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, God 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 passing 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-fashioned 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 shiver. Why did he take that vow that he would marry nobody 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-stitching 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 passed 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-stitching means a real good income to us; and now that Ally can't bring in her eight shillings 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.