Part 7 (1/2)
”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.”