Signing the Contract and What it Cost

“Ah, yes, don’t I know how nice it is to be remembered by home friends when you’re far away!” Hetty put in quickly, as the low, tremulous tones faltered and fell, and Floy hastily drew out her handkerchief to wipe away the tears she could not keep back.

“I too,” said John, buttering his toast and taking a sip of tea; “a fellow gets awfully homesick sometimes at school, and a letter such as you, for instance, dash off once in a while, Het, does him a world of good.”

“News from home,” whispered Floy to herself, as she laid her weary head upon her pillow; “yes, from my Father’s house; a sweet message from my Elder Brother on the throne, reminding me anew that He cares for me; how strange that, knowing that, I can ever be sad and anxious!”

It was the last waking thought. But, alas! what a pang of remembrance came with the first moment of returning consciousness! One year ago how loved and cared for, to-day how lonely and forsaken!

Ah no, not that! “He careth for you,” sweetly whispered the Comforter to her aching heart, and she was comforted.

A few quiet tears dropped upon her pillow, but they were not all of sadness.

A faint rustling sound came from the bed on the other side of the room, then a whisper from Hetty.

“Merry Christmas, mothery! how are you this morning?”

“Oh, I’m splendid! I’m going to say everything’s splendid now. Merry Christmas to you too. I wish I had a million to give you.”

“A million of what, mothery?” laughed the girl.

“Dollars, to be sure! But what is it Shakespeare says?”

“Don’t know, mothery; but it’s getting light, and I must get up and see about breakfast.”

“Yes, and we’re to have Indian; Thorne insisted on it.”

“What in the world is that?” thought Floy, raising her head to look at Hetty, who was making a hasty but very quiet toilet.

“Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!” they cried simultaneously, ending in a merry laugh.

“We’ll exchange Yankee sixpences when we get our faces washed,” said Hetty. “Breakfast in twenty minutes precisely. Indian all hot and hot!” and with the last word she darted from the room.

“Thorne gives a good bit o’ trouble one way and another,” observed Mrs. Goodenough, who had risen also and was dressing much more deliberately than Hetty had done; “he’ll have what he wants in spite of everything (in the line of trouble to other folks ’specially). But then there ain’t many that’s equivalent to him in learning. There isn’t anything but what he’s read; he knows everything. So it’s quite natural Prue should be proud of him and spoil him with humoring all his whims.”

“Do we all breakfast together this morning, Mrs. Goodenough?” asked Floy.

“Yes; but I’m going to wear this thick wrapper; it’s not handsome or dressy, but the comfort supersedes the outward appearance.”

With this remark she left the room.

Floy was glad of the few moments of solitude thus afforded her. It was growing light, and she found time before the call to breakfast for another peep at her precious letter. She hurried down at the first stroke of the bell, anxious to avoid meeting the Sharps on the stairway.

Patsy, in her ordinary soiled, frowsy-headed, slipshod condition, was setting the chairs up to the table, on which Mrs. Goodenough and Hetty were arranging an unusually inviting meal.

“Don’t delude yourself with the hope that you are about to be regaled upon pound-cake, Miss Kemper,” remarked Hetty, placing a loaf of hot corn-pone near Floy’s plate, another at the farther end of the board.

“No, it’s only Indian,” said Mrs. Goodenough, “but it’s splendid, and more than equivalent to pound-cake for breakfast.”

“Yes indeed,” said Floy, “I greatly prefer it, at any rate; I’m extremely fond of good corn-bread.”

“Well, Hetty’s is always superior to the best.”

“Superior to the best, eh?” sneered the Thorne, as with pompous air he came leisurely in and took his accustomed seat. “Madam, that is a contradiction in terms.”

“Well, if it isn’t good enough for you, you needn’t eat it,” she returned indifferently; “but let’s sit down and begin while it’s hot.”

The Thorne was evidently in no holiday mood. “Where are the children?” he demanded, with a scowl, glancing about upon the empty seats as he took up the carving knife and fork.

“Don’t wait for them; they’ll be here presently,” said his wife.

“Presently, madam!” he growled; “they ought to have been ready an hour ago. You are bringing up your children to ruinous habits of self-indulgence.”

“Example is better than precept,” Hetty could not help remarking.

“And pray, miss, what do you mean by that?” he asked, turning almost fiercely upon her.

“Surely a man of Mr. Sharp’s talent and erudition can have no difficulty in understanding words so simple,” she replied, with a twinkle of fun in her eye.

“Come, don’t let’s quarrel to-day of all days in the year,” put in her mother good-humoredly. “Here’s John, anyhow,” as the lad came briskly in with a “Merry Christmas to you all!”

“Where have you been, sir, that you are so late to this very late breakfast?” asked his father, ignoring the greeting.

“Round to the grocer’s on the corner, sir.”

“Doing an errand for me,” said Hetty, “and he’s not to be scolded; for if it hadn’t been for him – getting me kindling to hurry up my fire, and assisting in various ways – breakfast would have been later than it is.”

“Where now, Prudence?”

Mrs. Sharp had risen hastily and pushed back her chair.

“I must go up and see if Araminta is sick, Thorne; the poor thing was too tired yesterday with her journey to do anything but lounge about.”

“Humph! I dare say; you are ruining that child with your coddling.”

“Ah, here she comes! Lucian too,” said Mrs. Sharp in a relieved tone, resuming her seat as the door opened and a girl of fifteen, looking only half awake and far from neat, in a loose, somewhat soiled morning dress and hair in crimps, came languidly in, followed by a lad some four years older, the veritable counterpart of his father in appearance and manners.

The latter had a scowl and rebuke for each, which were received as matters of course.

“Don’t scold ’em, Thorne,” said their aunt; “the poor things have so much book attention when they’re at school!”

“You’re rather late, children,” the mother remarked, helping them bountifully; “times are changed since you were little things. Then we could hardly keep you from waking us too soon Christmas morning.”

“That was when we were children indeed, and hung up our stockings,” said Lucian, “and didn’t know what was in them. Now you just give us the money and let us buy for ourselves.”

A loud peal from the door-bell sent Patsy flying out to the hall. She returned in a moment with a letter, two packages, and the morning paper.

“For me! I know they are!” cried Araminta, waking up. “Here, Patsy, give them to me. Dear me, no! how provoking! they’re every one directed to Miss Kemper,” and she looked around inquiringly.

Upon that John introduced the two, and Floy’s property was somewhat reluctantly resigned to her.

She had finished her meal, and, asking to be excused, was leaving the room, when an exclamation from John, who was glancing over the paper, stayed her steps.

“Lea! what Lea is it, I wonder? – ‘was arrested yesterday on a criminal charge, and has committed suicide. His affairs are found to be hopelessly involved.’”

“Doesn’t it give his Christian name?” asked Mrs. Sharp, with interest.

“Yes: Abner.”

“Just so; there’s a good customer lost!” she exclaimed in a tone of vexation.

“And they were so rich!” remarked her sister; “what turns of the wheel of fortune! What is it Shakespeare says?”

Floy hurried away to the privacy of Hetty’s parlor, sighing softly to herself, “Poor Miss Carrie! Ah, there are heavier trials than mine!”

Half an hour later Hetty looked in. “May I see what Santa Claus has sent you?”

“Yes, indeed. A dozen beautifully fine handkerchiefs, with Madame Le Conte’s card – ”

“Just like her! she’s the soul of generosity so far as money is concerned.”

“And a letter – such a nice one – and some warm stockings of her own knitting from my kind old friend Mrs. Bond,” concluded Floy.

“How splendid!” said Hetty. “You shall sit here and answer it, and the other if you like, while I see about dinner; and this afternoon we’ll take a walk and look at the fine things in the shop windows.”

CHAPTER XXIV

GILDED MISERY

“Thinking will make me mad: why must I thinkWhen no thought brings me comfort?”

Madame Le Conte was suffering from her imprudent exposure on Christmas-eve. She had taken cold, and her increased difficulty of breathing had robbed both herself and Mary of the greater part of their night’s rest.

The gift of a black silk dress and a few trinkets mollified the maid’s ill-humor, but Madame was sadly depressed in spirit.

“Go downstairs and enjoy yourself, Mary,” she said when she had sent away her almost untasted breakfast. “I’m poor company for any one, and prefer to be alone.”

“Let me read to you,” said Mary, taking a new book from the table. “This book is lively and interesting.”

“I don’t care to hear it.”

“Then here’s the morning paper.”

“Take it and read it yourself. I tell you I wish to be alone. Go! I’ll ring when I want you.” And Madame waved her hand imperiously.

She was in her dressing-room, a cheery apartment elegantly furnished with every appliance for comfort and convenience; a velvet carpet of exquisite design covered the floor, lace and damask draped the windows; one or two fine paintings adorned the delicately-tinted walls; articles of virtu were scattered here and there; everything the eye rested on was beautiful and appropriate.

Her easy chair was drawn up before the fire (she loved open fires, and had them in every room much frequented by herself), and on a costly Persian rug at her feet Frisky lay sleeping, her only companion since Mary had gone out in obedience to her order, softly closing the door behind her.

Perhaps there were few sadder hearts to-day in all the great city than that of this rich but childless and lonely woman. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, sigh after sigh heaving her bosom, and tears trickling down her cheeks.

“Remorse, remorse!” she whispered almost under her breath; “can there be anything worse? Oh, Pansy, my little Pansy! where are you? living or dead? Are you poor and suffering? Oh, come back, come back to me, and gladly, gladly will I share with you all I have!”

Covering her face with her handkerchief, she sobbed aloud, her whole frame shaking with the violence of her emotion.

This lasted several minutes; then, gradually growing calmer, she wiped away her tears, rose, went to her jewel-box, and possessing herself of the little locket she had been looking on the previous night, returned to her chair by the fire, touched the spring, and again gazed mournfully upon the pretty child-face.

She sat there for hours with the locket in her hand, sometimes looking at the picture, dropping tears upon the sweet face, pressing it to her lips; at others lying back among her cushions with closed eyes, while quick-coming memories of the past thronged through her brain.

At length Mary became alarmed, and ventured in without being summoned.

Her mistress was again gazing at the miniature, and seemed unconscious of her entrance until she stood close at her side.

“A thousand pardons for intruding upon you, Madame,” said the girl, “but I grew frightened lest you had been taken suddenly ill and were not able to ring.”

“See! look! tell me if you see any resemblance to any one,” said the Madame huskily, holding out the picture, the tears stealing down her cheeks.

“No-o, Madame,” returned the maid doubtfully, gazing upon it with some surprise that she had never been shown it before – she who had deemed herself fully acquainted with the contents of her mistress’s jewel-box.

“No?” cried the Madame irritably. “Look again. Well? Speak out; do not fear to offend.”

“That young girl we had here yesterday – ”

“Well? well? go on; what of her?” asked the Madame, fairly struggling for breath in her excitement.

“I can imagine she might have looked like this years ago.”

“Yes, yes! I have thought so too;” and tears rained down the Madame’s cheeks.

Mary’s curiosity was strongly excited, but she indulged in no questions or remarks in regard to the original of the picture; she had learned long since that her mistress would tolerate no prying into the secrets of her past life. She waited a moment in silence, then said soothingly, “Come, Madame, cheer up. Just consider how much you have to make you happy. Look at this beautiful room, this grand house – all your own; your elegant dresses too; your silks and laces and jewels; your fine carriage and horses; Katty and Rory and me to wait on you, and your loads of money. Why, Madame, who would not be glad to change places with you?”

“You, Mary?” she asked, with sudden impulse, extending her maimed limb toward the girl, her breast heaving with sobs, her eyes full of passionate sorrow; “say, would you give your good right hand for all my wealth? to say nothing of my struggles for breath, and all the rest of it?”

“I – I don’t know – ”

“I know you would not! Then don’t talk to me of how fortunate I am,” she said, heaving a deep sigh as she drew back the hand, laid her head against the cushions, and averted her face.

“Ah, well, Madame, none of us can have everything,” observed the girl, “and we must all make the best of our lot. There’s some that’s sick and crippled, and poor too; not a bite or sup, or fire to keep ’em warm this cold day. And we’ve everything that’s good downstairs, thanks to your generosity and your full purse. Now what will you have for dinner?”

“Dinner!” Madame turned her head away with a look and gesture of disgust as if loathing the very thought of food, and by an imperative wave of the hand indicated that it was her pleasure that her maid should consider herself dismissed from her presence.

Without another word Mary promptly left the room, but within half an hour returned, accompanied by Kathleen, the two bringing with them materials for a most tempting meal, which they quickly spread out upon the table, and presently found means to induce their mistress to eat of, with very considerable appetite.

The Madame’s mental anguish had been real, but the violence of the paroxysm was over for the time, and the long-indulged love of the pleasures of the table asserted its sway.

But the poor lady’s enjoyments were few; she was an educated but not an intellectual woman, and cared little for any books except novels of the most frivolous and sensational class; she had no friends, hardly an acquaintance in the city, having purposely avoided society from extreme sensitiveness regarding the loss of her hand – a loss which had befallen her prior to the removal of herself and husband to Chicago. And she was also a stranger to the consolations of religion.

CHAPTER XXV

STITCH, STITCH, STITCH

“The web of our life is of a mingledYarn, good and ill together.” —Shakespeare.

“I’m afraid I’ve taken you too far: you look dreadfully tired!” said Hetty, as she and Floy reached home after their walk.

“No, don’t worry, I’ve enjoyed it very much; a walk on an agreeable errand, and in pleasant company, is such a rare treat nowadays. It’s only a headache,” Floy answered, trying to smile.

“Only a headache! I call that worse than only being tired. I’m real sorry for you. Just go into my parlor and take off your things and lie down on the lounge. You’ll be nice and quiet there, and you’re not to mind the supper-bell. I’ll bring you a cup of tea and some toast.”

Rest and quiet. They were what the weary frame, the aching head, and homesick heart craved just then above everything else that seemed attainable.

Ah, were even they within her reach? Sounds of wrangling and strife assailed her ears as she neared the door of the little back room where Hetty had entertained her the previous night. Opening it, this was the scene which presented itself:

The gas was blazing high, and just beneath it Araminta lolled back in an arm-chair, her feet propped up on the seat of another, and a paper-covered novel in her hand, which Lucian, standing over her puffing away at a cigar, seemed to be trying to wrest from her.

“See here, Miss Mintstick,” he was saying, “I got this out of the library for my own enjoyment, so just give it up.”

“You hateful fellow!” she cried, “you know I can’t bear to be called that, and I’ll just tell mother of you if you don’t stop it.”

“Oh, it’s a baby, is it? and mustn’t be teased,” he said jeeringly; whereat Araminta burst into tears, and again threatened to “tell mother of him.”

“Come, it’s quite too young to read novels,” he said, with another and successful effort to take it from her.

“So are you too, Miss Lucy Ann! There! take that!” she retorted, giving him a resounding slap upon the cheek.

Flushing crimson, he seized her by the wrist.

“See here, young woman!” he hissed in a tone of concentrated fury.

But becoming suddenly aware of Floy’s presence, and that she was standing gazing upon them in disgust and astonishment, he turned shamefacedly away, muttering, “A man can’t stand everything!” and would have beaten a hasty retreat, but encountered his mother in the doorway.

“What is the meaning of all this?” she asked sharply. “What are you two quarrelling about? I’m ashamed of you! And the room full of tobacco-smoke, the gas turned on full head! you’ll ruin me!”

She turned it lower as she spoke; then catching sight of Floy, now seated on the lounge taking off her gloves,

“Don’t mind ’em, Miss Kemper,” she said; “they’re fond of each other for all.”

“I’m not a bit fond of Lucian!” whimpered Araminta, “he’s so rude and bearish; so different from the nice young men one reads about in books. He snatched that book away from me, and nearly broke my finger off.”

“You look pale, Miss Kemper. I hope you’re not going to be sick,” remarked Mrs. Sharp as Floy rose to leave the room. “We’ll have to be up and at work betimes to-morrow. There are a number of dresses to be finished, and only ourselves to do it, for the other girls won’t be back till Monday.”

“It’s only a headache and the tobacco-smoke, I think,” Floy answered in a patient tone. “I’ll go up and lie down on my bed, and perhaps it will pass off.”

And so the weary round of ceaseless toil was to begin to-morrow! Ah, well! she would struggle on in hope; perhaps better days would come. And to-morrow would be Saturday, the next the blessed day of rest, God’s own gift to the toil-worn and weary.

Mrs. Sharp, Hetty, and Floy had need of it after the labors of the intervening day; the last-named more especially, as having feebler powers of endurance than the other two.

Lucian and Araminta were pressed into the service, but, with their whimpering, dawdling ways, proved of small assistance. John was a far more efficient aid; ran the sewing-machine for hours, doing the work well, and lightening their labors with his cheery good-nature and innocent jests.

As the clock told the hour of midnight Floy stuck the needle in her work and began to fold it up.

“Ten minutes more would finish that, Miss Kemper, so that it could be sent home in the morning,” said Mrs. Sharp persuasively.

“I am very, very weary, Mrs. Sharp,” returned the young girl respectfully; “yet to accommodate you and the customer I would work on a little longer, but it is already the Lord’s day, and the command is, ‘In it thou shalt not do any work.’”

A portentous frown was darkening the face of her employer, but it changed to an expression of enforced resignation as Hetty said:

“You’re right, Floy. Aunt Prue, I can’t go on any longer; and indeed what right has anybody to ask us to work as late as this?”

Mrs. Sharp sat in moody silence for a moment, but, being greatly fatigued herself, presently acquiesced and followed their example, remarking:

“Well, well, girls, I don’t blame you. There really is no use in killing ourselves, for nobody’ll thank us for it.”

“Whatever should I do without you, Hetty!” said Floy as they two went up the stairs together.

Monday morning brought a note that greatly vexed Mrs. Sharp, but to our heroine seemed a Heaven-sent relief.

To the usual discomforts of the work-room were now added almost incessant squabbling between Lucian and Araminta, the whining complaints of the latter and the sickening scent of the cheap cigars frequently indulged in by the former.

She had been asking herself how all this was to be endured until next Monday should take them back to their studies; and now came the answer – this request of Madame Le Conte for her services during the whole week.

The lady desired some alteration in the trimming of the new dress, and had other work which only Miss Kemper could do to suit her.

Mrs. Sharp fumed and fretted, grumbled and scolded, yet nevertheless the request was promptly granted.

“Sure an’ I’m plazed to see ye, miss!” was Kathleen’s smiling greeting as she admitted Floy. “The Madame’s been wearyin’ for ye, and couldn’t be aisy at all, at all, till she’d got the note sint to tell ye to come. Will ye have a bite o’ breakfast?”

Floy declined, and was then requested to walk right up to the sewing-room.

She found Mary there, and receiving directions as to the wishes of the Madame, who had not yet risen, settled herself to her work with an odd feeling of being at home.

“The Madame has taken a wonderful fancy to you, miss,” remarked Mary, gazing earnestly at the young girl, and thinking her more than ever like the miniature in her mistress’s locket.

“Has she?” Floy asked in some surprise.

“Yes; and I hope you’ll try to cheer her up, miss; she’s been dreadfully downhearted of late, crying ’most all day Christmas.”

“No wonder; she seems to suffer so much, and to be so alone in the world, poor thing!”

“Yes, that’s it; she often cries by the hour; and when I ask what’s the matter, she says, ‘I haven’t a soul in the world to care for me, Mary; my family are all dead and gone.’ Poor creature! it’s sad enough, and I ought to be patient with her; but indeed, miss, it’s often enough to try the patience of a saint – the way she goes on, wantin’ to be dressed a half a dozen times a day, and wakin’ me up to wait on her every hour in the night. There’s her bell now, and I must be gone.”

“Poor woman!” sighed Floy to herself. “I wonder if she knows of the Friend whose love is everything to me now? I wish I could tell her what comfort and rest it gives.”

The Madame was still in bed. Frisky had crept in beside her, and Mary found her petting and caressing him.

“My pretty pet! my little darling!” she was saying, “you at least love me. And I love you, precious little beauty. Ah, Mary,” to her maid as she caught sight of her, “so there you are! Just bring the darling’s silver bells, and a pink ribbon to tie them with. He wants them, I know he does, the pretty pet!”

Mary obeyed, fastening the string of tiny, tinkling bells about the dog’s neck, and could not refrain from joining her mistress’s laugh over his evident delight in his finery.

“Has he had his breakfast, Mary?” the Madame inquired with solicitude, “and did he eat with appetite? You know I thought him dull and droopy yesterday.”

“Yes, Madame, I know; but I’m sure, as I told you then, it was nothing but want of exercise and over-eating.”

“Nonsense, Mary! you forget that he takes an airing with me almost every day.”

“No, Madame, but I should say he needed more than that. Yes, he had his breakfast, and eat a plenty.”

“That is well. Has Miss Kemper come?”

Mary answered the query, and made a report of the work and directions she had given Floy, at the same time busying herself in assisting the Madame with her toilet.

That week was a busy one to Floy, yet restful also, albeit she was somewhat sated with the Madame’s company, often wearying enough to those who must listen to her complainings and submit to her whims.

Yet she was at times quite entertaining. Frisky’s little tricks, too, were really very amusing. Besides, Floy had every day several quiet, usually solitary hours – while the Madame slept – was fed upon the fat of the land, and retired to bed reasonably early each night.