REPENTING AT LEISURE.
“Oh, my poor child, what shall we do now?” Mrs. Fielding exclaimed
piteously, when they had reached their poor lodging, which,
fortunately, they had not given up, as she sank despondently into the
low rocking-chair, which was the only luxurious article of furniture
the room contained.
Sadie Allen had come with them to the door, and, after a short,
whispered conversation with Fair, said good night and went away. Then
the mother and daughter had gone quietly upstairs, followed by curious
glances from other occupants of the tenement house who happened to
be astir, for it was known by every one in the house that the pretty
little sewing girl in the fourth story was to be married that night.
Shrinking timorously from the curious gaze that followed them, mother
and daughter went upstairs and locked themselves into the little room
to which they had bid a glad farewell that night, never expecting to
lodge in it again, but which now seemed like a happy haven, a refuge
from the sneers of the cold and heartless world.
Then the mother’s disappointment and grief found vent in the cry:
“Oh, my poor child, what shall we do now?”
Fair was laying off the little white chip hat with the daisy wreath and
white ribbon, and at the words she went over to her mother’s side, and,
putting her arms around her neck, kissed her tenderly.
Then she said bravely:
“Do? Why, we must go on just the same as we have been doing. I will go
back to-morrow to the factory and apply for the place resigned two days
ago.”
“Go back to work at the same place as that wicked Belva Platt? Oh, my
dear, it will be so hard for you. And, besides, she will be laying some
other wicked plot for you. Oh, I am afraid, afraid!” wailed the poor
woman.
“I will have to be on my guard,” Fair answered, with a hard light in
her sweet brown eyes.
She hated the wicked, unjust girl who had deceived her so cruelly, and
she knew that it would be hard to work with her in the same room again.
“But,” she went on, aloud, “there is no other way, unless I could get
work somewhere else, and the chances are against me for that. I shall
be glad if I can get back to the old place.”
“But the man? He will persecute you, dog your footsteps, perhaps,” said
Mrs. Fielding, in a weak voice.
She looked very pale and ill as she lay back in the chair, her eyes
half closed, her lips blue and drawn, some wisps of prematurely gray
hair straggling over her marble-white brow. Fair put them back with
loving fingers.
“You are very tired, aren’t you, dear?” she queried anxiously. “You
worked too hard on your new dress to-day. Let me help you off with it,
and put you to bed.”
“Water, please,” Mrs. Fielding gasped faintly.
She had turned livid about her lips, and before her daughter could obey
the request her head fell back and she fainted.
“It is her heart again!” Fair cried. “Oh, it has been so long since she
had one of these attacks! Those wretches have done this,” she went on
bitterly, as she applied herself to the task of restoring her mother.
Mrs. Fielding had been subjected to these attacks, which her physician
attributed to obscure heart trouble, but for several months she had
not had any “spells,” as she called them, and Fair hoped she would get
well of her disease, whatever it was; but, alas! the terrible shock she
had received had precipitated another attack, and it was far into the
night before she recovered sufficiently to lie down upon her pillow and
fall into a troubled, restless slumber, while Fair, in a chair beside
the bed, smoothed the damp white brow with soft, mesmeric fingers, and
repressed her bursting sobs lest she should startle the unquiet sleeper.
“Poor darling, her heart is broken by her bitter disappointment,
and I fear she will scarcely have courage to face life again,” she
sighed, as the brief summer night waxed and waned, and she crouched
there, a forlorn little white figure, in the forgotten bridal dress,
watching that pale, pinched face upon the pillow with a supreme love
and tenderness that took no thought of the poor sufferer’s weakness,
and sometimes selfishness, but only dwelt on her sorrows and her warm
motherly love for her only child.
At length the gray dawn began to steal into the room, and Fair
extinguished the little night lamp, and, removing the crumpled white
lawn dress, replaced it with the plain, neatly made brown calico she
usually wore to work. Stepping lightly about, she made preparations
for their breakfast, and set the tea to draw, thinking that her mother
would like a cup of her favorite beverage as soon as she awoke.
By the bright morning light that now came into the room through the
small back window, she saw that her mother’s face looked more natural
in its color, and as the crowded house began to fill with the sounds of
busy workers starting out for their daily labors, she awoke and looked
about her with a puzzled air.
“Fair!” she exclaimed, and the girl answered, in a cheerful tone:
“You have overslept yourself, mother.”
“Is that it? I feel very weak, dear. I do not want to rise just yet.”
“That is all right, darling. Lie still, and I will give you a cup of
warm tea and a slice of toast. Then you may go to sleep again if you
wish.”
She was glad to see that her mother seemed to relish the repast. She
finished it and lay down upon her pillow; then Fair asked anxiously:
“Do you feel well enough for me to leave you and go to work?”
She knew, poor girl, that her purse was utterly empty. The last of her
wages had been expended in the purchase of the fatal wedding dress.
“Yes, darling, you may go. Heaven bless you, my good, patient child,”
she added, just as a loud, startling rap sounded on the door.