Signing the Contract and What it Cost

“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?”