramp or not. Now, then, to open these parcels."

The parcels when opened produced a wonderful array of cheap workboxes, needle-cases, pin-trays, ornamental pens, boxes full of bon-bons, penny whistles, twopenny flutes, a Jew's-harp or two; in short, a medley of every kind of heterogeneous presents which could be produced with the modest sum of from a penny to twopence halfpenny. Grannie fully believed in numbers. She knew from past experience that the children would rather have half a dozen small things than one big thing. The worsted stockings, too, which had been knit in a bygone age, by the celebrated Mrs. Simpson, the inventor of the sprig, were deep and long. They took a great deal of filling, and Grannie knew what keen disappointment would be the result if each stocking was not chock-full. She collected her wares, sorted them into six parcels, laid the six stockings on the table by the side of the gifts, and then began to select the most appropriate gifts for each. Yes; Alison should have the little basket which contained the pretty thimble, the little plush pin-cushion glued on at one corner, and two reels of cotton kept in their place by a neat little band, and the needle-book at the opposite side.

"This is the werry nattiest thing I have seen for many a day," murmured Grannie, "and only tuppence three farthings. I'll take the price off, of course. Now, suppose Ally comes back an engaged girl, could she have anything prettier than this little basket? It shall go in the top of the stocking, jest where it can peep out and look at her the first thing in the morning."

The stockings were filled at last; the toes and heels dexterously stuffed out with apples and oranges; the gifts following next – each separate gift wrapped in paper, and tied neatly with string.

"Quite half the fun is in the untying of the string," thought Mrs. Reed. "Oh, how the little 'earts will go pitter-patter! Don't I know it myself? Why, when I were nothing more than a five-year-old Phipps, I remember as well as possible taking my presents out of this werry stocking, and trembling all over when I couldn't untie the knot of the parcel which held that cock made of sugar, wot I kept on the chimney-piece for many and many a day afterward; for though mother give it to me, she wouldn't let me eat it."

The six stockings were filled, and each stocking hung at the foot of its future owner's bed. The children were sound asleep now, and the boys at the club, and the girl at her party forgot all about such a trivial thing as poor old Santa Claus and his stocking, but Grannie was very thankful that the stockings should hang at the foot of the beds for the last time. When all was done and the kitchen made as neat as a new pin she fell on her knees and uttered a short prayer – a prayer which was more praise than prayer. She then got into bed, and quickly fell asleep; for she was very tired, and, wonderful to say, her hand and arm did not ache as much as usual.

Not far away was Tragedy coming to meet her with quick strides, but the little woman was under the shadow of God's wing to-night, and had neither fear nor trouble.