Signing the Contract and What it Cost

The Madame’s mental anguish had been real, but the violence of the paroxysm was over for the time, and the long-indulged love of the pleasures of the table asserted its sway.

But the poor lady’s enjoyments were few; she was an educated but not an intellectual woman, and cared little for any books except novels of the most frivolous and sensational class; she had no friends, hardly an acquaintance in the city, having purposely avoided society from extreme sensitiveness regarding the loss of her hand – a loss which had befallen her prior to the removal of herself and husband to Chicago. And she was also a stranger to the consolations of religion.

CHAPTER XXV

STITCH, STITCH, STITCH

“The web of our life is of a mingled
Yarn, good and ill together.” —

    Shakespeare.
“I’m afraid I’ve taken you too far: you look dreadfully tired!” said Hetty, as she and Floy reached home after their walk.

“No, don’t worry, I’ve enjoyed it very much; a walk on an agreeable errand, and in pleasant company, is such a rare treat nowadays. It’s only a headache,” Floy answered, trying to smile.

“Only a headache! I call that worse than only being tired. I’m real sorry for you. Just go into my parlor and take off your things and lie down on the lounge. You’ll be nice and quiet there, and you’re not to mind the supper-bell. I’ll bring you a cup of tea and some toast.”

Rest and quiet. They were what the weary frame, the aching head, and homesick heart craved just then above everything else that seemed attainable.

Ah, were even they within her reach? Sounds of wrangling and strife assailed her ears as she neared the door of the little back room where Hetty had entertained her the previous night. Opening it, this was the scene which presented itself:

The gas was blazing high, and just beneath it Araminta lolled back in an arm-chair, her feet propped up on the seat of another, and a paper-covered novel in her hand, which Lucian, standing over her puffing away at a cigar, seemed to be trying to wrest from her.

“See here, Miss Mintstick,” he was saying, “I got this out of the library for my own enjoyment, so just give it up.”

“You hateful fellow!” she cried, “you know I can’t bear to be called that, and I’ll just tell mother of you if you don’t stop it.”

“Oh, it’s a baby, is it? and mustn’t be teased,” he said jeeringly; whereat Araminta burst into tears, and again threatened to “tell mother of him.”

“Come, it’s quite too young to read novels,” he said, with another and successful effort to take it from her.

“So are you too, Miss Lucy Ann! There! take that!” she retorted, giving him a resounding slap upon the cheek.

Flushing crimson, he seized her by the wrist.

“See here, young woman!” he hissed in a tone of concentrated fury.

But becoming suddenly aware of Floy’s presence, and that she was standing gazing upon them in disgust and astonishment, he turned shamefacedly away, muttering, “A man can’t stand everything!” and would have beaten a hasty retreat, but encountered his mother in the doorway.

“What is the meaning of all this?” she asked sharply. “What are you two quarrelling about? I’m ashamed of you! And the room full of tobacco-smoke, the gas turned on full head! you’ll ruin me!”

She turned it lower as she spoke; then catching sight of Floy, now seated on the lounge taking off her gloves,

“Don’t mind ’em, Miss Kemper,” she said; “they’re fond of each other for all.”

“I’m not a bit fond of Lucian!” whimpered Araminta, “he’s so rude and bearish; so different from the nice young men one reads about in books. He snatched that book away from me, and nearly broke my finger off.”

“You look pale, Miss Kemper. I hope you’re not going to be sick,” remarked Mrs. Sharp as Floy rose to leave the room. “We’ll have to be up and at work betimes to-morrow. There are a number of dresses to be finished, and only ourselves to do it, for the other girls won’t be back till Monday.”

“It’s only a headache and the tobacco-smoke, I think,” Floy answered in a patient tone. “I’ll go up and lie down on my bed, and perhaps it will pass off.”

And so the weary round of ceaseless toil was to begin to-morrow! Ah, well! she would struggle on in hope; perhaps better days would come. And to-morrow would be Saturday, the next the blessed day of rest, God’s own gift to the toil-worn and weary.

Mrs. Sharp, Hetty, and Floy had need of it after the labors of the intervening day; the last-named more especially, as having feebler powers of endurance than the other two.

Lucian and Araminta were pressed into the service, but, with their whimpering, dawdling ways, proved of small assistance. John was a far more efficient aid; ran the sewing-machine for hours, doing the work well, and lightening their labors with his cheery good-nature and innocent jests.

As the clock told the hour of midnight Floy stuck the needle in her work and began to fold it up.

“Ten minutes more would finish that, Miss Kemper, so that it could be sent home in the morning,” said Mrs. Sharp persuasively.

“I am very, very weary, Mrs. Sharp,” returned the young girl respectfully; “yet to accommodate you and the customer I would work on a little longer, but it is already the Lord’s day, and the command is, ‘In it thou shalt not do any work.’”

A portentous frown was darkening the face of her employer, but it changed to an expression of enforced resignation as Hetty said:

“You’re right, Floy. Aunt Prue, I can’t go on any longer; and indeed what right has anybody to ask us to work as late as this?”

Mrs. Sharp sat in moody silence for a moment, but, being greatly fatigued herself, presently acquiesced and followed their example, remarking:

“Well, well, girls, I don’t blame you. There really is no use in killing ourselves, for nobody’ll thank us for it.”

“Whatever should I do without you, Hetty!” said Floy as they two went up the stairs together.

Monday morning brought a note that greatly vexed Mrs. Sharp, but to our heroine seemed a Heaven-sent relief.

To the usual discomforts of the work-room were now added almost incessant squabbling between Lucian and Araminta, the whining complaints of the latter and the sickening scent of the cheap cigars frequently indulged in by the former.

She had been asking herself how all this was to be endured until next Monday should take them back to their studies; and now came the answer – this request of Madame Le Conte for her services during the whole week.

The lady desired some alteration in the trimming of the new dress, and had other work which only Miss Kemper could do to suit her.

Mrs. Sharp fumed and fretted, grumbled and scolded, yet nevertheless the request was promptly granted.

“Sure an’ I’m plazed to see ye, miss!” was Kathleen’s smiling greeting as she admitted Floy. “The Madame’s been wearyin’ for ye, and couldn’t be aisy at all, at all, till she’d got the note sint to tell ye to come. Will ye have a bite o’ breakfast?”

Floy declined, and was then requested to walk right up to the sewing-room.

She found Mary there, and receiving directions as to the wishes of the Madame, who had not yet risen, settled herself to her work with an odd feeling of being at home.

“The Madame has taken a wonderful fancy to you, miss,” remarked Mary, gazing earnestly at the young girl, and thinking her more than ever like the miniature in her mistress’s locket.

“Has she?” Floy asked in some surprise.

“Yes; and I hope you’ll try to cheer her up, miss; she’s been dreadfully downhearted of late, crying ’most all day Christmas.”

“No wonder; she seems to suffer so much, and to be so alone in the world, poor thing!”

“Yes, that’s it; she often cries by the hour; and when I ask what’s the matter, she says, ‘I haven’t a soul in the world to care for me, Mary; my family are all dead and gone.’ Poor creature! it’s sad enough, and I ought to be patient with her; but indeed, miss, it’s often enough to try the patience of a saint – the way she goes on, wantin’ to be dressed a half a dozen times a day, and wakin’ me up to wait on her every hour in the night. There’s her bell now, and I must be gone.”