Chapter I: An Attic Home

"YOU won't be able to see much longer, Felicia, and I'm sure you're trying your eyes dreadfully, now. Put up your work, child. Perhaps to-morrow I shall be strong enough to help a bit."

Felicia, a little girl of about twelve years old, who sat industriously working a sewing machine at a round table close to the window, finished running together the two lengths of print she was in the midst of joining, and then, dropping her hands into her lap with a gesture expressive of weariness, looked at her mother with a smile as she exclaimed in a tone of relief—

"There! I've finished for to-night. I've not done such a bad day's work after all."

"I'm glad to hear that; and I'm very glad you've finished, for the noise of the machine does make my head ache so badly, it gets on my nerves, so that even in the night I hear the 'whirr-whirr-whirr'—it won't let me sleep."

"Poor mother!"

The little girl's voice was full of intense sadness and regret, as her soft, blue eyes anxiously scanned the pallid countenance of her mother, who lay—worn almost to a shadow—on the bed which occupied one corner of the room. In this attic of a house let in tenements, situated in a side street in the heart of the city of Bristol, Mrs. Renford and her little daughter had lived for the past two years, supported by the earnings of the former as a blouse and apron maker.

A few days previously, Mrs. Renford, who had been ailing for some time, had fallen ill, and much to Felicia's alarm did not appear to be getting better, though she was lying in bed—to pick up her strength, she herself said. Felicia had desired to call in the parish doctor, but her mother had strenuously opposed this suggestion, declaring every day she would be stronger on the morrow; meanwhile, work had to be done to supply money for daily bread, and the little girl was obliged to do it, labouring from daybreak to dusk at the sewing machine. How thankful she was that it was summer! Though it was intensely hot in their attic home, that was better than having to suffer cold, as they certainly would have done had it been winter, for where would the money have come from to purchase coals?

"It's time I saw about supper," Felicia observed after a brief silence, during which she had succeeded in mastering a strong inclination to cry, for she was, in truth, very weary, and her right arm and hand ached with turning the handle of the machine. "I wish I had something nice to tempt your appetite, mother," she proceeded, as she went to a cupboard and produced some bread and a small slice of butter, "you have taken hardly anything to-day."

"I don't want anything to eat, my dear," was the reply, "but I could enjoy a cup of tea."

"And you shall have it!" the little girl declared.

"But you've no hot water—"

"I can easily get some from Mrs. M'Cosh; she's sure to have her kettle boiling, for she always cooks a supper for her husband, I don't mind asking her a favour at all."

Having measured the tea into a brown earthenware teapot, Felicia nodded encouragingly to her mother and left the attic, proceeding downstairs to the second floor, where she rapped gently upon a closed door with her knuckles.

"Come in," said a deep, gruff voice, which sounded like a man's, but was, in reality, a woman's. Felicia opened the door and entered the room—a comfortably furnished kitchen-sitting-room it was. Before the fireplace stood Mrs. M'Cosh, a tall, raw-boned woman, with a broad, red face, which usually wore a somewhat grim expression. A woman of few words was Mrs. M'Cosh, but those words were generally much to the point. She was frying liver and bacon for her husband's supper, giving her best attention to the work in hand.

"Please, Mrs. M'Cosh," said Felicia, "could you oblige me with a little boiling water? Mother fancies a cup of tea to-night."

"Help yourself, child," was the response; "but, first, put your teapot on the stove to warm."

Felicia did so, whilst she watched Mrs. M'Cosh turn the liver in the pan. How delicious it smelt! Poor Felicia, she had had nothing to eat but bread thinly spread with butter that day.

"Mother better?" inquired Mrs. M'Cosh, glancing furtively at her visitor.

Felicia shook her head mournfully, the tears rising to her blue eyes, a choking lump in her throat.

"No appetite, I suppose?" continued her interrogator, "and little enough to eat anyway. Humph! Blouse-making is badly paid—far better to scrub for a living."

"Mother cannot scrub," said Felicia hastily; "she is not strong enough for such hard work as that."

"Not brought up to it, I take it."

Mrs. M'Cosh had placed the frying-pan on one side, and was warming a vegetable dish now; and as the teapot was hot, Felicia put the boiling water to the tea. "Let it draw on the stove for a minute," advised Mrs. M'Cosh, as she proceeded to slip several slices of liver and bacon into the vegetable dish. "There now, your mother will have a good cup of tea, and perhaps she will fancy a bit of my 'fry' for her supper," she added, as she placed the cover on the vegetable dish and put it with the teapot on a tray which she thrust into the little girl's hands.

"Oh, Mrs. M'Cosh!" gasped Felicia, quite overcome with astonishment and gratitude, "how can I thank you?"

"Don't, child. Liver's cheap, and there's plenty left for my husband. There, don't stop talking, but go to your mother. You can return the dish to-morrow."

She pushed the little girl out of the room and shut the door upon her. With flushed cheeks and eyes shining with gladness, Felicia climbed the stairs, carrying the tray very carefully.

"See, mother, what Mrs. M'Cosh has given me!" she exclaimed excitedly when she reached the attic. "Such a beautiful supper! Oh, isn't it kind of her?"

"It is, indeed," the sick woman agreed, raising herself on her elbow, and looking longingly at the covered dish. "What is it? It smells delicious."

"Doesn't it? It's fried liver and bacon. Do you think you can eat some?"

The invalid thought she could, and, posted up in bed, she drank her tea, which cheered and refreshed her greatly, and ate a little of the "fry." But her appetite was poor, and by far the larger half of Mrs. M'Cosh's present fell to the share of Felicia, who made an excellent supper.

"What a dear good soul Mrs. M'Cosh is," said the little girl gratefully; "and yet I used to be rather afraid of her—because she has such a blunt way of speaking, and such a sharp way of looking at one, I suppose."

"I have never had much to say to her," remarked Mrs. Renford, "for I have always had the impression that, for some reason, she does not approve of me. I remember once, soon after we came here, meeting her on the stairs, and her asking me why I did not go out charring; and when I told her I knew very little about housework, she cast such a scornful glance at me. I am sure," the poor woman continued plaintively, "I would gladly do charring if I could, for, though I've worked my best with my needle these two years past, it's been hard to earn enough for the necessaries of life, and only you and I know, Felicia, how short of food we've been sometimes. If you hadn't helped me out of school hours and proved yourself so clever with your needle, I don't know what we should have done. Oh, I hope I shall soon be better and able to work again!"

"I hope so, mother," Felicia replied. "If you are not better to-morrow we really must have a doctor—"

"No, no!" the invalid interrupted. "A doctor would want me to go into a hospital, or perhaps into the workhouse infirmary. I know he would, and then we should be separated! Oh, I couldn't bear that! We've never been parted, and—oh, may God forgive me if I've been a selfish mother!—I've always set my face against that! Maybe it won't be long we shall have together, anyway," she added in a lower tone.

"What do you mean, mother?" Felicia asked in a troubled voice, a look of apprehension creeping into her eyes. "You don't mean—oh, you cannot mean that you would give me up to my father's relations?"

"No, no! Never mind what I mean now. When I lost my husband I vowed I would never give you up; and though, often since, I've thought I perhaps acted unwisely and against your interests, I've never really regretted the stand I took. I'm a poor creature at best now, Felicia; but if only I'd not had that terrible illness two years ago, I should have been able to bring you up and educate you as a lady. Oh, it's very, very hard to think that God wills everything for the best."

"But He does, doesn't He, mother?"

"I try to think so, my dear, but I am afraid I am not a very brave woman. Still, in my heart of hearts, I realise that God does know what is best for us. 'Be of good courage and He shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord.' Yes, we must be of good courage."

Mrs. Renford was still sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows, a crimson shawl arranged around her shoulders over her night-dress. She was a very pretty, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, with small, delicate features, and there was a bright, deceptive flush on her thin cheeks as she conversed with her little daughter. Felicia thought how much better her mother was looking to-night, and her spirits rose as she reassured herself with the thought that she had taken a turn for the better, and would soon be well again.

After the little girl had washed the supper things and tidied the room—the floor around the spot where she had been seated at work all day had been strewn with ends of cotton and scraps of print—she went to the window, which was wide open to admit as much air as possible, and looked out. The moon, like a golden globe, was high in the heavens, and illuminated the roofs and chimney pots which, with a glimpse of the sluggish river, comprised the view.

"It is a beautiful night," Felicia informed her mother as she raised her tired eyes to the cloudless sky; "the air is so fresh, and the river is shining like silver—who would think it is actually so dirty? Oh, mother dear, you must make haste and get strong enough to go out-of-doors, for one forgets it is summer, shut up here!"