“Oh, go away, I beg of you! My mother is ill, and she will die of excitement unless you cease your persecutions.”
George Lorraine began to coax and wheedle, but she interrupted him in impatient wrath:
“You are wasting your breath. I hate you, and will never recognize any tie you may claim to exist between us. The door is locked, and I will never admit you, so go away and leave me to care for my poor, sick mother.”
She heard an oath, coupled with a threat to break the door down, but she paid no heed. She had darted to her mother’s side, and was anxiously bending over the silent form.
“Mother!” she shrieked aloud, in fear and terror, for the aspect of her mother filled her with wild foreboding.
Mrs. Fielding’s eyes were wide open, and her lower jaw had fallen, while her face and hands already had a cold, clammy feeling that forced the truth on the almost distracted daughter. The poor, feeble heart had given way under the shock of fear and grief, and she was dead.
While Fair was making this awful discovery, George Lorraine, who had fortified himself for this occasion by a copious libation of whisky, was trying what brute strength could do toward forcing an entrance to the presence of his obdurate bride.
With a few vigorous kicks, he forced the lock of the frail door, and precipitated himself into the room, boldly followed by several of the inmates of the house, who had been attracted by the uproar he made.
And what a sight met their curious eyes!
The dead woman lay extended on the bed, and at their entrance poor Fair lifted a wild, white, agonized face from her mother’s breast, and, seeing George Lorraine’s flushed, triumphant face, she advanced toward him, screaming wildly: