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.”
“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.”