CHAPTER IX.
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.