It was on an evening well into September when it happened, when Darling brought home with her that hateful thing. The Tramp was not to forget that day and the weather at the time did not help him either; heavy rains and cold winds and humans getting silly ideas. Seldom had the forecast ever been this grim.
At the outset, that autumn evening was a Sunday like any other; a quiet, lazy Sunday spent with Lady in the company of a dim fireplace and a soft phonograph melody ambling along the corners of their ears. The hour was not too late—a little before dinner time; rain still calmly pattered the roof, and Jim Dear, at a time rather early for him, was long asleep upstairs with the baby.
From that warm patch of heaven, only Darling was missing. She was out on a visit to the tailor's for a new autumn overcoat, or—in her own words spoken to Jim Dear—out with very important business, though escorted by the assuring promise that she would be home shortly.
A pleasant, if not a little humdrum end of week it seemed to the Tramp at that peaceful hour, and no reason was there to expect anything else just as there was none for Jim Dear to question Darling's secrecy.
But there was indeed a problem lurking about—Darling.
On her very secret appointment with the seamstress, Darling had insisted on going alone. It was not that she was brave enough to stroll the evening streets without a companion, but rather that she liked to window shop, and Jim Dear was always against it. Now window shopping is anything but a crime; no harm in only looking. Yet, in Darling, window shopping arose urges and impulses and reasons to quarrel. She might have believed with unmistakable certainty she needed this or that when in cold fact she could have gotten along happily unknowing of their existence.
Truth to say, Darling had a weakness, a fad for clothes that brought out features and turned looks. Not uncommon for a woman; still, the kind of fancy clothes Darling took interest in were the kind a dog could wear, for it was but one thing more important to Darling than her own good looks: her pets' fairness.
With that eccentric kind of Darling young Lady had to put up with in her puppyhood at times, and Darling, though modest in her outward manner, loved to hear the note of praise when she showed her off to guests. Anything from nifty little shoes to chic bowties to the latest thing in the magazines that could fit her, Lady once had them all—that and growing teeth and a daring to chew things which Lady had one day betrayed Darling with. Sour were the tears and black were the days until time healed Darling. But she had since resolved.
It was with the coming of the Tramp in their home when Darling's foibles had awakened again, and with regained hope of reliving her pleasure once more Darling in secret had set off alone through the cold rain of that autumn evening to meet the only person who could fuel her mania for dog clothes—the seamstress.
The seamstress was, above all else, a merchant. A cunning one, too. Before the master hand could make it, the keen eye had to see it. She was the wily kind; had a sense for a fad in people, and Darling, on that Sunday evening, having passed by the Pet Shop on her way, no doubt, had awakened an old fad of her own. She was the root of Lady's puppyhood crisis. The shoes and bowtie and everything in between, each equally annoying, were the seamstress's trademark.
Darling, of course, had arranged to meet the woman for a more serious matter—a new autumn overcoat—to conceal the true intentions of her visit, as it would have seemed ridiculous for a responsible lady such as she, with a husband and a child waiting at home, to walk through rain and cold at that unusual hour for a silly thing like dog clothes. Of that much Darling was aware. But she had done it so many times before when Lady was still the victim of her fad that the seamstress figured her out the moment she stepped inside her hut.
"Let's not muck around, dearie—coats again? Trick James, but you ain't tricking me. If I really was to sew all these bloody coats you kept asking for, you'd have enough to dress the whole neighborhood in coats. And not even you are that big-hearted."
Darling sat quietly in her chair, fiddling her fingers, with a guilty smile on her face. Yet, it appeared to her that her arduous trek and hopes rather were for nothing when the seamstress shocked her afterward with the most heartbreaking news.
"I know why you asked to meet, but you are a little too late." she went on, lighting a cigar with a sight of frustration in her attitude. "You see, I don't trifle with doggie frills anymore. That craze has died off. It's all hats nowadays, dear. Every week I have these swankpots come in and hats is all that they know to say. Just the other day, a well-heeled lady in furs comes by and asks me to make this hat. She comes up with this intricate poppycock description—flowers, patterns, ribbons, god knows what—but I catch the angle, you know me; in fact, all she wants is a blinkin' hat like every man's and woman's you saw on the street. 'Cause hats are all the rage now, regrettably. Con them thinking you could sport a bowl for a hat—they'll buy it." The seamstress rested her cheek on her hand and puffed wearily from her cigar. "I'll go insane sewing hats. The dough is there and the job is quite easy but, confound it, dearie, I'll admit I had more joy when mutts were customer."
Darling froze in her chair and her voice could not find the words to express the grief and the rather childish fit of displeasure boiling inside her. The seamstress had abandoned her for hats and there was no one else to turn to. Forlorn Darling sipped from the cup of tea she had been offered and, longingly, gazed at the empty shelves—now covered with hats—in front of which she would once spend so much time deciding what to get for Lady.
And she thought of the Tramp at home, of all the walks and rides with the buggy she would have liked to take him on once she had adorned him neatly. Then Jim Dear popped in her head, alone in the house, and, suddenly, guilt transfixed her. The idea that she had left him on his own, even but for a few hours, for the sake of her foolish whim, in hindsight, could not have seemed more absurd.
Cold shame crept into Darling with the feeling of warm tea. She should put the cup down, get up and leave this moment.
Fate was not by Darling's side on that rainy autumn evening, and had the Tramp known of her intentions, he would have certainly rejoiced.
But the seamstress was not to let a good opportunity slip away.
"Although, I just remembered," she rose and walked to a nearby drawer, "I still have this neat little thing I had yet to decide whether or not to part ways with."
The seamstress returned with a small garment which she laid on a table in front of Darling, and Darling admired it visibly intrigued.
"It's my very first creation, dear. A sweater I made for my old mutt to wear on cold days. Illness and old age caught up to the fleabag, though, so this is all that's left of him."
The seamstress was touching the sweater, it appeared to Darling, in a truthfully wistful kind of manner. It must be a very special sweater, she thought.
"What do you say, dearie, do you like it? Made of wool, complete with buttons. It pains me to give it away but my trade isn't what it used to be, and I wouldn't mind selling it to someone trusty for an honest dollar or two." the seamstress nudged Darling into her deal. "You've gotten yourself another mutt, I surmise. It makes it look modish when you walk it and keeps it warm. You never know; with this nasty weather, it might catch a cold. And besides, it's a pity—wouldn't want the bloody moths to eat it sitting here catching dust."
Darling was touched and accepted the sweater with deep regard. Nowhere else she would find anything like it. She had forgotten about guilt and shame completely and did not have to think twice before opening her wallet. It was the perfect gift for the Tramp.
But her mania had blinded her. The sweater was nothing more than an amateur's attempt, silly and ugly from the first stitch. The seamstress never owned a dog and never had she thought of selling the sweater to anyone—at least, not to anyone with a clear mind. Yet, she held on to it, as though she knew the sympathetic, naive Darling with a deep fondness for dogs and a most unwary habit of buying things on a whim would return one day. Maybe dog clothes had lost their fame, but the seamstress knew there were still a foolish few whom she could squeeze for a good bargain. For silly or ugly, to a person with a craze, are but petty details.