Signing the Contract and What it Cost

“Poor woman!” sighed Floy to herself. “I wonder if she knows of the Friend whose love is everything to me now? I wish I could tell her what comfort and rest it gives.”

The Madame was still in bed. Frisky had crept in beside her, and Mary found her petting and caressing him.

“My pretty pet! my little darling!” she was saying, “you at least love me. And I love you, precious little beauty. Ah, Mary,” to her maid as she caught sight of her, “so there you are! Just bring the darling’s silver bells, and a pink ribbon to tie them with. He wants them, I know he does, the pretty pet!”

Mary obeyed, fastening the string of tiny, tinkling bells about the dog’s neck, and could not refrain from joining her mistress’s laugh over his evident delight in his finery.

“Has he had his breakfast, Mary?” the Madame inquired with solicitude, “and did he eat with appetite? You know I thought him dull and droopy yesterday.”

“Yes, Madame, I know; but I’m sure, as I told you then, it was nothing but want of exercise and over-eating.”

“Nonsense, Mary! you forget that he takes an airing with me almost every day.”

“No, Madame, but I should say he needed more than that. Yes, he had his breakfast, and eat a plenty.”

“That is well. Has Miss Kemper come?”

Mary answered the query, and made a report of the work and directions she had given Floy, at the same time busying herself in assisting the Madame with her toilet.

That week was a busy one to Floy, yet restful also, albeit she was somewhat sated with the Madame’s company, often wearying enough to those who must listen to her complainings and submit to her whims.

Yet she was at times quite entertaining. Frisky’s little tricks, too, were really very amusing. Besides, Floy had every day several quiet, usually solitary hours – while the Madame slept – was fed upon the fat of the land, and retired to bed reasonably early each night.

On returning to Mrs. Sharp’s, she was not grieved to learn that the young people had already left for school.

Work slackened slightly for a few weeks, then again, as the spring season opened, they were almost overwhelmed with it.

And this was the state of affairs until the fervid heats of summer began to drive the fashionables away from the city.

Even then there was small respite, for some left unfinished dresses to be sent after them, and many who remained behind wanted work done also.

In all this time Floy had heard but once from Cranley – a few lines from Miss Wells telling of the death of Espy’s mother, and that he had gone she knew not whither.

“Gone!” Floy’s heart almost stood still with grief and pain; but the next instant gave a quick, joyous bound at the thought, “It may be he has but come here in search of me.”

And for days and weeks every peal from the door-bell made her heart beat fast and sent a quiver through her nerves.

But he came not; and remembering that he could have no clue to her residence unless through the Leas, who had disappeared from society and probably from his knowledge, she called herself a fool for having indulged any such expectation.

The poor girl had grown very weary in body and mind, and oh, so homesick! Ah, could she but go back for a little while to the old haunts and look again upon the dear graves of her loved ones! But for that she had neither time nor means.

One day in July there came a summons for Floy from Madame Le Conte; bereavement had come upon the wealthy widow, so the note stated, and Floy’s services were wanted in the making up of mourning.

“Bereaved!” the girl said to herself in surprise; “she told me she had not a relative or friend in the world.”

“Humph! I was giving the Madame credit for being considerate for once in her life in choosing a slack time to send for you, Miss Kemper,” said Mrs. Sharp, refolding the note and tossing it from her after reading it aloud, “but it being a death, of course she didn’t choose.”

“It’ll be a change for you, and I hope will do you good,” said Hetty, who had for some time past noticed with concern Floy’s increasing languor. “You’ve found the heat of the city hard to bear, not being used to it as we are; and this – so far out, and close to the lake shore too – will be like a taste of the country.”

“Yes,” remarked Mrs. Goodenough in her slow way, “it’s quite a providence. What is it Shakespeare says? or is it in the Bible now?” she queried meditatively.

“What, Aunt Sarah?” asked Araminta pertly, while Lucian “Haw hawed!” and exclaimed in loud, rough tones:

“Well, I declare, Aunt Sarah! it’s a sin and a shame that you haven’t a full set of Shakespeare’s works, seeing there’s nobody tries to quote him oftener.”

The young people were at home again for the summer holidays; the time was directly after dinner, and all the family, excepting John and his father, were in the sitting-room at the moment.

Hetty treated the rude boy to a severe look, and seemed more than half inclined to box his ears.

“Well, it’s quite true that my memory isn’t what it used to be,” sighed her mother, “but it’s something about the wind and the shorn lamb, and I rather think it’s in the Bible.”

“It’s Sterne, mother,” said Hetty. “‘God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.’”

“But it doesn’t suit,” laughed Araminta, “for Miss Kemper has an awful lot of hair, and if she was shorn it’s so dreadful hot to-day that anybody’d be glad to get where the wind would blow on ’em.”

“Be quiet, children!” said Mrs. Sharp. “Miss Kemper, I s’pose you’d better go at once.”

CHAPTER XXVI

THE MADAME AT HER SOLICITOR’S

“The miserable hath no other medicine
But only hope.” —

    Shakespeare.
“The Madame bereaved! of whom, I wonder?” mused Floy, riding along in the almost empty street-car. “Has she discovered the existence of a relative only to see him or her snatched away by death? Ah, poor woman! so unhappy before, what will she be now?”

Leaving the car, the young girl quickly passed over the short intervening distance, and glancing up at the Madame’s house as she approached it, saw that the shutters of every window were bowed with white ribbon, while several yards of white cashmere tied with the same were hanging from the bell-pull.

“A child!” said Floy to herself in increasing surprise, as she went up the steps and gave a very gentle ring.

The door was opened as usual by Kathleen, who recognized our heroine with a faint, rather watery smile.

“I’m plazed to see you, miss.”

“Who is dead, Kathleen?” Floy asked as she stepped in and the door closed behind her.

“Sure, miss, an’ it’s just himself – the Madame’s pet, that was always wid her night an’ day; an’ it’s just breakin’ her heart about him she is, poor dear, that hasn’t a chick nor a child left! An’ it’s sad an’ sore me own heart is whin I think o’ niver seeing the little baste at its purty thricks no more.”

“Frisky, her lap-dog!” exclaimed Floy. “I thought it must be a relative.”

“Yes, miss, an’ sure she always thrated the little baste like a Christian, an’ she’s kapin’ on wid that now it’s dead.”

“What ailed it?”

“Well, miss, the docther he said ’twas just laziness and over-feedin’ – only he put it into grand words, you know – and the Madame didn’t like it; but it’s dead an’ gone he is, annyhow, the purty darlint!”

“Is it Miss Kemper?” asked Mary, appearing at the head of the stairs. “Please walk right up, miss.”