Signing the Contract and What it Cost

“Ah,” she sighed half aloud, “if Espy were here! if he could but transfer this to canvas!”

Then all the grief and anguish of their estrangement, all the sorrow and loss that preceded and mingled with it, came rushing back upon her with well-nigh overwhelming force, and her slight, willowy form bent like a reed before the blast.

She sank upon her knees, her head resting upon the window-seat, her hands tightly clasped above an almost breaking heart.

A burst of wild weeping, tears falling like rain, bitter choking sobs following thick and fast upon each other, then a great calm; an effort at first feeble, but growing stronger by degrees, to roll the burden too heavy for her upon One able and willing to bear it, a soothing, comforting remembrance of His promise never to leave nor forsake, and anon the glad thought that she whose love was only second to His might yet be found.

“She may be near, very near me even now,” whispered the girl to herself, “in this city, this street, but a few doors away; it may be for that I have been sent here. Oh, what a thought! what joy if we should meet! But would we recognize each other? Mother, oh, mother! should I know your face if I saw it?”

She rose, tottered to the glass over the bureau, and earnestly scanned her own features. With a half-smile she noted their worn and haggard look. Grief, care, and fatigue seemed to have done the work of years.

“It is well,” she said. “I think I know now how she looks – my own poor, weary, heart-broken mother!”

Mrs. Kemper had told Floy that, allowing for difference in age, health, and circumstances, she was in face and form almost the exact counterpart of her own mother, and this was not the first time that the girl had earnestly studied her own face, trying to anticipate the changes to be wrought in it by the wear and tear of the next eighteen or twenty years, that thus she might be ready to know at a glance that other one she so longed to look upon.

She turned from the glass with a long, weary sigh, took off her dusty dress, shook out her abundant tresses, donned a wrapper, crept into the bed that had been pointed out as hers, and when Patsy came up an hour later to tidy the room, was sunk in a slumber so profound that she knew of neither the coming nor going of the child.

She was roused at last by a slight shake and the voice of the little maid.

“Miss, miss, they’re a-settin’ down to the table; don’t ye want some dinner? Miss Hetty she told me to ax ye.”

“Thank you!” cried Floy, starting up. “Yes, I’ll be down in a moment; I’d no thought of sleeping so long!”

It was the work of a very few minutes to gather up her hair into a massive coil at the back of her head and put on one of her simply-made but becoming mourning dresses.

She entered the dining-room with a quaking heart, not knowing what severe looks or reproaches might be meted out to her unpunctuality.

Patsy’s report had been, however, not quite correct, and she was but a moment behind the others.

They were the same party she had met at breakfast, with the addition of a middle-aged, cadaverous-visaged man with a perpetual frown on his brow and a fretful expression about the mouth, who, as she entered, was in the act of carving a leg of mutton. He honored our heroine with a stare which she felt like resenting.

“Miss Kemper, Uncle Thorne,” said Hetty.

“Ah, how d’ye do, miss? Will you be helped to a bit of a poor man?”

“Sir?” she said with a bewildered look.

“Ha! ha! ha! don’t you know that’s what the Scotch call a leg of mutton? I’m sure you’ll find it relishing. Just send me your plate by the fair hands of our young Devine. I fear her divinity lies altogether in name, for certainly she’s neither heavenly nor spiritual, supernatural nor superhuman in appearance.”

“No,” remarked Mrs. Goodenough in her slow, absent way as Patsy took the plate, “she’s not equivalent to that. What is it Shakespeare says?”

“My classical sister – ” began Mr. Sharp, in mock admiration.

“Aunt Prue,” asked Hetty hastily, “did Mrs. Cox decide whether she would have real lace on her bonnet?”

“Yes, and on the dress too. She’s running up a large bill, but she is able to pay it.”

“She or her husband?” asked Mr. Sharp with a sneer.

“She has none.”

“Fortunate creature!” exclaimed Hetty in an aside.

“She’s a rich widow,” continued Mrs. Sharp; and from that the talk went on, running altogether upon flowers, laces, and ribbons, hats, bonnets, and dresses, and the latest styles for each.

“What puerilities!” remarked Mr. Sharp at length; “but the average female mind seems capable of dwelling upon nothing but trifles.”

“And some male bodies – not a few either – appear to be quite willing to live upon – ”

“Hetty, Hetty,” interrupted her mother, “don’t be personal.”

“Humph! let her talk!” he said with sarcasm; “it amuses her and harms no one. It’s no fault of hers that she wasn’t given an intellect capable of appreciating literary labor.”

“Very true,” remarked his wife. “How does the work progress, Thorne? I hope this has been a good day for you.”

“A woman of sense, knowing how my morning nap was broken in upon by unnecessary noises, and how very unsuitable was the breakfast served up to me afterward, would not ask such a question,” he answered loftily.

“Come, girls,” said his wife, rising hastily, “I think we are all done, and there’s not a minute to be lost.”

Floy rose with the others and accompanied them to the work-room.

“What can you do, Miss Kemper?” asked Mrs. Sharp.

“I think I may say I have been thoroughly drilled in plain sewing both by hand and with the machine,” Floy answered modestly; “and for the last year I have fitted and made my common dresses, and generally assisted with the better ones.”

“You may begin with this,” said Mrs. Sharp, handing her a dress-skirt of cheap material.

“That sounds very well, but we shall see what we shall see,” was what Floy read in her countenance. “And she shall see,” was the girl’s mental resolve.

“She’s a treasure – this new arrival – if she only keeps on as she’s begun,” Mrs. Sharp said, with a triumphant smile, talking to Hetty that night after the apprentices and journey-women had retired; “as handy and neat a sewer as ever you saw, both by hand and on the machine, and turns off nearly twice as much work as any one of the others.”

“That’s splendid, Aunt Prue,” returned Hetty, “but we must be careful not to work a willing horse to death.”

“Of course, Hetty; did I ever do that?”

An odd little smile played about the girl’s lips, but she only said:

“We’ve taken in a good many orders to-day; sold off most of our stock of ready-made hats too, and – there! it’s striking eleven, and I have two hats to trim before I go to bed.”

“You’re worth your weight in gold, Hetty, and it’s a fine thing you need so little sleep,” remarked her aunt. “But I think Sarah should relieve you of the oversight of Patsy and the meals more than she does.”

“Mother’s not well,” said Hetty shortly.

“Oh, she’s hipped; it’s more that than anything else,” laughed Mrs. Sharp. “Good-night,” and she left the room.

“Hipped! of course she is! Everybody is that complains of anything, except that Sharp Thorne of hers,” muttered Hetty, adjusting flowers, feathers, and loops of ribbon with deft and rapid fingers. “And of course I wouldn’t enjoy being in bed now, or lying an hour later in the morning! Well, thank Heaven, I haven’t a man to support, and don’t need one to support me,” she added cheerily.

CHAPTER XVII

HETTY TO THE RESCUE

“The drying up a single tear has moreOf honest fame than shedding seas of gore.” —Byron.

“Hetty Goodenough, you’ll have to interfere, and set your foot down firmly too, or the child’s health will be ruined for life,” remarked that young lady to herself, stealing another and another furtive glance at the wan, thin cheeks of Floy Kemper. “Why, she’s but the ghost of the pretty girl the expressman brought here two months ago.”

The Christmas holidays were near at hand, and for weeks past orders for party-dresses, head-dresses, opera cloaks, etc., had poured in upon the establishment till, as Mrs. Sharp said, they were driven almost to distraction.

It was now near midnight following one of the hardest days of the season, and all the weary toilers save these two had left the work-room to seek the rest so sorely needed.

“Floy,” said Hetty aloud.

They had long since taken up the habit of calling each other by these familiar names.

“Well, Hetty?” and the girl, who was busily engaged in looping up the folds of rich silk and lace on an over-skirt, with delicate blossoms wonderfully real in their loveliness, looked up from her work with a faint smile.

“Do give that up for to-night; you’ve done too much to-day by a great deal.”

“But it can’t be helped while so many are hurrying us so for their dresses, and this will be done now in a few minutes.”

“The heartless creatures!” ejaculated Hetty. “There’s nothing hardens the heart like love of dress, Floy; I’d rather be – what I am – worked half to death – than a butterfly of fashion. Well, if you’re determined to finish that, I must come and help you.”

“Thank you,” said Floy. “What makes you so good to me, Hetty?”

“It’s odd, isn’t it? but somehow I took a fancy to you the first minute I set eyes on you.”

“And you’ve been the one bright spot in my life here ever since.”

Hetty looked both touched and gratified.

“There, it’s done at last!” she said presently, holding up their finished work, gazing at it admiringly for an instant as she shook out the rich folds; then carrying it to a closet, she hung it up carefully, shut and locked the door, putting the key in her pocket, and came back to Floy.

“What is it?” she asked almost tenderly, for Floy sat in a despondent attitude, her elbow on the table, her cheek on her hand, while her eyes, gazing into vacancy, had a deeply sad, far-away look.

“I was only thinking,” she answered with an effort to speak cheerfully; but her voice broke, and a sudden gush of tears followed the words.

“Don’t mind me! I – I didn’t mean to!” she faltered, dashing away the bright drops and vainly struggling to recover her composure, as Hetty dropped on one knee at her side and put her arms affectionately about her.

“You’re just worn out; that’s one trouble, but I’m afraid not the only one. I’m not curious, and don’t want to obtrude myself into your confidence, but if you want sympathy – I’d be ever so glad to give it. I – I’ve thought sometimes ’twould do you good to unburden your heart to some one. You’re homesick, I’m sure of that, for I know the symptoms. The home folks ought to write to you oftener than they do. I’ve noticed the postman has brought you only two or three letters since you came, and one of those was from an attorney at law.”

“Yes, and the others were from one who is a dear, kind friend, but has no drop of my blood in her veins. Hetty, I never had a sister or brother. Last year – oh! only four short months ago – I was a petted only child, the darling of the best, kindest, dearest of parents; now – I am alone – all alone! The grave closed over them both in one day.”

The last words were scarcely audible, but Hetty’s quick ear caught them, and her warm heart bled for the bereaved one. She clasped her more closely in her arms and wept with her.

“Poor dear, poor dear!” she said, “what a pleasant home you must have had with them! Wouldn’t it do you good to talk of it to me?”

Floy felt that it would, and in trembling, tearful tones drew a bright picture of the happy home of her childhood, the tender parental love and care that had made it such in no ordinary degree.

Hetty was just the deeply-interested, sympathizing listener the poor heart craved, and the outpouring relieved it of half its load.

“What a change for you – coming here!” was Hetty’s comment; “and how well you have borne it! so patient, so uncomplaining, so diligent, and faithful! I hardly know how you can have sufficient energy and ambition.”

“A strange remark coming from you,” returned Floy, smiling faintly as she wiped away the tears she had been shedding to the memory of the dear ones gone, “you who seem to me to be the very embodiment of energy and ambition.”

“Ah, I’m used to the life, and I have an object; poor mother has only me to relieve her of her heavy burdens; love of her lightens toil wonderfully!”

“Love of Another too, Hetty; isn’t it so? And I too can rejoice in the hope that He is pleased when I strive to do my work faithfully, because it is of His appointment, and be patient under trial, because He sends it.”

Hetty silently pressed the hand she held, a tender moisture gathering in her eyes.

“And – yes, I will tell you, for I am sure you are a true friend, one worthy of my confidence. I have another object in life besides the necessity of earning my own support.”

And in a few brief, eager sentences, alight shining in her eyes, a tender smile hovering around her full, red lips, Floy told of her hope that she had still a mother living, and should some day be able to search her out.

Hetty listened to the tale in almost breathless surprise and delight.

“You’ll find her!” she cried, “you’ll find each other – I’m sure of it.”

“And so am I at times, but I seem to make no progress of late. I so seldom get out even into the street, or go anywhere that I am likely to meet strangers.”

“You ought to be in the store,” said Hetty musingly; “perhaps that can be managed by and by, and in the meanwhile I’ll be on the lookout for you. You resemble her?”

“Yes, allowing for the difference in age. Oh, it seems to me I should know the face if I saw it!”

It was past midnight now, and as the girls must be up by five o’clock in the morning, it behooved them to retire at once.

They bade each other good-night and stole softly upstairs, Hetty stopping on the third floor while Floy went on up to the attic.

It was indeed a change from her old home in Cranley to this that hardly deserved the name, and not more the change in the accommodations and surroundings than in the life she led – leisure, petting indulgence, tender, watchful care in the one; in the other incessant toil, seldom rewarded by so much as a word or smile of approval, very plain fare, her happiness evidently a matter of indifference to all about her except warm-hearted, sympathizing Hetty.

But Floy had borne it well; silent and abstracted she often was, scarce hearing the idle chatter of the others, but always diligent and faithful in the performance of the tasks assigned her; no eye-service was hers, and though often very weary and heart-sick, no complaint passed her lips or could be read in her countenance; what her hand found to do she did with her might, and having, as Mrs. Sharp discovered ere she had been in the house a week, a decided genius for cutting, fitting, and trimming, she had been worked very hard, and was already secretly esteemed an invaluable acquisition to the establishment.

She was breaking down under the unaccustomed strain; she needed the generous, varied, and nutritious diet, the abundance of fresh air and exercise, and somewhat of the rest and freedom from care of the olden time.

Mrs. Sharp was slow to perceive this, but Hetty had suspected it for days past, and to-night had become fully convinced.

She did not lie awake thinking of it, for, like Floy, she was weary enough to fall asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, but it was her last thought on lying down, her first on awaking, and she sprang up, saying half aloud:

“It shall be attended to, and this very day, sure as you’re born, Hetty Goodenough!”

“What, Hetty?” asked her mother drowsily.

“Can’t wait to explain now, mothery; the clock’s striking five; will another time. Just turn over and take another nap while Patsy and I get breakfast.”

“It’s a shame! I ought to get up and let you nap it a little longer. What is it Shakespeare says?” muttered Mrs. Goodenough sleepily, turning over as she was bidden to do.

Hetty laughed low and musically as she threw on a wrapper, caught up a shawl, and hurried from the room. She was a power in that house, and knew it too. Mr. Sharp was a penniless dependent upon his wife, who, starting in business with a very small capital, had managed by dint of great exertions to add something to it, and at the same time to support the family and educate their children.

No easy life was hers, as Hetty said; she had shown herself neither prudent nor sharp when she consented to take such a Thorne to her bosom as the lazy, supercilious, self-indulgent husband who, while looking down with contempt upon her from the lofty heights of his intellectual superiority, whether real or fancied, was yet none too proud to live upon her hard earnings; and instead of showing any gratitude for the favors heaped upon him, was perpetually grumbling and finding fault.

His wife bore with and excused him on the plea of ill-health; but Hetty’s opinion, not always kept entirely private, was that he was quite as capable of exertion as the rest of them if he would only think so, and that if by any possibility he could be forced to leave his bed at the early hour set for the rest of the family, and then to go to work with a will at something useful and remunerative, it would have an excellent effect upon him both mentally and physically.

But alas! she had not the power to enforce her cure, and he went on from day to day dozing away the precious morning hours, often the afternoon also, then sitting up far into the night at some literary work that never paid. Sometimes it was an English grammar that was never finished, at others an essay on some subject in which the public could not be brought to take an interest.

He was soured by disappointment, considering himself a very ill-used man, and could not be made to see that the trouble lay in his selfish determination to do only what he liked, whether it would or would not pay and enable him to support himself and family.

Mrs. Goodenough, nominally at the head of the housekeeping department, lacked her sister’s native energy, and was really out of health, and the greater part of that burden was assumed by Hetty, who was a perfect embodiment of vigor and efficiency.

Hetty had charge of the millinery part of the concern also, including a store in which she had invested a few hundreds inherited from her father, bringing to the business also a thorough knowledge of the trade.

She kept the accounts too, and was in fact quite as much the mainspring of the whole establishment as Mrs. Sharp herself, if not more so.

And this was well for the employees, since it was by Hetty’s oversight of marketing and cooking that the table was supplied with a sufficiency of wholesome, well-prepared food, and meals were served with the regularity so necessary to health.

She could not wholly save them from being overworked, or indeed herself either, but the hours of labor were sometimes abridged by her thoughtful kindness in exerting her influence to that end.

CHAPTER XVIII

A CRUEL BLOW

“Our first love murdered is the sharpest pangA human heart can feel.” —Young.

Floy came down to breakfast with a violent headache. She said nothing about it, but her look of suffering and want of appetite did not escape Hetty’s watchful eye, and made her more determined than ever to come speedily to the rescue.

The opportunity offered shortly after the conclusion of the meal. Leaving her mother and Patsy to clear it away, Hetty hurried into the store. It was still too early to open, but there were accounts to be looked over and things to be set right before she would be ready for customers.

She had not been there long when Mrs. Sharp came in with the over-skirt she had helped Floy to finish the night before.

“See, Hetty, what do you think of this?” she asked, with a pleased look. “Some of Miss Kemper’s work. She really has a wonderful amount of taste.”

“Yes, I think so; it’s perfectly lovely, Aunt Prue; you never had an apprentice before, or a journey-woman either, for that matter, who could trim half so prettily or had so many original ideas about it.”

Mrs. Sharp assented, shaking out the dress and gazing admiringly upon it as she turned it this way and that to note the effect.

“Yes,” she said complacently, “we’ve secured a real treasure in her, and I never shall regret having consented to take her.”

“She’s worth taking care of.”

“Of course she is, Hetty; but what do you mean by that?” asked the aunt sharply.

“That she isn’t getting sleep enough, or fresh air or exercise enough; that this work, work, work, from early morning until late at night, is breaking down her health, and we’ll have to manage differently as far as she’s concerned, or we’ll have her dying on our hands.”

“Dear me, Het,” in a vexed tone, “you have a way of putting things so strongly, and in such a sudden fashion too, that I declare it nearly knocks one down! She’s no more overworked than you or I.”

“Perhaps not; but we’re used to it, and naturally stronger, I think. Besides, we don’t sit so steadily, but are here and there, all over the house, and in and out too, shopping or marketing.”

“Well, it can’t be helped while we’re so driven with work.”

“Better spare her for an hour or two every day now than lose her services for weeks or maybe altogether.”

Mrs. Sharp tossed the dress on to the counter and sat down with her hands folded in her lap. For a moment she seemed lost in thought, her countenance expressing a good deal of annoyance.

“I generally send Annie Jones home with finished work,” she said presently, “because she’s not good for much else; but if Miss Kemper is really in such pressing need of air and exercise, she may take that duty sometimes. I don’t believe, though, that she’ll be willing; she is too high in her notions.”

“She is a lady, and would of course feel it somewhat of a trial to her pride,” said Hetty, “but I believe she is too sensible and right-minded to refuse, when it’s so necessary for her health.”

“Well, we’ll see.”

Floy was called and the question laid before her.

The result was as Hetty had predicted – an evident struggle with pride, then a thankful acceptance of the offer. Health was far too valuable to be lightly thrown away, and – ah, how many strange faces would present themselves to her view in the houses to which she was sent, on the sidewalks, and in the street-cars, and who could tell that the one she so longed to find might not be among them!

It was assigned to her to carry home the work she had completed the night before, and when the late hour arrived at which a fashionable lady might be supposed ready to receive such a call she set out upon the by no means agreeable errand.

The air was keen and cold, but the sun shone brightly, and she found her walk of some half dozen squares bracing and enjoyable.

It was to a very handsome residence in a fashionable quarter of the city that she had been sent.

The servant who answered her ring left her standing in the hall while he carried away the package she had brought. Presently he returned with a request that she would follow it.

“Miss Carrie wants you to see it tried on, so’s you can fix it if ’tain’t all right,” he said.

He led her up a flight of marble stairs, broad and low, with an elegantly-carved balustrade, and over softly-carpeted floors to a richly-furnished boudoir, where three young girls, in elegant morning dresses, lounged upon the sofas, taking their ease as though life had no serious duties for them and time were given only to be frittered away.

Floy was conscious that the three pairs of eyes were levelled at her on her entrance, but bore the ordeal with quiet dignity.

“Ah, you’re the young person sent from Mrs. Sharp’s, I presume?” said one, laying aside a novel. “I’m glad she didn’t disappoint me. Will you please undo it?” pointing to the parcel lying on an ottoman. “I must try it on and let you see that it’s all right before you go.”

She spoke as if addressing a menial, and Floy’s cheek burned; but she silently did as requested.

The wrappings were removed, and in a moment all three of the young ladies had started to their feet with exclamations of “Lovely!” “Charming!” “Exquisite!”

“I shall run into the next room and put it on!” cried the owner.