Thereby Hangs a Tale Part 27

"What do you think of that, old lady?" said Sam, opening his little lid to peer down at his wife. "Comfortable?"

"Comfortable--yes," said Mrs Jenkles, looking up and beaming. "And you said he wouldn't go."

"He knows as you're here," said Sam; "and that's his aggrawating nature.

He's a-selling me."

"Selling you, Sam?"

"Yes; a-making out as I grumbles without cause. Sit fast; I'll bowl yer up there in no time."

"No, Sam, don't--pray, don't go fast!" said his wife, in alarm.

"You sit still; it's all right, I tell yer. Good wives is scarce, Sally, so you won't be spilled."

Only half convinced, Mrs Jenkles held on very tightly by the sides of the cab, till, well up now in the geography of the place, Sam ran round by the better road, and drew up at B. Sturt's grocery warehouse.

"No," said Sam, as Mrs Jenkles made for the shop; "side door, and ring once."

As he spoke, Barney's ill-looking face appeared at the door; and as Mrs Jenkles went and rang--

"Mornin'," said Sam.

Barney scowled, and blew a cloud of tobacco at him.

"Keb, sir?" said Sam, mounting to his perch.

Barney growled, and then spat.

"Run yer up to town in no time. Cheap trains to S'burban 'andicap,"

said Sam, grinning.

But Barney turned his back as the cab drove off, and asked his wife--"What, them people wanted with kebs now?"

Mrs Lane admitted her visitor, and, in a hesitating way, asked her upstairs, where her daughter, looking very pale, was seated by the window, working for very life at the hard, blue cloth garments upon which they were engaged.

The girl rose as Mrs Jenkles entered, and bent towards her, flus.h.i.+ng slightly beneath the scrutinising gaze to which she was subjected.

At the same time, Mrs Jenkles made a short bob, and then another to Mrs Lane, who placed a chair for her, which she declined to take.

"It was my husband, ma'am," said Mrs Jenkles, "who came up to you the other day."

"Yes," said Mrs Lane. "You have come from him. He brought you to-day?"

"I said I should come and see you," said Mrs Jenkles, looking sharply from one to the other.

"And he told you?" said Mrs Lane, hesitatingly.

"Yes; my husband tells me everything," said Mrs Jenkles, stiffly.

"Then you know how good he was to mamma?" said the girl, coming forward.

"My husband's one of the best men under the sun, Miss; only he has his weaknesses."

"Yes, it was weak," said Mrs Lane, with a touch of bitterness in her voice--"and to such strangers."

"If you mean about the money, ma'am," said Mrs Jenkles, in the same uncompromising manner, "I don't; I meant something else."

Mrs Lane directed an imploring look at her daughter, and the girl hastily took up her work, as did her mother, and st.i.tched away.

"That may have been weak, and it may not," said Mrs Jenkles, who took in everything. "It all depends."

"It was a most generous act," said Mrs Lane, in a low, pained voice, "and will bear its fruit. But you will sit down?"

Mrs Jenkles seated herself on the very edge of her chair, bolt upright, while Mrs Lane drew out a well-worn purse, took from it half a sovereign, and laid it upon the table.

"I am ashamed to offer you so little of it back," said Mrs Lane, "but it was all we could get together in so short a time. You shall have the rest--as we can make it up."

"Thanky," said Mrs Jenkles, shortly; but without attempting to touch the coin.

There was a pause then, only broken by that weary sound of hard st.i.tching, which tells of sore fingers and aching eyes.

"How much more have you got in that purse?" said Mrs Jenkles, shortly.

A faint flush of resentment appeared in the mothers face, and the daughter darted an angry look at the speaker. But it died out in an instant, as with a sad, weary action, Mrs Lane reopened the purse, and shook out two more coins beside the half-sovereign upon the table.

"Two s.h.i.+llings," she said, faintly; "it is all."

Mrs Jenkles sat very still, and the st.i.tching went on like the ticking of two clocks, measuring out the short span of the workers' lives.

Mrs Jenkles's eyes were busy, and she saw, as they went over the room, how shabbily it was furnished, how thinly mother and daughter were clothed, how pale and weary was their aspect, while the girl's eyes were unnaturally bright.

At last Mrs Jenkles's eyes caught sight of a little white corner in one of the compartments of the open purse, and she gave a hysterical gulp.

There was a heap of thick cloth work lying on the table between the two women--the one coa.r.s.e, unrefined, but comfortably clothed and fed, the other refined and worn to skin and bone--and this heap covered Mrs Jenkles's actions as she rose, walked to the table, and then, without a word, went out of the room.

"Has she gone?" whispered Netta, as Mrs Jenkles's retreating footsteps were heard.

"Yes," said Mrs Lane, with a weary sigh, and she worked on.

"It was very, very cruel," said the girl, with her voice shaking, and, in spite of her efforts, a heavy sob would make its way from her breast, and the tears stole down her cheeks. "Mother, darling, what shall we do?"

"Hope and wait," was the response, in a low, pained voice. "It was only their due. The husband was very kind."

"But the two s.h.i.+llings--for bread," sobbed the girl. "Mamma, does papa know--can he know of this?"

Mrs Lane leaned back in her chair, and held one hand over her eyes for a few moments; then, with a gesture to her child to be silent, she once more bent over her work.

Netta brushed the tears from her eyes, drew in her breath as if in pain, and worked on in silence for a quarter of an hour, when steps were once more heard upon the stairs.