Chapter II: Mrs. M'Cosh Goes Upstairs

"I AM afraid that poor woman up in the attic is in a bad state," remarked Mrs. M'Cosh to her husband half-an-hour after she had so summarily dismissed Felicia; "I've not seen her for weeks, but the last time I met her on the stairs I was struck by her appearance, she looked as though a breath of wind would have blown her away, and now she's laid up altogether."

"Dear me, dear me," responded Mr. M'Cosh, "that's sad—very."

Husband and wife were seated at the supper table. The former had thoroughly enjoyed his meal, and was now dawdling over the drinking of his second cup of tea. He was a small, wiry man—a mason by trade—with a mild, clean-shaven face, thin, iron-gray hair, and a pair of light blue eyes. Mrs. M'Cosh usually addressed him as "Master," and he always spoke of her as "the missus," but it was the general impression of outsiders that Mrs. M'Cosh was master and mistress too. However that may have been, they were a united couple, for James M'Cosh was a steady, hard-working man, and his wife was a thrifty, industrious woman who made their home—the second storey of the house—a comfortable and happy one.

"Yes, it's very sad," agreed Mrs. M'Cosh. She sat in silence for a few minutes, her brow knitted in a frown. "They seem lonely folks," she went on by-and-by, "without a friend in the place. Felicia—why couldn't her mother have called her plain Mary, or Susan, or Jane, or some sensible name?—was here to beg some boiling water just now, and she looked fit to drop. I expect she'd been at the sewing machine all day."

"Poor child!" said Mr. M'Cosh; "such a bright-looking, pretty little girl she is, too, to be kept shut up in that attic all day long! It's very hard for her."

"I don't know why it should be harder for her because she's pretty!"

"I didn't mean that; but it always goes to my heart to hear of young folks in trouble, and when I see the child of that poor widow upstairs, I always think of our child—about the same age as this Felicia she would have been if she had lived, wouldn't she?"

Mrs. M'Cosh nodded, her plain countenance softening, her shrewd grey eyes growing dim. She had never had but one child—a baby girl who had lived but a few months to gladden her parents' hearts.

"Now, I rather like the name Felicia myself," Mr. M'Cosh admitted; "it's out of the common. What makes you object to it?"

"It's too fanciful, to my mind; it would do well enough for a lady, but think of a girl who'll have to work for her living being called Felicia! I should say her mother is a foolish, unpractical sort of woman."

"Poor soul! It's easy to see she's come down in the world," commented Mr. M'Cosh.

"Yes," agreed his wife; "she's a way of wearing her clothes so as to make the best of them, and I must admit she and the child always look tidy and clean. If she'd been able to scrub she'd be better off to-day; blouse-making and that sort of employment is heartbreaking work, and there's very little profit, I'm afraid, after paying for the hire of a sewing machine. 'Tis 'sweating,' that's what it is, and it never ought to be allowed."

"Has Mrs. Renford had a doctor?" inquired Mr. M'Cosh. Then, as his wife shook her head, he added, decidedly: "Someone ought to see to her."

Mrs. M'Cosh made no rejoinder immediately. She rather prided herself on having nothing to do with her neighbours and "keeping herself to herself," as she expressed it. At length, however, she said—

"'Tis the duty of ministers and district visitors to find out those who are sick and in want of assistance. You can't think it's my place to interfere. Mrs. Renford has always rather kept me at a distance."

Mr. M'Cosh regarded his wife with a smile lurking it around the corners of his mouth, and an expression of amusement in his mild blue eyes; and when he spoke again, it was to change the conversation.

Supper finished, Mrs. M'Cosh washed and put away the supper things, then sat down near the open window opposite to her husband. This was the hour of the day she liked best, but to-night she failed to enjoy it quite so much as usual by reason of her mind being so full of the sick woman upstairs. She was obviously restless and ill at ease. At ten o'clock, that being the time at which they generally began to think of going to bed, she fetched her Bible and read a chapter aloud as she did every night. On this occasion it was the twenty-fifth chapter of Saint Matthew's Gospel which she read, and when she had finished it, she shut the Bible, and looked exceedingly thoughtful.

"There's wonderful teaching in those last verses," observed Mr. M'Cosh meditatively, with a sly glance at his better half. "'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me,'" he quoted; "to think that the smallest act of kindness one may do is doing it unto Him! 'Tis a solemn thought."

Mrs. M'Cosh had no answer ready, but the expression of her face was gentler than usual, and a little regretful as she reflected that the privilege of helping others for Christ's sake might have been oftener hers if she had pleased.

She made no mention of Mrs. Renford to her husband on the following morning. He was up and at work soon after daybreak, and came home to breakfast at eight o'clock. When he had gone again, his wife left her own domain, and for the first time during the many years she had lived in the house, found her way upstairs. Flight after flight she climbed until the top storey was reached and the attic where the sick woman and her little daughter dwelt. The sound of a sewing machine fell upon her ears as she knocked at the closed door. Immediately, the "whirr-whirr-whirr" of the machine ceased, and Felicia answered her summons.

"Oh!" cried the little girl, "I am sorry I have not returned your dish; I was going to do so by-and-by. It was a most lovely supper—"

"I have not come about the dish," interposed Mrs. M'Cosh, panting, for she was breathless after her climb, "but to inquire for your mother. How is she this morning?"

"Please come in," said the invalid, recognising the visitor's voice. Then, as Mrs. M'Cosh entered the room, she exclaimed with real pleasure in her tone: "How good of you to come to inquire for me! I am so glad to see you, for I want to thank you for your kindness to us last night."

"Don't mention it," replied Mrs. M'Cosh.

She took the chair Felicia placed for her by the bedside, and proceeded to examine the sick woman's countenance critically.

"But I must mention it because I feel so very, very grateful," Mrs. Renford said, smiling. "God bless you. You have proved yourself a neighbour indeed."

Mrs. M'Cosh's colour deepened till it was the hue of a peony. Her eyes wandered from the sick woman's face to the slender, white fingers which played nervously with the coverlet, and with a gesture which was wholly womanly and kind, she covered them with her large hand as she asked—

"What have you had for breakfast?"

"A cup of tea. I could eat nothing—I have no appetite. But I do not think I am worse to-day, I feel in better spirits. Do you know, I think your goodness has cheered me up? We are so alone—Felicia and I."

"Isn't there anyone you could send for?" Mrs. M'Cosh inquired. "Have you no relations?"

"None of my own. I never knew either father or mother; I was brought up in London by a French lady, a Miss de Musset—one of the best women that ever lived! I was always very musical, and as I grew up it was discovered that I had a beautiful voice which I was so fortunate as to have well trained. I worked hard, and, in due course, I set up as a music and singing mistress. I gave up my work when I married; but when my husband died soon after Felicia was born, I took it up again and earned a good living for myself and my child till a little over two years ago. Then I had a most serious illness. I caught typhoid fever, and lay for a long while at death's door; I lost my beautiful voice and was partially paralysed for many months."

"Dear, dear!" said Mrs. M'Cosh commiseratingly; "that was the beginning of your troubles, I suppose?"

"Yes. When I was well enough to work again, I realised that my career as a music and singing mistress was at an end. I have never regained my voice, but the paralysis left me after a while and I could use my hands for sewing. By that time the little money I'd saved had all been spent; and I didn't know what to do."

"What made you come to Bristol?"

"I knew the forewoman of a factory here, and she promised me work. She kept her word, but the work was too trying for me. I could not do it, and—it's so easy to go downhill—"

"There, there, don't tell me any more," broke in Mrs. M'Cosh, and there was a note of sincere sympathy in her deep, gruff voice; "I can guess how things went. What you've got to do now is to pick up your strength, and you must try not to worry. Well, I suppose I must not stay longer, for I'm interrupting Felicia in her work."

"Would you come and sit with me an hour this evening whilst Felicia goes out to do some errands?" questioned the invalid eagerly.

"Certainly," was the prompt response.

"Oh, thank you! Felicia doesn't care to leave me alone. I shall be so glad if you will come, for I want to have a talk with you."

Mrs. M'Cosh nodded and left the room, motioning to Felicia to follow her. Outside the door she whispered to the little girl to run downstairs presently and fetch a glass of egg and milk which she was going to mix for her mother.

"What did she say, dear?" Mrs. Renford asked when Felicia returned, and on being told, she murmured: "How very, very kind!" Later, she was able to drink part of the egg and milk and declared she felt better, her headache had gone, and she really thought to-morrow she would be able to get up. Felicia was so cheered to hear her mother speaking hopefully that her heart sang with joy as she worked. During the afternoon Mrs. Renford sat up in bed and made the button-holes in the heap of blouses which were waiting for her finishing touches. Long before her task was at an end she grew very tired, but she succeeded in completing it; then, too weary almost to speak, she lay back on her pillows to rest.

The hot summer sunshine shone through the open window, and the room grew more and more airless, whilst Felicia laboured uncomplainingly, seldom removing her eyes from her work. At length, however, she made some remark, and receiving no answer turned to look at her mother. Mrs. Renford was lying white and still, and Felicia ran to her side with a cry of alarm to find she had fainted.