Signing the Contract and What it Cost

She must now do something for her own support. Her education qualified her for teaching, but finding no opening for that, while one presented itself for the learning of dress-making, for which she possessed both taste and talent, she decided to avail herself of it.

Her plan was to go to Chicago and apprentice herself to one of the most fashionable mantua-makers there.

Miss Wells would have been rejoiced to take Floy under her wing, but the girl felt an unconquerable repugnance to beginning her new career in Cranley, the scene of her former prosperity, and where she could not hope to avoid occasionally meeting with the Aldens.

In fact, her sensitive dread of such encounters led to the resolve not to return thither at all, but to go directly to the city and begin the new life at once, such a place as she desired having been already secured for her through some of her Clearfield friends.

She had formed a strong attachment for Mrs. Bond, which was fully reciprocated. They could not part without pain, yet cheered each other with the hope of meeting again at no very distant day, as Floy thought of returning to Clearfield to set up business on her own account when once she should be prepared for that.

“Don’t despair, dear child; brighter days will come; something tells me you will find your mother yet,” the old lady said in bidding her good-by.

As the train sped on its way through the busy streets of the town, over the prairies dotted here and there with neat farm-houses, and anon plunged into forests gay with the rich coloring of the Frost King’s pencil, Floy set herself resolutely to put aside thoughts of her losses, disappointments, anxieties, and perplexities, and to fix them upon the blessings that were still left her.

Gay and light-hearted she could not be, but hope kindled anew within her as she thought on Mrs. Bond’s last words. Ah, she would not despair! her long-lost mother, and Espy too, would yet be restored.

His words had deeply wounded her, but surely the love which had been given her from their very infancy could not be so suddenly withdrawn.

“We are moving very slowly; something must be wrong. Don’t you think so, miss?” queried a woman in the next seat, turning suddenly around upon Floy.

The words startled our heroine from her reverie, sending a sharp pang of grief and terror through her heart as they vividly recalled the horrors of the accident which had wrought her such woe. She had been hardly conscious of the fact, but certainly the train had gradually slackened speed for the last ten minutes or more; and now it stood still.

“What is wrong? why do we stop here where there is no station?” she asked of the conductor, who was passing the car window.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said; “the boiler has sprung a leak, and we’ll have to stand here a while till they can get another engine sent down from Clearfield.”

“Dear, dear!” fretted a thoughtless girl, “we shall be behind time all along the route now, miss our connections, and have no end of trouble.”

But Floy’s heart swelled with gratitude that things were no worse.

They had two long hours of waiting ere the train was again in motion, for the spot where it had halted was several miles from the nearest town, to which a messenger must be sent on foot to telegraph back to Clearfield for another engine; and when at last that arrived it had to propel the cars from behind, and the progress made was much slower than by the ordinary mode.

Many of the passengers ventured to relieve the tedium of the detention by strolling about the prairie in the near vicinity of their train, and for the greater part of the time the car in which Floy sat was nearly deserted.

Her attention was presently attracted by the fretting of a little child.

“Mother, I’m hungry; gi’ me a cake.”

“Now do be quiet, Sammy; you know I hain’t none for you,” returned the parent, “so what’s the use o’ teasin’? I’d give it to you in a minute if I had it.”

By Mrs. Bond’s thoughtful kindness Floy had been supplied with a bountiful lunch. She was very glad of that now, and opening her basket, she invited mother and child to partake with her.

“Thank you, miss,” said the former, a decent-looking countrywoman. “Sammy’ll be very glad of a bit of bread if you’ve got it to spare. I’d have brought a lunch along, but expected to be at my sister’s afore this, and it didn’t seem worth while.”

“I have abundance for all three of us,” returned Floy, with a winning smile, displaying her stores; “so do let me have the pleasure of sharing with you.”

“Yes, come, mother,” said Sammy, tugging at her skirts.

Thus urged, the woman accepted the invitation.

“Are you from Clearfield, miss?” she asked.

“I have been there for the past month or more. Is it there you live?”

“A little ways out o’ the town, on t’other side. I’ve been in that neighborhood nigh on to fifteen year now. Clearfield wasn’t much of a town when father moved out there, but it’s growed powerful fast these few years back.”

Floy’s heart gave a sudden bound, and she turned an eager, questioning glance upon the speaker. “I suppose you knew – everybody knew – every one else in the place when it was so small?”

“Why yes, of course we did, an’ mother she kep’ a boardin’-house an’ boarded the railroad hands. She was always for helping father along, and that’s the way I do by my Sammy. He’s named for his pap, you know,” nodding toward her boy and smiling proudly on him.

“Yes, sirree! and I’m a-goin’ to be as big a man as him some day!” cried the young hopeful, swallowing down one mouthful with great gusto and hastily cramming in another.

Floy pressed her hand to her side in the vain effort to still the loud beating of her heart.

“Did – did you ever hear any of those men – speak of a sort of shanty inn that stood not very far from the old depot?”

“Oh my, yes! and I’ve see it many a time; ’twas there better’n a year, I should say, after we come to the place. And I’ve heard Jack Strong (he was one o’ the switchmen on the road, and boarded with us a long spell after those folks pulled down their shanty and moved off) – I’ve heard him tell a pitiful kind of a story about a poor woman that come there one night clear beat out travellin’ through the storm (for ’twas an awful wild night, Jack said, so he did, a-rainin’ and hailin’, and the wind blowin’ so it blowed down lots o’ big trees in the woods). Well, as I was a-sayin’, the woman she’d been footing it all day, and with a child in her arms too; and Jack he told how some other folks that were there, a man and his wife, coaxed her to give the little girl to them, tellin’ her she’d got to die directly, and she’d better provide for it while she could; and how she give it to ’em and then ran screamin’ after the cars, ‘My child, my child! give me back my child!’ till she dropped down like dead, and would have fell flat in the mud and water in the middle of the road if Jack hadn’t a-caught her in his arms.”

Floy’s hands were clasped in her lap, cold beads of perspiration stood on her brow, her breath came pantingly, and her dilated eyes were fixed on the face of the narrator, who, however, was too busy brushing the crumbs off Sammy’s Sunday jacket to observe the look, but went on garrulously:

“Jack he carried her into the depot and laid her down on the settee; and while they were tryin’ to bring her to, an old gentleman (I disremember his name now) come in his covered wagon fur to git his son as was expected home from ’way off somewheres, but wasn’t there (he didn’t come till next day, Jack said), and the old gentleman he took the poor thing home with him.

“There, now, Sammy, hold still till I tie this hankercher round your neck. Them clo’es won’t be fit to be seen if you keep on droppin’ greasy crumbs over ’em.”

Floy was making a desperate effort to be calm.

“Where did he take her?” she asked, half concealing her agitated face behind the folds of her veil.

“Out to the old gentleman’s place; a splendid place they said it was. I can’t say just how fur off in the woods, where he’d cleared acres and acres of land. Jack never see her after she was took out there, but he said she didn’t die after all, but got married to the young feller that I told you was comin’ home on a visit to the old folks (I think they’d know’d each other afore she was married the first time, and kind a got separated somehow), and when she got about again he took her back with him, and I guess the old folks follered ’em after a bit.”

“Where, oh! where?” asked Floy imploringly.

The woman started and turned an earnest, inquiring gaze upon her.

“I beg pardon, but was they anything to you, miss?”

“I was the baby! and I’m looking for my mother. Oh, can you tell me where to find her?”

“That must a been a long while ago; you’re a heap bigger’n me, and I ain’t no baby,” remarked Sammy, disposing of the last mouthful of his lunch and wiping his hands on his mother’s handkerchief.

“Well, I never!” ejaculated the latter in wide-eyed astonishment. “And you was the baby! well now! Oh, do tell me! was those folks good to you?”

“As kind, as tender and loving as my own mother could possibly have been,” answered Floy, with emotion. “But oh, tell me where I shall find her!”

“Indeed, I wish I knowed! but I never did know whether ’twas to Californy or Oregon or some other o’ them fur-off places that they went.”

“And the man who told you the story?”

“Jack Strong? he went off years and years ago. They say he went to the war and got killed, and I guess it’s true.”

CHAPTER XV

ALONE

“Though at times my spirit fails me,And the bitter tear-drops fall,Though my lot is hard and lonely,Yet I hope – I hope through all.” —Mrs. Norton.

The shrill whistle of a locomotive coming from the direction of Clearfield sent the strolling passengers hurrying back to the train. Pouring into the cars, they settled themselves in their seats with relieved faces and exchange of congratulations that this tedious detention had at last come to an end.

Floy, who had borne it with resignation from the first, was now more deeply thankful for it than words can express. There came over her such a rush of glad hopes and expectations as to leave no room at the moment for the recollection that she had as yet not the slightest clue to her mother’s whereabouts. Even her sad bereavements and the cruel misunderstanding with Espy were for a short space half forgotten in the glad anticipation of again experiencing the blessedness of the possession of a mother’s love.

She was leaning her head back against the side of the car, her face concealed by her veil.

“Miss,” said Sammy’s mother, gently touching her on the shoulder, “excuse me for waking you, but we’re just ’most at my stoppin’-off place, and I didn’t like to go without sayin’ good-by to you.”

“No, that was right; I was not asleep,” said Floy, putting aside her veil and offering her hand, tears springing to her eyes, while a beautiful smile played about her lips. “I can never thank you enough for what you have told me to-day.”

“La sakes! ’tain’t nothin’ to thank me for,” returned the kind-hearted creature, grasping the soft little hand warmly in hers hardened by honest toil; “you’re as welcome as can be, and Sammy and me’s a thousand times obliged for the good dinner you give us. Well, I hope you’ll find your mother, miss, and when you do won’t you let me know? Just drop a line to Mrs. Sam Dobbs, Clearfield, and I’ll be sure to git it.”

“Wildbrier!” shouted the conductor at the door, and Mrs. Dobbs hurried from the car.

The morning’s detention, causing more than one failure in making connections, brought several vexatious delays – long hours of tedious waiting in depots in the loneliness of a crowd, and with few appliances for comfort.

But Floy felt no temptation to fret or murmur; all this was so infinitesimal a price to pay for what she had gained.

When the train reached Chicago it was five o’clock in the morning, and still dark.

No one to meet Floy, and she so utterly strange to the city that she knew not which way to turn to find the street and number given her as the address of Mrs. Sharp, whose apprentice she was to be.

No express agent had come on the train to attend to the delivery of baggage; not a hack nor an omnibus was in waiting.

She was looking this way and that in search of one, when a young man of rough exterior but kindly, honest face, as she could see by the light of a lamp near by, stepped up with the question:

“Any baggage, miss?”

“Yes; can you tell me where to find an omnibus or hack?”

“No, miss, there’s none here; they come to meet the regular trains, but this un’s out o’ time – about three hours behind.”

“Then what am I to do?” she asked in perplexity.

“Well, miss, I’ll take your trunk wherever it’s to go, and if you like you can just go along in the express wagon. ’Tain’t as suitable for you as a nice carriage, to be sure, but it’ll carry you safe and comfortable. Where’s the place?”

Floy gave him the number and street, and, accepting his offer with thanks as the best she could do under the circumstances, mounted to her elevated perch on the front seat, the young man giving her the assistance of his hand.

She saw her trunk placed behind her in the wagon, and presently found herself being driven rapidly through the almost deserted streets, for the city was but just beginning to rouse from its slumbers.

The morning air was chilly, blowing fresh and keen from the lake; the girl’s mood silent and sad, for, alas! no glad welcome, no loving caress, nor even a familiar face would greet her in the new abode (she could not call it home) to which she was hastening.

But her gallant charioteer, who had, perchance, never before had so sweet a face by his side, did his best to entertain and amuse her, pointing out the district swept by the great fire, relating incidents connected with it, and calling her attention to the fine buildings which had already sprung up in the places of those destroyed.

Arrived at her destination, he leaped nimbly from his perch, gave the door-bell a vigorous pull, and assisted her to alight.

There was a sound of quick pattering steps, the forcing back of a bolt, the turning of a key; the door was hastily jerked open, and Floy just caught a glimpse of a narrow hall with its oil-cloth-covered floor, an unkempt head and dirty face in the foreground, and all was darkness.

“There, the wind’s blowed the candle out! Miss Hetty, Miss Hetty, come right here! quick!” screamed the owner of the head. Then to Floy, “Who are you? and what d’ye want so awful early? We don’t never ’spect no customers this time in the morning.”

But before Floy could speak another person appeared upon the scene – a girl not many years older than herself, neat and trim in dress, and with a bright, intelligent, cheery, though homely face.

She came from the farther end of the hall, carrying a lighted lamp, and, holding it high over her head, peered into the darkness beyond.

“What are you making such a racket about, Patsy Devine? You’ll wake everybody in the house and our Sharp Thorne will give you a prick.” Then catching sight of Floy just stepping aside out of the way of the expressman, who was bringing in the trunk, “Oh! how d’ye do?” she said. “I suppose its – ”

“Miss Kemper – ”

“Ah, yes, the young lady Aunt Prue – Mrs. Sharp – was expecting. It’s all right.”

The expressman set down the trunk, received his pay, and departed.

Miss Hetty secured the door after him, and turning to Floy, said:

“Breakfast’s about ready to set on the table, so it won’t be worth while for you to climb the stairs till afterwards.”

“I am hardly fit to – ”

“Oh, I’ll provide you with means for removing the coal-dust from face and hands,” interrupted Hetty briskly, leading the way into the dining-room and across it to a closet, where she turned the water into a stationary washstand, and taking a clean towel and piece of soap from a drawer, laid them down beside it.

“There, just take off your things and give them to me.”

“Thank you, but – my hair?” said Floy, “I never sat down to breakfast in my life without first using a comb and brush.”

“Oh, just smooth it a little on top, and it’ll do well enough for this once; we’re all women and girls together; not a man in the house except Mr. Sharp, and he never comes to our early breakfast.”

The shadow of a smile flitted over the face of the new-comer.

“No,” laughed Hetty, divining her thought, “I would not be a slattern if all the men were at the bottom of the sea. Don’t judge of me by Patsy, I beg of you,” she added, with an odd grimace; “dirt and she have so strong an affinity for each other that there’s no keeping them apart.” And taking Floy’s hat and shawl, she hurried away. She was back again by the time our heroine had finished her hasty toilet.

Floy’s story had not preceded her. She had not felt willing that it should, and even Mrs. Sharp knew little more than that she was a young girl of good family who wished to learn dress-making and millinery.

But the deep mourning told of recent bereavement, and something in the patient sadness of the face went to Hetty’s warm heart. With a sudden impulse she threw her arms about Floy and kissed her.

“You poor thing, so far away from home and all you love!” she said, “it must seem terribly hard.”

Floy’s lip trembled and her eyes filled. She could only return the embrace in silence; her heart was too full for speech.

“Hetty!” said a voice from the dining-room, “Hetty, isn’t it time to ring the bell?”

“In a minute, mother, as soon as I can dish up the meat and potatoes,” answered the girl, stepping out and drawing Floy with her. “Mother, this is Miss Kemper, the young lady that was expected to come from the West, you know.”

Mrs. Goodenough, as Floy afterward learned to call her, was a heavy-featured, gray-haired, sallow woman, as dull, absent-minded, and slow as Hetty was bright and quick.

“Ah, yes; how d’ye do? But I didn’t know there was a train came in so early,” she said, shaking hands with Floy. “Ring that bell quick, Patsy!” as a step was heard in the hall, slipshod but hasty and impatient.

Mrs. Goodenough waddled into the kitchen (she was stout in figure and clumsy in gait). Patsy seized the bell, and Hetty came hurrying in with a dish of baked potatoes just as the door opened and another woman, alert in movement and sharp of feature, with a keen black eye, hair in crimping-pins, and a tall, wiry figure arrayed in a calico wrapper, clean and fresh but evidently thrown on in haste, came bustling in.

“Sarah, it’s getting late, and you know how the work’s hurrying us – six or eight dresses to be made this week, and – ah?” in a tone of inquiry as her eye fell upon Floy standing silently there.

Patsy’s bell was clanging in the hall.

“Miss Kemper, Aunt Prue!” shouted Hetty. “Breakfast’s ready now, and it isn’t quite six yet.”

Floy received a hasty nod, the black eyes scanning her from head to foot; then dashing into the hall, Mrs. Sharp seized Patsy with one hand, the bell with the other.

“That’s enough! will you never learn when to stop? How do you suppose Mr. Sharp can sleep through all this din? Come, girls, make haste!” and she turned into the dining-room again, followed by four apprentices, to whom the last words were addressed as they came flying down the stairs.

In a trice all had gathered about the table, Mrs. Goodenough pouring out the coffee, Mrs. Sharp helping to the meat, and the others passing the bread, butter, and potatoes; then all fell to work as if their lives depended upon finishing the meal in the shortest possible space of time – all but the new-comer, who bent reverently over her plate for a moment ere she took up her knife and fork.

She had been assigned a place at Mrs. Goodenough’s right hand. Hetty, who sat opposite, looked approval, but Mrs. Sharp’s comment was an impatient gesture, which, however, Floy did not see.

“We expected you last night,” Mrs. Sharp said presently.

Floy explained about the detention.

“Ah! and you’re tired out most likely? won’t be fit to work to-day, I s’pose?”

“I am willing to try,” was the quiet answer.

“She ought to have a nap first,” said Hetty impulsively.

“Yes, she looks tired,” remarked Mrs. Goodenough slowly; “and what is it Shakespeare says?”

She dropped knife and fork, and with eyes fixed upon vacancy seemed to be vainly striving to recall some apt quotation which had half suggested itself, then slipped away before she could quite secure it.

“Pshaw, Sarah!” exclaimed her sister impatiently, pushing back plate and chair and jumping up in haste, “I’m the first done, as usual. Girls, don’t be all day over your breakfast. Wash your hands and come right into the work-room as soon as you’re done; there’s no time to waste. Miss Kemper, take a nap if you need it. I’m not hard on my employees, even though my customers do drive me almost to distraction.”

She left the room without waiting for a reply, and the four apprentices followed almost immediately in a body, Floy rose too.

“Patsy and I will take your trunk up, Miss Kemper,” said Hetty. “It’s small, and we can easily carry it.”

“But is there not some man I could hire?”

“No, none near that I know of. Just let me have my own way. I’m used to it, ain’t I, mother?” laughed Hetty.

“Of course you are, Hetty,” returned Mrs. Goodenough absently, sipping her tea. “What is it Shakespeare says?”

CHAPTER XVI

INITIATED

“Come then, oh care! oh grief! oh woe!Oh troubles mighty in your kind!I have a balm ye ne’er can know —A hopeful mind.” —F. Vane.

Up three flights of stairs the trunk was carried, Floy following close behind, laden with satchel, hat, and shawl.

“There!” cried Hetty pantingly, setting it down in the corner and straightening herself with her hands upon her hips, “I feel relieved; I’ve had my own way, and that’s something I always enjoy,” and she wound up with a cheery little laugh.

All Floy’s protestations had been good-naturedly overruled, Hetty declaring herself a sort of female Samson, and the trunk very small and light.

“You are very kind,” said Floy, “but you should have let me hire some one.”

“No, no! no telling how long we’d have been kept waiting, or how many customers would have stumbled over or against it, or caught their dresses on it in the mean time. Whew! how close this room is! The girls rush down without waiting to open a window,” hastily throwing up one as she spoke. “I’m sorry I’ve no better or lower accommodations to offer you, Miss Kemper,” she went on laughingly. “It’s a shame to make you climb so many stairs, but one of the things that can’t be helped. That’s your bed in the corner there,” pointing to a single bed which seemed not to have been occupied. “Do lie down and rest a little; sleep if you can. I must run right away,” and she flew downstairs.

Floy glanced about her. A great bare attic room, an old carpet, faded and worn, covering the middle of the floor; furniture scanty – just an old bureau, three chairs, all much hacked and scratched with long, hard usage; several unmade beds, each of which had evidently been occupied by two persons through the past night; and her own little one, which looked neat and inviting with its coarse but clean sheets and cheap white counterpane.

Everything indeed was clean, yet the room was disorderly and without a suggestion of comfort or prettiness in its appointments.

What a contrast to her own cosey, tasteful room in the old home!

She walked to the window and looked out. Day had fully dawned, and the busy hum of the awakening city came to her ear with no unpleasing sound. No velvety lawn, no garden gay with flowers, no nodding trees or softly wooded hills met her view; instead, bare roofs and domes and spires; but beyond these lay the great lake, its waters rippling in the morning breeze. And even as she gazed, far away to the east where sea and sky seemed to meet, a long line of rose color showed itself, deepened rapidly to crimson, brightened into gold; rays of light shot upward, quickly followed by the sun, “rejoicing as a strong man to run a race,” and sending his bright beams over the wide expanse of waters till each wavelet’s edge was tipped with burnished gold.

Floy leaned against the window-frame, hands clasped and eyes drinking in eagerly all the glory and beauty of the scene, loneliness, bereavement, all earthly ills forgotten for the moment.