Good Luck Part 7

"That's a likely young man wot came here to-night," said the mother.

"What young man?" asked Louisa, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng.

"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 p.a.w.nshop. 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-gla.s.s. There was a long gla.s.s 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 ma.s.s 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 gla.s.s, 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, G.o.d 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 pa.s.sing 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 s.h.i.+ver. Why did he take that vow that he would marry n.o.body 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-st.i.tching 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 pa.s.sed 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-st.i.tching means a real good income to us; and now that Ally can't bring in her eight s.h.i.+llings 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-st.i.tching 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 s.h.i.+llings 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-st.i.tching. 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 exact.i.tude--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 G.o.d! what's that?

Oh, my G.o.d, 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 p.r.i.c.k 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 pa.s.sing 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-st.i.tching. 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 banis.h.i.+ng all possibility of slumber.

CHAPTER VI.

In the morning Grannie got up as usual. She was very white and shaky, but she had no intention of complaining. The pain from which she was suffering had somewhat abated, but the poor hand and arm felt tired and very feeble. She longed for the comfort of a sling, but decided not to wear one; the children would all notice it and pa.s.s remarks, and Grannie could not bear to be commented upon. She did not want to add trouble to trouble just now. She resolved to forget herself in thoughts of Alison and the others. She was early in the kitchen, but to her relief and pleasure found David there before her. Next to Alison, David was Grannie's favorite. He was thoughtful and considerate. He was a great big manly fellow, but there was also a very sweet feminine element in him; he could be domestic without being in the least girlish. He was devoted to Grannie, and often, tired as he was when he went to bed, got up early in the morning to save her work. He had turned on the gas, and the first thing he noticed now, when she came in, was her worn, puckered little face.

"Why, Grannie, you are out of sorts," he said. "Why did you get up so early? Surely Ally and me can manage the bit of work. But, I say, you are all of a tremble. Set down, and I'll get ye a cup of tea in a minute."

"No, Dave, no!" said the old woman, "'twill soon pa.s.s--'twill soon pa.s.s; the rheumatis in my hand and arm has been bothering me all night, and it makes me a bit shaky; but 'twill soon pa.s.s, Dave. We mustn't waste the tea, you know, lad; and I won't have a cup--no, I won't."

"Well, set there and rest," said the young man. "Thank goodness, I aint ashamed to work, and I'm real proud to put the kitchen straight and tidy. See how bright the fire is already; you warm your toes, Grannie, and you'll soon be better."

"So I will, to be sure," said Mrs. Reed, rubbing her hands and sinking into the chair which David had brought forward.

She gazed into the cheery flames, with her own bright-blue eyes, clear and steady. Then she looked straight up at David, who was in the act of filling the kettle and placing it on the top of the stove.

"David," she said, "stoop down a minute; I have a word or two to say."