Part 9 (1/2)

I am goin' out marketing now, and when I come back I'll give you a fresh lesson in that feather-st.i.tching.”

A dismayed look crept into Alison's face; she raised her delicate brows very slightly, and fixed her clear blue eyes on Grannie. She was about to speak, but something in the expression on Grannie's face kept her silent.

”You clear up and have the place tidy against I come back,” said the little woman. ”You might make the beds, and set everything in apple-pie order, ef you've a mind to.”

She then walked into her little bedroom, and shut the door behind her.

In three minutes she was dressed to go out, not in the neat drawn black-silk bonnet, but in an old straw one which had belonged to her mother, and which was extremely obsolete in pattern. This bonnet had once been white, but it was now of the deepest, most dingy shade of yellow-brown. It had a little band of brown ribbon round it, which ended neatly in a pair of strings; these were tied under Grannie's chin. Instead of her black cashmere shawl she wore one of very rough material and texture, and of a sort of zebra pattern, which she had picked up cheap many and many years ago from a traveling peddler. She wore no gloves on her hands, but the poor, swollen, painful right hand was wrapped in a corner of the zebra shawl. On her left arm she carried her market basket.

”Good-by, child,” she said, nodding to her granddaughter. Then she trotted downstairs and out into the street.

There was no fog to-day--the air was keen and bright, and there was even a very faint attempt at some watery sunbeams. There wasn't a better bargainer in all Sh.o.r.editch than Mrs. Reed, but to-day her purchases were very small--a couple of Spanish onions, half a pound of American cheese, some bread, a tiny portion of margarine--and she had expended what money she thought proper.

She was soon at home again, and dinner was arranged.

”I may as well get the dinner,” said Alison, rising and taking the basket from the old woman.

”My dear, there aint nothing to get; it's all ready. The children must have bread for dinner to-day. I bought a stale quartern loaf--I got a penny off it, being two days old; here's a nice piece of cheese; and onions cut up small will make a fine relish. There, we'll put the basket in the scullery; and now, Alison, come over to the light and take a lesson in the feather-st.i.tching.”

Alison followed Mrs. Reed without a word. They both took their places near the window.

”Thread that needle for me, child,” said the old woman.

Alison obeyed. Mrs. Reed had splendid sight for her age; nothing had ever ailed her eyes, and she never condescended to wear gla.s.ses, old as she was, except by lamplight. Alison therefore felt some surprise when she was invited to thread the needle. She did so in gloomy and solemn silence, and gave it back with a suppressed sigh to her grandmother.

”I don't think there's much use, Grannie,” she said.

”Much use in wot?” said Mrs. Reed.

”In my learning that feather-st.i.tching--I haven't it in me. I hate needlework.”

”Oh, Ally!”

Grannie raised her two earnest eyes.

”All women have needlework in 'em if they please,” she said; ”it's born in 'em. You can no more be a woman without needlework than you can be a man without mischief--it's born in you, child, the same as bed-making is, and cleaning stoves, and was.h.i.+ng floors, and minding babies, and coddling husbands, and bearing all the smaller worries of life--they are all born in a woman, Alison, and she can no more escape 'em than she can escape wearing the wedding-ring when she goes to church to be wed.”

”Oh, the wedding-ring! that's different,” said Alison, looking at her pretty slender finger as she spoke. ”Oh, Grannie, dear Grannie, my heart's that heavy I think it 'll break! I can't see the feather-st.i.tching, I can't really.” Her eyes brimmed up with tears.

”Grannie, don't ask me to do the fine needlework to-day.”

Grannie's face turned pale.

”I wouldn't ef I could help it,” she said. ”Jest to please me, darling, take a little lesson; you will be glad bimeby, you really will. Why, this st.i.tch is in the family, and it 'ud be 'a burning shame for it to go out. Dear, dearie me, Alison, it aint a small thing that could make me cry, but I'd cry ef this beautiful st.i.tch, wot come down from the Simpsons to the Phippses, and from the Phippses to the Reeds, is lost. You must learn it ef you want to keep me cheerful, Ally dear.”

”But I thought I knew it, Grannie,” said the girl.

”Not to say perfect, love--the loop don't go right with you, and the loop's the p'int. Ef you don't draw that loop up clever and tight, you don't get the quilting, and the quilting's the feature that none of the workwomen in West London can master. Now, see yere, look at me. I'll do a bit, and you watch.”

Grannie took up the morsel of cambric; she began the curious movements of the wrist and hand, the intricate, involved contortions of the thread. The magic loop made its appearance; the quilting stood out in richness and majesty on the piece of cambric. Grannie made three or four perfect st.i.tches in an incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time. She then put the cambric into her granddaughter's hand.

”Now, child,” she said, ”show me what you can do.”