Signing the Contract and What it Cost

A loud peal from the door-bell made her start, and set all her nerves tingling, she scarce knew why.

“The postman,” said Mrs. Sharp; “more orders, I presume. Here, give it to me, Patsy,” as the little maid appeared with a note in her hand. “Yes, just as I thought. Run back to your work, Patsy. No, make yourself decent first; I won’t have customers driven away by such a fright answering the bell.”

With the open note in her hand, Mrs. Sharp hurried into the store to consult with Hetty.

“Here’s a note from the Madame – wanting a dress fitted to-day, and made this week; with all this holiday work on our hands, giving us hardly time to breathe! But it’s like her – always choosing my busiest time. Did you ever know it to fail?”

“Never! so we ought to be used to it by this time.”

“What do you advise?”

“Madame is too valuable a customer to lose.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“I’d send Floy. No one else is competent except yourself.”

“That’s true; yes, she’ll have to go, though I don’t know how to spare her here.”

Hastening back to the work-room,

“Is that dress done, Miss Kemper?” she asked.

“I’m just setting the last stitches,” was the reply.

“Well, the minute you’re done put on your things and take it home; then go on from there to the address I shall give you. She’s a good customer – rich, middle-aged, queer, and must be humored in her notions. She thinks she must have a new dress immediately, though she has fifty already. You’ll probably have to stay two or three days, as she will have her gowns made in the house, and a great deal of work put on them.”

Floy obeyed, nothing loath, for she was weary enough of the monotony of her life and the disorder, hurry, and bustle of the work-room.

“Any change,” thought she, “must surely be for the better.”

As she passed though the hall at Mr. Lea’s, after attending to her errand, she overheard the inquiry of a gentleman at the door for Mr. Alden, and the servant’s reply,

“He’s left the city, sir; went off yesterday in a mighty big hurry. Had a telegram that somebody was sick at home.”

The words went through Floy like a shot. For an instant she was near falling, but recovering herself, she hastily drew down her veil and stepped past the servant into the street.

The gentleman was already gone, and she too went quietly on her way – seeming quiet outwardly, but in great tumult of feeling.

“Was it Espy’s father who was so ill? Would he now relent? Would he die?”

In either case the bar to her own and Espy’s happiness would be removed. She was horrified at the thrill of pleasure that thought brought with it: that she could be glad of the death of another! Silently asking forgiveness, cleansing, help, she hurried onward.

There was now neither hope nor fear of meeting Espy. Was she glad? was she sorry? Truly she did not know. Then she thought of him bereaved of a parent, and her tears fell fast. Who knew better than she the anguish of such a loss? Ah, if she could but save him this great sorrow!

Madame Le Conte lived in the suburbs of the city in a large, handsome dwelling on the shore of the lake, of which there was a fine view from the whole front of the house. The street-cars, however, carried Floy to within a square of the place, and it was still comparatively early when she reached it.

Her ring was promptly answered by a pretty, neatly-attired Irish girl, rosy and smiling.

“Is it the dressmaker from Mrs. Sharp’s that the Madame’s expecting?” she inquired without waiting for Floy to tell her errand. “Well, I’m glad to see you, miss, for you’ve a purty face, and are a nice-lookin’ lady intirely, besides that the Madame would a been awful vexed if you’d disappointed her. But just step this way, intil the dining-room; for the Madame’s not up yet – she don’t rise mostly afore nine o’clock – and me orders was to give you your breakfast the first thing.”

“I have breakfasted, thank you, and – ”

“Yes, miss, but sure don’t we all know what onchristian hours they kape down there? giving ye yere breakfast afore six o’clock. An’ sure ye’ve been walkin’ and ridin’ in the cowld, keen air o’ the streets till folks would think ye’d be as hungry as a wolf.”

As she spoke, she led the way through the great wide hall with its broad staircase, past open doors that gave glimpses of spacious, elegantly-furnished apartments, to a cosey, sunshiny breakfast-parlor, where a glowing grate, with an easy chair beside it and a little round table daintily spread with snowy drapery, cut glass, silver, and Sevres china, and set in a large bay window where some rare plants were blooming, and whence could be caught a view of the rolling waters of the lake, were very suggestive of ease and enjoyment.

“There, miss, wad ye ax a swater place to eat in?” queried Kathleen, watching with delight Floy’s face brighten with pleased surprise as she glanced from side to side of the cheery room.

“No, indeed.”

“Well, it’s meself that wouldn’t. Now just sit ye down in that big chair by the fire and take off your things and warm yerself while I fetch in the breakfast.”

Very willingly Floy accepted the invitation.

“A very pleasant beginning,” she thought as she felt the genial warmth of the fire; “the Madame must be both kind and generous. But I must not expect to find roses without thorns anywhere in this world; ah, no! but I will try to take quietly and thankfully the sweet and bitter as they come.”

There was no bitter in the breakfast presently served by the smiling Kathleen: fragrant, delicious coffee, richly creamed and sugared; the sweetest of butter, elegant hot rolls, a tender beefsteak – all done to a turn.

Floy had not thought of hunger till food was offered her, but to her surprise found no lack of appetite for the tempting fare set before her.

She had hardly begun her meal when, at a whining sound, Kathleen opened the door leading into the hall and admitted a curly lap-dog as white as snow, a beautiful little creature.

“Why, Frisky, you’re late till yere breakfast the day!” said Kathleen, stroking it gently. “See, miss, isn’t he a purty crayther? his coat’s so fine and soft and glossy!”

“Like floss silk,” said Floy. “Is he the Madame’s pet?”

“Yes, miss, that he is, the darlint! an’ we all make much of him, an’ it’s spoilt he is intirely, the crayther. He’s come fur his breakfast, miss; he’s been used to ating in here with his misthress, an’ niver a bit will he ate in the kitchen, such a grand gintleman as he is; so will ye plaze to excuse us if I bring his mate in here and feed him afore ye?”

“Certainly,” returned Floy, with a smile. “I should like to see him eat.”

“Thank ye, miss,” said Kathleen, setting two more chairs up to the table, of one of which Frisky instantly took possession, then whisking into the kitchen and back again, bringing a plate of meat quite as carefully prepared as the one she had set before Floy.

“You see it’s kapin’ it hot for him I’ve been, miss,” she explained, seating herself in the other chair and beginning to cut the meat up into small bits. “It must be hot, and cut fine, or he won’t touch it; and, more nor that, he’ll not ate a mouthful if ye don’t sing to him all the time.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed her listener in surprise.

“Yes, miss, it’s thrue as prachin’; just see now! we always have to feed him wid a silver fork too.” And taking up a bit in her fingers she offered it, saying coaxingly, “Ate it now, me jewel; it’s illegant, tender, and swate.”

He did not so much as sniff at it, but looked her steadily in the face, with a little growl, as much as to say, “Do you mean to insult me?”

She began to sing, still holding the bit of meat in her fingers and bringing it a little nearer to his nose.

He snapped at her with a short, sharp bark, and, laughing, she took up another piece with a silver fork, and silently offered it.

He only repeated his growl.

She began her song again, still holding out the piece on the fork, and he took it at once and devoured it greedily.

The door opened, and a comely woman, older and more staid in appearance than the merry, talkative Kathleen, came in, asking in a tone of irritation,

“What’s the matter here? what are you doing to Madame’s pet? she sent me down to see if he was getting abused.”

“Niver a bit at all, at all, Mary, me dear; sure an’ it’s mesilf that likes the little baste wid it’s cunnin’ thricks too well to abuse it, let alone that I’d niver hurt a livin’ crayther. Och, ye varmint! take it, will yees?” offering another choice morsel; “can’t yer see with half an eye that even the like o’ me can’t talk an’ sing both at onct? It’s worse than a babby yees are! Tra, la, la, la, la la!”

“Ten times worse!” observed the older woman testily, “but nothing to compare to his mistress, she’s more trouble than forty babies; never a wink o’ sleep do I git till long after midnight.”

“An’ do ye think, Mary, me dear, it’s much slape ye’d get wid forty babbies to the fore?” queried Kathleen, ceasing her song for a moment. “But I’m forgetting me manners. It’s the young lady that’s come to make the Madame’s dress, Mary,” she added, with a nod of her head in Floy’s direction.

“How do you do, miss?” said Mary civilly. “Don’t be discouraged at what I’ve been saying; the Madame has her good points as well as other folks; you’ll find her unreasonable and hard to please sometimes, but she’ll make it up to you; she’s very generous and free with her money.”

In reply Floy, having finished her meal, intimated that she would like to get to work at once.

“Then come with me; I’ll take you to the sewing-room and give you the skirts to work at till Madame is pleased to be fitted,” returned Mary, leading the way.

This, too, was a bright, cheery, prettily-furnished room, and Floy was not sorry to be left alone in it for the next hour. Quietness and solitude had become rare luxuries in the busy, crowded life of the homeless young orphan.

How quiet the house was! were there no children in it? No, surely only a childless woman could be so foolishly fond of an animal as this Madame evidently was.

CHAPTER XXI

GHOSTS OF THE PAST

“Oh, it comes o’er my memoryAs doth the raven o’er the infected house.”Shakespeare, Othello.

No wonder Floy found the house so quiet. Madame’s dressing-room, adjoining the one where she sat, was tenantless, the lady herself sleeping soundly in the bedroom beyond, Frisky curled up by her side, and Mary dozing on a sofa near by, while Kathleen had locked up her kitchen and gone out upon some household errand.

As the clock on the mantel struck ten Madame awoke.

“Mary!” she called plaintively, “Mary, why did you let me sleep so long?”

“Because if I had not you would have reproved me for waking you,” returned the maid, shaking off her drowsiness and assuming a sitting posture upon the sofa.

“Mary, you are impolite, not to say unkind and disrespectful, to answer me so,” whimpered the mistress, applying a handkerchief to her eyes. “You don’t appreciate all I do for you. It isn’t every girl that can live in the luxury you do – fed and clothed like a lady – and lay by her five or six dollars every week too.”

“That’s true enough, Madame; but I’m sure I earn it all, and you know as well as I that you couldn’t get anybody else to serve you as much to your liking for twice the money. What will you be pleased to have for your breakfast?”

“Nothing,” returned Madame, sobbing behind her handkerchief.

“How will you have it prepared?” asked Mary with unmoved gravity.

Madame burst into a laugh. “I’ll have a broiled sweet-bread, hot buttered muffins, coffee, and marmalade.”

“Shall I prepare it?”

“No, ring for Kathleen.”

Mary touched the bell.

“What gown will Madame be pleased to wear?” she asked, bringing a basin of water and a towel to the bedside.

“That blue silk wrapper. Has Mrs. Sharp come?”

“No, but she has sent a young girl to work for you. I left her in the sewing-room making your skirts.”

“The top o’ the mornin’ to yees, Madame!” cried Kathleen, coming in fresh and rosy from her walk. “I hope ye’re aisy, an’ feel like atin’ a big breakfast. Ye breathe aisier nor ye do sometimes.”

Madame was seized at that moment with a wheezing asthmatic cough.

“I had a bad night,” she said pantingly, “and have no breath to spare. Tell her what to get me, Mary.”

Thirty years ago Madame Le Conte was a slender, graceful girl, with a clear olive complexion, delicate features, ruby lips, bright black eyes, and lively, engaging manners; now she was an overgrown, gross-looking, middle-aged, or rather elderly, woman, immensely fat, tortured with asthma, gout and sundry kindred ailments, dull, heavy, and uninteresting, nervous, irritable, childishly unreasonable and changeable, full of whims and fancies – a wretched burden to herself and all about her.

Rolling in wealth, she constantly sighed over the sad fact that there were none of her own kith and kin to inherit it, and that the service rendered her was not the service of love, but merely of self-interest.

Mary, her personal attendant, had been with her many years, thoroughly understood her ways, and knew how to minister to her wants as no one else did; and quite aware of the fact, sometimes took advantage of it to scold her mistress when much tried by her unreasonable demands, threatening to leave, and occasionally even refusing to obey orders, when Madame would angrily dismiss her, but on being seemingly taken at her word, would relent, burst into tears and pathetic entreaties, and buy a reconciliation with fair promises, increased wages, or expensive presents.

Madame wore a cork hand; how she had come to be deprived of her good right hand no one knew or dared ask, for she was extremely sensitive in regard to her loss, and would not endure the slightest allusion to it. Mary removed the artificial limb at night and replaced it in the morning without question or comment, and made it part of her business to divert the idle curiosity of others from this deformity of her mistress. This she did without waiting for instructions; for Mary had a heart, and often pitied the poor rich cripple from its very depths.

“Yes, she had a bad night, so don’t make her talk any more,” she said to Kathleen as she carefully laved her mistress’s face and hand. “She’ll have a broiled sweet-bread – ”

“No, no, let it be stewed; I’ll have it stewed,” interrupted the Madame.

Mary completed the bill of fare as given by her mistress a few moments before, and Kathleen turned to go, but had scarcely reached the door when she was called back.

“Waffles, waffles, Katty,” wheezed her mistress.

“Yes, ma’am; and muffins too?”

“No – yes, yes. Go, and make haste; I’m starved.”

Kathleen had reached the head of the stairs when she was again recalled, and tea and cream-toast substituted for coffee, muffins, and waffles; then the Madame thought she would prefer chocolate, and finally decided that all three should be prepared, toast and muffins also, and she would take her choice.

Even Kathleen’s almost imperturbable good-nature was somewhat tried. Her face clouded for a moment, but all was sunshine ere she reached her kitchen again, where she flew nimbly about, executing the latest orders of her capricious mistress, saying laughingly to herself:

“Sure an’ it’s me that ’ud better make haste afore she has time to change her mind again; for it won’t be long it’ll take her to do that same.”

There was a knock at the side gate, and Kathleen flew to open it, the rose on her cheek deepening and her pretty blue eyes dancing with delight.

“It’s only me, Kathleen, me darlint!” cried a cheery voice.

“Sure and don’t I know your knock, Rory?” she responded, drawing back the bolt and admitting a strapping young Irishman. “But come into the kitchen; I’ve got the Madame’s breakfast over the fire, and can’t stop here to spake two words to ye,” she added, running back, he following close at her heels.

“Has the Madame sint down her orders yet?” he asked, sitting down beside the fire and watching the girl’s movements with admiring eyes.

“No; she’s just up, and I’m thinking the horses’ll be likely to rest till after dinner anyhow, for she’s got a dressmaker at work makin’ up that illegant silk she bought yesterday, and she’ll be wantin’ to get fit, you know.”

“Av coorse. Well, I’m contint, since me wages goes on all the same, an’ maybe I’ll have the more time to sit here with you.”

“Maybe so, and maybe not,” said Kathleen, turning her muffins; “they’ll maybe be wantin’ me up there to run the machine.”

“I wish it was to make a silk gown for yersilf, jewel; the Madame’s got a plinty now, and all the fine dresses as iver was made couldn’t make her look half as purty as you do in that nate calico. Things isn’t avenly divided in this world, Kathleen, mavourneen.”

“Sure now, Rory, the good things isn’t all on one side, afther all,” returned Kathleen, laughing. “Wouldn’t the Madame give all her fine dresses, and silver and goold too, for my health and strength or yours?”

“That she would; or for your illegant figger and purty skin that’s just like lilies and roses, and your eyes that shine brighter than her diamonds.”

“Whist!” cried Kathleen, hastily lifting her coffee-pot from the fire just as Mary opened the dining-room door with the query:

“Is breakfast ready?”

“Everything’s done to a turn,” said Kathleen. “And here’s Rory ready to carry it up, if ye like.”

“No, she has changed her mind; she’ll eat in the breakfast-room. Rory’s to bring her down in the elevator, and take her up again in it when she’s done.”

When Madame had duly discussed her breakfast, and recovered breath after her ascent to her private apartments, Floy was summoned to her presence.

The young girl came quietly into the dressing-room, where the lady reclined in a large easy chair.

Madame started at sight of her, uttering a low exclamation.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling a little as she spoke, “and what is your name?”

“I am one of Mrs. Sharp’s apprentices, and my name is Florence Kemper. I have cut and basted the lining of your dress; shall I fit it on you now?”

“Yes – no; Mary will put it on me and see if it is all right. Mary knows my ways.”

Madame’s tone was still agitated, and she seemed flurried and uneasy under Floy’s glance.

The girl noted it, and with true delicacy turned her eyes in another direction while Mary performed the required service.

Madame stood up before the glass. “I think it fits, Mary, doesn’t it?”

“I think not quite. Shall Miss Kemper look at it?”

Madame assented, and Floy’s nimble fingers were presently busied about her, she meanwhile earnestly regarding the reflection of the young face in the glass.

It seemed to have far more interest for her than the fit of the new gown, though ordinarily she was eager as a child in regard to any new article of dress.

“Does it satisfy you now, Madame?” asked Floy at length.

The Madame started as if waking from a dream, glanced at the image of her own portly figure, and responded with a hasty “Yes, yes, it is all right! Child, you look tired, wretchedly tired – almost ill. You must rest. Sit down in that chair, and Mary shall bring you some refreshments.”

“Many thanks, but I have no time for rest; these are busy days for dressmakers,” Floy answered, with a sad smile, thinking of the piles of dress patterns still untouched, and garments in various stages of completion, in Mrs. Sharp’s work-room.

“Sit down!” repeated the Madame, with an imperious gesture; “I am used to obedience from all in this house. Just slip my wrapper on again, Mary, and then go to my closet and bring out all the good things you can find.”

Mary obeyed, nothing loath, for she too felt drawn to the young stranger, and Floy presently had spread before her a tempting variety of cakes, confectionery, and tropical fruits.

In vain she protested that she was not hungry; Madame would not be content till she had seen her eat an orange and a bunch of grapes, and put a paper of candies into her pocket.

For the rest of the day the Madame insisted upon occupying an easy chair in the sewing-room, where, with Frisky curled up in her lap and the latest novel in her hand, she furtively watched Floy’s movements, and when she spoke, listened with ill-concealed eagerness to every tone of her voice.

Floy, whose thoughts were far away, was scarcely conscious of this strange interest taken in her, but Mary noted it with wonder and growing curiosity shared by Kathleen, who had been, as she anticipated, summoned to the work of running the machine. They telegraphed each other with nods, winks, and smiles, neither the Madame nor Floy perceiving.

“The sun has set, and it is growing dark,” remarked the Madame, closing her book and breaking in on a long silence. “You are straining your eyes in your efforts to thread that needle, Miss Kemper. Come, put up your work and rest a little, while Mary and Kathleen prepare our tea.”

“Thank you, Madame,” said Floy, “but Mrs. Sharp would not approve of so early a rest, and if I may have a light I will go on with the work.”

“Tut! tut! I’m mistress here, and I’ll have no such overwork!” was the quick, imperative rejoinder. “I’ll make it right with Mrs. Sharp, paying for the time all the same.”

Floy submitted, repeating her thanks, for to the over-strained eyes and weary frame a little rest was most refreshing.

The work was neatly folded and laid aside. Mary and Kathleen tidied the room, gathering up the shreds of silk and lining, and putting things in place; then receiving orders from Madame for a delicious little supper to be served in her dressing-room for Floy and herself, they went down to prepare it.

A bright fire in an open grate filled the room with ruddy light, and Floy was glad that the Madame refused to have any other for the present.

Very sad, very quiet the young girl felt, thinking of Espy and his sorrow; and taking, in obedience to her employer’s direction, an easy chair by the window, she gazed out musingly upon the lake, whose dark, restless waters were now faintly illumined by a line of silver light along the eastern horizon.

“The moon’s about to rise,” wheezed her companion. “I like to watch it as it seems to come up out of the water. Did you ever see it?”

“No, Madame,” returned the girl, smiling slightly, “Mrs. Sharp’s apprentices have little time or opportunity to observe the beauties of nature.”

“But Sundays – you do not work then?”

“No, Madame, but they find me weary enough to go very early to bed.”

“Ah, too bad, too bad! But look, look! what a shame to be deprived of so lovely a sight as that!” cried the Madame as the queen of night suddenly emerged from her watery bed, flooding the whole scene with mellow radiance.

“It is very beautiful,” murmured Floy, sighing softly to herself.

How often in the happy days gone by she and Espy had enjoyed the moonlight together!

“I would not stay there if I were you,” pursued the Madame. “Why should you stay where you are so badly treated? Why should any one?”

“Because, Madame, it is there I must gain the knowledge that is to enable me to earn my bread.”

“A hard thing for a lady to do. Any one can see you are a lady – your speech, your manners, your appearance, all tell it. But, ah well, you have youth, good looks, health! and though I’m rich, I’d be only too glad to exchange with you,” and in her wheezing tones, and with many a pause for breath, the Madame went on to give a long account of her sufferings by day and by night.

Floy listened with a patient attention and sincere sympathy such as the Madame, in her loneliness, was little accustomed to.

“It must be very dreadful to have so many ailments,” she said feelingly. “I don’t know how I could bear your difficulty of breathing even, without any of the others.”

The Madame started, sat upright, and looked earnestly at the girl, while tears gathered in her eyes.

“Your voice is like a half-forgotten strain of music,” she said, sighing; “and your face – ah, it seems as if I must have seen it in the long ago, the happy time when I was young and life full of sunshine and flowers. Alas, child!” she added, sinking back upon her cushions again, “as the years roll on how the sunlight gives place to clouds and darkness, and the flowers fade and die! would that I could be young again!”