“Jenny, how much longer must you work to-night? It is so tiresome,
lying here alone, with no one to speak to me; won’t you put aside your
sewing, dear, and read for me?”
It was a woman’s voice, weak and fretful, that uttered these words, and
the person to whom they were addressed, a pale, weary-looking girl of
twenty years, put aside the handsome silk robe upon which she had been
sewing, and came to the bedside of the invalid.
“I must work a little longer, mother, dear,” she said softly. “Miss
Hilton will be so angry about her dress; you know I promised it for
last night, and failed to have it done, because of that unfortunate
headache; but what is the matter, mother--are you feeling worse? Oh, my
mother! I seem to see you failing, hour by hour.”
Jenny had broken into a passionate fit of weeping, kneeling by the low
cot bed with her face on her mother’s breast.
“Hush! hush! my dear, poor child; you have been so brave always, and so
patient with my fretful ways; don’t give way now, dear; try to prepare
yourself----”
Jenny’s hand was pressed upon her lips now, and she could not finish
the sentence.
“You shall not talk of leaving me,” the girl cried passionately; adding
in tones of wild rebellion against the fate she had no power to avert,
“God would not be so cruel to me.”
At this moment there was a crash of thunder that seemed to shake the
tall tenement to its foundation, and the mother and daughter clung to
each other almost in terror, the storm had arisen so suddenly.
It was the evening of the day on which Oscar Hilton had told Iris the
story of her true parentage.
“How nervous I am to-night, mother. Let me close the window blinds, the
rain is coming in through the broken pane, and if a drop should fall on
Miss Hilton’s dress she would never forgive me. If it was her sister,
Miss Iris, I should not be afraid.”
Jenny’s voice ceased suddenly, for at this moment there was a low knock
on the door.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I fear this is Miss Hilton’s servant for the
dress,” murmured the little seamstress, as she hastened to admit the
visitor; but the look of distress on her face changed to one of intense
astonishment as she saw who it was that waited to be admitted.
“Miss Iris!” she could only ejaculate; and Iris came slowly into the
room, seating herself on the nearest chair, like one who was very
weary, while Jenny hastened to light a lamp, as the room was growing
quite dark.
“Oh, Miss Iris!” she cried in alarm, when her eyes first fell upon the
changed countenance of the young lady, “you are in trouble; what can I
do for you? I know I am only a poor sewing girl, and you a rich man’s
daughter, but----”
Until now Iris had been unable to speak, but here she interrupted:
“Listen to me, Jenny: I have come to you to-night as poor and humble
as yourself. You must not ask me to tell you all my story, but this
you must know. I am no longer Iris Hilton, the rich man’s daughter; I
must earn my bread even as you earn yours, by the labor of my hands.
You have seemed so grateful for what little help I rendered you that I
came to you to-night as to a friend--there, don’t cry, Jenny--I cannot
cry; I do not feel as if I could ever shed a tear again. I would have
gone to my friend Mrs. Laurier, but I could not. I am no longer in
her social set, not that that would make any difference to her, but I
simply could not take advantage of her friendship.”
There was something so unutterably sorrowful in the tone in which these
words were spoken that both Jenny and the sick mother shed tears of
sympathy, and the sound of the latter’s low sobbing had the effect of
rousing Iris from the bitter train of thought into which she had fallen.
“Forgive me,” she said, in her sweet, gentle voice, as she approached
the bedside and clasped the hand of the invalid. “I have been selfish
to intrude my sorrows on you, but you shall see how cheerful I will be
after to-night, for I am going to stay with you, if you will have me,
and Jenny shall show me how to sew.”
The sound of footsteps approaching the door, followed by an imperative
knock, interrupted Iris at this moment, and she had just time to seat
herself when Jenny opened the door, to admit a gentleman, the first
sight of whose face caused Iris to start and clasp her hands together
in sudden excitement.
“The face in my mother’s locket!” she said to herself, and shivered
when the man’s voice fell on her ear, although he was speaking merely
on some trivial business matter that did not in the least concern her.
“Mrs. Neville requested me to remind you that she expects her dress to
be completed before one o’clock to-morrow,” he was saying to Jenny, and
in a moment more he would have left the room without glancing toward
the spot where Iris was sitting but for some slight sound that caused
him to turn in the doorway. He started at the sight of Iris’ face, even
as Iris had done on first encountering his own, and Iris could hear the
swift-spoken words he whispered to Jenny:
“Introduce me to that young lady; she is very like a--a friend I lost
years ago.”
Jenny turned toward Iris with the words of introduction trembling on
her lips, but Iris checked her by a glance, as she herself stepped
forward.
“My name is Maggie Gordon, sir; I am a seamstress, like my friend.”
The abruptness of this singular introduction seemed to take the man
completely by surprise, and he could only bow low in acknowledgment and
hasten from the room, leaving Iris--or Maggie Gordon, as our heroine
had called herself--white and trembling like one who had stood in the
presence of some spirit of darkness.
“I am afraid! Oh, so horribly afraid,” she whispered, and crouched
by the sick woman’s bedside, hiding her face in the bedclothes, and
trembling in every limb.