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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.
CHAPTER X
When Alison arrived at the Clays' the fun was in full swing. The house was crowded – not only the long sitting room, but the little hall, and a good way up the stairs. A stage had been erected at one end of the sitting room; on this stage now the actors were disporting themselves. As Alison had not arrived in time for supper, no one took any notice of her when she appeared. She found that it was quite impossible to hope to get a corner, either to sit or stand, in the room where the acting was going on. She had, therefore, to content herself with leaning up against the wall in the passage, and now and then bending forward so as to see the one person about whom she was the least interested – Jim himself.
The play was a very poor affair, and consisted of several short scenes acted in the style of charades, with impromptu conversations, which mostly consisted of coarse jests and innuendoes; but the loud laughter of the spectators assured Alison that this style of thing was quite up to their level. She felt rather sickened at Jim's taking part in anything so commonplace; but her love for him, which grew daily, gave her a certain sense of rest and happiness at even being in his vicinity. He did not know she was there, but that mattered little or nothing. When the play was over he would come out and see her, and then everything would be smooth and delightful. She forgot to be jealous of Louisa; she even forgot the fact that a few short weeks ago she had been publicly accused of theft; she only knew that she wore her best frock; she was only conscious that she looked her best and brightest, that when Jim's eyes did rest upon her he could not but acknowledge her charm; she was only well aware that it was Christmas Eve, and that all the world was rejoicing. She stood, therefore, in the crowded hall with a smiling face, her hands lightly, clasped in front of her, her thoughts full of peace, and yet stimulated to a certain excited joy.
Between the acts people began to go in and out of the large sitting room, and on these occasions Alison was jostled about a good bit. She was quite pushed up against the stairs, and had some difficulty in keeping her balance. She saw a man stare at her with a very coarse sort of admiration. She did not know the man, and she shrank from his gaze; but the next moment she saw him speaking to a girl who she knew belonged to Shaw's establishment. The girl's reply came distinctly to her ears.
"Yes, I suppose she is pretty enough," she said. "We always spoke of her as genteel at Shaw's. Oh, you want to know her name, Mr. Manners? Her name is Alison Reed. She left Shaw's because she stole a five-pound note. It was awfully good of him not to prosecute her."
"That girl a thief!" said the man who was addressed as Manners. "I don't believe it."
"Oh, but she is! She was in such a fright that she left the shop the very day she was accused. That shows guilt – don't it, now?"
Alison could not hear Manners' reply, but after a time, the sharp voice of the girl again reached her ears.
"They do say as Jim Hardy, our foreman, was sweet on her, but of course he has given her up now; he is all agog for Louisa Clay, the girl he is acting with to-night. They say they are sweethearts, and they'll be married early in the year. It is a very good match for him, for Louisa has lots of money and – "
The speakers moved on, and Alison could not catch another word. She had gained a comfortable position for herself now, and was leaning firmly against the wall. The words which had reached her she fully and completely realized. She was accustomed to being considered a thief; she always would be considered a thief until that five-pound note was found. It was very painful, it was bitter to be singled out in that way, to have attention drawn to her as such a character; but the words which related to Jim she absolutely laughed at. Was not Jim her own faithful lover? Would he not see her home to-night, believing in her fully and entirely? Oh, yes. Whatever the world at large thought of her, she was good enough for Jim. Yes, yes. She would promise to be his to-night, she would not wait until next Tuesday. What was the good of pushing happiness away when it came so close? A cup full of such luck was not offered to every girl. She would drink it up; she would enjoy it to the full. Then envious and malicious tongues would have to be quiet, for she would prove by her engagement that Jim, at least, believed in her. She drew up her head proudly as this thought came to her.
The next act in the noisy little play was just beginning, and those who cared for seats in the room were pushing forward; the crowd in the passage was therefore less oppressive. Alison moved forward a step or two, and stood in such a position that she was partly sheltered by a curtain. She had scarcely done so before, to her great astonishment, Hardy and Louisa came out. They stood together for a moment or two in the comparatively deserted passage. Other characters occupied the stage for the time being, and Louisa was glad to get into the comparatively fresh air to cool herself.
"Oh, aint it hot?" she said. "Fan me," she added, offering Jim a huge fan gaudily painted in many colors.
She unfurled it as she spoke, and put it into his hand.
"Make a breeze o' some sort," she said; "do, or I'll faint!"
Jim looked pleased and excited. He was fantastically dressed in the stage costume in which he had shortly to appear. Alison, partly sheltered by the curtain, could see well without being seen herself.
"The play is going splendid, Jim," said Louisa. "I'm ever so pleased."
"I am glad of that," replied Jim.
"I thought you would be. Well, I do feel a happy girl to-night."
"And when is it to be?" said Jim, bending down and looking earnestly into her face.
She flushed when he spoke to her, and immediately lowered her eyes.
"I aint made up my mind quite yet," she said.
"But you will?" he replied, in a voice full of solicitude.
"I don't know. Would it please you if I did?"
"I needn't say that it would," was the reply. "I think it would make me real happy."
"Well, ef I thought that – "
Louisa took her fan out of Jim Hardy's hand and began to toy with it in a somewhat affected manner. Then her expression changed to one of absolute passion.
"I don't think there is anything in heaven above, or the earth beneath, I wouldn't do, Jim Hardy, even to please you for half an hour; to please you is the light of life to me. So, if you wish it, let it be – there! I can't say any more, can I?"
"You can't; you have said enough," he replied gravely. "There is our call," he added; "we must go back. Are you cooler now?"
"Much cooler, thanks to you."
The call came a second time. Louisa hurried forward; Jim followed her. Neither of them noticed the listening girl behind the curtain. The next moment loud cheers filled the room as Hardy and Louisa took their places side by side in the front of the stage.
Alison waited until the great uproar had subsided, then she slipped into the dressing room where she had gone on her arrival, put on her hat and jacket steadily and calmly, and went home. She had no intention now of waiting for Jim. She never meant to wait for Jim any more. He was false as no man had ever been false before. She would forget him, she would drive him out of her life. He had dared to come and talk of marriage to her when he really loved another girl; he had dared to give her words of tenderness when his heart was with Louisa Clay.
"It is all over," whispered Alison quite quietly under her breath.
She wondered, in a dull sort of fashion, why she felt so quiet; why she did not suffer a great deal more; why the sense of disappointment and cruel desertion did not break her heart. She was sure that by and by her heart would awaken, and pain – terrible, intense pain would be her portion; but just now she felt quiet and stunned. She was glad of this. It was Christmas Eve, but Jim was not walking home with her. The Christmas present she had hoped for was not to be hers. Well, never mind, to-morrow would be Christmas Day. Jim was invited to dinner, to that good dinner which Grannie had no right to buy, but which Grannie had bought to give the children one last happy day. Alison herself had made the cake and had frosted it, and Alison herself had stirred the pudding, and had thought of Jim's face as it would look when he sat with the children round the family board. He would never sit there now; she must never see him again. She would write to him the moment she got in, and then, having put him out of her life once and for ever, she would help Grannie to keep the Merry Christmas.
She walked up the weary number of steps to the flat on the fifth floor. She found the key under the mat, and then went in. Grannie had left everything ready for her. Grannie had thought of a betrothed maiden who would enter the little house with the air of a queen who had come suddenly into her kingdom. Grannie, who was sound asleep at this moment, had no idea that Despair itself was coming home in the last hours just before the blessed Christmas broke. Alison opened the door very softly, and, going into the kitchen, took down her writing portfolio from a little shelf where she generally kept it, and wrote a short letter to Jim.
"Dear Jim: I have made up my mind, and in this letter you will get your final answer. I will not marry anybody until I am cleared of this trouble about the five-pound note; and whether I am cleared or not, I shall never marry you, for I don't love you. I found out to-night it was all a mistake, and what I thought was love was not. I don't love you, Jim, and I never wish to see you again. Please don't come to dinner to-morrow, and please don't ever try to see me. This is final. I don't love you; that is your answer.
"ALISON REED."Having signed the letter in a very firm hand, Alison put it into an envelope, addressed and stamped it. She then went out and dropped it into a pillar-box near by. Jim would get it on Christmas morning.
CHAPTER XI
Christmas Day went by. It was quiet enough, although the children shouted with glee over their stockings and ate their dinner heartily. There was a depressed feeling under all the mirth, although Alison wore her very best dress and laughed and sang, and in the evening played blindman's buff with the children. There was a shadow over the home, although Grannie talked quietly in the corner of the Blessed Prince of Peace, and of the true reason for Christmas joy. Jim's place was empty, but no one remarked it. The children were too happy to miss him, and the elder members of the party were too wise to say what they really felt.
Boxing Day was almost harder to bear than Christmas Day. Alison stayed quietly in the house all the morning, but toward the afternoon she grew restless.
"Dave," she said, "will you and Harry come for a walk with me?"
"To be sure," answered both the boys, brightening up. The little girls clamored to accompany them.
"No, no," said Grannie, "you'll stay with me. I have a job on hand, and I want you to help me. It is tearing up old letters, and putting lots of things in order. And maybe I'll give you a chocolate each when it is done."
The promise of the chocolates was comforting, and the little ones stayed at home not ill pleased. Alison went out with her two brothers. She held herself very erect, and there was a proud look on her face. She had never looked handsomer nor more a lady. David felt very proud of her. He did not understand her just now, it is true, but he was pleased when people turned round to look at her; and when admiring glances came in her way, he walked close to her with an air of protection, and was glad that his sister was better looking than other fellows'. They all turned their steps in the direction of Victoria Park. They had just got there when quick footsteps overtook them, and Jim Hardy came up.
"Hullo," he said, when he approached the little party. "Stop, can't you? I have been running after you all this time."
David and Harry both stopped, but Alison walked on.
"That's all right," said Jim, nodding to the boys. "You stay back a bit, won't you, like good fellows? I want to have a talk with your sister."
Harry felt inclined to demur, for he was fond of Jim, and his own pleasure always was first with him; but David understood, and gripped his brother's arm fiercely, holding him back.
"Keep back," he said, in a whisper; "can't you see for yourself that there's trouble there?"
"Trouble where?" said Harry, opening his eyes.
"You are a muff. Can't you see that something has put Alison out?"
"I can see that she is very disagreeable," said Harry. "I suppose she is in love, that's what it means. She is in love with Jim Hardy. But he is going to marry Louisa Clay; everybody says so."
"Shut up," said David. "You are a silly. Hardy thinks no more of Louisa than he does of you."
"Well, let us make for the pond and leave them alone," said Harry. "I do believe the ice will bear in a day or two."
The boys rushed off to the right, and Alison and Jim walked down the broad center path. Alison's heart was beating wildly. The love which she was trying to slay rose up like a giant in her heart.
"But I won't show it," thought the proud girl to herself. "He shall never, never think that I fret because he has thrown me over for another. If, loving me, he could care for Louisa, he is not my sort. No, I won't fret, no, I won't; I'll show him that I don't care."
"I'm glad I met you," said Jim. Jim was a very proud fellow, too, in his own way. Alison's queer letter had pierced him to the quick. Not having the faintest clew to her reason for writing it, he was feeling justly very angry.
"I didn't come in yesterday," he continued, "when you made it so plain that you didn't want me; but, all the same, I felt that we must talk this matter out."
"There's nothing to talk out," said Alison. "You knew my mind when you got that letter, and that's about all I've got to say."
"That letter was a lie from first to last," said Jim boldly.
Alison turned and looked full at him. Her face was white. Her big blue eyes blazed and looked dark.
"The letter was true," she said. "Girls can't help being contrary now and then. I don't want to see you again, I don't want to have anything to do with you. I made a mistake when I said I loved you. I found out just in time that I didn't. It was a right good thing I found it out before we was wed, instead of afterwards; I did, and we are safe, and you can give yourself, heart and soul, with a clear conscience, to another."