Signing the Contract and What it Cost

On returning to Mrs. Sharp’s, she was not grieved to learn that the young people had already left for school.

Work slackened slightly for a few weeks, then again, as the spring season opened, they were almost overwhelmed with it.

And this was the state of affairs until the fervid heats of summer began to drive the fashionables away from the city.

Even then there was small respite, for some left unfinished dresses to be sent after them, and many who remained behind wanted work done also.

In all this time Floy had heard but once from Cranley – a few lines from Miss Wells telling of the death of Espy’s mother, and that he had gone she knew not whither.

“Gone!” Floy’s heart almost stood still with grief and pain; but the next instant gave a quick, joyous bound at the thought, “It may be he has but come here in search of me.”

And for days and weeks every peal from the door-bell made her heart beat fast and sent a quiver through her nerves.

But he came not; and remembering that he could have no clue to her residence unless through the Leas, who had disappeared from society and probably from his knowledge, she called herself a fool for having indulged any such expectation.

The poor girl had grown very weary in body and mind, and oh, so homesick! Ah, could she but go back for a little while to the old haunts and look again upon the dear graves of her loved ones! But for that she had neither time nor means.

One day in July there came a summons for Floy from Madame Le Conte; bereavement had come upon the wealthy widow, so the note stated, and Floy’s services were wanted in the making up of mourning.

“Bereaved!” the girl said to herself in surprise; “she told me she had not a relative or friend in the world.”

“Humph! I was giving the Madame credit for being considerate for once in her life in choosing a slack time to send for you, Miss Kemper,” said Mrs. Sharp, refolding the note and tossing it from her after reading it aloud, “but it being a death, of course she didn’t choose.”

“It’ll be a change for you, and I hope will do you good,” said Hetty, who had for some time past noticed with concern Floy’s increasing languor. “You’ve found the heat of the city hard to bear, not being used to it as we are; and this – so far out, and close to the lake shore too – will be like a taste of the country.”

“Yes,” remarked Mrs. Goodenough in her slow way, “it’s quite a providence. What is it Shakespeare says? or is it in the Bible now?” she queried meditatively.

“What, Aunt Sarah?” asked Araminta pertly, while Lucian “Haw hawed!” and exclaimed in loud, rough tones:

“Well, I declare, Aunt Sarah! it’s a sin and a shame that you haven’t a full set of Shakespeare’s works, seeing there’s nobody tries to quote him oftener.”

The young people were at home again for the summer holidays; the time was directly after dinner, and all the family, excepting John and his father, were in the sitting-room at the moment.

Hetty treated the rude boy to a severe look, and seemed more than half inclined to box his ears.

“Well, it’s quite true that my memory isn’t what it used to be,” sighed her mother, “but it’s something about the wind and the shorn lamb, and I rather think it’s in the Bible.”

“It’s Sterne, mother,” said Hetty. “‘God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.’”

“But it doesn’t suit,” laughed Araminta, “for Miss Kemper has an awful lot of hair, and if she was shorn it’s so dreadful hot to-day that anybody’d be glad to get where the wind would blow on ’em.”

“Be quiet, children!” said Mrs. Sharp. “Miss Kemper, I s’pose you’d better go at once.”

CHAPTER XXVI

THE MADAME AT HER SOLICITOR’S

“The miserable hath no other medicineBut only hope.” —Shakespeare.

“The Madame bereaved! of whom, I wonder?” mused Floy, riding along in the almost empty street-car. “Has she discovered the existence of a relative only to see him or her snatched away by death? Ah, poor woman! so unhappy before, what will she be now?”

Leaving the car, the young girl quickly passed over the short intervening distance, and glancing up at the Madame’s house as she approached it, saw that the shutters of every window were bowed with white ribbon, while several yards of white cashmere tied with the same were hanging from the bell-pull.

“A child!” said Floy to herself in increasing surprise, as she went up the steps and gave a very gentle ring.

The door was opened as usual by Kathleen, who recognized our heroine with a faint, rather watery smile.

“I’m plazed to see you, miss.”

“Who is dead, Kathleen?” Floy asked as she stepped in and the door closed behind her.

“Sure, miss, an’ it’s just himself – the Madame’s pet, that was always wid her night an’ day; an’ it’s just breakin’ her heart about him she is, poor dear, that hasn’t a chick nor a child left! An’ it’s sad an’ sore me own heart is whin I think o’ niver seeing the little baste at its purty thricks no more.”

“Frisky, her lap-dog!” exclaimed Floy. “I thought it must be a relative.”

“Yes, miss, an’ sure she always thrated the little baste like a Christian, an’ she’s kapin’ on wid that now it’s dead.”

“What ailed it?”

“Well, miss, the docther he said ’twas just laziness and over-feedin’ – only he put it into grand words, you know – and the Madame didn’t like it; but it’s dead an’ gone he is, annyhow, the purty darlint!”

“Is it Miss Kemper?” asked Mary, appearing at the head of the stairs. “Please walk right up, miss.”

Floy was ushered at once into the Madame’s dressing-room, where she found that lady weeping bitterly over her dead favorite as it lay stiff and stark in her lap.

“He’s gone, Miss Kemper!” she sobbed, looking up piteously into Floy’s face, with the tears running fast down her own; “he’s gone, my pretty darling – the only thing I had left to love, and the only one that had any love for poor me!”

The young girl scarcely knew what consolation to offer; she could only express her sympathy and hope that he might be replaced by another as pretty and playful.

“Never, never!” exclaimed the Madame indignantly; “no other ever could or ever shall fill his place. And he shall have a splendid funeral,” she went on, with a fresh burst of grief, “the finest casket money can buy, and a white satin shroud; a monument over his dear little grave too; and I’ll put on mourning as I would for a child.”

For a moment Floy was silent with surprise; then recovering herself,

“This is handsomer than satin, Madame,” she said, gently touching the silky floss of the dog’s own natural coat; “and what a pity to bury it: would it not be better to have it stuffed? for then you need not lose your pet entirely, but can keep him here, caress him, and deck him with ribbons as you have been used to doing.”

“Bless you for the suggestion!” cried the mourner, drying her tears. “So I can; and it will be better than hiding him away out of my sight.

“Mary, you needn’t send the order for the casket or the digging of the grave; but, instead, go out at once and inquire who is the best taxidermist in the city.”

Left alone with the Madame, Floy set herself to the task of persuading her out of the absurd notion of putting on mourning, her main argument being that it was an unwholesome dress and the lady’s health already poor enough.

“That is true; nobody knows what I suffer every day of my life,” assented the Madame; “and as I’m not going to quite lose the darling,” hugging the dead dog lovingly in her arms as she spoke, “I’ll give it up; that is, I’ll wear white instead; and you shall stay all the same and make me some lovely white morning dresses, tucked, ruffled, and trimmed with elegant lace.”

“How immense she will look in them!” was Floy’s mental comment; but she wisely kept her thoughts to herself.

In the mean time Mary was executing her commission with such promptness and energy that within an hour Frisky’s remains had been taken away – the Madame parting from them with many tears and caresses – and the insignia of mourning removed from the outside of the house.

“I don’t know how to thank you enough, miss,” the maid said aside to Floy. “It was just awful to me – the idea of a grand funeral for a dog, and all the neighbors lookin’ on an’ thinkin’ us a pack o’ fools. I wish in my heart you lived here all the time, for you can do more to make the Madame hear reason than all the rest of us put together.”

“Can that be so?” said Floy. “I should not have expected my influence to be nearly so great as yours.”

“Nor I,” said the maid, and Floy wondered at the earnest, curious gaze she bent upon her.

Mary was thinking of the miniature to which the young girl bore so strong a resemblance; but perceiving that Floy observed her scrutiny, she turned hastily away and left the room.

Several times afterward, during this sojourn in the house, Floy was aware of a repetition of Mary’s fixed, searching look, and that the Madame also, in the pauses of her grief, regarded her more than once in much the same manner.

Each time it struck our heroine as strange, but she soon forgot it in thoughts of Espy or the lost parent of whom she was still in quest.

Now that she had not Frisky to take her attention, the Madame took to poring over the miniature again, often weeping bitterly the while; sometimes Mary overheard such murmured words as these:

“Pansy, Pansy, my little Pansy! Oh, I can never forgive myself! My darling, my darling!”

One morning Madame Le Conte awoke with a sudden resolution, and surprised her maid with an unusual order.

“Mary,” she said, “I shall call upon my solicitor to-day. Tell Rory to have the carriage at the door at eleven o’clock. Then bring me my breakfast and dress me at once for the street.”

“What’s up now?” inquired Mary of herself as she hastened downstairs in obedience to the order; “is she going to make a will and leave a lot of money to that pretty Miss Kemper? And all because she looks like that picture in the locket? Well, well, if it had only happened to be me now, how lucky ’twould have been!”

Having come to her resolve, Madame Le Conte was in feverish haste to carry it out, scolded because her breakfast was not ready on the instant, and fretted and fumed over her toilet, accusing Mary of being intentionally and exasperatingly slow.

But the maid bore it with unruffled equanimity, perhaps looking to the possibility of a fat legacy.

The Madame entered her carriage in a tremor of excitement and haste, which, however, calmed down somewhat during the drive.

Arrived at their destination, Mary assisted her to alight and ascend the three or four steps leading into the hall of the building.

“Stop! it is this first door,” said the Madame, panting and wheezing, slight as the exertion had been. “Wait a minute till I recover breath. I want a private interview, and you will stay outside. Rap now.”

Mary obeyed, and hearing a loud “Come in!” opened the door and stepped back to let her mistress enter.

“Ah! Madame Le Conte! how d’ye do?” said the lawyer, rising and offering a hand to his rich client; then, with a sudden recollection, dropping it at his side and contenting himself with pushing forward an arm-chair.

“Sit down, Madame,” he said. “You are quite a stranger here, but I have been out of town, and may have missed a call from you.”

“No,” she panted, “I’ve – not – been here since I saw you last.”

“Ah? Well, my dear Madame, what can I do for you to-day?”

“You have heard nothing – learned nothing yet?”

“Nothing whatever, as I am sorry to say.”

She sighed deeply.

“I think I should give it up,” he said.

“No, no, no!” she cried with vehemence. “I would have you renew and redouble your efforts.”

“What can I do that has not already been done?”

“I don’t know, but you must try to think of something. Write a new advertisement; send it to every paper in the land.”

“It will be putting you to very great expense, and uselessly, I am almost sure.”

“That is my affair,” she wheezed, wiping the perspiration from her face with a delicate cambric handkerchief.

“Certainly,” he replied, with a slight bow of acquiescence; “the money is your own to use as you please, but it is a pity to throw it away. And how long have we been engaged in this search?”

“Ten years!” she sighed half despairingly; “but,” brightening a little, “we’ve almost let it drop for months past. I’d nearly lost heart, but we must begin again and never mind expense. I’d give half my fortune to succeed.”

“I wish you may; though I have not much hope of it, I must confess,” he answered indifferently, “but of course your instructions shall be promptly carried out.”

CHAPTER XXVII

THE LONG-LOST DEED

“Thus doth the ever-changing course of thingsRun a perpetual circle, ever turning.”

Hetty and her mother had taken advantage of the slack time to pay a long-promised visit to some friends in the country, leaving to Mrs. Sharp the oversight of domestic affairs and the care of the store, with such assistance as she could get from Araminta and Lucian, who were home for the summer vacation.

John was, as usual, spending his vacation in farm work, while all the apprentices and journey-women had left for the time being, except our heroine and Annie Jones, who was an orphan and had neither home nor friends to go to.

These two were kept pretty steadily employed upon the few dresses of customers still on hand, and in preparing Miss Sharp’s wardrobe for another year at boarding-school.

One morning Floy, who had been left for an hour or more sole occupant of the work-room, was startled by the sudden entrance of Annie in a state bordering on distraction.

“Oh, what shall I do! what shall I do!” she cried, wringing her hands and pacing the floor to and fro with rapid steps, while great tears rolled down her cheeks. “Oh, Miss Kemper, can you help me?”

“What is it, Annie?” Floy asked, stopping the machine which she was running at the moment, and turning upon the girl a look of mingled surprise and pity. “Stop crying and tell me, and I will certainly help you if I can. Have you offended Mrs. Sharp?”

“Oh, yes, and worse than that: she says I’ve robbed her; but oh, I haven’t! I wouldn’t steal a pin from anybody. But she won’t believe a word I say, and she says if I don’t find the five dollars pretty quick she’ll have me arrested and taken to prison; and Lucian wants to go off for a policeman right away. Oh dear, oh dear!”

The girl’s distress and agitation were so great that Floy had some difficulty in coming to a clear understanding of her trouble; but at length, by dint of soothing and questioning, she learned the facts, which were these:

Annie had been sent to carry home some finished work, taking with her a receipted bill for thirty dollars, her instructions being not to leave it unless it was paid.

The woman, a Mrs. Collins, a new customer, handed her twenty-five dollars, saying that she would pay the rest at another time; and the girl, from stupidity, carelessness, or bashfulness, allowed her to retain the bill.

Mrs. Sharp sent her back for it, but the woman refused to give it up, and, to the astonishment and dismay of the poor child, stoutly asserted that she had paid the whole.

And now Mrs. Sharp accused Annie of retaining the missing sum, and with much anger and indignation declared that she would send her to prison unless she made good the loss within an hour.

“Oh, Miss Kemper,” sobbed the girl in conclusion, “I haven’t a dollar or a friend in the world! and if I lose my character what will become of me? Nobody’ll trust me, and I can’t get work, and I’ll just have to starve.”

“I’m very sorry for you,” said Floy; “but trust in the Lord, and He will help you; and if you are innocent, He will bring it to light some day.”

“If I am innocent! oh, Miss Floy,” sobbed the girl, “you don’t think me a thief, do you?”

“No, Annie, I don’t, if that’s any comfort to you, poor child!”

“I’m glad of that!” Annie said, a gleam of pleasure flitting over her tear-swollen face, then burst out again, “But oh, what shall I do? Oh, if I only had five dollars! Miss Floy, can you lend it to me? I’ll pay it back some day, and never, never forget to ask God to bless you for your kindness.”

“I would if I could, Annie, but I haven’t half that sum,” Floy was beginning to say, when a sudden recollection stopped her.

In the old pocket-book found upon Mr. Kemper’s person after his death, and kept by her as a sacred relic, she had safely stowed away the golden half-eagle he had given her but a few moments before the awful accident that had made her an almost penniless orphan.

For herself she would not have spent it unless reduced to the last extremity of want; but her noble, generous heart could not withstand Annie’s appeal.

“Wait here a moment; I will see,” she said in tremulous tones, and hurried from the room.

Up to her own she ran, locked herself in, opened her trunk, and, diving to the bottom, drew forth the old, worn, faded pocket-book.

For a moment she held it lovingly in her hand, hot tears rushing to her eyes as she thought of that terrible scene enacted scarce a year ago.

But the present was no time for the indulgence of grief. She undid the clasp and looked for the treasure she had come to seek.

Where was it? with fingers and eyes she examined each division, yet without success. Had she been robbed? A sudden pang shot through her heart at the thought.

But oh no, that could not be! The lining was much torn, and the coin had doubtless slipped in between it and the outside.

She ran her fingers in and felt it there, and – something else: a memorandum or bill probably. She pulled at it, tore the lining a little more, and finally drew out a bit of folded paper that looked like a leaf torn from a note-book.

Her heart gave a wild throb, and in her excitement the paper slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. She stooped and clutched it hastily, eagerly, as if she feared it would even yet escape her; then, with a strong effort at composure, opened out the folds with her trembling fingers.

One glance told her that it was in very truth the long-sought deed of gift.

She did not wait to read it in detail, but scanned the lines hurriedly. The name – her mother’s name and her own – was what she sought; and there it was – “Ethel Farnese” – perfectly legible, though evidently written with unsteady fingers, as of one in great agitation of mind.

“Ethel Farnese!” repeated Floy half aloud, letting the paper fall into her lap and clasping her hands together over it, while with a far-off look in her lustrous eyes she gazed into space. “Ethel Farnese! and that is who I am; who she was when she gave me to them! Ethel Farnese! I seem to be not myself at all, but somebody else. How strange it all is! just like a story or a dream.” And for a moment she sat with her head upon her hand, overcome by a curious sense of loss and bewilderment. Was she the same girl who had come into that room ten minutes ago?

Then a thought struck her. “The will! might it not have shared the hiding-place of the deed? Oh, what joy if she could but find that!”

She caught up the pocket-book again, the color coming and going in her cheeks, her heart beating so fast she could hardly breathe, and with remorseless fingers tore it apart till not a fold or crevice remained unexplored; but alas! without any further discovery.

“Ah, he never made it!” she sighed sadly to herself, as she had done months before.

She restored the pocket-book to its place, with the deed of gift safely bestowed inside, locked her trunk, and with the gold piece in her hand returned to the work-room.

Annie, pacing to and fro with agitated steps, was still its only occupant. “Oh, I thought you’d never come!” she cried, stopping in her walk and turning eagerly to Floy. “Have you got the money for me? What’s the matter? you look as if something had happened.”

“I have the money – a five-dollar gold piece which I value so highly as a keepsake that I would not spend it for myself unless I were in absolute danger of starvation,” Floy said, answering the first query, ignoring the other; “still I will lend it to you if necessary to save you from arrest. But, Annie, wouldn’t your paying the money to Mrs. Sharp look like an acknowledgment that you had really kept it back, as she says?”

“I don’t know; maybe it would,” sobbed Annie, “but she’ll send me to jail if I don’t. I don’t like to take your keepsake either; but oh dear, oh dear! what shall I do?”

At that moment Mrs. Sharp came hastily into the room. She was a quick-tempered woman, but not hard-hearted, and, her anger having had time to cool, began now to relent toward the friendless girl who had offended her. Still she did not like to retreat from the position she had taken.

“Well, Annie, what are you going to do?” she asked in a tone whose mildness surprised the child. “I hope you’ve concluded to give up the money you’ve held back from me. You may as well, for it won’t do you any good to keep it.”

“Oh, I would if I had it!” sobbed Annie, “but that woman never gave me a cent more than what I handed to you; and if you don’t believe me you can search me and my trunk.”

“Humph! there are other places where you could hide it,” was the quick, sarcastic rejoinder.

“Miss Kemper,” turning to Floy, “what do you think of this business?”

“I cannot believe that Annie would rob you, Mrs. Sharp, though she did wrong in leaving the bill contrary to directions, and therefore might in strict justice be required to make good your loss,” said Floy. “And I think she is willing to do it if it were in her power; but you know she has no money, and no way of earning any just now.”

“Well, she soon will be getting wages,” said Mrs. Sharp meditatively, “and if she’ll agree that I shall keep the first five dollars – ”

“Oh, I will, I will!” interrupted Annie, catching eagerly at the suggestion and clasping her hands in passionate entreaty, “indeed I will, if you’ll only believe I didn’t take it, and let me stay on here! And I’ll never forget your kindness.”

Mrs. Sharp gave a somewhat ungracious consent that it should be so; and hearing a customer enter the store, hurried back to wait upon her, while the relieved Annie dried her eyes and took up the work she had dropped when sent upon the unfortunate errand.

That she was spared the parting with her prized souvenir was certainly a pleasure and relief to Floy, but the remembrance of that was soon lost in the excitement of her recent discovery; her thoughts were full of it, and with joy she said to herself, “Here is another step taken toward the finding of my mother. I am more convinced than ever that she still lives, and that the good God who has helped me thus far will finally guide me to her; for now, knowing the name she once bore, I can advertise in a way much more likely to attract her attention.”

But here a great obstacle – the want of money – presented itself, and the girl’s busy brain set to work to contrive ways and means to earn the needful funds.

The treasured half-eagle would not go very far, and it, she quickly decided, must be kept as a reserve in case of dire necessity.

The question arose in her mind whether she should now drop her adopted name and resume that which was hers by right of birth.

But such a course would involve explanations and confidences which she did not care to give to those about her – these people who would feel no interest in them or in her but that of idle curiosity. Hetty was the only member of the family who knew, or had ever shown any desire to know, anything of Floy’s history or hopes, and our heroine quickly decided that until Hetty returned this secret should be all her own.

CHAPTER XXVIII

MESSRS. TREDICK & SERVER

“How sudden do our prospects vary here!” —Shirley.

But Floy’s resolve was destined to be speedily swallowed up in the current of swiftly-coming events.

Only two days later, after some hours spent down town in the fatiguing business of shopping for Araminta Sharp, going from store to store in search of exact matches in dress goods, trimmings, and ribbons, she was standing on a corner waiting for a street-car, when a ragged little newsboy accosted her with:

“I say, miss, won’t you buy one o’ these here papers?” running over the names of several of the dailies; “I hain’t sold none to-day, and if I don’t have better luck Teddy an’ me (that’s my little lame brother) we’ll have to go hungry and sleep in the street.”