Signing the Contract, and What It Cost
by Martha Finley · English · Gutenberg #48249 · 476,235 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Signing the Contract, and What It Cost
Author: Martha Finley
Release date: February 13, 2015 [eBook #48249]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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Transcriber’s Note.
In this text version of “Signing the Contract”:
words in italics are marked with _underscores_
words in small capitals are shown in UPPERCASE.
Variant spelling has been retained, as has inconsistent hyphenation.
Simple typographical errors have been corrected.
The Table of Contents was added by the Transcriber.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A WANDERER 7
II. RESCUED 19
III. ONE FOR LIFE 28
IV. A STRANGE REVELATION 35
V. BETROTHED 45
VI. THE SEARCH 52
VII. A WICKED SUGGESTION 58
VIII. MRS. ALDEN AN ABETTOR 66
IX. WHAT ESPY SAID ABOUT IT 74
X. FLOY’S RESOLVE 77
XI. LOVE AND PRIDE 82
XII. “LOST! LOST! LOST!” 87
XIII. FLOY’S QUEST 92
XIV. A RIFT IN THE CLOUD 95
XV. ALONE 103
XVI. INITIATED 112
XVII. HETTY TO THE RESCUE 120
XVIII. A CRUEL BLOW 128
XIX. A GREAT SURPRISE 138
XX. A SUDDEN SUMMONS 146
XXI. GHOSTS OF THE PAST 157
XXII. REMORSE 169
XXIII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW 181
XXIV. GILDED MISERY 192
XXV. STITCH, STITCH, STITCH 197
XXVI. THE MADAME AT HER SOLICITOR’S 207
XXVII. THE LONG-LOST DEED 214
XXVIII. MESSRS. TREDICK & SERVER 222
XXIX. A THORNY ROSE 230
XXX. PANSY 234
XXXI. A WONDROUS CHANGE 241
XXXII. ETHEL AT HOME 248
XXXIII. A LETTER, A STORY, AND A PROMISE 255
XXXIV. THE MADAME’S CONFESSION 259
XXXV. A FLITTING 272
XXXVI. REUNITED 283
XXXVII. LOVE’S POSY 296
XXXVIII. “FOUND! FOUND! FOUND!” 307
XXXIX. THE MADAME’S QUEST IS ENDED 319
XL. THE CUP OVERFLOWS 326
XLI. AFTER THE RAIN, SUNLIGHT; AFTER
THE STORM, A CALM. 331
SIGNING THE CONTRACT.
AND
WHAT IT COST.
BY
MARTHA FINLEY,
AUTHOR OF THE “ELSIE BOOKS,” “WANTED--A PEDIGREE,”
“MILDRED KEITH,” ETC., ETC.
“The web of our life is of a manifold yarn, good and ill together.”
SHAKESPEARE.
NEW YORK:
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS.
COPYRIGHT, 1879,
BY
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY.
SIGNING THE CONTRACT.
CHAPTER I.
A WANDERER.
“Lost! lost! lost!”
The sun had set amid angry clouds; deep shadows already filled the
recesses of the forest through which the iron horse went thundering on
its way, while an icy wind, bringing with it frequent dashes of rain
and sleet, swept through the leafless branches of the trees, tossing
them wildly against a dull leaden sky.
A lady, gazing out into the gathering gloom, started with a sudden
exclamation of surprise and dismay. Her husband leaned hastily past her
to see what had called it forth; then, with a smile at his own folly
in forgetting that at the rate of speed with which they were moving
the object, whatever it might be, was already out of sight, settled
himself back again, bending a look of mild inquiry upon her agitated
countenance.
She shivered, and drawing her shawl more closely about her, put her
lips to his ear, that she might be heard above the noise of the train.
“It was a face, John--a woman’s face upturned to the sky, wan,
distressed, wretched, with great sorrowful eyes. It just gleamed out
upon me for an instant as we swept by, and was gone. Poor thing! poor
thing! she must be in sore trouble.”
He shook his head with a smile of conscious superiority of wisdom.
“Don’t let your imagination run away with you, my dear, or waste your
sympathy upon a wandering gypsy, who would not exchange places with you
if she could.”
The train was slackening its speed, and they could now converse with
ease.
“She is no ordinary tramp,” was the quick, earnest reply. “And if ever
bitter, hopeless grief and despair were written on a human face, they
were on hers. I wish we could go back and find her.”
“Quite impossible, Dolly; so let us talk of something more agreeable.”
“We change cars soon, don’t we?” she asked.
“Worse than that; we get out at the next station and wait there two
mortal hours for another train.”
“Clearfield Station!” shouted the conductor, throwing open the car door.
An acre or two of ground had been cleared of trees, though many of the
stumps were still standing; there was no appearance of a town; only a
depot and a few shanties scattered here and there, the whole hemmed in
by the forest, except on the two sides where the road had cut its way
through.
The train stopped, and John and Dolly--otherwise Mr. and Mrs.
Kemper--alighted, and the gentleman hurried his wife out of the rain
and sleet into the depot.
A very forlorn place it looked with its rusty stove, filthy floor and
windows, and hard, straight-backed wooden chairs and settee, which gave
small promise of rest or ease to the delayed and weary traveller.
“What a wretched hole!” said Mrs. Kemper, sending a rueful glance from
side to side. “How long did you say we’d have to stay here, John?”
“Two hours, Dolly. Here, take this chair by the fire, and I’ll go and
see what can be done.”
He came back presently, and pointing through the window, “You see that
light yonder, Dolly?” he said. “It comes from a shanty some hundred
yards away, where they tell me we can at least find cleanliness and a
cup of hot tea. There seems a lull in the storm at this moment, too;
shall we go and try it?”
“By all means,” she answered, rising with alacrity and taking his
offered arm. “I presume the walking is bad enough, but my boots are
thick.”
Picking their way carefully between stumps and pools of water, just
visible in the deepening gloom, they reached the place.
It was a long, low building of rudest structure, its walls rough boards
nailed on horizontally, leaving large cracks between, with merely a
covering of painted canvas upon the outside to keep wind and rain at
bay. The gable-end with its one door and window, in which burned the
lamp that had guided them, faced the road.
Entering, our travellers found themselves in a small waiting-room, very
simply furnished, but invitingly warm, clean, and tidy.
A neatly-dressed young woman greeted them with a pleasant
“Good-evening,” and throwing open an inner door, asked if they would
walk out to supper.
“I should prefer just taking something here,” said Mrs. Kemper,
shrinking back at the sight of a long table with only a number of
rough-looking men about it. “Couldn’t you bring me a cup of hot tea and
whatever you have to eat?”
“Yes, ma’am, of course;” and the girl vanished to return presently with
the tea, a piece of steak, bread, butter, and hot corn-cakes.
Out in the forest a woman was battling with the storm--a woman with a
child in her arms. A slight, willowy form was hers, once the perfection
of grace in outline and movement, now bent and staggering with
weakness; a face whose bright, soft eyes, glowing cheeks, and ruby lips
were not long ago the admiration or envy of many, though now wan and
pinched with famine and wasting sickness.
It was the same face that Mrs. Kemper had seen from the car window,
upturned despairingly to the stormy sky as for a moment the weary
wanderer paused and leaned against a tree by the roadside to gather
strength and breath for renewed exertion.
Both were well-nigh spent, and hope so nearly dead within her that, but
for the babe in her arms, she had lain her down to die there in the
lonely wood, with no human creature near to pity or console.
But mother-love was stronger than the love of life: she had taken the
thin faded shawl from her own shoulders to wrap it about the little
one, and so had kept it comparatively warm and dry, while she herself
was drenched to the skin. Her limbs were almost benumbed with cold, and
the cutting wind, as it dashed the rain and sleet full in her face,
seemed piercing to her very vitals.
Twilight was fast deepening into night; the way grew dark and slippery;
now her feet sank in the mud, and she struggled out only to slip into a
pool of water, or to stumble and fall over a stump or log, or to catch
and tear her clothing on some thorny bush.
The pauses for breath grew more frequent, the steps, as she moved
forward again, weaker and more tottering, the weary arms could scarce
sustain the weight of the child, and she knew not how far distant
was the nearest human habitation. She was about to give up in utter
despair, when the gleam of a not very distant light seen through the
trees inspired her with new hope and energy.
She pressed forward, and presently emerged from the wood and found
herself at Clearfield Station, with the light in the window of the
shanty inn shining out ruddily not a hundred yards away.
She crept to the door and knocked faintly.
Mr. Kemper, who had just finished his supper, rose and opened it.
“Come in,” he said. “This is a public house, and I presume no one will
object,” he added, catching sight of the ragged, dripping figure.
She stepped in, staggered to the fire and dropped down on the floor
beside it.
“Drunk!” he muttered, with a gesture of disgust.
“No, no, John! she is ill--starving perhaps!--poor thing! poor thing!”
cried his keener-sighted wife, springing forward, barely in time to
catch the sleeping babe as the weary arms relaxed their hold and the
wanderer sank back against the wall in a state of semi-insensibility,
her eyes closed and not a trace of color on cheek or lip.
“She’s dying!” exclaimed Mr. Kemper in a frightened whisper; and
rushing to the inner door, “Somebody run for a doctor, quick! here is a
woman who seems to be very ill!” he cried hurriedly.
“None to be had within three or four mile,” returned a gruff voice from
the table. “What ails the woman? and who is she?”
“I don’t know; but something must be done.”
“Give her a cup of your tea, Irene,” said the voice.
“A few drops of brandy from the flask in our luncheon-basket, John,”
said his wife. “I always take it along in case of sickness, you know.”
But the child, a girl of eighteen months, woke with a cry, “Mamma!
mamma!” and at the sound the mother’s eyes unclosed.
“Give her to me--my little Ethel!” she said faintly.
“You are ill, my good woman, not able to hold her,” Mrs. Kemper said,
as she reluctantly complied with the request.
“Yes, and I--have eaten nothing to-day--and have walked many miles.”
“Poor soul!” exclaimed Irene, the kind-hearted mistress of the shanty,
coming in with the tea. “Here, drink this, and I’ll bring you some
supper. You look more dead than alive, and the rain has soaked you
through and through. Dear, dear! you’ll catch your death o’ cold!”
She raised the wanderer’s head as she spoke, and held the cup to her
lips.
It was eagerly drained to the last drop, and seemed to revive the poor
creature greatly.
Food was brought, and the babe devoured it as if half famished, but the
mother ate sparingly. She was evidently very ill, almost dying, thought
those about her, and hastened to do all in their power for her relief
and comfort.
Plainly she was, as Mrs. Kemper had said, no common tramp: there was
lady-like refinement in face, voice, and manner; her accent was pure,
her speech correct and even elegant, as, in answer to kindly inquiries,
she gave a brief account of the causes of her present sad condition.
At an early age she had been left an orphan and without any natural
protector; had married some three years ago, and two years later her
husband had died, leaving her penniless, in feeble health, and with a
babe to support. She had managed for a time to earn a scanty living by
needlework, but there was little demand for it where she lived, and
wages were very low; so, taking her child in her arms, she had set out
in search of other employment or a better location.
It had proved a long, weary quest, and here she was, in utter
destitution and about, she greatly feared, to die, and leave her
helpless babe with none to love or care for it.
With the last words a great sob burst from her bosom; and clasping the
little creature close,
“Ah my darling, my little Ethel, if I might but take you with me!” she
moaned in anguish.
“Ah now don’t take on so,” Irene said kindly. “You’ll be better
to-morrow. Walking all day in the cold, and gettin’ wet too, it’s no
wonder you’re down-hearted like; but cheer up, you’ll get over it and
find work, and maybe see as good days as ever you did.”
The wanderer thanked her with a grateful look, as she continued
silently to caress Ethel; the child, no longer cold and hungry, hanging
about her mother’s neck, stroking her face lovingly, and prattling in
innocent glee.
Mrs. Kemper watched her with delighted, longing eyes, the tears
starting to them once and again.
“What a lovely, darling little creature she is!” she whispered to her
husband; “just the age our Nellie was.” And then she added a few words
in a still lower tone.
He nodded acquiescence; and turning to the mother, said that he and his
wife would like to adopt the child and bring it up as their own; that
they would do so if she would at once give it up entirely to them.
A look of mingled grief and terror came over her face at the bare
suggestion. She clutched her treasure in a death-like grasp.
“No, no! how could I? how could I?” she cried, “my baby! my precious
baby! my all! no, no, never, never!”
“Take time to consider,” he said soothingly. “I am sorry to distress
you, but, as you have yourself said, your child will soon need another
protector, and it is very unlikely that another will be readily found
to do as well by her as we would.”
“But wait--wait till I am gone!” she moaned. “She is my all, my all!
Oh, ’tis hard to die and leave her! My baby, my baby, your mother’s
heart will break!” and the tears fell like rain on the wondering little
face upturned to hers.
“Don’t ky, Ethel’s mamma! Ethel love ’oo!” cooed the babe, lifting her
dress to wipe away the tears, while with the other arm she clung about
her neck, then kissing her wet cheek again and again.
Mrs. Kemper, with great tears of sympathy rolling down her own cheeks,
knelt at the wanderer’s side, and, taking one thin hand in hers, said:
“I feel for you, my poor, poor friend! I do indeed. I know a mother’s
heart, for I once had a little one like this, and when death snatched
her from me I would gladly have gone down into the grave with her, for
she was my only one. That was ten years ago. I have never had another,
and it is not likely I ever shall; and now when you feel that you must
leave this darling, will you not let me have her to fill the vacant
place in my heart--in _our_ hearts and home, for my husband will love
her dearly too, and be a good father to her?”
“Oh, gladly, when--when I am gone!”
“But we cannot wait; we must go on our journey in another hour. And
it will be to you only parting a little sooner; for her good too. You
cannot be selfish where your dear child is concerned.”
“No, no, God knows I would suffer anything for her. I love her better
than my own soul. But I cannot give her up till--I must. Have pity,
have pity! she is all I have left--parents, sister, husband, home,
all--everything gone but her--my precious, precious baby! Oh, don’t,
don’t ask me to let her go from my arms while I live!” she pleaded in
heart-broken accents, and with bitter sobs and tears.
“We would not if it could be helped,” sobbed Mrs. Kemper, “but it
cannot; and for her sake you will give her to us now?”
Mr. Kemper joined his arguments and entreaties to those of his wife.
They engaged to do all in their power for the well-being and happiness
of the little one, treating her in every respect as if she were their
own offspring, on the one condition that she should be given up
entirely to them, never to be claimed by any one--even a near relative,
or the mother herself, should she by any possibility survive.
Mr. Kemper had torn a leaf from his note-book, and, with pen and ink
furnished by Irene, had drawn up a deed of gift to that effect, which
he was urging the mother to sign.
“No, no! I can never, _never_ agree to _that_!” she cried in reference
to the last stipulation. “Live without my own precious child! never,
never!”
“A mere form,” he said. “You cannot live many days, my good woman; do
you not feel that it is so?”
She but clasped her child closer, while her whole frame shook with the
violence of her emotion. She seemed almost ready to expire with the
mental anguish superadded to her great physical prostration.
At length the distant rumble of an approaching train was heard.
“There, you have but a moment left for decision,” said the gentleman;
“that is the train we must take. Will you sacrifice your child’s
welfare or your own feelings?”
She was now seated beside the table, her child asleep in her arms.
He laid the deed of gift he had made out before her as he spoke, and
put a pen between her fingers.
She lifted her eyes to his with a look of wild anguish fit to move a
heart of stone.
He simply pointed to the unconscious babe.
She looked at it, seized the pen, hurriedly scrawled a name at the foot
of the deed, and fell back fainting.
But the shrill whistle of the locomotive and the thunder of the train
close at hand aroused her.
“We must go now; let me take her,” Mrs. Kemper was saying in tones
tremulous with great compassion. “I will love her dearly, dearly; I
will cherish her as the apple of my eye. Let me wrap this warm shawl
around her.”
“No, Dolly, I’ll carry her,” Mr. Kemper said, in a tone of
half-suppressed delight, as he finished buttoning up his overcoat after
safely depositing the note-book, with the deed of gift, in an inner
pocket.
But silently the mother put them both aside. There was agony in her
wan, emaciated face. She could not speak for the choking in her throat;
but she strained the child to her heart, laid her cold white cheek to
its warm and rosy face and kissed it passionately again and again.
“We must go,” repeated Mrs. Kemper. “Oh, my heart aches for you, but we
_must_ go!”
“We must indeed, poor thing! there’s not a moment to be lost,” added
Mr. Kemper, taking the child from her with gentle force. “Here, this
will supply your needs while you live, I think,” putting a roll of
notes into her hand.
She dropped them as if a serpent had stung her, and with a wild cry
rushed after him, as, hastily wrapping a shawl about the infant, he ran
with it toward the train, his wife close behind him.
They had already tarried almost too long; had scarcely time to gain the
platform of the nearest car ere the train swept swiftly on its way.
“My child, my child! give me back my child!” shrieked the distracted
mother, pursuing with outstretched arms, the storm beating pitilessly
on her uncovered head, her long, dark hair streaming in the wind.
For a moment she seemed to fly over the ground, love and despair
lending her unnatural strength and speed; the next--as the train was
lost to sight in the depths of the forest--she tottered and would have
fallen but for the strong arm of a kindly switchman, who, hastily
setting down his lantern, sprang forward just in time to save her.
“She’s in a dead faint, poor thing!” he muttered to himself. “Here,
Bill,” to a comrade, “take a holt and help me to carry her into the
depot.”
“Who is she, Jack? an’ what ails her?” asked Bill, hurrying up and
holding his lantern high, while he peered curiously into the white,
unconscious face.
“No time to talk till we git her in out o’ the wet,” returned Jack
gruffly.
They laid her down on the settee.
“She’s a human critter and in sore trouble, that’s all I know,”
remarked Jack quietly, drawing his coat-sleeve across his eyes as the
two stood gazing upon the pitiful sight.
CHAPTER II.
RESCUED.
“Amid all life’s quests,
There seems but worthy one--to do men good.”--BAILEY.
A light covered wagon had just drawn up at the depot door, and out of
it quickly stepped an elderly gentleman. Hurrying in with youthful
alacrity, he glanced with eager haste from side to side of the dingy
apartment. A look of keen disappointment swept over his features,
changing instantly to one of grief and terror as his eye fell upon the
little group about the settee.
“What--who--who is it? What has happened?” he asked tremulously,
turning pale, and laying his hand on a chair-back as if to steady
himself; then heaving a sigh of relief as the men stepped aside, giving
him a view of the prostrate form, Jack Strong saying:
“It’s not Mr. Rolfe, sir, but on’y a poor female woman as has fainted.
Mr. Rolfe, he didn’t come. Somebody’s took her child away from her, I
do believe. Leastways she was screamin’ for it, and runnin’ arter the
cars, which of course she couldn’t ketch. I reckon she’s sick too.
Looks mighty bad, anyhow.”
“So she does, poor creature!” said the gentleman, approaching. “We must
do something at once to bring her to. Water, Jack--quick! I wish Dr.
Wright was here.”
But at that instant a moan came from the pale lips, and the
eyes--large, dark, and lustrous--opened wide. They caught the pitying
gaze of the new-comer. Feebly she lifted her arms toward him, then
dropped them again, faintly murmuring:
“You have been gone so long, father, and I am ill--dying. Take me home.”
“That I will!” he said, obeying a sudden generous impulse, for he was
much moved by the appeal. “Jack!”
“Do you know her, sir, Mr. Heywood?” queried the switchman in surprise.
“No more than you do, Jack, but surely she is in sore need of help, and
I’m able to give it. In fact, I think it is a plain call of Providence.
I’ve brought the dearborn, thinking to take home Rolfe and his luggage;
but he hasn’t come, and here it is--the very thing to carry her in.
“But wait a moment; what do you know of her? Is she quite alone?”
“Indeed I don’t know nothin’ more than--” began the switchman, but was
interrupted by the hurried entrance of Irene.
“Is she livin’? where is she?” asked the girl, rushing into their midst
breathless with haste and excitement. “Here’s some money the gentleman
gave her, and she throwed it on the floor; I reckon because she thought
’twas paying her for the child.”
“My child! my Ethel!” cried the wanderer, starting up, but only to fall
back again, overcome with weakness. “Come to mother, darling, come!”
she murmured, her hand feebly extended, her eyes closed, while she
moved her head restlessly from side to side.
“She’s out of her mind,” whispered the girl.
Mr. Heywood nodded assent; and drawing Irene aside, asked a few rapid
questions, in reply to which she imparted all the information she could
give in regard to the sufferer.
All he heard but strengthened his resolution to befriend the poor
creature, and he at once set about making preparations for removing her
to his own house, some three miles distant.
A quantity of clean straw was bestowed in the bottom of the dearborn, a
buffalo-robe laid over it, making a not uncomfortable bed. On this the
invalid was gently placed, and carefully covered with a second robe.
She made no resistance. She was quite delirious, and knew nothing of
what was passing around her.
“Carefully now, Mike,” the old gentleman said, taking his seat beside
the coachman; “the poor thing’s in no state to bear unnecessary
jolting.”
“Hallo! hold on there a minute; here’s a message for you, Mr. Heywood!”
cried the telegraph operator, rushing out from his office with a piece
of paper in his hand. “From Rolfe, sir; he’s all right--missed the
train, that’s all; will be here to-morrow morning.”
“God willing,” added the old gentleman reverently, taking the paper
with trembling fingers; “and His name be praised that my boy is safe.
I’m obliged to you, Dixon.”
The storm had increased in violence: the showers of rain and sleet
now fell almost without intermission, and the wind blew with a fury
that threatened danger from falling trees as they drove on through the
forest, their progress necessarily slow because of the state of the
road and the intense darkness.
The raging of the tempest was not favorable to conversation, and few
words passed between them, while the woman for the most part slept
heavily under the influence of a narcotic, only a moan or a muttered
word or two now and then escaping her lips.
Mr. Heywood was one of the early settlers of Iowa. He had invested
largely in land on his arrival, and in the course of years had, by its
rise in value, become quite wealthy. The log cabin in the wilderness,
in which the early years of his married life were passed, and where
his children had first seen the light, was now replaced by a large,
handsome brick house standing in the midst of well-kept gardens and
cultivated fields. “Sweetbrier” Mrs. Heywood had named the place, and
it was often pointed out to strangers as one of the finest residences
in the county. The Heywoods had not, however, been exempt from trials:
four out of six children had passed away from earth. Of the two
survivors, the eldest, a son, had emigrated to California several years
before this, and was now returning for his first visit to his old home,
parents, and sister.
Ada, the daughter, a fair girl of eighteen, was full ten years younger
than Rolfe, he being the eldest and she the youngest born.
In the sitting-room at Sweetbrier mother and daughter eagerly awaited
the coming of the loved travellers--father and son.
The room was tastefully furnished, a bright wood fire crackled cheerily
on the hearth, and an astral lamp on the centre-table shed a soft,
mellow light on two happy faces, on books, pictures, lounges, and easy
chairs.
In the adjoining room a table was set out with snowy damask, fine
French china, and silverware, in readiness for the feast preparing in
the kitchen, whither Mrs. Heywood occasionally hied to oversee the
labors of her cook.
“How the wind does blow!” she remarked, returning from one of these
little excursions. “It’s a dreadful night for your father to be out. I
wish Rolfe had come yesterday.”
“I wish he had,” said Ada, running to the window. “How very dark it is!
I’m sure they can’t see the road, or any tree that may be blown down
across it. Mother, I am afraid they’ve met with some accident, for it’s
nearly ten o’clock--high time they were here.”
“We’ll not distress ourselves, dear, with anticipating evil; both we
and they are in the Lord’s keeping,” replied the mother, striving to
put away anxious thoughts. “I think Peace and Plenty will be able to
find the road; I never knew them to miss it yet, even in nights as dark
as this. Come, sit down by the fire, Ada, and read me again the letter
you received from your brother the other day; that will help to while
away the time till they come.”
The girl complied, drawing the letter from her pocket, and seating
herself on an ottoman at her mother’s feet.
“I wonder,” she said, refolding the missive, “that Rolfe has never
married. I pity the somebody that’s missing such a good husband.”
“Time enough yet,” said the mother, smiling; “he is only twenty-eight.
There! I hear the rattle of the wheels.” Both sprang up and hurried to
the outer door, each heart beating high with delighted expectation.
They were just in time to see Mr. Heywood alight from the vehicle,
which had already drawn up before the entrance.
“My dear,” he said, hurrying up the steps into the portico, “don’t be
alarmed. I have not brought our boy, but he’s safe and well; sent me a
telegram to say he’d missed the train, and will be here to-morrow, God
willing.”
“Well,” she said, with a sigh, “it’s a sore disappointment, but I’m
thankful it’s no worse. You’ve had a hard ride, and--”
“Have brought an unexpected guest with me,” he interrupted hastily.
“Mary, dear, remembering the Master’s words, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done
it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me,’ you’ll not
object to taking her in, for she may be one of His.”
“Who, Joseph?” she asked in a startled tone.
“A poor, forsaken, dying creature, Mary; I’ve not been able to learn
her name.” And he hurried to the assistance of Mike, who had fastened
his horses and was preparing to lift the woman from the wagon.
Taking each an end of the buffalo-robe on which she lay, they carried
her in between them and laid her gently down before the sitting-room
fire.
Mrs. Heywood had hastened to order a room and bed made ready, and now,
returning with such restoratives as were at hand, knelt by the side of
the sufferer to apply them.
“How young! how pretty!” she said in surprise, gazing down at the
unconscious face with its broad white brow, cheeks now slightly flushed
with fever, sweet mouth, and large, lustrous eyes, which suddenly
opened wide upon her, then closed again, while a deep moan escaped the
lips and the head moved restlessly from side to side.
“She’s very ill, poor dear!” said the old lady. “Ada, my child, don’t
come near lest her disease should be contagious. We ought to have the
doctor here as soon as possible, Joseph.”
“I’ll go for him,” said Mike, starting for the door.
“Hark!” cried Ada, “there’s a horse galloping up the drive. Who can it
be coming at this hour on such a night?”
Mrs. Heywood rose to her feet, and they all stood for a moment intently
listening; then, at a “Hallo!” from a familiar voice,
“Why, it’s the doctor himself!” they exclaimed simultaneously, the old
gentleman and Ada running out to the hall to greet him.
He had already alighted from his horse, and was coming in.
“All well?” he asked almost breathlessly, not even pausing to say
good-evening.
“Yes--no!” returned Mr. Heywood. “This way as quick as you can, doctor;
we’ve a poor creature here who is very sick indeed.”
“Ah, that explains it,” remarked the physician, as if thinking aloud,
while hastily following his host.
He pronounced his patient in a brain-fever and very ill indeed.
“The poor creature (evidently a lady) must have been half famished
for months past, and has hardly strength to cope with the disease,”
he said, “yet with the blessing of Providence upon skilful treatment
and the best of nursing”--with a bow and a smile directed to Mrs.
Heywood--“she may possibly recover.”
“Poor dear! my heart is strongly drawn to her,” said the old lady,
twinkling away a tear as she bent over the bed where they had laid the
sufferer, and softly smoothed back the hair from the pale forehead,
“and she shall not die for lack of anything it is in my power to do for
her.”
“Singular!” murmured the doctor meditatively. Then glancing from the
face of his patient to those of his old friends, “It doesn’t seem
to have occurred to you to wonder how I came here so opportunely
to-night,” he remarked.
“Why no, to be sure,” said Mr. Heywood. “How was it? We have been so
taken up with this poor creature’s critical condition as to have no
thought for anything else.”
“Just so. Well, I was hurrying home from the bedside of a patient some
two miles from here; very anxious to get home, too, out of the darkness
and storm; when suddenly it was strongly impressed upon my mind that
I was needed here and ought to come at once. It was a good half-mile
out of my way, as you know; bad road, too, through the thickest of
the woods, where the wind was blowing down trees, and one might at
any moment fall on and crush me and my horse; but so strong was the
impression I speak of that I really could not resist. And there surely
was a providence in it,” he added reverently, “for by to-morrow morning
medical aid would have come too late to give this poor woman even a
chance for life.”
“I am sure of it,” said the old lady; “and in her coming here also. I
shall watch with her through the night, doctor.”
“And I shall share your vigil,” he replied.
The morning sun rose bright and clear, but its cheerful light brought
no alleviation of the wanderer’s pain. She lay tossing on her couch
unconscious of all the solicitude felt for her, all the kindness
lavished upon her, now muttering incoherently, now crying out for “her
child, her Ethel, her sweet, darling baby.”
Immediately after breakfast Mr. Heywood went himself in search of
a nurse, and having procured one, and seen her established by the
bedside, he and Mike again drove over to the depot at Clearfield,
reaching there in time for the morning train. When they returned Rolfe
was with them.
CHAPTER III.
ONE FOR LIFE.
“And doth not a meeting like this make amends
For all the long years I’ve been wand’ring away?”--ANON.
A noble, handsome fellow was Rolfe Heywood, and though the suffering
stranger guest was neither forgotten nor neglected, “joy crowned the
board” at Sweetbrier upon his return, and the weeks that followed were
full of quiet happiness to himself, parents, and sister.
He was succeeding well in the new State of his adoption, and hoped to
persuade these dear ones to join him there at some not very distant day.
He took a benevolent interest in the sick woman, and rejoiced with the
others when the physician pronounced the crisis of the disease past and
the patient in a fair way to recover.
“She’s come to her full senses now, and there ain’t no doing anything
with her,” announced the nurse a few days later, looking in at the open
door of the room where the family were at breakfast. “Not a morsel of
food will she take, not a drop of medicine will she swallow. She just
lays there with her eyes shut, and every once in a while I see a big
tear a-rollin’ down them thin, white cheeks o’ hern.”
She withdrew with the last words, and while finishing their meal the
family held a consultation on the case.
On leaving the table, Mrs. Heywood repaired to the sick-chamber.
The face resting on the snowy pillows was not only wan and emaciated,
but wore an expression of deepest melancholy. The eyes were closed, but
not in sleep, as Mrs. Heywood at first thought. Stepping softly to the
bedside, she stood silently gazing upon her, thinking how sad it was
that one so young and fair should be already weary of life.
“My baby, my baby!” came from the pale lips in low, heart-broken
accents, and tears trembled on the long silken lashes that lay like
dark shadows on the white cheeks.
“My poor, poor child,” said the old lady, bending down to press a
gentle kiss upon her brow, “do not despair. Try to get well, and who
knows but we shall be able to find your treasure and restore her to
you.”
“Yes, to be sure,” said the nurse, putting a spoon to her patient’s
lips. “Swallow this that the doctor left for you, there’s a dear, and
then take a little of this beef-tea, and I’ll warrant you’ll feel a
heap better.”
“No, no, take it away. Let me die in peace,” she sighed, averting her
face, and with her wasted hand feebly putting the spoon aside.
“I want to die--I’ve nothing to live for now.” And great tears rolled
down the pale sad face. “Ah, me! I gave her to them, and they will
never, never give her up! Oh, my darling! my baby! my little Ethel!”
she cried, bursting into hysterical weeping.
Endearments, persuasions, caresses, reasoning, exhortation on the
duty of doing everything in our power to preserve the life God has
given--all were tried by turns, but in vain. She lay there in silent
despair, seeming neither to hear nor heed.
Though nearly as much interested in the suffering stranger as were his
parents and sister, Rolfe had not ventured into the sick-room, and so
had never yet seen her face; nor had he ever heard her voice or learned
her name, of which last, indeed, they were all ignorant.
Something was taking him to his own apartments that evening on leaving
the tea-table, when he met Mrs. Scott, the nurse, coming down the
stairs.
“Do you leave your patient alone?” he asked.
“Never for long. I’m going down to my supper, and I’ll speak to Miss
Ada to come up and take my place for a bit.”
She had left the door of the sick-room ajar. A moan caught Rolfe’s
ear in passing, then the words, “Oh, my baby, my baby!” He started
violently, a strange pallor suddenly overspreading his face. He stood
still, intently listening. The words were repeated; and hastily pushing
the door open, he stepped to the bedside.
“Ethel, Ethel! Can it be? Oh, Ethel, my light, my life!”
“Rolfe!” she cried, starting up in the bed, with both hands extended,
the large, lustrous eyes full of joy and amazement.
He took her in his arms, seating himself on the side of the bed; her
head dropped upon his shoulder, and folding her to his heart, “Yes, it
is Rolfe,” he said. “Oh, Ethel, have I found you again? Are you mine at
last?”
“Yes, yes,” she faintly whispered. “But they told me you were married
to another; then--”
“Never, never, my darling! I have loved you always--you alone. Oh,
why did you write so coldly, rejecting my offered heart and hand, and
telling me that another had won you?”
There was no answer. The strength excitement had supplied for the
moment was gone, and she lay apparently lifeless in his arms.
With a sharp cry of agony he laid her back upon her pillow, and began
chafing the cold hands and pressing passionate kisses on the pale lips.
Hearing his cry as she neared the door of the sick-room, Ada hurried
in, full of wonder and alarm.
“Rolfe!” she exclaimed in astonishment.
“Ada, make haste! Throw up the window to give her air! Hand me that
bottle of ammonia--quick, quick! she’s dying! she’s dead! Oh, Ethel,
my life, my love! have I found you only to lose you again?” he
groaned, redoubling his efforts to restore her to consciousness, while
Ada, divided between amazement at his presence there and excessive
agitation, and her fear that life was really extinct, hastily obeyed
his orders.
“Thank God, she yet lives!” he said in tones tremulous with emotion, as
at length the eyelids began to quiver and a long, sighing breath came
from the white lips.
“Rolfe,” they whispered very low and feebly.
“Yes, yes, I am here, my poor little Ethel,” he answered, kneeling by
her couch and fondly caressing her hair and cheek. “You will live for
me, and nothing in life shall ever part us again.”
A beautiful smile crept over her face as she opened her eyes for a
single instant; then closing them again, she fell asleep with her hand
in his.
Ada stood on the farther side of the bed, looking and listening in
increasing surprise and wonder.
Mrs. Heywood and the nurse stole in on tiptoe and beheld the scene
in no less astonishment and perplexity, but Rolfe motioned them all
away, and kept guard over the slumbers of the invalid as one who had a
superior and undoubted right.
She slept quietly, awoke refreshed, and refused neither food nor
medicine at his hands.
But he would not let her talk.
“Wait, my Ethel, till you are stronger,” he said, “and then we will
tell each other all. In the mean time we may rest content in the
knowledge that we are restored to each other, and no earthly power can
part us.”
Lips and eyes smiled brightly, and a faint color stole into her cheek,
but faded again as she moaned sadly, “My baby, my baby!” the tears
stealing down her face.
“We will find her; she shall be restored to you. Nothing is impossible
to a determined will,” he said with energy.
She believed him, and once more resigned herself to peaceful slumber.
It was now near midnight, yet a bright light burned in the
sitting-room. Mr. and Mrs. Heywood and their daughter, too much excited
to think of retiring, sat there waiting for they scarce knew what.
Reluctantly leaving Ethel to the care of the nurse, Rolfe joined them.
“Yes,” he said, in answer to their inquiring looks, “we knew and loved
each other years ago in Jefferson, where I first set up business. She
was an orphan, and the sweetest creature I ever saw, but very much
under the influence of an older sister--a proud, selfish, scheming,
domineering woman. She, I have always thought it was, who came between
my love and me. I meant to speak before I left, and tried to do so, but
she contrived to foil every attempt. Then I wrote, and the answer was,
I have little doubt, dictated or forged by her.”
“She rejected you?”
Mrs. Heywood’s tone was both inquiring and indignant.
“Yes, mother; but don’t condemn her unheard,” he said, with a smile of
filial affection. “That in so doing she did not follow the dictates of
her own heart I now know beyond a question.”
“I don’t want to be uncharitable, or to wound you, Rolfe,” returned his
mother, flushing slightly, “but that any woman should reject the man
she loves and marry another seems to me both weak and wicked.”
“Wait, my dear, till you have heard her story,” said the old gentleman.
“We don’t know how she may have been deceived and betrayed.”
A few days later Rolfe came to his mother with an explanation which
even in her eyes exculpated Ethel.
“Ah, well, poor thing! she’s had a hard time of it,” said the old lady,
wiping away a tear. “And I hope, Rolfe, if she falls into your hands
you’ll try to make it up to her.”
“I shall indeed,” he said, with a peculiar and very happy smile.
“Come, mother, come to her room with me. The minister is there, my
father and Ada too, and Ethel and I are now to be made one for life.”
“Rolfe!” she cried in astonishment.
“Yes, mother; I cannot let her feel herself alone in the wide world any
longer, and I must have the right to nurse her back to health. You will
not withhold your consent, mother dear?”
“No,” she said, with a half-bewildered look as she accepted the support
of his offered arm, “not if it is to make you and that poor young thing
happy; but it is very sudden.”
CHAPTER IV.
A STRANGE REVELATION.
“The web of our life is of a mingled
Yarn, good and all together.”--SHAKESPEARE.
For a few days the little Ethel was quite inconsolable, crying sadly
for “Mamma;” but the new parents were very tender, patient, and
affectionate, and the old love gradually faded from the baby memory,
till at length it was utterly forgotten in the new. So also was
the name her true mother had given her, Mrs. Kemper changing it to
Florence, which she liked better.
Anxious that the child should believe herself their own by birth, the
Kempers considered it fortunate that it was while journeying to a new
home in the West, among strangers, in the little town of Cranley, that
they obtained possession of her.
They breathed no hint of the little one’s history, and none of their
new acquaintances had the least suspicion of the truth, as indeed how
should they when to both parents “our little Floy” was evidently as the
apple of the eye?
So loved and cared for, and blessed with a sweet, generous,
affectionate disposition, hers was a bright, sunny childhood. She was
spared even the loneliness of many an only child, finding companion,
playmate, and friend in the little son of the nearest neighbor.
The grounds of the Aldens and Kempers adjoined, and immediately upon
the arrival of the latter, friendly relations were established between
the two families. Mrs. Alden called upon her new neighbors, taking
with her her five-year-old Espy, a flaxen-haired, blue-eyed boy, who
straightway fell in love with the lustrous, laughing brown orbs and
dark curls of baby Floy.
She sat on a cushion by the side of her new mamma, daintily habited
in white, a gold chain about her neck, knots of blue ribbon at her
shoulders, and a wide sash of the same at her waist. The plump little
arms hugged close to her bosom a doll half as large as herself, while
the sweet baby voice sang cheerily, “Bye, baby, bye!”
“What’s your name?” asked Espy, regarding her with admiring eyes.
“Florence,” answered Mrs. Kemper quickly, “but we call her Floy for
short.”
“That’s a pretty name, and you’re a pretty baby,” he said, giving her a
kiss. “Nex’ time I come I’ll bring my kitten. She’s a nice cat, and I
love her; but I’ll just give her to you, if you want her.”
“I was never more surprised,” remarked Mrs. Alden in an aside to Mrs.
Kemper. “He prizes that kitten above all his other possessions.”
And thus it ever was from that first moment. Nothing could be, in
Espy’s esteem, too good, beautiful, or precious to be given to
Floy--“his little wife,” as he began to call her before she was three
years old, challenging a special proprietorship in her with which no
other boy was allowed to interfere.
A day seldom passed in which he did not present some offering at her
shrine, though it were no more than a sweet-scented clover-blossom or a
brightly-tinted autumn leaf.
They shared each other’s joys and sorrows: all her little griefs were
confided to him; to her he recounted all his boyish dreams of future
achievement when he should arrive at man’s estate.
He was a born artist, and found in Floy his chief inspiration; for
while his parents and older brothers and sisters laughed at and
discouraged him, she believed thoroughly in him, and was sure he would
some day be a Rubens, a Raphael, a Michael Angelo, or something even
greater than any of them or all put together; and her graceful little
figure and winsome face furnished him with a model that he was never
weary of copying.
Mr. Alden, hoping that this son would embrace one of the learned
professions, determined to give him a liberal education; and the first
great grief either Floy or Espy had known was the parting when the
latter went away to school. Yet there was compensation in a steady
correspondence, kept up with the knowledge and approval of their
parents, and in the joy of the reunion when vacation brought Espy home
again.
Cranley could boast of a good school for girls, and Floy did not go
from home for her education. At seventeen she was a very pretty,
engaging girl, and as Mr. Kemper had prospered, and was known to be in
easy circumstances, she had plenty of admirers; but she remained true
to Espy, though theirs was as yet only a tacit engagement.
Floy graduated from school in June of that year, and Mr. Kemper took
her and his wife on a summer trip to the East. They spent several weeks
at the sea-shore, visited Philadelphia and New York and other places of
interest, then turned homeward.
All had gone well with them, and now within a few miles of Cranley they
were speaking of this gladly, thankfully.
“Oh, yes, we’ve had a delightful time,” said Floy, “and yet I am eager
to be in our own dear home again. There is no place like home when it
is as happy a one as ours.”
Mr. Kemper smiled indulgently upon her.
“Quite right, my little girl,” he said, “and our Floy makes half its
brightness to us. Is not that so, mamma?” addressing his wife.
“It is indeed,” she answered, half sighing as the thought suggested
itself that, some day, another would have a stronger claim than they
upon this darling of her heart.
The whistle blew, the train slackened its speed, then came to a
stand-still at a little country station.
“Peaches! apples! pears!”
A boy had come in with a basket of fruit on his arm.
Mr. Kemper bought liberally of him; then selecting a gold half-eagle
from the contents of his purse, he dropped it into Floy’s hand, saying,
“There’s a trifle for you. I wonder how long it will be before you
spend it.”
“A good while, papa, if you keep me in greenbacks enough to supply
my wants,” she returned gayly, as she deposited it in a dainty
portemonnaie. “Thanks for the gift; I’ll be sure to think of you when I
look at it.”
“Better put it in bank along with the rest; there’s five hundred
dollars there now to your credit.”
“Then I can afford to keep this to look at.”
The smile died on her lips almost before the words left them.
“Something’s wrong with the engine,” a voice was saying behind her.
“Nobody knows how long we’ll have to stop here, and we’re not up to
time by half an hour. Hark! what’s that? Another train coming! we shall
be run into!”
Faces paled with sudden fear; men and women started to their feet in
wild affright. There was a shrill whistle, answered by another, a rush
and roar, then a crash, many voices blending in an awful cry, and Floy
knew no more till, waking as from a deep sleep, she felt herself gently
lifted, while a strange voice said:
“She’s only stunned; not much hurt, I hope. But this other woman is
horribly mangled, and the man--well, his pains are over for this life
at least.”
Instantly restored to perfect consciousness, Floy opened her eyes with
a cry, “Mother! father! oh, where are they? Let me go to them!”
The men set her down on a fragment of the wreck, and turned to help
those in greater need.
The girl passed her hand over her eyes as if to clear her vision. Oh,
was it not all a horrible dream? The heaped-up ruins, the bleeding,
mangled forms of the dead and dying, the shrieks, the groans, the cries
for help, the running to and fro of those who were trying to give it,
the frenzied search for missing loved ones, the wail of anguish over
the wounded and the slain!
What was that they were bearing past her? Could that be her mother’s
voice asking in quivering, agonized tones for husband and child?
She sprang up and ran after the rude litter on which the crushed and
bleeding form was borne along toward a farm-house a few rods distant.
She caught sight of the face, white with the pallor of death and
convulsed with pain. A gleam of joy shot over it as the eyes fell on
the face and figure of Floy. “My darling! safe, thank God!” came from
the pale, quivering lips.
“Mother, mother!” cried the girl.
“Be comforted, darling; I can bear it; ’twill not be for long,” gasped
the sufferer.
They carried her into the house and laid her on a bed. Floy knelt by
her side, grasping the dear hand in hers, laying it to her cheek,
pressing it to her lips, passionately weeping with a grief that seemed
to rend her heart asunder.
“Floy, dearest, it is all right. God’s will be done. He knows best. He
will comfort you.”
The quick ear of the girl scarcely caught the low-breathed words, and
with the last Mrs. Kemper fainted.
At the same moment a gentleman came hastily in and stepped to the
bedside.
Instinctively Floy comprehended his errand, even ere he laid his finger
on the pulse or raised the shawl that half concealed the shattered form.
She rose, outwardly calm and collected.
“Can my mother live?” she asked.
“For some hours,” he said, looking pityingly into the grief-stricken
face of his questioner.
“Where is she hurt?”
“Poor child! how shall I tell you? Her lower limbs are completely
crushed, and even amputation would not save her life.”
Floy caught at the bedstead for support, a low cry of heart-breaking
anguish bursting from her lips. “Oh, mother, mother! And my father!”
she gasped, “oh, where is he?”
“The gentleman who occupied the same seat with this lady? Ah, my dear
child, he is done with pain.”
The girl sank upon her knees again, hiding her face in her hands and
trembling in every fibre. So sudden, so terrible were these successive
blows that the very earth seemed slipping from beneath her feet.
“Dear Lord, her heart is overwhelmed; lead her to the Rock that is
higher than she.”
The words were spoken by an old woman in homely attire who was
assisting the physician in his efforts to restore Mrs. Kemper to
consciousness. The tones were very tender and pitiful, and the aged
hand rested lightly for an instant upon the bowed head.
“Oh, could not _one_ have been spared to me?” cried Floy in a burst of
agony. “Fatherless! motherless! oh, that I too had been taken!”
“Dear child, He will be your Father and your Friend, and life will grow
sweet again, and now He knows and feels for all your pain.”
A groan of agonizing pain came from the crushed form on the bed.
Floy rose and bent over her, the hot tears falling like rain upon the
pallid, death-like face.
“Mother, mother! how can I bear to see you suffer so?”
The white, quivering lips tried to wreathe themselves into a smile, and
the anguished eyes looked tenderly into hers.
“Beloved child, it will--soon--be over, and I--shall be at
home--indeed.”
Her eyes sought the doctor’s face. “How long--”
“A very few hours at the most.”
“Then leave me alone with my child,” she said, speaking in a stronger
voice than before.
The physician gave Floy some directions in regard to the administering
of restoratives, and he and his assistant withdrew.
Left alone together, hand clasped in hand, mother and daughter gazed
tenderly, mournfully into each other’s eyes, silent tears trickling
down the cheeks of both. Then gathering up all her failing energies for
the task, Mrs. Kemper told Floy in a few brief sentences the story of
her adoption and all they had heard from her true mother’s lips in the
little shanty inn at Clearfield Station.
Some things she said which, though they fell almost unheeded upon
Floy’s ears at the time, afterward, when she had come to care for that
unknown mother, were a great comfort. It was pleasant to have learned
from the dear dying voice that she who gave her being was unmistakably
a lady by birth and breeding, whom even a stranger recognized as gentle
and lovable.
“I have never been able to remember without a pang of regret and
remorse her agony of grief in parting from you,” said Mrs. Kemper. “We
have never heard from her, and I think she must have died soon after,
for she seemed then in an almost dying condition.”
“Oh, then why tell me of her? why, dearest, darling mother, rob me of
the belief that I am your own child--yours and father’s?” sobbed the
heart-broken girl.
The dying eyes looked into hers with yearning tenderness.
“Precious one,” she whispered faintly, for her strength was waning, “I
would spare you every unneeded pang. But,” she went on with frequent
pauses for breath, “the knowledge may some day be of use to you. You
may find relatives, my poor, lonely darling. You will find the deed of
gift among your father’s papers; your mother’s name is signed to it.
There is a will, my husband told me, leaving everything to you and me,
all to be yours at my death; so, my--”
“Oh, mother, darling mother, what do I care for that now--now when I
have lost my father, and you too are going from me!” cried the girl in
an agony of grief.
“Nothing now, I know,” the mother said with pitying tenderness, “but I
am glad my darling will not be left penniless; it would be hard for you
to earn your own bread. And the dear home, Floy, will be yours.”
Her eyes closed, but the lips still moved, and Floy, bending over her,
caught the broken, faintly murmured words, “Home--many mansions--my
Father’s house--” Then all was stillness and silence.
“Mother, oh, mother! speak to me once more!” cried the girl, pressing
passionate kisses on the pale brow where the dews of death already
gathered. “Is it well with you, darling mother? No fear? No doubt, no
darkness?”
A beautiful smile played about the dying lips, and again a faint
murmur reached the daughter’s intently listening ear: “All is
peace--peace--the sweetest peace; I know that my Redeemer liveth. Trust
Him, trust Him; He will--never--leave you.”
A gentle sigh, and Floy knew that she was alone. No wail of sorrow
broke the deep hush of that death-chamber, no tears fell from the
burning eyes of the solitary mourner. They found her with the still
form clasped in her arms, her dead mother’s head pillowed upon her
bosom, the tearless eyes gazing with mingled love and anguish upon the
calm, sweet face on whose unruffled brow Peace had set its signet.
The lovely smile yet lingered about the pale lips which to Floy’s ear
seemed ever whispering, “All is peace, peace, the sweetest peace.”
CHAPTER V.
BETROTHED.
“We all do fade as a leaf.”--ISAIAH 64:6
“My Adah! let me call thee mine.”--BYRON.
“Floy!”
Only a word, yet what a world of love and tender sympathy spoke in the
tone and in the touch of the hand that gently caressed her hair.
The girl started and looked up.
“Oh, Espy!”
Her cheek dropped again upon the head resting on her bosom, and now the
blessed tears came in a flood.
Espy, just returning from college, had been scarcely an hour at home
when the news came flashing over the wires that about five miles away
a terrible railroad accident had occurred, in which several prominent
citizens of Cranley, among whom were the Kempers, had been killed or
wounded.
Nearly frantic with fear for Floy, Espy rushed to the depot, and
learning that a special train would be sent immediately to carry aid to
the sufferers, hurried home again with the tidings.
Mrs. Alden had already packed a basket with such things as she thought
might be needed, tied on her hat, and, with a shawl on her arm, stood
in the doorway anxiously looking for her son’s return.
He came running, caught up the basket, and, giving her his arm, began
to retrace his steps, merely saying in a voice hoarse with emotion, “We
must make all haste, mother, or we’ll be left.”
“Floy?” she cried pantingly, as they almost flew over the ground. “Oh,
I don’t know!” he gasped, “there are a thousand reports.”
It was only on reaching the scene of the disaster that they learned
who, of all their friends, had been killed or injured. What a relief to
know that Floy was not of the number! But ah, was she unhurt, with that
crushed and almost broken heart?
They found her as we have described. They shared her grief, for they
had both become strongly attached to those whose sudden, untimely, and
terrible death she mourned.
“Thank God for those tears!” sobbed Mrs. Alden. “Dear child, our loss
is her gain; and she has gone to be with the husband she loved so well.
The Lord was good to both in letting them go together.”
“Yes,” whispered Floy, laying her precious burden gently down.
Wiping away her tears, she pressed one more long, lingering kiss upon
the pale lips, then turned, and giving her hand to Espy, suffered him
to lead her from the room.
Truly the girl’s heart was overwhelmed. Her adopted father--whom,
until within the last hour, she had deemed in very truth her own--was
only less dear than his wife, and the double bereavement, so sudden,
so terrible, was enough to crush her young spirit to the earth; and
yet was there an added depth of anguish in the thought of the strange
revelation made to her by that beloved dying voice.
It seemed to rob her of the full right to the poor luxury of grief.
Others also were nearer by the ties of blood; yet oh, it could not
be that any other loved them with half the strength of devotion that
filled her heart, that any could mourn for them as she who for sixteen
years had been enshrined in their affections, and lived continually in
the sunshine of their love!
She could not bear to tell this sorrow to any earthly creature; not
even Espy must know the sad secret. There was only One into whose
ear she could pour out _all_ her griefs. That she could tell Him
all and know that He listened--that in all her afflictions He was
afflicted--saved the poor heart from breaking.
Mrs. Kemper had been an only child; Mr. Kemper had outlived his
brothers and sisters; so that there were no nearer relatives than
nephews and nieces, all of whom resided at a great distance. Word was
sent to those whose addresses were known, but they were not waited for,
as it was impossible they should arrive in time for the funeral.
The Aldens were very kind, treating Floy quite as if she belonged
to them, and relieving her of every care in regard to the necessary
arrangements for performing the last offices of love to the departed.
It was the evening of the day on which she had looked for the last
time upon the dear faces of the loved and lost. At her own request
sympathizing friends had all withdrawn and left her alone, and Espy,
coming softly into the parlor unannounced, found her weeping bitterly
before Mrs. Kemper’s portrait.
“Floy, dearest Floy, my own little wife, would that I could comfort
you!” he whispered, taking her in his arms.
“You have been--you are a great comfort to me, Espy,” she said, gently
releasing herself.
“Then why may I not embrace you, dear Floy? Ah, I understand! it is
because there has never been a formal engagement between us. But we
know we love and belong to each other. Is it not so? Darling Floy,
promise to be my wife.”
She answered with a look that made his heart bound.
“You are all I have now, Espy,” she sobbed, allowing him to draw her
head to a resting-place on his shoulder; “all I have to love or to give
love to me.”
“I wish you knew how much I love you, Floy, my poor stricken one, and
how I long to comfort you!” he whispered, clasping her close with many
a tender caress.
“The cloud is very, very black!” she sighed. “Oh, it seems as if my
heart will break! The blow has been so sudden, so terrible--I cannot
fully realize it yet. I am stunned. I seem to be living in a dream--a
horrible dream; a dreadful nightmare is upon me,” she moaned. “Oh,
Espy, wake me and tell me the dear father and mother, alive and well
yesterday, are not now lying in the cold grave!” and she shuddered and
hid her face, while choking sobs shook her from head to foot.
“They are not there; they are beyond the stars, in the region of
unclouded light, dear Floy,” he said.
“Yes, yes, that is true! and oh, thank God that you are left me still!”
No one intruded upon them, and they parted only when it was time for
Floy to retire.
Worn out with grief and the fatigue of her journey, she fell asleep the
moment her head touched the pillow.
The sun was up when she woke again, birds were singing in the tree
close to her window, and the glad voices of children at play on the
other side of the street came pleasantly to her ear. Had she escaped
from her horrible nightmare?
Alas! for only an instant; it was upon her again. Bitter tears coursed
down her cheeks. How lonely and desolate was her lot! but ah, Espy’s
love was left her still. There was balm for her wounded spirit in that
thought.
Then came another--the secret imparted with Mrs. Kemper’s dying breath.
Had not Espy now a right to know the truth as well as she?
She pondered the question for a moment. She was sure it would make no
difference in his love, as why should it indeed? But he should know;
she would have no concealments from him who was to be her second self.
And, after all, how little there was to tell! What did she know beyond
the bare fact that she was the child of her reputed parents only by
adoption?
Ah, the paper, the deed of gift her mother had spoken of--she must
find it; it would at least tell her her true name. Oh, what an added
grief to think that she had no right to the one she had borne since her
earliest recollection! and yet, they having given it to her, had she
not a right?
On leaving the breakfast-table, where she had gone through the form
of taking her morning meal, she went directly to the room where Mr.
Kemper’s books and papers were kept, and began her search, at first
with confident expectation, though in trembling, eager haste, then
anxiously, and at length in sadness akin to despair. She had examined
one receptacle after another, till all had been gone over without
coming upon the object of her quest. A leaf torn from a note-book--it
must be a small paper, easily overlooked; and with that thought in her
mind she began her exploration anew. She had not given it up yet when
the servant-girl came to say that Mr. Alden was in the parlor.
Floy repaired thither at once.
It was not Espy, but his father, who came forward as she entered, took
her hand in his and led her to a sofa, where he seated himself by her
side.
“My dear child,” he said, “Espy has told us all, and we are very glad;
though of course it is only what we had looked forward to as a settled
thing for years past.”
His manner was so paternal and affectionate that for a moment Floy
was too much overcome for speech, so vividly did it remind her of the
father she had lost.
He understood her emotion, and tried to console her with the assurance
that she need no longer feel herself orphaned and alone in the world,
since he and his wife would henceforth regard her as their own child.
Then he went on to speak of the necessity of a settlement of Mr.
Kemper’s estate, asking her whether there was a will, and who was
appointed executor, adding:
“Your father once expressed a wish that I would undertake that office
for him, at the same time telling me that his intention was to make a
will dividing his property equally between you and his wife, her half
to revert to you or your heirs at her death; but the subject was not
mentioned between us afterward, and I do not know anything more about
the matter.”
“Mother told me there was a will,” said Floy, “and it would give me
everything. But I do not know where to find it.”
“Doubtless it is somewhere among his private papers,” said Mr. Alden;
adding reflectively, “It will be quite a task for you to examine them,
and you should have help. I am very busy just now, but Espy is entirely
at leisure. Shall he come and help you look them over?”
The young man came in while his father was speaking, and, on hearing
an explanation of the matter, eagerly seconded the offer. Anything to
assist Floy, especially if it kept him in her dear society.
“I am ready to begin at once, if it suits your convenience and
inclination,” he said to her, and she answering that it did, his father
left them, and they repaired together to the room where she had been so
busy all the morning.
CHAPTER VI.
THE SEARCH.
“Omission to do what is necessary
Seals a commission to a blank of danger.”--SHAKESPEARE.
There were papers scattered over the table, and one or two had fallen
on the floor.
“You see I had begun the task before your father came,” Floy said, with
a sad smile; “but before we resume it I have something to say to you,”
she added with an effort, growing so pale that Espy caught her in his
arms, thinking she was about to faint.
“My poor Floy!” he said, “if it is anything painful, don’t tell it;
there is no need.”
“I want you to know it, Espy,” she sighed low and tremulously, “but to
keep it secret from all others unless--unless it--circumstances should
render it necessary that--”
Her head dropped upon his shoulder, and with a burst of hysterical
weeping, “Oh, Espy, Espy!” she cried, “I’m more than orphaned; I’ve
lost my identity; I’m not Floy Kemper--not the child of the dear
parents I mourn, except--except by adoption!”
He was greatly surprised, but only drew her closer to him, as one made
dearer still by her sore distress, her utter loneliness; and as she
went on in her low, quivering tones, “I’ve none now but you; I’m all
alone in the wide world--not a relative living, so far as I know,” a
strange thrill of joy mingled with his sympathetic grief--joy that she
was his, his alone to love and cherish to life’s end; that on him only
she would lean as her earthly stay and support.
Something of this he whispered in reply, accompanying his words with
fond caresses and endearing epithets.
“How good and noble you are, my Espy!” she said. “You still hold me to
your heart without waiting to learn who or what I am.”
“You are my own little Floy, whom I have loved from her very babyhood,”
he interrupted, holding her fast as she made a movement as if to
release herself from his embrace, “and that is all I care to know.”
She lifted her large, lustrous eyes to his with a look of grateful
love. “No, no, I will not take advantage of your generous affection,”
she said, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Wait till I have told
you all--till you know everything. Till then I will not hold you bound
by--what passed between us last night.”
“I will not accept my freedom”--he began impetuously. But she stopped
him with an imperative gesture.
“Hear my story.” And in a few rapid sentences she gave him the facts as
learned from Mrs. Kemper.
His face brightened as she proceeded.
“What is there in this, Floy, to come between us, or even to raise an
objection to our union in the mind of the most captious?” he asked.
“You were born in wedlock, your mother was a lady, and presumably your
father a gentleman. Besides, there is absolutely no need that any one
but our own two selves should ever learn these facts. You are known as
the child of Mr. and Mrs. Kemper, and that you are not, concerns us
alone.”
“Is that so?”
“Certainly; and now let us look for the will.”
“The will!” A sudden painful thought had flashed upon her. Espy saw it
in her face.
“Well, dearest, what is it?” he asked.
“If we should not find it?”
Her voice was low and husky.
“Then we shall do the best we can without it,” he answered cheerily,
turning to the table and taking up a roll of papers tied together with
a bit of red tape. “Have you looked at this?”
“No--yes, but only with care enough to make sure that the deed of
gift was not among them. But the will--if it is not found, does not
the law give everything to father’s relatives? and will not that make
this--this secret of mine public?” she asked, speaking with difficulty,
as if the subject were almost too painful for discussion.
Espy started, and dropped the packet upon the floor; but recovering
himself, stooped to pick it up, saying with determination:
“But we _will_ find it; of course it must be here or somewhere about
the house. Cheer up, Floy dear, and let us go to work.”
They spent the greater part of three days at their task. Every paper
was unfolded, shaken out, examined and re-examined, every nook and
corner diligently ransacked, and thorough but unavailing search made
for secret drawers, yet neither will nor deed of gift could be found.
At last they were forced to the conclusion that the deed of gift was
irrecoverably lost; the will also, if it had ever existed, which seemed
very doubtful.
“Ah, what success to-day?” asked the elder Mr. Alden, coming in upon
them as they were slowly replacing the papers in the secretary, almost
hoping, even against hope, to yet come upon the missing papers.
“None, sir,” answered Espy.
“What! no will? Surely you must have overlooked it. Mrs. Kemper you
say, Floy, told you there was one--just such as Mr. Kemper had told
me he purposed making--and he could have no motive for concealing it.
Let me think; possibly he may have carried it on his person. Have you
examined the pockets of--”
“No!” cried Espy, starting up with animation. “Floy--”
“Oh, I cannot!” she groaned, hiding her face.
“No, no, assuredly not; forgive me, darling,” he whispered, bending
over her; “but may I?”
She gave a silent assent, and he and his father left the room.
In a few moments they returned, Espy carrying a large-sized
pocket-book, old and worn, which he placed in Floy’s hands, saying,
“This is all we found. It is for you to open and examine it.”
She did so, her tears dropping over it all the time. It contained a
little change and a few papers of no great importance--receipted bills,
memoranda, etc.
“It is not here; he never made it,” she said huskily, pushing the book
and its contents from her. “Ah, father, father, what has your neglect
cost me!”
“Don’t be so distressed, child; there is really no occasion,” said Mr.
Alden soothingly. “I don’t know why, as I told Espy yesterday, you
and he have taken so much trouble to hunt for the will, as, you being
the only child, the law gives all to you in case your father died
intestate, as it seems he did.”
She lifted her white face, which she had hidden in her hands; she would
not see Espy’s imploring look.
“No, Mr. Alden, you mistake,” she said; “I, lacking the will, am not
the heir.”
“Nonsense, my dear child! ’Tis you who are mistaken. Why, how could
you doubt that you, his only child, inherit Mr. Kemper’s property by
natural right, unless he chose to will it, or part of it, to some one
else?”
She seemed shaken with contending emotions; but controlling herself
by a strong effort, and looking with steady, mournful gaze into the
eyes of him whom she addressed, “I thought--I believed--oh, I never
_doubted_ till the hour that I became doubly orphaned--that I was his
own child and--and hers!”
She paused for an instant, with her hands tightly clasped over her
heart, then went on in lower and more tremulous tones. “But she--my
mother--as I must call her still--she told me with her dying breath
that--that I was theirs only by adoption.”
Mr. Alden, who had been standing, staggered back and dropped into a
chair, looking perfectly astounded.
“Who--who are you then?” he gasped at length.
“I--I do not know, except--”
“Never mind, Floy, my own little wife,” whispered Espy, throwing a
protecting arm about her and making her lean on him.
Then turning to his father, he stated the facts as succinctly as
possible.
Mr. Alden listened with a grave and troubled air, and, when his son had
finished, sat for some moments in silent cogitation.
“Well,” he said at length, “this is a rather bad business; and
yet--perhaps not so bad as it looks. Floy, how many are in this
secret--about your birth, I mean?”
“Our three selves only,” she answered.
“Good! very good!” he said, rubbing his hands with a complacent smile.
“Your sex is not famed for ability to keep secrets, but I’ll trust you
for this one.”
She gave him a look of surprised inquiry.
“So long as you are believed to be Mr. Kemper’s own child,” he went on
to explain, “no one will dispute your right to the property, and it’s
very considerable, Floy--worth taking some pains to secure.”
Her dark eyes opened wide upon him in half-incredulous, indignant
surprise, but he gave her no opportunity to speak.
“And it is yours of right, for, as we all know, Mr. Kemper intended
it for you, and you will only be fulfilling his wishes in retaining
possession, which, as the old saying has it,” he added, with an
unpleasant laugh, “is nine points of the law.”
CHAPTER VII.
A WICKED SUGGESTION.
“All your attempts
Shall fall on me like brittle shafts on armor
That break themselves, or like waves against a rock.”
MASSINGER.
Utter amazement at so base a proposal kept the girl silent for an
instant; then releasing herself from Espy’s supporting arm, she stood
erect before her tempter, her hands tightly clenched, a crimson tide
rushing over the face so pale but a moment ago, the great dark eyes
flashing with indignant anger, then filling with tears of deeply
wounded feeling.
“Ah, I see; you were not serious. You could not believe me capable of
such a crime. But it was a cruel jest,” she said in a choking voice,
and ending with a burst of almost hysterical weeping.
“Crime!” echoed Mr. Alden testily. “Girl, you don’t know what you are
talking about! How can it be a crime to take the property your father
accumulated expressly for you?”
“I beg, sir, that the matter may be allowed to rest for the present,”
interposed Espy; “we have had a hard day’s work, and Floy is not in a
condition, either mentally or physically, to attend to business.”
“Well, well, just as she pleases; there’s no particular hurry, and
I’d be the last one to want to distress her,” returned Mr. Alden,
and taking up his hat he stalked out of the room, evidently not
over-pleased. In fact, his ire was roused not a little by the term Floy
had applied to his proposition.
“Crime indeed!” he muttered to himself as he hurried down the garden
path. “As if I--I could be thought capable of suggesting a crime!”
He hastened to his wife with his grievance.
“Oh, well, never mind the child; she’s only a slip of a girl, and I
dare say hardly knows what a crime is,” Mrs. Alden answered soothingly.
“But really, remembering how they doted on her and petted her, I never
was more surprised at anything in my life than to hear that she wasn’t
their own.”
“Nor I, Jane; and if she’s going to be such a fool as to publish the
thing and give up the property that she knows, and we all know, was
intended for her, why--I’ll withdraw my consent--”
“Oh, now, Nathan, don’t say that!” hastily interrupted his wife,
knowing that he was an obstinate man and prided himself on keeping his
word. “You might come to wish you hadn’t, for she’s a nice girl, and
we’re all fond of her--you as well as the rest of us. There, now, I
must go and see about supper,” she added, making an excuse to leave him
before he had had time to commit himself.
Worn out with grief, excitement, and over-exertion, Floy went to bed
that night with a raging headache, and for the next two or three days
was able to do little but lie on the sofa.
Espy was with her almost constantly, saving her as much as possible
from every annoyance, and comforting her with his sympathy and love.
They were not days of mirth and gladness, but of much heaviness of
heart, yet often looked back upon in after years with tender regret, a
mournful sweetness lingering about their memory.
As by mutual consent both Floy and Espy avoided the subject of the
missing papers and her future action in regard to the property. It
frequently obtruded itself upon Floy’s thoughts, but she refused to
consider it for the time being; it must wait until she had strength for
the struggle which she foresaw was before her if she would follow the
dictates of an enlightened conscience.
Mr. Alden grew impatient.
“Espy,” he said at length, “what is Floy going to do?”
“She has not told me, sir; the subject has not been mentioned between
us.”
“Then it’s high time it was; I hope you’ll talk to her about it to-day,
and try to convince her of the reasonableness of the course I have
recommended.”
“I should rather not undertake it, sir. I am not at all sure that hers
is not the right view of the matter.”
“Come, now, don’t be a fool, Espy!” returned his father angrily. “You’d
be standing amazingly in your own light, if you mean to marry the
girl; it’s a fine property, and would give you just the start in life
you need. Why, you might give up studying for a profession and devote
yourself at once to your beloved art,” he added, with an unpleasant
laugh.
The young man flushed deeply. “I should despise myself, sir, if I could
act from such motives,” he said, forcing himself to speak quietly,
though the hot blood coursed through his veins.
“Your father doesn’t mean that he wants you to marry for money, or to
do anything dishonest to get it,” interposed Mrs. Alden. “All he asks
is that you will persuade Floy not to throw away what we all know was
meant for her.”
“No, I’ll take back that request,” said the elder gentleman. “Leave her
to me; that’s all I ask.”
“I shall not try to influence her one way or the other,” said Espy.
“But, father, be patient with her if she can’t see things just as you
do. She’s almost heart-broken already, poor child!”
This conversation had taken place at the breakfast-table, and
immediately on the conclusion of the meal Espy hastened to Floy to
learn how she was in health, determined to save her from an encounter
with his father until she felt quite equal to it.
He found her free from pain, calm and quiet in manner, though with an
expression of deep sadness in her large dark eyes and about the lines
of her mobile mouth. She was strangely changed from the careless,
light-hearted creature of a week ago. Sorrow and bereavement had done
the work of years, and the child of yesterday had become a self-poised,
self-reliant woman.
She had spent some hours that morning in earnest thought, asking wisdom
and strength from Him who has declared Himself in a peculiar sense the
“Father of the fatherless,” and in searching His Word for direction;
and now her mind was fully made up.
Espy told her of his father’s intended call, and asked if she would
see him, adding, “Don’t hesitate to decline, Floy. You can guess his
errand.”
“Yes,” she said, sighing slightly, “and I cannot follow his wishes,
because it would be doing violence to my conscience. But I will hear
all he has to say. Ah,” she added, tears filling her eyes, “it is hard
to be compelled to do what vexes and angers those you love and would
fain please rather than yourself! Espy, will you turn against me?”
“Never, never, my poor child! I will stand by you through everything.”
The door opened, and the elder Mr. Alden came in.
“Ah, good-morning, my dear child,” he said, taking Floy’s hand. “Glad
to see you about again! should have been here before, but Espy insisted
that you were better let alone.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Please be seated.”
He was not long in introducing the real object of his visit, but
approached the subject with more caution than before. He spoke of Mr.
Kemper’s great fondness for her and his fatherly pride in her, and the
determination he had been frequently heard to express, that if he could
prevent it his darling should never know what it was to want for the
comforts and even luxuries of life.
“Yes,” murmured Floy, the tears stealing down her pale cheeks, “father
loved me very dearly, and was always tenderly careful of me.”
“And can you believe that he would want the property he accumulated to
be enjoyed by some one else, and you left to struggle with poverty?”
asked Mr. Alden.
“No; oh no, no!”
“Ah!” There was a world of meaning in the slight exclamation. It said,
“So you are coming to your senses at last! you see now that I was
right, and I’m delighted that such is the case.”
“Do not mistake me, Mr. Alden,” said the girl, sighing. “I am certain
father would have preferred to leave me well provided for, but he may
have finally concluded that it would be more just to leave his property
to those who were related to him by ties of blood.”
Emotion stopped her utterance; she had not yet learned to think and
speak calmly of the fact that there was no natural tie between herself
and those who had been as the dearest of parents to her.
“Nonsense!” was the angry exclamation that rose to Mr. Alden’s lips;
but checking himself, he said in a tone of mild expostulation, “I am
sure, my dear child, you need not trouble yourself with any such fears.
He made every cent of his money, and certainly had a perfect right to
leave it as he pleased. And there is not the least doubt in my mind
that you would be following out his wishes in retaining possession of
it. Indeed I think it would be very wrong as well as foolish to do
otherwise.”
“Why wrong?”
“Because it would be disposing of his property as he would not have
wished it to be disposed of.”
“Ah, Mr. Alden, suppose you were his next of kin, would you not see
this matter differently?”
“Well--possibly our own interests are very apt to blind us to the
rights of others.”
Floy smiled faintly, thinking how nearly akin to a man’s own interest
was that of his son.
“Yes,” she said, “that is human nature; we are naturally selfish, I as
well as others; so much so that if I knew the property was lawfully
mine I should never think of giving it away.”
“Then don’t.”
“Ah, it is not mine to give or to keep, but must go to the rightful
heirs.”
Mr. Alden bit his lips with vexation, rose and paced the room for some
moments; then, having recovered control of himself, came and sat down
by Floy.
“I know you want to do right,” he said pleasantly, “and I have only to
convince you that the course I wish you to take is right to induce you
to take it.”
“I cannot tell you how gladly I should do so,” she answered.
At this moment Espy, who had taken no part in the conversation, though
a deeply interested listener, was, much to his discontent, summoned
away by a message from his mother.
Mr. Alden did most of the talking for the next hour, going over the old
arguments again and again, but bringing forward little that was new
except that Mr. and Mrs. Kemper, in adopting her as their own child,
had given her all the rights of a child, and therefore, will or no
will, she was the proper heir.
“Is that according to the law of the land?” she asked, a gleam of hope
shining in her eyes.
He evaded the question. “Human laws are very faulty; we need not always
be bound by them.”
“No, not when they come in collision with the higher law of God; but
that is not the case in this instance.”
After a moment’s thought and stroking of his beard, he began on
another tack, speaking of Espy and his plans, and dwelling at
considerable length upon the great advantage it would be to the young
man if his wife had sufficient means to give him a start in life.
Floy heard him to the end in unbroken silence, her hands tightly
clasped in her lap, a look of pain more than once crossing her
features, while the color came and went on her cheek.
He seemed to have finished, but she neither moved nor spoke.
“Well,” he said, rising and taking up his hat from the table where
he had placed it on entering, “I’ll leave you to think it all over.
Good-morning!”
“Stay!” she said, suddenly rising and standing before him, her hands
still clasped, a look of anguish in her eyes as she lifted them to his,
her voice tremulous with emotion, not from any faltering of purpose.
“I need no further time for deliberation. I have thought and prayed
over this matter, and my duty has been made very clear to me. Right and
justice must be done, at whatever cost to me or to--”
The last word was lost in a bitter, choking sob.
Mr. Alden turned abruptly on his heel and left the house.
CHAPTER VIII.
MRS. ALDEN AN ABETTOR.
“A settled virtue
Makes itself a judge: and satisfied within,
Smiles at that common enemy, the world.”--DRYDEN.
“What is it, Nathan?”
Mrs. Alden had come upon her husband pacing the front porch of their
dwelling with angry strides.
“That girl!” he said between his shut teeth. “I wash my hands of her
and her affairs, and Espy shall never marry her with my consent, mark
that, Jane!” and he brought down his clenched fist with emphasis upon
the open palm of the other hand.
His wife looked disturbed, but after a moment’s thought said
cheerfully, “She’ll come round yet, Nathan, and you don’t mean that to
stand if she does?”
“No, of course not; but she isn’t going to come round; she hasn’t the
sense to understand and appreciate an argument, and has somehow got her
head full of Quixotic notions. I suppose she thinks she’ll make a grand
heroine of herself by giving up everything to Kemper’s relations, and
that they’ll generously hand back a share of it, or maybe the whole;
but she’ll find out when it’s too late that she’s made a wonderful
mistake.”
Mrs. Alden had her own opinion regarding Floy’s sense, but was far too
wise to contradict her husband.
“I haven’t lived with him forty years for nothing,” she sometimes said.
“I’ve found out that the only way to manage him is to seem to give in
to all his notions. So I never cross him, and I generally contrive in
the end to have things pretty much as I want them.”
Seeing she made no reply to his remark, Mr. Alden went on to give her a
detailed account of his interview with Floy, winding up with, “There,
now, what do you think of that?”
“Poor young thing!” sighed his wife, “it’s really dreadful to think
what she’s gone through in the last two weeks, and perhaps she couldn’t
quite put her mind on what you were saying so as to take it all
in. Give her a little time; she may come around yet to your way of
thinking. I must go and see about dinner now.”
“Yes,” he answered absently. “Suppose you go over after dinner; coaxing
will move a woman sometimes when argument won’t.”
“I’ll try,” she said as she hurried away. It was what she had intended,
though she had not thought it best to say so.
Mr. Alden’s departure had left Floy alone, for Espy had not yet
returned. Sinking down upon the sofa, she wept convulsively for some
minutes. Presently she grew calmer, and, wiping away her tears, rose
and went to her father’s writing-desk.
Seating herself before it, she selected a sheet of note-paper, took up
a pen, and was in the act of dipping it in the ink, when Susan, the
maid of all work, put her head in at the door, saying, “Mr. Crosby’s
in the parlor, Miss Floy, asking to see you.”
“Thank you very much for coming,” Floy said when she had shaken hands
with her visitor. “I was just about to write a note asking you to call.”
“I shall be glad if I can be of service to you,” he said. “I should
have called sooner, but returned only last night from a pleasure-trip,
the first I have taken in years. Now what can I do for you?”
Mr. Crosby, the first lawyer in the place, had been Mr. Kemper’s legal
adviser.
At first Floy seemed unable to speak. She rose, and motioning Mr.
Crosby to follow her, led the way to the room she had just left. They
were closeted together there for an hour, in which Mr. Crosby learned
the whole story of Mrs. Kemper’s death-bed revelations, and the
unsuccessful search for the deed of gift and the will.
“I am extremely sorry to hear all this,” he said. “I was pretty certain
there was no will, because Mr. Kemper had spoken to me about drawing
one up for him, telling me that he intended leaving the bulk of his
property to his wife and daughter, but not going sufficiently into
particulars to enable me to write out the instrument without further
instructions. These he delayed giving me from time to time, being
always so much occupied with his business. If you were, as I always
believed till now, his own child, the omission would make little or
no difference; but as it is, it leaves you quite unprovided for. If I
had known the truth I should have urged him strongly to attend to the
matter without delay. It’s a bad business, a very bad business for
you, Miss Floy! I feel for you from the bottom of my heart, and I
would do anything in the world I could to help you.”
“I believe it, Mr. Crosby,” she said with emotion, “and if you will
undertake--”
“To communicate with the heirs at law? Certainly; and I shall try to
induce them to allow your claim to a share in the property you have so
generously resigned to them--”
“Not generously, Mr. Crosby,” she interrupted, “only justly.”
“Ah, well, if you will have it so; but Miss Floy, you might have kept
the secret revealed by your mother locked up in your own breast, and
retained the property without the least danger of interference from any
one. Did you know that?”
She gave a silent assent.
“And even leaving the inheritance of the estate out of the question,
you would have been glad to keep the secret?”
“Yes; oh, yes!” she said, covering her face with her hands, while the
tears trickled between her fingers.
He looked at her with undisguised admiration.
“You are a noble girl!” he exclaimed; and rising, paced the floor to
and fro.
“Oh!” he cried, “the mischief that simple neglect will do! It has
been the ruin of thousands, and through it men have, in multitudes of
instances, frustrated their own most cherished plans and purposes. Mr.
Kemper schemed and toiled to provide for the old age of himself and
wife, and that he might have wealth to bestow upon you, the darling of
his heart; and now, through his own omission, it will pass to others,
one or two of whom, I happen to know, are spendthrifts, who will
probably speedily waste their shares in riotous living. It’s a thousand
pities! If we could but bring proof of your formal adoption, making you
his legal heir--”
“There is none,” she sighed, “and perhaps they are very needy--those
heirs--and may do better with this than you expect, Mr. Crosby. We will
not blame poor dear father. How ungrateful it would be in me to do so
after all that he and mother did for me--after all the love and care
they bestowed on me for so many years! I had not the slightest claim on
them, yet they clothed, fed, educated me--made my childhood and youth
so bright and happy. Oh, never did poor little waif fall into hands so
kind and tender!”
“Your sentiments do you honor, Miss Floy,” said Mr. Crosby, “and now
I will return to my office and attend to this matter at once. I shall
write the heirs, letting them know how entirely they are indebted to
you for this accession of property, and urge upon them the justice of
allowing you a share in it.”
He shook hands with her, said a few encouraging, hopeful words, and
departed.
“Glad he’s gone at last,” said Susan, putting her head in at the door
again. “Thought he never would go, and your dinner is drying up over
the fire till ’tain’t hardly fit to eat. Come, Miss Floy, I’ll have it
on the table by the time you can get out to the dining-room.”
Floy brought little appetite to her meal, and ate mechanically,
scarcely knowing what the viands were.
She had just risen from the table when Mrs. Alden came in. Floy flushed
slightly on seeing her. She knew that Mr. Alden had gone away very
angry, and was doubtful how far his wife would be in sympathy with him.
But the greeting of the latter was kind and motherly as usual.
“I’m so glad the poor head is better again,” she said, kissing the
girl affectionately. “You must forgive me for calling Espy away this
morning. I had to get him to drive out to the country for butter and
eggs, for there were none to be had in town, and I’d nobody else to
send. He hasn’t got back yet, or you may be sure he’d have been in
again.”
Talking on, with hardly a pause for a reply, Mrs. Alden gradually
approached the subject of the morning’s conversation between her
husband and Floy.
“I honor you for your intentions, my dear,” she said. “I know they are
altogether good and right, but you’re very young and inexperienced, and
I think have a morbid conscientiousness that blinds you to your own
interests, and, if you’ll allow me to say it, to Espy’s too, because if
you’re going to be man and wife you can’t have separate interests.”
“Dear Mrs. Alden,” said Floy, with a patient sigh, “you cannot
surely think it is ever right to do evil that good may come, or that
ill-gotten wealth will be of real benefit to its possessor?”
“No, child, certainly not,” she answered with some annoyance, “but
those questions don’t apply in this case. You needn’t be afraid that
anything my husband does or advises could be wrong, because he’s too
good a man.”
It probably did not occur to the loyal wife that she was reversing the
Bible test--judging of the fruit by the tree, instead of the tree by
its fruit.
“I do not think he would do or advise anything that he thought wrong,”
returned Floy gently; “but you know each of us must act according to
his or her own conscience, and mine absolutely refuses to see this
matter as Mr. Alden does.”
“Well, I mostly let him judge for me,” said Mrs. Alden. “I find it’s
the only way to have peace, and I can’t live in a constant broil; not
that he’s particularly ill-natured, but he naturally thinks he ought to
be master in his own house. Another thing, Floy: if he once sets his
foot down there’s no getting him to lift it again, and he vows that if
you persist in giving up this property Espy shall never marry you with
his consent. So, you see if you can’t be persuaded there’ll be endless
trouble for us all.”
Floy’s cheek crimsoned and her eye flashed, while the pretty head was
thrown haughtily back as she drew herself up with an air of wounded
pride.
“It was your son who sought me, Mrs. Alden, not I him; nor shall I ever
thrust myself into a family where I am not wanted and should be made an
element of discord.”
Mrs. Alden was thoroughly dismayed.
“My dear child,” she hastened to say, “I did not mean to hurt your
feelings, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you. But Espy will
never give you up; he’d break with his father and all of us first,
and--”
“He can’t marry me against my will,” interrupted Floy; “so pray dismiss
all anxiety on that score. I would no more rob you and Mr. Alden of
your son than--than I would steal the inheritance of the heirs at law
of this property.”
“Oh, Floy, Floy, to make you break with Espy is the very last thing I
intended; don’t do it; he’d never forgive me; but oh! if I only could
persuade you to keep this secret of your birth and--”
“It is already too late,” answered the girl in a low, quiet tone, “the
deed is done.”
CHAPTER IX.
WHAT ESPY SAID ABOUT IT.
“Dost thou deem
It such an easy task from the fond breast
To root affection out?”--SOUTHEY.
“What shall I do? what _shall_ I do?” Mrs. Alden asked herself again
and again as, in great perturbation of spirit, she awaited Espy’s
return. “How angry and distressed he’ll be, poor boy!”
She was at a loss to determine whether it would be best to break the
news to him herself, or to let him hear it first from Floy or his
father.
But circumstances decided for her. As she sat at the window watching
the lengthening shadows as the sun drew near his setting, and saying to
herself that Espy was very late--it was nearly tea-time, and she almost
began to fear that he had met with some accident--she heard the gate
swing, and turning her head saw him coming up the gravel walk that led
from it to the house.
He moved with rapid strides, and there was an angry flush on his cheek,
an indignant light in his eye, which told her at once that he had
already been made aware of the unfortunate turn affairs had taken.
In a moment more he stood before her with folded arms, firmly-set
mouth, and stern eyes.
“Espy, my son! Oh, I am so sorry!”
“Yes, mother,” he said, “my father and I have had a quarrel; he called
me into his office as I passed, and ordered me to give up all thoughts
of Floy--my little Floy that I’ve loved from my very infancy!”
“And what did you say, Espy?” she asked tremulously, feeling as if the
very unreasonableness and tyranny of the command must have of itself
almost deprived him of the power of speech.
“Say, mother? that he might as well ask me to shoot myself through the
heart, and that I’d never give her up; I’d die first.”
“But--but, Espy, what--what if she gives you up?” gasped his mother,
fairly frightened by his vehemence.
He staggered back as if struck by a heavy blow, while a deathly pallor
overspread his face for an instant.
“But she will not!” he said hoarsely; “she has pledged herself to me,
and she’ll never prove false to her word.”
“But she is very proud, Espy--too proud, I think, to come into a family
where she’s not wanted; and she’s a good girl, and will see that it’s
your duty to obey your father.”
He dropped into a chair, and for a moment seemed lost in thought; then
with a sigh, “My father may have a right to control me even in this
while I am a minor; but, as you know, mother, in six months I shall
have reached my majority, and then I’ll be my own master, and shall
consider that in a matter which will affect my happiness so much more
nearly than his, and probably for my whole life, I have a right to
follow my own wishes. Besides, there is Floy’s happiness to be taken
into account. She says she loves me; we’ve pledged ourselves to each
other, my father consenting to it at the time--and could he ask me to
play so base a part as to forsake the dear girl merely because she has
become poor and friendless? I think even he would despise me if I could
be guilty of such meanness; and most assuredly I should despise myself!”
He had risen to his feet with the last sentence, and now, as he stood
erect before her, with kindling eye and glowing cheek, he looked so
noble and manly that his mother’s heart swelled with pride in her son.
“No, you’ll never do anything mean or dishonorable, Espy,” she said,
smiling up at him.
Then growing suddenly grave, and an anxious, troubled look stealing
over her face at the recollection of her husband’s anger, which she
knew must have waxed hot at his son’s resistance to his demand: “But
there’ll be no peace between your father and you if you go against his
will; so if Floy chooses to break the engagement herself, you needn’t
feel called upon to try to hold her to it.”
“Mother,” he said, “you are keeping something back; tell me all. You
have spoken to her--told her what father says?”
His eyes were gazing steadily into hers, and there was a mingling
of grief and suppressed wrath that made her fear to answer him. She
hesitated, then said hastily:
“You’d better go to her. She can tell you what she likes.”
He turned without a word, caught up his hat, and went.
CHAPTER X.
FLOY’S RESOLVE.
“A beam of comfort, like the moon through clouds,
Gilds the black horror, and directs my way.”
Pride--her woman’s pride--had sustained Floy in the late interview with
Mrs. Alden, and enabled her to resign Espy with apparent indifference;
but when his mother had gone, leaving her alone, a sudden sense of
utter desolation came over the girl, and hastening to her own room she
locked her door, and throwing herself on the bed, buried her face in
its pillows, while bitter, bursting sobs shook her whole frame.
“Was ever sorrow like unto my sorrow?” was the cry of the poor aching
heart. “Have I not seen the grave close over my more than parents,
earthly possessions swept away, and now resigned my love--all, all that
was left me!”
The storm of grief was violent but brief. She seemed to hear again
the prayer offered for her by the aged saint standing at her side in
that other hour when heart and flesh were failing, and with passionate
earnestness went up the cry, “Lord, my heart is overwhelmed; lead me to
the Rock that is higher than I!”
Ah, all was not lost! Himself He had left her still, and with the
thought she grew strong to do and endure.
She was endowed by nature with vigor of body and mind, and much
firmness and decision of character. Her sobs were stilled, her tears
ceased to flow, while with determined resolve she forced her thoughts
to leave the past and busy themselves with plans for the future.
A new hope, a new desire had been gradually growing in her mind for the
past few days. Her mother--her own mother, who had so loved her in her
infancy--was there not a possibility that diligent, persevering search
might be rewarded by success in finding her?
Perhaps she was still poor and ill--feeble in health--and if so, oh,
how gladly would her daughter toil to supply her needs! how lavish
filial love and tenderness upon her--the poor weary one who had
hungered for them so long!
How she was to earn a support for herself alone Floy did not know, but
hope was strong within her young breast, and she felt that with such an
incentive to exertion she could not fail.
“Yes, she does live, and I shall find her--my poor, sorely-tried,
precious mother!” she caught herself saying half aloud.
There was a gentle rap on her door at that moment, and a sweet-toned
voice asked, “Shall I come in, Miss Floy? If you would rather see me at
another time, dear, I’ll go away and come again.”
Floy sprang to the door and opened it, admitting a little,
plainly-dressed woman with a sweet face framed in with silvery hair.
A pair of mild blue eyes looked pityingly into the tear-stained,
sorrowful face of the young mourner, and hastily depositing upon a
chair a large package which she carried, the little woman held out her
arms.
Floy threw herself into them, hid her face on the kindly bosom, and
burst into a fit of passionate weeping.
Her friend soothed her with silent caresses till she grew calmer, then
spoke a few tender, sympathizing words.
“You feel for me, dear Auntie Wells,” sobbed Floy, “and yet you do not
know nearly all that has come upon me. I have one Friend who does; but
oh! our hearts crave human sympathy, and counsel too, when we are young
and inexperienced.”
“Tell me all, dear child, if you will; I have no great store of worldly
wisdom, only such as years can give, but I have seen many more of them
than you, and my sympathy you shall certainly have.”
“I think you must have just the kind of wisdom I want, because you have
gone through just such a lonely, struggling life as seems to be before
me,” Floy said, calming herself and wiping away her tears.
“A lonely, struggling life for you, child!” Miss Wells exclaimed in an
incredulous tone as she passed her hand caressingly over the pretty
head resting on her shoulder. “Struggling! with the fortune your father
has left you? lonely! with Espy still yours? How can it be?”
“The fortune is not mine, and Espy!--I have--have given him up!”
The first words were spoken low and hurriedly, and the last came from
the white lips in a sharp cry of agony.
Utter astonishment dominated for the moment every other feeling in Miss
Wells’s breast; then infinite pity and tenderness took its place, and
gathering the girl to her heart, she wept over her as her own mother
might, asking no questions, feeling no curiosity, every other emotion
lost in the boundless compassion which would have done or suffered
almost everything to restore its object to happiness.
Hannah Wells, now far on the shady side of fifty, a woman with a large,
loving heart, had found few upon whom to lavish the wealth of her
affection, and upon Floy she had poured it out without stint.
For many years she had maintained herself by her needle, first as
seamstress, then as dressmaker; and employed by Mrs. Kemper in both
capacities ever since the coming of the latter to Cranley, had often
made her home in that house for weeks and months together, always
treated with the kindly consideration accorded to a welcome guest
or one of the family; for, spite of her poverty, Miss Wells was
unmistakably a lady.
She was a woman, too, of excellent common-sense, sterling integrity,
and deep piety, evinced by a life of blameless purity, a thoroughly
consistent walk and conversation.
She was now enjoying a moderate degree of prosperity, having a little
home of her own and something laid by for a rainy day.
She kept a number of apprentices now, who usually carried home the
finished work, but loving Floy so dearly, she had herself brought home
the poor child’s mourning.
The love and caresses of this old and tried friend were as balm to the
sorely-wounded heart. Floy presently grew calmer, and poured out her
whole story, including her half-formed plans for the future, seeking
advice in regard to the latter.
Miss Wells entered into them with deep interest, highly approving
Floy’s course in regard to the property, and of her resolve first to
search for her long-lost mother, then to seek employment by which to
earn a living for herself and for her mother if found.
“Don’t be afraid to try it, dear,” Hannah said; “try it with
determination to let no difficulty conquer you, yet trusting in the
Lord, and you will succeed. It is better to trust in the Lord than
to put confidence in man. Yes, dear, I’ve tried it, and proved it in
my own experience. Like you I was left an orphan early in life, and
without means. I had relations who gave me a home, enough to eat, and
decent clothes, and didn’t seem to grudge it either; but I saw that
they had plenty of other uses for their money, and I couldn’t bear to
have them do without anything in order to provide for me; so I resolved
to strike out bravely for myself, trusting only in the Lord, and from
that day to this He’s taken care of me: and its so sweet, _so_ sweet to
take everything as a gift right from His dear hand.”
CHAPTER XI.
LOVE AND PRIDE.
“Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.”--BURNS.
As the dressmaker left, Espy came in and went direct to the parlor,
where Floy sat in an attitude of deep dejection, her elbow on the arm
of the sofa, her cheek resting on her hand.
He sprang to her side, and, as she started and half rose from her seat,
caught both hands in his.
“Floy, Floy, what have they been doing? What have they been saying to
you? Never mind it, darling, nothing shall ever come between us.”
The eyes that met his were full of anguish; the lips moved, but no
sound came from them.
He threw his arms about her as if to shield her from harm. “Floy, dear,
don’t mind it. I can’t bear to see you look so. Isn’t my love enough to
make you happy? Ah, if you only knew _how_ I love you, dearest!”
“But--oh, Espy, I’ve given you up! I’ve no right now to your love!”
“Given me up! Do you not love me, Floy?” His voice grew hoarse with
emotion.
“You are all I’ve left--all.”
He bent his ear to catch the low-breathed words. His heart gave a
joyous bound, and he drew her closer to him; but she struggled to
release herself.
“Espy, you are free. I have given you up.”
“I will not accept my freedom, nor give you yours, my own little
wife--I may call you that, because we are pledged to each other, and
it’s almost the same: we belong to each other quite as much as if we
were already married.”
She shook her head with sad determination. “Your father refuses his
consent, and--I--I cannot go into a family that is not willing to
receive me.”
“My father had no right to withdraw the consent already given!” he
exclaimed hotly.
“That was given to your union with the rich Miss Kemper, not with a
poor and nameless waif,” she returned, with a bitter smile.
“Ah! but I pledged myself to neither the wealth nor the name, but to
the dear girl who has not changed unless to grow dearer and lovelier
still.”
“But I think children are bound to respect the wishes, and certainly
the commands, of their parents.”
“I’m not a child!” he cried, with a mixture of anger and pride. “I
shall be my own master in a few months; then I shall not consider his
consent absolutely necessary, and in the mean time I shall not break my
engagement to you.”
“No, Espy, but I release you.”
“I will not be released!” he cried, with increasing anger, “nor will I
release you!”
“You will surely not be so ungenerous as to hold me to it against my
will?” she said coldly, averting her face and moving farther from him.
A sudden suspicion flashed upon him, a pang of jealous rage stabbed him
to the heart, and he grew white and rigid.
“You love another; you have played me false, and are glad of an excuse
to get rid of me!” he said in cutting tones.
She made no reply, but drew herself up proudly, yet kept her face
turned from him.
“Farewell, then, false girl; you are free!” he cried, rushing madly
from the room.
Floy looked after him, with a dreary smile more pitiful than tears.
“Oh, Espy, Espy! must we part like this?” she sighed inwardly, putting
her hand to her head.
“Miss Floy, are you sick? got a headache?” queried Susan, coming in.
“What can I do for ye?”
“Nothing, thank you, Susan; I’ll be better soon.”
“Try a cup o’ tea; it’ll do ye good. I heard Mr. Espy go ’way, and I
thought I’d just come and tell you that supper’s ready.”
Something in Susan’s tones jarred upon Floy’s sensitive nerves, and,
with a sort of dull comprehension that the girl’s rising suspicions
must be lulled to rest, she rose, went to the table, and forced herself
to drink a cup of tea and swallow a few mouthfuls of food.
The blow dealt her by Espy’s parting words began to lose its stunning
effects, and to be succeeded by a feverish impulse to fly from him and
from these scenes of former happiness, of present sorrow and loss. She
left the table with the sudden resolve that she would set out that very
night on her intended journey in search of her long-lost mother.
Fortunately Mr. Crosby, thinking of some new question to ask, called at
the door just as she was passing through the hall on her way upstairs.
“Have you any idea where to go, Miss Floy?” he asked, when she had told
him of her intention to depart immediately.
“Yes,” she said, “I remember having heard what route father and mother
took in coming out West, and she told me the name of the station where
they met my own mother and obtained possession of me; I mean to go
directly there and make inquiries.”
“You will find things greatly changed since then,” he remarked,
meditatively stroking his beard. “Let me see: how many years?”
“Nearly sixteen.”
“Ah, yes! and these Western places grow so fast! The lonely little
station may have become a city, and you are very young and--comely,”
he added, with a look of kindly concern. “My child, I hardly like to
see you start on this expedition alone, and yet I have no authority to
forbid it. Do you think you can take care of yourself?”
“No, sir, I cannot,” she answered, low and tremulously, “but the Father
of the fatherless will not leave me alone, and I am not afraid.”
A train going in the desired direction passed through Cranley at
midnight; it was the one Floy must take. Mr. Crosby engaged to procure
a ticket for her, and to see her and her luggage safely on board.
Also he advised her of the best mode of procedure on arriving at
Clearfield, exacting a promise that she would write to him, giving an
account of the progress made, and seeking further counsel if needed,
while on his part he engaged to keep her informed of his movements in
regard to the settlement of the estate.
“And now,” he said, rising to go, “is there not some lady friend whom I
can call upon to come and assist you in your packing or other necessary
preparations for this sudden flitting?”
“Oh, yes, thank you! Miss Wells! I know she would come; and if you
please, Mr. Crosby, will you tell her it would be the very greatest
comfort to me?”
“I will, with pleasure, and I will be here in time to take you to the
train.”
CHAPTER XII.
“LOST! LOST! LOST!”
Espy did not go home on leaving Floy; he was in no mood for meeting his
father, against whom fierce anger was swelling in his breast. The lad’s
ire was not easily roused, but when once kindled it was apt to blaze
with fury until it had burnt itself out.
At this moment he felt like one whose hand was against every man, and
every man’s hand against him; for had not Floy even, his own darling
Floy, cast him off and given her love to some one else? Oh, the very
thought was intolerable pain! he had loved her so long and so dearly,
and never better than now; and yet he was angry with her, more angry
than words could express; angry with himself, too, that he could not
cast her out of his heart.
Full of these violent and contending emotions, he hurried onward and
still onward, heedless whither his steps were tending, taking no note
of time or space or of the gathering darkness, till suddenly he felt
his strength failing, and in utter weariness cast himself down on the
grass by the roadside.
He glanced about him. Where was he? He could not tell; but miles away
from Cranley, for there were no familiar landmarks.
“Lost!” he said aloud, with a bitter laugh, “actually lost here in
my own neighborhood; a good joke truly. Well, I’ll find myself fast
enough by daylight. And what matter if I didn’t, now that Floy has
given me up?” And he dropped his head into his hands with a groan.
The sound of approaching wheels aroused him.
“Why, hallo! can that be you, Alden?” cried a familiar voice.
“Yes,” Espy said, getting up and going to the side of the gig. “How are
you, Bob?”
The two had been schoolmates, and Robert Holt, whose home was near at
hand, soon persuaded Espy to accompany him thither to spend the night.
Ill-used as Espy considered himself, and unhappy as he certainly was,
he found, when presently seated before a well-spread board, in company
with a lively party of young people, that he was able to partake of
the tempting viands with a good deal of appetite. Coffee, muffins, and
fried chicken did much to relieve his fatigue and raise his spirits,
and the evening passed quite agreeably, enlivened by conversation and
music.
It was late when at last the young people separated for the night, Holt
taking Espy with him to his own room.
“Hark! there’s the twelve o’clock train; I’d no idea it was so late,”
said Holt as he closed the door and set down the lamp.
Espy stepped hastily to the window, just in time to see the train sweep
by with its gleaming lights, the outline of each car barely visible in
the darkness. Why did it make him think of Floy? He had no suspicion
that it was bearing her away from him; yet so it was.
Thoughts of her in all her grief and desolation disturbed his rest. He
woke often, and when he slept it was to dream of her in sore distress,
and turning her large, lustrous eyes upon him sadly, beseechingly, and
anon stretching out her arms as if imploring him to come to her relief.
Morning found him full of remorse for the harsh words he had spoken
to her, and so eager to make amends that he could not be persuaded
to remain for breakfast, but, leaving his adieus to the ladies with
Robert, set off for Cranley before the sun was up.
He reached the town in season for the early home breakfast; but feeling
that he could not wait another moment to make his peace with Floy,
turned in at her gate first.
Glancing up at the house, it struck him as strange that every door and
blind was tightly closed.
He had never known Floy to lie so late when in health, and a pang shot
through his heart at the thought that she must be ill.
He rang the bell gently, fearing to disturb her; then, as no one came
to answer it, a little louder.
Still no answer, not a sound within the dwelling; he could hear his own
heart beat as he stood waiting and listening for coming footsteps that
came not.
He grew frightened; he must gain admittance, must learn what was wrong.
Once more he seized the bell-pull, jerked it violently several times,
till he could distinctly hear its clang reverberating through the
silent hall.
Still no response.
He hurried round to the side door, knocked loudly there, then on to the
kitchen.
Still no sign of life.
He made a circuit of the house, glancing up and down in careful
scrutiny of each door and window, till perfectly sure that every one
was closely shut.
“What can it mean?” he asked himself half aloud, turning deathly pale
and trembling like an aspen leaf.
“Oh, Floy, Floy, I would give my right hand never to have spoken those
cruel words! inhuman wretch that I was!”
Waiting a moment to recover himself, he then hastened home. His father
had eaten his breakfast and gone to his office; his mother still
lingered over the table.
“Oh, Espy,” she said as he came in, “I’m glad to see you. I’ve been
keeping the coffee hot; beefsteak too; and Rachel shall bake some fresh
cakes. Come and sit down. How dreadfully pale you look! You’ve had too
long a walk on an empty stomach.”
He seemed scarcely to hear her; but leaning his back against the wall
as if for support, “Mother,” he said hoarsely, “what has become of her?
Where is she?”
“Who?” she asked in surprise.
He simply pointed through the window in the direction of the next house.
She looked out. “Well, I declare! they’re not up yet! I never knew them
to lie abed till this hour before.”
“They’re not there; nobody’s there unless--” he gasped and shuddered, a
new and terrible thought striking him.
“Unless what?”
“Burglars--murderers--such things have been; we--we must break open the
door or window--”
His mother’s face suddenly reflected the paleness and agitation of his.
But Mr. Alden came hurrying in. “The house next door is all shut up!”
he exclaimed pantingly. “Oh, Espy, so there you are! Come, come, don’t
look so terribly frightened! I met Crosby, and he tells me Floy has
left town--went off in the midnight train, nobody knows where, after,
like a fool, telling him the whole story I so wanted her, for her own
good, to keep to herself. And he’s to have the settling of everything;
so there, we’re done with her!”
His son’s countenance had undergone several changes while he was
speaking--terror, despair, relief, indignation, swept over it by turns.
“Done with her!” he repeated, drawing himself up to his full height and
gazing at his father with flashing eyes; “done with her! No, sir, not
_I_, if I can ever find her again and persuade her to be friends with
me once more!”
CHAPTER XIII.
FLOY’S QUEST.
“Hope, of all passions, most befriends us here;
Passions of prouder name befriend us less.”--YOUNG.
Very lonely and desolate felt poor Floy as the train sped onward,
bearing her every moment farther away from childhood’s home and friends
out into the wide, wide, unknown world.
What sad, unforeseen changes the past few days had wrought in her young
life! What a little while since she had been moving thus swiftly toward
her home, instead of away from it, and under loving, protecting care;
whereas now she was utterly alone so far as earthly companionship was
concerned!
Alone and screened from human eyes behind the closely-drawn curtains of
her berth, she poured out her tears and prayers to her one ever-living,
ever-present Friend.
“Do not fear, my poor dear child! do not fear to trust Him!” Miss Wells
had said in parting. “He will help you and raise up friends for you
wherever you go.”
The words dwelt in the girl’s mind with soothing, comforting power. She
tried to cast her care on Him, and presently her fears (for she could
not forget the dreadful accident of her last journey), her griefs, her
losses and perplexities, were forgotten in sleep.
It was late in the afternoon of the next day that she reached
Clearfield, no longer a little country station in the depths of
a forest, but a flourishing town numbering several thousands of
inhabitants.
She had several times heard a description of the place from both Mr.
and Mrs. Kemper, but without any allusion to the episode which had
fixed it so firmly in their memories. She glanced eagerly about on
stepping from the cars, but failed to recognize a single feature of
the scene. The shanty inn had long since disappeared; the old dingy
depot had been replaced by a new and larger one, affording much better
accommodation to the travelling public; and dwelling-houses, fields,
and gardens now occupied the space then covered by the wild growth of
the forest.
Floy had inquired of the last conductor on the train the name of the
best hotel in the town, and an omnibus speedily carried her thither.
She asked for a room, and while waiting stepped into the public parlor
and, completely overcome with fatigue, dropped into an easy chair, laid
her head back, and closed her eyes.
A kind voice spoke close at her side, the speaker, a motherly old lady
glancing pityingly at the pale, sad face and deep mourning dress.
“You are ill, my poor child, and seem to be quite alone. What can I do
for you?”
Floy opened her eyes languidly.
“Nothing, thank you; I think I am not ill, only very weary. They will
show me to a room presently, and then I can lie down and rest.”
“A cup of hot tea, Nelson,” said the old lady, turning to a servant
who had just entered, “and have a room--the one next to mine--made
ready immediately for this young lady.”
This old lady, as Floy soon learned, was the mother of Mr. Bond, the
proprietor of the hotel. She proved a most kind and helpful friend to
our heroine, listening with great sympathy and interest to the sad
story which the young girl, won by her motherly manner, presently told
her without reserve, except in the matter of the loss of the will and
the troubles growing out of it; then assisting her with advice and
needed co-operation in her self-appointed task.
There were two weekly papers published in the town. In the next
issue of each of these an advertisement was inserted, giving a brief
statement of the facts, with an offer of reward for any certain
information in regard to the missing woman or any of those who had seen
her and heard her story. At the same time private inquiries were set on
foot, and the search prosecuted in every way with the utmost activity
and perseverance.
CHAPTER XIV.
A RIFT IN THE CLOUD.
“And then that hope, that fairy hope,
Oh! she awaked such happy dreams,
And gave my soul such tempting scope,
For all its dearest, fondest schemes!”--MOORE.
For more than a month Floy tarried at Clearfield, diligently pursuing
her investigations, yet without gaining the faintest clue to the fate
of her whom she so ardently desired to find.
The proprietors of the shanty inn had removed farther west years ago,
but to what particular point none could tell; the two switchmen had
gone into the army early in the civil war and were probably among the
slain, and the telegraph operator, it was conjectured, had met the same
fate.
Floy of course knew nothing of the Heywoods; but they too had left
the vicinity so long ago that no one who heard of her through the
advertisements or otherwise thought of connecting them with the object
of her search.
At length she was forced to give it up in despair. She had spent a good
deal in advertising, and her means were nearly exhausted. The heirs, as
Mr. Crosby had duly informed her, had refused to allow her any share in
Mr. Kemper’s estate, and five hundred dollars which he had deposited in
a bank in her name was all her inheritance.
She must now do something for her own support. Her education qualified
her for teaching, but finding no opening for that, while one presented
itself for the learning of dress-making, for which she possessed both
taste and talent, she decided to avail herself of it.
Her plan was to go to Chicago and apprentice herself to one of the most
fashionable mantua-makers there.
Miss Wells would have been rejoiced to take Floy under her wing, but
the girl felt an unconquerable repugnance to beginning her new career
in Cranley, the scene of her former prosperity, and where she could not
hope to avoid occasionally meeting with the Aldens.
In fact, her sensitive dread of such encounters led to the resolve not
to return thither at all, but to go directly to the city and begin
the new life at once, such a place as she desired having been already
secured for her through some of her Clearfield friends.
She had formed a strong attachment for Mrs. Bond, which was fully
reciprocated. They could not part without pain, yet cheered each other
with the hope of meeting again at no very distant day, as Floy thought
of returning to Clearfield to set up business on her own account when
once she should be prepared for that.
“Don’t despair, dear child; brighter days will come; something tells
me you will find your mother yet,” the old lady said in bidding her
good-by.
As the train sped on its way through the busy streets of the town,
over the prairies dotted here and there with neat farm-houses, and
anon plunged into forests gay with the rich coloring of the Frost
King’s pencil, Floy set herself resolutely to put aside thoughts of her
losses, disappointments, anxieties, and perplexities, and to fix them
upon the blessings that were still left her.
Gay and light-hearted she could not be, but hope kindled anew within
her as she thought on Mrs. Bond’s last words. Ah, she would not
despair! her long-lost mother, and Espy too, would yet be restored.
His words had deeply wounded her, but surely the love which had been
given her from their very infancy could not be so suddenly withdrawn.
“We are moving very slowly; something must be wrong. Don’t you think
so, miss?” queried a woman in the next seat, turning suddenly around
upon Floy.
The words startled our heroine from her reverie, sending a sharp pang
of grief and terror through her heart as they vividly recalled the
horrors of the accident which had wrought her such woe. She had been
hardly conscious of the fact, but certainly the train had gradually
slackened speed for the last ten minutes or more; and now it stood
still.
“What is wrong? why do we stop here where there is no station?” she
asked of the conductor, who was passing the car window.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said; “the boiler has sprung a leak, and we’ll
have to stand here a while till they can get another engine sent down
from Clearfield.”
“Dear, dear!” fretted a thoughtless girl, “we shall be behind time all
along the route now, miss our connections, and have no end of trouble.”
But Floy’s heart swelled with gratitude that things were no worse.
They had two long hours of waiting ere the train was again in motion,
for the spot where it had halted was several miles from the nearest
town, to which a messenger must be sent on foot to telegraph back to
Clearfield for another engine; and when at last that arrived it had to
propel the cars from behind, and the progress made was much slower than
by the ordinary mode.
Many of the passengers ventured to relieve the tedium of the detention
by strolling about the prairie in the near vicinity of their train, and
for the greater part of the time the car in which Floy sat was nearly
deserted.
Her attention was presently attracted by the fretting of a little child.
“Mother, I’m hungry; gi’ me a cake.”
“Now do be quiet, Sammy; you know I hain’t none for you,” returned the
parent, “so what’s the use o’ teasin’? I’d give it to you in a minute
if I had it.”
By Mrs. Bond’s thoughtful kindness Floy had been supplied with a
bountiful lunch. She was very glad of that now, and opening her basket,
she invited mother and child to partake with her.
“Thank you, miss,” said the former, a decent-looking countrywoman.
“Sammy’ll be very glad of a bit of bread if you’ve got it to spare. I’d
have brought a lunch along, but expected to be at my sister’s afore
this, and it didn’t seem worth while.”
“I have abundance for all three of us,” returned Floy, with a winning
smile, displaying her stores; “so do let me have the pleasure of
sharing with you.”
“Yes, come, mother,” said Sammy, tugging at her skirts.
Thus urged, the woman accepted the invitation.
“Are you from Clearfield, miss?” she asked.
“I have been there for the past month or more. Is it there you live?”
“A little ways out o’ the town, on t’other side. I’ve been in that
neighborhood nigh on to fifteen year now. Clearfield wasn’t much of a
town when father moved out there, but it’s growed powerful fast these
few years back.”
Floy’s heart gave a sudden bound, and she turned an eager, questioning
glance upon the speaker. “I suppose you knew--everybody knew--every one
else in the place when it was so small?”
“Why yes, of course we did, an’ mother she kep’ a boardin’-house an’
boarded the railroad hands. She was always for helping father along,
and that’s the way I do by my Sammy. He’s named for his pap, you know,”
nodding toward her boy and smiling proudly on him.
“Yes, sirree! and I’m a-goin’ to be as big a man as him some day!”
cried the young hopeful, swallowing down one mouthful with great gusto
and hastily cramming in another.
Floy pressed her hand to her side in the vain effort to still the loud
beating of her heart.
“Did--did you ever hear any of those men--speak of a sort of shanty inn
that stood not very far from the old depot?”
“Oh my, yes! and I’ve see it many a time; ’twas there better’n a year,
I should say, after we come to the place. And I’ve heard Jack Strong
(he was one o’ the switchmen on the road, and boarded with us a long
spell after those folks pulled down their shanty and moved off)--I’ve
heard him tell a pitiful kind of a story about a poor woman that come
there one night clear beat out travellin’ through the storm (for ’twas
an awful wild night, Jack said, so he did, a-rainin’ and hailin’, and
the wind blowin’ so it blowed down lots o’ big trees in the woods).
Well, as I was a-sayin’, the woman she’d been footing it all day, and
with a child in her arms too; and Jack he told how some other folks
that were there, a man and his wife, coaxed her to give the little
girl to them, tellin’ her she’d got to die directly, and she’d better
provide for it while she could; and how she give it to ’em and then ran
screamin’ after the cars, ‘My child, my child! give me back my child!’
till she dropped down like dead, and would have fell flat in the mud
and water in the middle of the road if Jack hadn’t a-caught her in his
arms.”
Floy’s hands were clasped in her lap, cold beads of perspiration stood
on her brow, her breath came pantingly, and her dilated eyes were
fixed on the face of the narrator, who, however, was too busy brushing
the crumbs off Sammy’s Sunday jacket to observe the look, but went on
garrulously:
“Jack he carried her into the depot and laid her down on the settee;
and while they were tryin’ to bring her to, an old gentleman (I
disremember his name now) come in his covered wagon fur to git his son
as was expected home from ’way off somewheres, but wasn’t there (he
didn’t come till next day, Jack said), and the old gentleman he took
the poor thing home with him.
“There, now, Sammy, hold still till I tie this hankercher round your
neck. Them clo’es won’t be fit to be seen if you keep on droppin’
greasy crumbs over ’em.”
Floy was making a desperate effort to be calm.
“Where did he take her?” she asked, half concealing her agitated face
behind the folds of her veil.
“Out to the old gentleman’s place; a splendid place they said it was. I
can’t say just how fur off in the woods, where he’d cleared acres and
acres of land. Jack never see her after she was took out there, but he
said she didn’t die after all, but got married to the young feller that
I told you was comin’ home on a visit to the old folks (I think they’d
know’d each other afore she was married the first time, and kind a got
separated somehow), and when she got about again he took her back with
him, and I guess the old folks follered ’em after a bit.”
“Where, oh! where?” asked Floy imploringly.
The woman started and turned an earnest, inquiring gaze upon her.
“I beg pardon, but was they anything to you, miss?”
“I was the baby! and I’m looking for my mother. Oh, can you tell me
where to find her?”
“That must a been a long while ago; you’re a heap bigger’n me, and I
ain’t no baby,” remarked Sammy, disposing of the last mouthful of his
lunch and wiping his hands on his mother’s handkerchief.
“Well, I never!” ejaculated the latter in wide-eyed astonishment. “And
you was the baby! well now! Oh, do tell me! was those folks good to
you?”
“As kind, as tender and loving as my own mother could possibly have
been,” answered Floy, with emotion. “But oh, tell me where I shall find
her!”
“Indeed, I wish I knowed! but I never did know whether ’twas to
Californy or Oregon or some other o’ them fur-off places that they
went.”
“And the man who told you the story?”
“Jack Strong? he went off years and years ago. They say he went to the
war and got killed, and I guess it’s true.”
CHAPTER XV.
ALONE.
“Though at times my spirit fails me,
And the bitter tear-drops fall,
Though my lot is hard and lonely,
Yet I hope--I hope through all.”--MRS. NORTON.
The shrill whistle of a locomotive coming from the direction of
Clearfield sent the strolling passengers hurrying back to the train.
Pouring into the cars, they settled themselves in their seats with
relieved faces and exchange of congratulations that this tedious
detention had at last come to an end.
Floy, who had borne it with resignation from the first, was now more
deeply thankful for it than words can express. There came over her
such a rush of glad hopes and expectations as to leave no room at the
moment for the recollection that she had as yet not the slightest clue
to her mother’s whereabouts. Even her sad bereavements and the cruel
misunderstanding with Espy were for a short space half forgotten in
the glad anticipation of again experiencing the blessedness of the
possession of a mother’s love.
She was leaning her head back against the side of the car, her face
concealed by her veil.
“Miss,” said Sammy’s mother, gently touching her on the shoulder,
“excuse me for waking you, but we’re just ’most at my stoppin’-off
place, and I didn’t like to go without sayin’ good-by to you.”
“No, that was right; I was not asleep,” said Floy, putting aside her
veil and offering her hand, tears springing to her eyes, while a
beautiful smile played about her lips. “I can never thank you enough
for what you have told me to-day.”
“La sakes! ’tain’t nothin’ to thank me for,” returned the kind-hearted
creature, grasping the soft little hand warmly in hers hardened by
honest toil; “you’re as welcome as can be, and Sammy and me’s a
thousand times obliged for the good dinner you give us. Well, I hope
you’ll find your mother, miss, and when you do won’t you let me know?
Just drop a line to Mrs. Sam Dobbs, Clearfield, and I’ll be sure to git
it.”
“Wildbrier!” shouted the conductor at the door, and Mrs. Dobbs hurried
from the car.
The morning’s detention, causing more than one failure in making
connections, brought several vexatious delays--long hours of tedious
waiting in depots in the loneliness of a crowd, and with few appliances
for comfort.
But Floy felt no temptation to fret or murmur; all this was so
infinitesimal a price to pay for what she had gained.
When the train reached Chicago it was five o’clock in the morning, and
still dark.
No one to meet Floy, and she so utterly strange to the city that she
knew not which way to turn to find the street and number given her as
the address of Mrs. Sharp, whose apprentice she was to be.
No express agent had come on the train to attend to the delivery of
baggage; not a hack nor an omnibus was in waiting.
She was looking this way and that in search of one, when a young man of
rough exterior but kindly, honest face, as she could see by the light
of a lamp near by, stepped up with the question:
“Any baggage, miss?”
“Yes; can you tell me where to find an omnibus or hack?”
“No, miss, there’s none here; they come to meet the regular trains, but
this un’s out o’ time--about three hours behind.”
“Then what am I to do?” she asked in perplexity.
“Well, miss, I’ll take your trunk wherever it’s to go, and if you
like you can just go along in the express wagon. ’Tain’t as suitable
for you as a nice carriage, to be sure, but it’ll carry you safe and
comfortable. Where’s the place?”
Floy gave him the number and street, and, accepting his offer with
thanks as the best she could do under the circumstances, mounted to
her elevated perch on the front seat, the young man giving her the
assistance of his hand.
She saw her trunk placed behind her in the wagon, and presently found
herself being driven rapidly through the almost deserted streets, for
the city was but just beginning to rouse from its slumbers.
The morning air was chilly, blowing fresh and keen from the lake; the
girl’s mood silent and sad, for, alas! no glad welcome, no loving
caress, nor even a familiar face would greet her in the new abode (she
could not call it home) to which she was hastening.
But her gallant charioteer, who had, perchance, never before had so
sweet a face by his side, did his best to entertain and amuse her,
pointing out the district swept by the great fire, relating incidents
connected with it, and calling her attention to the fine buildings
which had already sprung up in the places of those destroyed.
Arrived at her destination, he leaped nimbly from his perch, gave the
door-bell a vigorous pull, and assisted her to alight.
There was a sound of quick pattering steps, the forcing back of a bolt,
the turning of a key; the door was hastily jerked open, and Floy just
caught a glimpse of a narrow hall with its oil-cloth-covered floor, an
unkempt head and dirty face in the foreground, and all was darkness.
“There, the wind’s blowed the candle out! Miss Hetty, Miss Hetty, come
right here! quick!” screamed the owner of the head. Then to Floy, “Who
are you? and what d’ye want so awful early? We don’t never ’spect no
customers this time in the morning.”
But before Floy could speak another person appeared upon the scene--a
girl not many years older than herself, neat and trim in dress, and
with a bright, intelligent, cheery, though homely face.
She came from the farther end of the hall, carrying a lighted lamp,
and, holding it high over her head, peered into the darkness beyond.
“What _are_ you making such a racket about, Patsy Devine? You’ll wake
everybody in the house and our Sharp Thorne will give you a prick.”
Then catching sight of Floy just stepping aside out of the way of the
expressman, who was bringing in the trunk, “Oh! how d’ye do?” she said.
“I suppose its--”
“Miss Kemper--”
“Ah, yes, the young lady Aunt Prue--Mrs. Sharp--was expecting. It’s all
right.”
The expressman set down the trunk, received his pay, and departed.
Miss Hetty secured the door after him, and turning to Floy, said:
“Breakfast’s about ready to set on the table, so it won’t be worth
while for you to climb the stairs till afterwards.”
“I am hardly fit to--”
“Oh, I’ll provide you with means for removing the coal-dust from
face and hands,” interrupted Hetty briskly, leading the way into the
dining-room and across it to a closet, where she turned the water into
a stationary washstand, and taking a clean towel and piece of soap from
a drawer, laid them down beside it.
“There, just take off your things and give them to me.”
“Thank you, but--my hair?” said Floy, “I never sat down to breakfast in
my life without first using a comb and brush.”
“Oh, just smooth it a little on top, and it’ll do well enough for this
once; we’re all women and girls together; not a man in the house except
Mr. Sharp, and he never comes to our early breakfast.”
The shadow of a smile flitted over the face of the new-comer.
“No,” laughed Hetty, divining her thought, “I would not be a slattern
if all the men were at the bottom of the sea. Don’t judge of me by
Patsy, I beg of you,” she added, with an odd grimace; “dirt and she
have so strong an affinity for each other that there’s no keeping them
apart.” And taking Floy’s hat and shawl, she hurried away. She was back
again by the time our heroine had finished her hasty toilet.
Floy’s story had not preceded her. She had not felt willing that it
should, and even Mrs. Sharp knew little more than that she was a young
girl of good family who wished to learn dress-making and millinery.
But the deep mourning told of recent bereavement, and something in the
patient sadness of the face went to Hetty’s warm heart. With a sudden
impulse she threw her arms about Floy and kissed her.
“You poor thing, so far away from home and all you love!” she said, “it
must seem terribly hard.”
Floy’s lip trembled and her eyes filled. She could only return the
embrace in silence; her heart was too full for speech.
“Hetty!” said a voice from the dining-room, “Hetty, isn’t it time to
ring the bell?”
“In a minute, mother, as soon as I can dish up the meat and potatoes,”
answered the girl, stepping out and drawing Floy with her. “Mother,
this is Miss Kemper, the young lady that was expected to come from the
West, you know.”
Mrs. Goodenough, as Floy afterward learned to call her, was a
heavy-featured, gray-haired, sallow woman, as dull, absent-minded, and
slow as Hetty was bright and quick.
“Ah, yes; how d’ye do? But I didn’t know there was a train came in so
early,” she said, shaking hands with Floy. “Ring that bell quick,
Patsy!” as a step was heard in the hall, slipshod but hasty and
impatient.
Mrs. Goodenough waddled into the kitchen (she was stout in figure and
clumsy in gait). Patsy seized the bell, and Hetty came hurrying in with
a dish of baked potatoes just as the door opened and another woman,
alert in movement and sharp of feature, with a keen black eye, hair in
crimping-pins, and a tall, wiry figure arrayed in a calico wrapper,
clean and fresh but evidently thrown on in haste, came bustling in.
“Sarah, it’s getting late, and you know how the work’s hurrying us--six
or eight dresses to be made this week, and--ah?” in a tone of inquiry
as her eye fell upon Floy standing silently there.
Patsy’s bell was clanging in the hall.
“Miss Kemper, Aunt Prue!” shouted Hetty. “Breakfast’s ready now, and it
isn’t quite six yet.”
Floy received a hasty nod, the black eyes scanning her from head to
foot; then dashing into the hall, Mrs. Sharp seized Patsy with one
hand, the bell with the other.
“That’s enough! will you never learn when to stop? How do you suppose
Mr. Sharp can sleep through all this din? Come, girls, make haste!” and
she turned into the dining-room again, followed by four apprentices, to
whom the last words were addressed as they came flying down the stairs.
In a trice all had gathered about the table, Mrs. Goodenough pouring
out the coffee, Mrs. Sharp helping to the meat, and the others passing
the bread, butter, and potatoes; then all fell to work as if their
lives depended upon finishing the meal in the shortest possible space
of time--all but the new-comer, who bent reverently over her plate for
a moment ere she took up her knife and fork.
She had been assigned a place at Mrs. Goodenough’s right hand. Hetty,
who sat opposite, looked approval, but Mrs. Sharp’s comment was an
impatient gesture, which, however, Floy did not see.
“We expected you last night,” Mrs. Sharp said presently.
Floy explained about the detention.
“Ah! and you’re tired out most likely? won’t be fit to work to-day, I
s’pose?”
“I am willing to try,” was the quiet answer.
“She ought to have a nap first,” said Hetty impulsively.
“Yes, she looks tired,” remarked Mrs. Goodenough slowly; “and what is
it Shakespeare says?”
She dropped knife and fork, and with eyes fixed upon vacancy seemed
to be vainly striving to recall some apt quotation which had half
suggested itself, then slipped away before she could quite secure it.
“Pshaw, Sarah!” exclaimed her sister impatiently, pushing back plate
and chair and jumping up in haste, “I’m the first done, as usual.
Girls, don’t be all day over your breakfast. Wash your hands and come
right into the work-room as soon as you’re done; there’s no time to
waste. Miss Kemper, take a nap if you need it. I’m not hard on my
employees, even though my customers do drive me almost to distraction.”
She left the room without waiting for a reply, and the four
apprentices followed almost immediately in a body, Floy rose too.
“Patsy and I will take your trunk up, Miss Kemper,” said Hetty. “It’s
small, and we can easily carry it.”
“But is there not some man I could hire?”
“No, none near that I know of. Just let me have my own way. I’m used to
it, ain’t I, mother?” laughed Hetty.
“Of course you are, Hetty,” returned Mrs. Goodenough absently, sipping
her tea. “What is it Shakespeare says?”
CHAPTER XVI.
INITIATED.
“Come then, oh care! oh grief! oh woe!
Oh troubles mighty in your kind!
I have a balm ye ne’er can know--
A hopeful mind.”--F. VANE.
Up three flights of stairs the trunk was carried, Floy following close
behind, laden with satchel, hat, and shawl.
“There!” cried Hetty pantingly, setting it down in the corner and
straightening herself with her hands upon her hips, “I feel relieved;
I’ve had my own way, and that’s something I always enjoy,” and she
wound up with a cheery little laugh.
All Floy’s protestations had been good-naturedly overruled, Hetty
declaring herself a sort of female Samson, and the trunk very small and
light.
“You are very kind,” said Floy, “but you should have let me hire some
one.”
“No, no! no telling how long we’d have been kept waiting, or how many
customers would have stumbled over or against it, or caught their
dresses on it in the mean time. Whew! how close this room is! The girls
rush down without waiting to open a window,” hastily throwing up one
as she spoke. “I’m sorry I’ve no better or lower accommodations to
offer you, Miss Kemper,” she went on laughingly. “It’s a shame to make
you climb so many stairs, but one of the things that can’t be helped.
That’s your bed in the corner there,” pointing to a single bed which
seemed not to have been occupied. “Do lie down and rest a little; sleep
if you can. I must run right away,” and she flew downstairs.
Floy glanced about her. A great bare attic room, an old carpet, faded
and worn, covering the middle of the floor; furniture scanty--just an
old bureau, three chairs, all much hacked and scratched with long, hard
usage; several unmade beds, each of which had evidently been occupied
by two persons through the past night; and her own little one, which
looked neat and inviting with its coarse but clean sheets and cheap
white counterpane.
Everything indeed was clean, yet the room was disorderly and without a
suggestion of comfort or prettiness in its appointments.
What a contrast to her own cosey, tasteful room in the old home!
She walked to the window and looked out. Day had fully dawned, and
the busy hum of the awakening city came to her ear with no unpleasing
sound. No velvety lawn, no garden gay with flowers, no nodding trees
or softly wooded hills met her view; instead, bare roofs and domes and
spires; but beyond these lay the great lake, its waters rippling in
the morning breeze. And even as she gazed, far away to the east where
sea and sky seemed to meet, a long line of rose color showed itself,
deepened rapidly to crimson, brightened into gold; rays of light shot
upward, quickly followed by the sun, “rejoicing as a strong man to run
a race,” and sending his bright beams over the wide expanse of waters
till each wavelet’s edge was tipped with burnished gold.
Floy leaned against the window-frame, hands clasped and eyes drinking
in eagerly all the glory and beauty of the scene, loneliness,
bereavement, all earthly ills forgotten for the moment.
“Ah,” she sighed half aloud, “if Espy were here! if he could but
transfer this to canvas!”
Then all the grief and anguish of their estrangement, all the sorrow
and loss that preceded and mingled with it, came rushing back upon her
with well-nigh overwhelming force, and her slight, willowy form bent
like a reed before the blast.
She sank upon her knees, her head resting upon the window-seat, her
hands tightly clasped above an almost breaking heart.
A burst of wild weeping, tears falling like rain, bitter choking sobs
following thick and fast upon each other, then a great calm; an effort
at first feeble, but growing stronger by degrees, to roll the burden
too heavy for her upon One able and willing to bear it, a soothing,
comforting remembrance of His promise never to leave nor forsake, and
anon the glad thought that she whose love was only second to His might
yet be found.
“She may be near, very near me even now,” whispered the girl to
herself, “in this city, this street, but a few doors away; it may be
for that I have been sent here. Oh, what a thought! what joy if we
should meet! But would we recognize each other? Mother, oh, mother!
should I know your face if I saw it?”
She rose, tottered to the glass over the bureau, and earnestly scanned
her own features. With a half-smile she noted their worn and haggard
look. Grief, care, and fatigue seemed to have done the work of years.
“It is well,” she said. “I think I know now how she looks--my own poor,
weary, heart-broken mother!”
Mrs. Kemper had told Floy that, allowing for difference in age,
health, and circumstances, she was in face and form almost the exact
counterpart of her own mother, and this was not the first time that
the girl had earnestly studied her own face, trying to anticipate the
changes to be wrought in it by the wear and tear of the next eighteen
or twenty years, that thus she might be ready to know at a glance that
other one she so longed to look upon.
She turned from the glass with a long, weary sigh, took off her dusty
dress, shook out her abundant tresses, donned a wrapper, crept into the
bed that had been pointed out as hers, and when Patsy came up an hour
later to tidy the room, was sunk in a slumber so profound that she knew
of neither the coming nor going of the child.
She was roused at last by a slight shake and the voice of the little
maid.
“Miss, miss, they’re a-settin’ down to the table; don’t ye want some
dinner? Miss Hetty she told me to ax ye.”
“Thank you!” cried Floy, starting up. “Yes, I’ll be down in a moment;
I’d no thought of sleeping so long!”
It was the work of a very few minutes to gather up her hair into a
massive coil at the back of her head and put on one of her simply-made
but becoming mourning dresses.
She entered the dining-room with a quaking heart, not knowing what
severe looks or reproaches might be meted out to her unpunctuality.
Patsy’s report had been, however, not quite correct, and she was but a
moment behind the others.
They were the same party she had met at breakfast, with the addition
of a middle-aged, cadaverous-visaged man with a perpetual frown on his
brow and a fretful expression about the mouth, who, as she entered, was
in the act of carving a leg of mutton. He honored our heroine with a
stare which she felt like resenting.
“Miss Kemper, Uncle Thorne,” said Hetty.
“Ah, how d’ye do, miss? Will you be helped to a bit of a poor man?”
“Sir?” she said with a bewildered look.
“Ha! ha! ha! don’t you know that’s what the Scotch call a leg of
mutton? I’m sure you’ll find it relishing. Just send me your plate
by the fair hands of our young Devine. I fear her divinity lies
altogether in name, for certainly she’s neither heavenly nor spiritual,
supernatural nor superhuman in appearance.”
“No,” remarked Mrs. Goodenough in her slow, absent way as Patsy took
the plate, “she’s not equivalent to that. What is it Shakespeare says?”
“My classical sister--” began Mr. Sharp, in mock admiration.
“Aunt Prue,” asked Hetty hastily, “did Mrs. Cox decide whether she
would have real lace on her bonnet?”
“Yes, and on the dress too. She’s running up a large bill, but she is
able to pay it.”
“She or her husband?” asked Mr. Sharp with a sneer.
“She has none.”
“Fortunate creature!” exclaimed Hetty in an aside.
“She’s a rich widow,” continued Mrs. Sharp; and from that the talk went
on, running altogether upon flowers, laces, and ribbons, hats, bonnets,
and dresses, and the latest styles for each.
“What puerilities!” remarked Mr. Sharp at length; “but the average
female mind seems capable of dwelling upon nothing but trifles.”
“And some male bodies--not a few either--appear to be quite willing to
live upon--”
“Hetty, Hetty,” interrupted her mother, “don’t be personal.”
“Humph! let her talk!” he said with sarcasm; “it amuses her and harms
no one. It’s no fault of hers that she wasn’t given an intellect
capable of appreciating literary labor.”
“Very true,” remarked his wife. “How does the work progress, Thorne? I
hope this has been a good day for you.”
“A woman of sense, knowing how my morning nap was broken in upon by
unnecessary noises, and how very unsuitable was the breakfast served up
to me afterward, would not ask such a question,” he answered loftily.
“Come, girls,” said his wife, rising hastily, “I think we are all done,
and there’s not a minute to be lost.”
Floy rose with the others and accompanied them to the work-room.
“What can you do, Miss Kemper?” asked Mrs. Sharp.
“I think I may say I have been thoroughly drilled in plain sewing
both by hand and with the machine,” Floy answered modestly; “and for
the last year I have fitted and made my common dresses, and generally
assisted with the better ones.”
“You may begin with this,” said Mrs. Sharp, handing her a dress-skirt
of cheap material.
“That sounds very well, but we shall see what we shall see,” was what
Floy read in her countenance. “And she shall see,” was the girl’s
mental resolve.
“She’s a treasure--this new arrival--if she only keeps on as she’s
begun,” Mrs. Sharp said, with a triumphant smile, talking to Hetty that
night after the apprentices and journey-women had retired; “as handy
and neat a sewer as ever you saw, both by hand and on the machine, and
turns off nearly twice as much work as any one of the others.”
“That’s splendid, Aunt Prue,” returned Hetty, “but we must be careful
not to work a willing horse to death.”
“Of course, Hetty; did I ever do that?”
An odd little smile played about the girl’s lips, but she only said:
“We’ve taken in a good many orders to-day; sold off most of our stock
of ready-made hats too, and--there! it’s striking eleven, and I have
two hats to trim before I go to bed.”
“You’re worth your weight in gold, Hetty, and it’s a fine thing you
need so little sleep,” remarked her aunt. “But I think Sarah should
relieve you of the oversight of Patsy and the meals more than she does.”
“Mother’s not well,” said Hetty shortly.
“Oh, she’s hipped; it’s more that than anything else,” laughed Mrs.
Sharp. “Good-night,” and she left the room.
“Hipped! of course she is! Everybody is that complains of anything,
except that Sharp Thorne of hers,” muttered Hetty, adjusting flowers,
feathers, and loops of ribbon with deft and rapid fingers. “And of
course I wouldn’t enjoy being in bed now, or lying an hour later in the
morning! Well, thank Heaven, I haven’t a man to support, and don’t need
one to support me,” she added cheerily.
CHAPTER XVII.
HETTY TO THE RESCUE.
“The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame than shedding seas of gore.”--BYRON.
“Hetty Goodenough, you’ll have to interfere, and set your foot down
firmly too, or the child’s health will be ruined for life,” remarked
that young lady to herself, stealing another and another furtive glance
at the wan, thin cheeks of Floy Kemper. “Why, she’s but the ghost of
the pretty girl the expressman brought here two months ago.”
The Christmas holidays were near at hand, and for weeks past orders for
party-dresses, head-dresses, opera cloaks, etc., had poured in upon
the establishment till, as Mrs. Sharp said, they were driven almost to
distraction.
It was now near midnight following one of the hardest days of the
season, and all the weary toilers save these two had left the work-room
to seek the rest so sorely needed.
“Floy,” said Hetty aloud.
They had long since taken up the habit of calling each other by these
familiar names.
“Well, Hetty?” and the girl, who was busily engaged in looping up the
folds of rich silk and lace on an over-skirt, with delicate blossoms
wonderfully real in their loveliness, looked up from her work with a
faint smile.
“Do give that up for to-night; you’ve done too much to-day by a great
deal.”
“But it can’t be helped while so many are hurrying us so for their
dresses, and this will be done now in a few minutes.”
“The heartless creatures!” ejaculated Hetty. “There’s nothing hardens
the heart like love of dress, Floy; I’d rather be--what I am--worked
half to death--than a butterfly of fashion. Well, if you’re determined
to finish that, I must come and help you.”
“Thank you,” said Floy. “What makes you so good to me, Hetty?”
“It’s odd, isn’t it? but somehow I took a fancy to you the first minute
I set eyes on you.”
“And you’ve been the one bright spot in my life here ever since.”
Hetty looked both touched and gratified.
“There, it’s done at last!” she said presently, holding up their
finished work, gazing at it admiringly for an instant as she shook out
the rich folds; then carrying it to a closet, she hung it up carefully,
shut and locked the door, putting the key in her pocket, and came back
to Floy.
“What is it?” she asked almost tenderly, for Floy sat in a despondent
attitude, her elbow on the table, her cheek on her hand, while her
eyes, gazing into vacancy, had a deeply sad, far-away look.
“I was only thinking,” she answered with an effort to speak cheerfully;
but her voice broke, and a sudden gush of tears followed the words.
“Don’t mind me! I--I didn’t mean to!” she faltered, dashing away the
bright drops and vainly struggling to recover her composure, as Hetty
dropped on one knee at her side and put her arms affectionately about
her.
“You’re just worn out; that’s one trouble, but I’m afraid not the
only one. I’m not curious, and don’t want to obtrude myself into your
confidence, but if you want sympathy--I’d be ever so glad to give it.
I--I’ve thought sometimes ’twould do you good to unburden your heart to
some one. You’re homesick, I’m sure of that, for I know the symptoms.
The home folks ought to write to you oftener than they do. I’ve noticed
the postman has brought you only two or three letters since you came,
and one of those was from an attorney at law.”
“Yes, and the others were from one who is a dear, kind friend, but
has no drop of my blood in her veins. Hetty, I never had a sister or
brother. Last year--oh! only four short months ago--I was a petted only
child, the darling of the best, kindest, dearest of parents; now--I am
alone--all alone! The grave closed over them both in one day.”
The last words were scarcely audible, but Hetty’s quick ear caught
them, and her warm heart bled for the bereaved one. She clasped her
more closely in her arms and wept with her.
“Poor dear, poor dear!” she said, “what a pleasant home you must have
had with them! Wouldn’t it do you good to talk of it to me?”
Floy felt that it would, and in trembling, tearful tones drew a bright
picture of the happy home of her childhood, the tender parental love
and care that had made it such in no ordinary degree.
Hetty was just the deeply-interested, sympathizing listener the poor
heart craved, and the outpouring relieved it of half its load.
“What a change for you--coming here!” was Hetty’s comment; “and how
well you have borne it! so patient, so uncomplaining, so diligent,
and faithful! I hardly know how you can have sufficient energy and
ambition.”
“A strange remark coming from you,” returned Floy, smiling faintly as
she wiped away the tears she had been shedding to the memory of the
dear ones gone, “you who seem to me to be the very embodiment of energy
and ambition.”
“Ah, I’m used to the life, and I have an object; poor mother has only
me to relieve her of her heavy burdens; love of her lightens toil
wonderfully!”
“Love of Another too, Hetty; isn’t it so? And I too can rejoice in the
hope that He is pleased when I strive to do my work faithfully, because
it is of His appointment, and be patient under trial, because He sends
it.”
Hetty silently pressed the hand she held, a tender moisture gathering
in her eyes.
“And--yes, I will tell you, for I am sure you are a true friend, one
worthy of my confidence. I have another object in life besides the
necessity of earning my own support.”
And in a few brief, eager sentences, alight shining in her eyes, a
tender smile hovering around her full, red lips, Floy told of her hope
that she had still a mother living, and should some day be able to
search her out.
Hetty listened to the tale in almost breathless surprise and delight.
“You’ll find her!” she cried, “you’ll find each other--I’m sure of it.”
“And so am I at times, but I seem to make no progress of late. I so
seldom get out even into the street, or go anywhere that I am likely to
meet strangers.”
“You ought to be in the store,” said Hetty musingly; “perhaps that can
be managed by and by, and in the meanwhile I’ll be on the lookout for
you. You resemble her?”
“Yes, allowing for the difference in age. Oh, it seems to me I should
know the face if I saw it!”
It was past midnight now, and as the girls must be up by five o’clock
in the morning, it behooved them to retire at once.
They bade each other good-night and stole softly upstairs, Hetty
stopping on the third floor while Floy went on up to the attic.
It was indeed a change from her old home in Cranley to this that hardly
deserved the name, and not more the change in the accommodations and
surroundings than in the life she led--leisure, petting indulgence,
tender, watchful care in the one; in the other incessant toil, seldom
rewarded by so much as a word or smile of approval, very plain fare,
her happiness evidently a matter of indifference to all about her
except warm-hearted, sympathizing Hetty.
But Floy had borne it well; silent and abstracted she often was,
scarce hearing the idle chatter of the others, but always diligent and
faithful in the performance of the tasks assigned her; no eye-service
was hers, and though often very weary and heart-sick, no complaint
passed her lips or could be read in her countenance; what her
hand found to do she did with her might, and having, as Mrs. Sharp
discovered ere she had been in the house a week, a decided genius
for cutting, fitting, and trimming, she had been worked very hard,
and was already secretly esteemed an invaluable acquisition to the
establishment.
She was breaking down under the unaccustomed strain; she needed the
generous, varied, and nutritious diet, the abundance of fresh air and
exercise, and somewhat of the rest and freedom from care of the olden
time.
Mrs. Sharp was slow to perceive this, but Hetty had suspected it for
days past, and to-night had become fully convinced.
She did not lie awake thinking of it, for, like Floy, she was weary
enough to fall asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, but it
was her last thought on lying down, her first on awaking, and she
sprang up, saying half aloud:
“It shall be attended to, and this very day, sure as you’re born, Hetty
Goodenough!”
“What, Hetty?” asked her mother drowsily.
“Can’t wait to explain now, mothery; the clock’s striking five; will
another time. Just turn over and take another nap while Patsy and I get
breakfast.”
“It’s a shame! I ought to get up and let you nap it a little longer.
What is it Shakespeare says?” muttered Mrs. Goodenough sleepily,
turning over as she was bidden to do.
Hetty laughed low and musically as she threw on a wrapper, caught up a
shawl, and hurried from the room. She was a power in that house, and
knew it too. Mr. Sharp was a penniless dependent upon his wife, who,
starting in business with a very small capital, had managed by dint of
great exertions to add something to it, and at the same time to support
the family and educate their children.
No easy life was hers, as Hetty said; she had shown herself neither
prudent nor sharp when she consented to take such a Thorne to her bosom
as the lazy, supercilious, self-indulgent husband who, while looking
down with contempt upon her from the lofty heights of his intellectual
superiority, whether real or fancied, was yet none too proud to live
upon her hard earnings; and instead of showing any gratitude for the
favors heaped upon him, was perpetually grumbling and finding fault.
His wife bore with and excused him on the plea of ill-health; but
Hetty’s opinion, not always kept entirely private, was that he was
quite as capable of exertion as the rest of them if he would only think
so, and that if by any possibility he could be forced to leave his bed
at the early hour set for the rest of the family, and then to go to
work with a will at something useful and remunerative, it would have an
excellent effect upon him both mentally and physically.
But alas! she had not the power to enforce her cure, and he went on
from day to day dozing away the precious morning hours, often the
afternoon also, then sitting up far into the night at some literary
work that never paid. Sometimes it was an English grammar that was
never finished, at others an essay on some subject in which the public
could not be brought to take an interest.
He was soured by disappointment, considering himself a very ill-used
man, and could not be made to see that the trouble lay in his selfish
determination to do only what he liked, whether it would or would not
pay and enable him to support himself and family.
Mrs. Goodenough, nominally at the head of the housekeeping department,
lacked her sister’s native energy, and was really out of health, and
the greater part of that burden was assumed by Hetty, who was a perfect
embodiment of vigor and efficiency.
Hetty had charge of the millinery part of the concern also, including
a store in which she had invested a few hundreds inherited from her
father, bringing to the business also a thorough knowledge of the trade.
She kept the accounts too, and was in fact quite as much the mainspring
of the whole establishment as Mrs. Sharp herself, if not more so.
And this was well for the employees, since it was by Hetty’s oversight
of marketing and cooking that the table was supplied with a sufficiency
of wholesome, well-prepared food, and meals were served with the
regularity so necessary to health.
She could not wholly save them from being overworked, or indeed
herself either, but the hours of labor were sometimes abridged by her
thoughtful kindness in exerting her influence to that end.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A CRUEL BLOW.
“Our first love murdered is the sharpest pang
A human heart can feel.”--YOUNG.
Floy came down to breakfast with a violent headache. She said nothing
about it, but her look of suffering and want of appetite did not escape
Hetty’s watchful eye, and made her more determined than ever to come
speedily to the rescue.
The opportunity offered shortly after the conclusion of the meal.
Leaving her mother and Patsy to clear it away, Hetty hurried into the
store. It was still too early to open, but there were accounts to be
looked over and things to be set right before she would be ready for
customers.
She had not been there long when Mrs. Sharp came in with the over-skirt
she had helped Floy to finish the night before.
“See, Hetty, what do you think of this?” she asked, with a pleased
look. “Some of Miss Kemper’s work. She really has a wonderful amount of
taste.”
“Yes, I think so; it’s perfectly lovely, Aunt Prue; you never had an
apprentice before, or a journey-woman either, for that matter, who
could trim half so prettily or had so many original ideas about it.”
Mrs. Sharp assented, shaking out the dress and gazing admiringly upon
it as she turned it this way and that to note the effect.
“Yes,” she said complacently, “we’ve secured a real treasure in her,
and I never shall regret having consented to take her.”
“She’s worth taking care of.”
“Of course she is, Hetty; but what do you mean by that?” asked the aunt
sharply.
“That she isn’t getting sleep enough, or fresh air or exercise enough;
that this work, work, work, from early morning until late at night, is
breaking down her health, and we’ll have to manage differently as far
as she’s concerned, or we’ll have her dying on our hands.”
“Dear me, Het,” in a vexed tone, “you have a way of putting things so
strongly, and in such a sudden fashion too, that I declare it nearly
knocks one down! She’s no more overworked than you or I.”
“Perhaps not; but we’re used to it, and naturally stronger, I think.
Besides, we don’t sit so steadily, but are here and there, all over the
house, and in and out too, shopping or marketing.”
“Well, it can’t be helped while we’re so driven with work.”
“Better spare her for an hour or two every day now than lose her
services for weeks or maybe altogether.”
Mrs. Sharp tossed the dress on to the counter and sat down with her
hands folded in her lap. For a moment she seemed lost in thought, her
countenance expressing a good deal of annoyance.
“I generally send Annie Jones home with finished work,” she said
presently, “because she’s not good for much else; but if Miss Kemper
is really in such pressing need of air and exercise, she may take that
duty sometimes. I don’t believe, though, that she’ll be willing; she is
too high in her notions.”
“She is a lady, and would of course feel it somewhat of a trial to her
pride,” said Hetty, “but I believe she is too sensible and right-minded
to refuse, when it’s so necessary for her health.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
Floy was called and the question laid before her.
The result was as Hetty had predicted--an evident struggle with pride,
then a thankful acceptance of the offer. Health was far too valuable to
be lightly thrown away, and--ah, how many strange faces would present
themselves to her view in the houses to which she was sent, on the
sidewalks, and in the street-cars, and who could tell that the one she
so longed to find might not be among them!
It was assigned to her to carry home the work she had completed the
night before, and when the late hour arrived at which a fashionable
lady might be supposed ready to receive such a call she set out upon
the by no means agreeable errand.
The air was keen and cold, but the sun shone brightly, and she found
her walk of some half dozen squares bracing and enjoyable.
It was to a very handsome residence in a fashionable quarter of the
city that she had been sent.
The servant who answered her ring left her standing in the hall while
he carried away the package she had brought. Presently he returned with
a request that she would follow it.
“Miss Carrie wants you to see it tried on, so’s you can fix it if
’tain’t all right,” he said.
He led her up a flight of marble stairs, broad and low, with an
elegantly-carved balustrade, and over softly-carpeted floors to a
richly-furnished boudoir, where three young girls, in elegant morning
dresses, lounged upon the sofas, taking their ease as though life had
no serious duties for them and time were given only to be frittered
away.
Floy was conscious that the three pairs of eyes were levelled at her on
her entrance, but bore the ordeal with quiet dignity.
“Ah, you’re the young person sent from Mrs. Sharp’s, I presume?” said
one, laying aside a novel. “I’m glad she didn’t disappoint me. Will you
please undo it?” pointing to the parcel lying on an ottoman. “I must
try it on and let you see that it’s all right before you go.”
She spoke as if addressing a menial, and Floy’s cheek burned; but she
silently did as requested.
The wrappings were removed, and in a moment all three of the young
ladies had started to their feet with exclamations of “Lovely!”
“Charming!” “Exquisite!”
“I shall run into the next room and put it on!” cried the owner.
“And I’ll help you, Carrie,” said one of the others.
“No, no, Bell, thank you! you and Laura stay here and let me burst in
upon you in full bloom,” she answered laughingly. “But you may come,”
nodding graciously to Floy. “I’ll need your assistance. I’ll carry this
lovely over-skirt; you may bring the rest.”
The bedroom to which she conducted Floy was, in the richness and
luxury of its furnishing, quite in keeping with the boudoir.
The change of dress was quickly made, Floy adjusting the rich folds of
the new gown, and making one or two little alterations in the looping
or the position of the flowers to suit the taste of the wearer.
“Wait here a moment while I show myself to my friends,” said the latter
when all was done.
She sailed away into the adjoining room, and Floy heard the
exclamations.
“Oh, charming, Carrie!”
“And so becoming! I declare, Cal, even Espy Alden would find you
irresistible in that!”
“Why not say Will? he’s to be here next week--coming home with Fred to
spend the holidays. They’re college chums, you know.”
The light, joyous laugh that accompanied the words seemed to say that
she considered him as already secured.
Floy heard it all, and a pang shot through her heart.
Espy Alden! her own Espy! it could be no other, for it was no common
name.
Faint, giddy, sick at heart, trembling in every limb, she dropped into
a chair and hid her face in her hands. She thought she had resigned
him, yet oh, what anguish that another should have won her place in his
heart!
No tears came to her burning eyes, but she was half frightened at the
pallor of her face as, on raising her head again, she caught sight of
it in a mirror on the opposite wall. She hastily drew down her veil to
hide it.
The talk was going on in the next room, and every word came distinctly
to her ear.
“What’s he like?”
“Oh, you haven’t seen him, Bell? There, what do you think of him? It’s
not a bit flattered; is it, Laura?”
“No; don’t do him justice. No photograph could, for he’s much handsomer
when he’s talking and laughing than when his face is at rest.”
“That’s so, and he’s a splendid talker; quite an artist too, Fred says.
But now tell me if you think all these flowers are disposed to the very
best advantage.”
The rest of the chat was about the dress, and fell utterly unheeded
upon Floy’s ear.
An artist, so handsome, so good a conversationist--it could be no other
than her own Espy--hers from her very babyhood. And this girl had his
likeness--no doubt given by himself. What could it mean if not that
they were betrothed? Well, what right had she to blame him? None, none,
for she had voluntarily resigned him; and yet, and yet--oh, her heart
was like to break!
“What’s the matter? are you ill?” she heard a voice asking at her
side--the voice of the girl who had won him from her.
“Yes,” she answered faintly, “I--I’ve been up very late for several
nights; work is so pressing just now, and I rose this morning with a
terrible headache.”
“Ah, that’s too bad! I wouldn’t be a dressmaker for anything in the
world. Well, I suppose you’d like to go, and there is no need for you
to stay any longer. Tell Mrs. Sharp I’m delighted with the dress. Have
you the bill with you?”
Floy produced it, receipted and signed; the money was paid, and she
took her departure.
The keen, frosty air was no longer refreshing as she retraced her
steps; it seemed rather to chill her to the very bones.
Hetty had asked her to come in through the store. Some customers were
just passing out as she reached the door. Hetty glanced toward her on
her entrance.
“Why, how dreadfully you look!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t managed
right. I shouldn’t have let you go for such a walk when you’d eaten
hardly a mouthful of breakfast.”
She threw an arm about Floy’s waist as she spoke, and drew her into a
small room back of the store, where the making and trimming of bonnets
was carried on. Several girls were working busily at the end nearest
the window.
“Sit down here by the register and warm yourself,” said Hetty, gently
forcing Floy into a large arm-chair.
“No, no, I must go up to the work-room at once,” answered the weary,
half-fainting girl; “you know all hands are needed--”
“You’ll just sit there till you’re well warmed and have had a cup of
tea,” said Hetty with authority. “The Thorne is but just done his
breakfast; there’s a good fire in the kitchen, and--I’ll be back in
two seconds. Don’t you dare to move till I come.” And shaking her
finger threateningly, she rushed away through a door opening into the
dining-room.
Her promise was not fulfilled to the letter, but scarce five minutes
had elapsed when she returned with a cup of fragrant tea and two or
three slices of thin, daintily browned and buttered toast, all fresh
from the fire.
The tray, covered with a snowy napkin, was quickly placed on a stand
close at Floy’s side, and Hetty ordered her, in a tone of good-humored
authority, to eat and drink.
She tried to speak her thanks, but her lip trembled and tears came
instead of words.
“There, now, my dear, don’t emulate the folly of Oliver Twist over
his water-gruel,” said Hetty jocosely. “I think you’ll find this fare
somewhat more tempting than his; but salt water won’t improve it. You
see,” bending low and speaking in a whisper, “I’ve cribbed a little
from the store of dainties provided for the Thorne and served it
upon part of my own breakfast set, generally reserved for high days
and holidays. Now I must leave you, for there’s a customer,” and she
hurried into the store.
The fragrance of the tea was appetizing. Floy tasted it, then broke off
a bit of the toast, and presently discovered that, whatever might have
been the original cause of her headache, an empty stomach had not a
little to do with it now.
The slight refreshment made it possible to force herself to work,
though in other and happier days she would have been deemed too ill for
any place but bed.
The pain in the head was partially relieved, but that of the heart
remained unassuaged; and though it cost a painful effort, it was
perhaps well for her that she was compelled to give her mind to the
details of her employment, cutting, fitting, and trimming through all
the long hours of the day and evening, till nature was so thoroughly
exhausted that sleep came the moment she lay down to her rest, two
hours earlier than on the previous night--the result of Hetty’s kindly
interposition.
It was the same through the remainder of the week; every day some
errand to take her out for a breath of fresh air, every night an hour
or two added to her time for rest; also her bed was removed to a
warmer and purer atmosphere, Mrs. Goodenough and Hetty taking her into
their room, which was heated by a furnace in the cellar and was better
ventilated than the crowded room overhead.
Floy was very grateful, especially when the added luxury of some
degree of privacy was given her by the kindness of Mrs. Goodenough in
curtaining off the corner where her bed was placed.
The beneficial effect of these changes was soon apparent in Floy’s
increased appetite and brighter looks.
On the ensuing Sabbath she felt herself able to go to church, which had
been the case only once before since her coming to the city, all the
other Sundays finding her so worn out with the week’s work as to be
compelled to spend the day in sleeping off her exhaustion.
She went alone; and not wishing to attract observation, slipped quietly
into a pew near the door.
The services had not yet begun, and her thoughts had flown far away to
the dear ones worshipping in the upper sanctuary, when suddenly they
were recalled to earth. A rustle of silk, and three gayly-dressed
young girls swept up the aisle closely followed by two young men, the
foremost, Espy Alden, stepping so close in passing that she could
easily have laid her hand upon his arm.
Her heart gave a wild bound as she recognized him, but he did not see
her.
She said to herself she was glad of it, yet it pained her to her
heart’s core. Had he no eyes for any one but Miss Carrie Lea? Surely if
his heart were loyal as of yore to his first love, he would have felt
her presence near. It had seemed ever so in those earlier days.
He sat where she could see his side face, and many a furtive glance fed
her hunger for the old love, a consuming fire that pride--her woman’s
pride--vainly strove to trample out. Ah, it was the only earthly love
left her, and it had been so sweet!
CHAPTER XIX.
A GREAT SURPRISE.
“Thinkest thou
That I could live and let thee go,
Who art my life itself? No, no!”--MOORE.
The moment the benediction was pronounced Floy left the church and
walked rapidly away, turning the first corner she came to, nor paused
nor slackened her pace till she reached Mrs. Sharp’s door.
“Had you a good sermon?” queried Hetty at the dinner-table.
“Yes,” Floy answered absently.
“It does not seem to have refreshed you much,” sneered Mr. Sharp, with
a keen glance at the pale, sorrowful face whereon the traces of tears
were very evident. “I would prescribe a nap instead, next Sunday.”
“Don’t tease her, Thorne,” said Mrs. Goodenough, “she’s been trying to
do her duty like a Christian. What is it Shakespeare says?”
“Madam, let me counsel you to purchase a copy of the works of that
immortal bard, and study it for your own edification, for ours, and
for that of the world at large,” he returned loftily and with a
contemptuous wave of the hand, as he passed his cup to be refilled.
Hetty flushed indignantly.
“It might be for your edification, no doubt,” she retorted; “this
passage for one--‘Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works.’”
“Hush, hush, child! that’s too strong,” said her mother, taking the
cup. “But unasked advice isn’t apt to be welcome, Thorne; what is it
Shakespeare says?” and the tea-pot she had just lifted was set down
again while she seemed lost in contemplation. “Ah! I have it:
“‘I pray thee cease thy counsel,
Which falls into mine ears as profitless
As water in a sieve.’”
Mr. Sharp rose, and, pushing his plate angrily away, strode from the
room. Mrs. Sharp looked annoyed, but made no remark, contenting herself
with a reproachful glance at her sister and niece.
Hetty accepted her share with extreme nonchalance. As for the other
delinquent, she was too much elated by her successful quotation to
heed so trifling a matter as the passing displeasure of her sister--a
displeasure, too, which, as she shrewdly suspected, was more than half
assumed for the mere sake of appearance.
That was the fact, and yet there was a real vexation to Mrs. Sharp in
what had occurred, because she would have to bear the brunt of his
ill-humor.
With that unpleasant conviction weighing upon her, she breathed a heavy
sigh as she, too, left the table and the room.
“Poor Aunt Prue!” said Hetty, looking after her. “What a sad misnomer
was her name when she undertook the care and support of--”
“Hush, hush, child!” interrupted her mother.
“Well, well, I must try to keep my opinions to myself,” pursued the
girl, with a serio-comic expression, “but I can’t help feeling sorry
for her, or glad for ourselves, that we’ll get no more Sharp prickles
from the Thorne to-day. He’s bound to spend the rest of it in a fit o’
the pouts, and will not darken these doors till noon of to-morrow.”
Mrs. Sharp found her Thorne lying on a couch in their chamber,
literally pouting like the great baby that he was.
“My dear,” she said soothingly, “you mustn’t mind that saucy girl; she
isn’t worth it, and--”
“No, I suppose not; but if you cared a penny for me you’d send her away
at once, or rather would have done so long ago.”
“But, unfortunately, Thorne, we can’t do without her, and, still more
unfortunately, she is perfectly aware of the fact, and doesn’t scruple
to take every advantage of it.”
“‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ Mrs. Sharp, and if you were the
right sort of wife you’d never sit by and see your husband insulted at
his own table as I have been to-day.”
“His own table indeed!” thought she; “it’s more Hetty’s than his; more
mine than hers. But--ah, well, I must even make the best of a bad
bargain.”
And going into an adjoining room, she presently returned laden with
delicacies--fine confections and tropical fruits--which she pressed
upon him, saying, “You made such a poor dinner; hardly eat enough to
keep a bird alive; do try to eke it out with these. These grapes
are splendid, so are the oranges and bananas, and I never saw finer
candies.”
“I don’t want them,” he said shortly; “if things are to be locked up
and kept from my knowledge till it suits you to bring them out, I’ll
not touch them.”
At this she was justly indignant, and, losing all patience, informed
him that “since he was determined to ‘bite off his nose to spite his
face’ he was entirely welcome to do so.”
“To think that I should ever have married a woman who can use such
vulgarisms as that!” said he, turning his back on her.
“Better be vulgar than wicked!” she retorted, “and the way you’re
behaving is downright wicked--such temper and ingratitude! If you were
a child I should say you wanted a good spanking, and I rather think so
as it is. If I were you I’d really try to put away childish things.”
“You, who can be guilty of such extravagance as this, do well to
reprove me, your liege lord,” he remarked with bitter sarcasm. “Cast
the beam from your own eye, and you may perhaps see clearly to pull the
mote out of mine.”
“My liege lord indeed!” she repeated scornfully; “rather my-- But I
will not bandy words with you, and, lest I should be too strongly
tempted to do so, shall leave you to pout it out alone.”
So saying, she gathered up her rejected dainties and swept from the
room, leaving him to repent of his refusal at leisure, for no child
could be fonder of sweets than he.
All that day and the succeeding night Espy was present in Floy’s dreams
whether sleeping or waking. Nor were they happy dreams, for they seemed
to take him farther and farther from her. Yet she strove to be cheerful
in the presence of others, and only Hetty suspected how hollow was the
pretence. Monday passed by, bringing no unusual event. On Tuesday, at a
late hour in the morning, she was again directed to go to the residence
of the Leas; this time to fit a dress for Carrie’s mother.
“Mrs. Lea is not quite ready for you yet, miss,” said the servant
who answered her ring. “She says you’ll be so good as to wait till
she sends for you. Just walk in here, please,” he added on his own
responsibility, perceiving that he was addressing a lady, and throwing
open the door of the library as he spoke.
Floy stepped in, the door closing behind her, and instantly became
aware that the room had an occupant, and only one--a young and handsome
man, seated comfortably in an easy chair by the fire, and busied with
the morning paper.
He looked up; the paper was suddenly flung aside, and in an instant he
had caught both her hands in his, his face all aglow with delighted
surprise.
“Floy, Floy! have I found you at last? Oh, darling, can you, will you
forgive those cruel words of mine? Ah, if you knew how bitterly they
have been repented!”
It was her own Espy again. Tears of joy rained down her cheeks; she
could not speak for emotion; but she did not repulse him as he took
her in his arms and folded her to his heart with many a tender caress,
whispering the while, “Floy, Floy! my own darling, my own little wife!”
“No, no, not that!” she sobbed. “Oh, Espy, Espy, we must part!”
“For a little while--only for a little while--dearest.”
“Your parents--have they relented?” she asked, wiping the tears from
her eyes and gazing steadily into his.
His cheek flushed.
“I shall be of age in a few weeks, and be my own master,” he said,
drawing himself up proudly.
“But not mine,” she said very low--so low that he scarcely caught the
words--and gently releasing herself from his embrace.
He flushed more hotly than before. “Oh, Floy, have I ever seemed to
think it? Nay, have I not rather been your devoted slave?”
“You were always good to me, Espy; always watching over and caring for
me, and ready and anxious to give me the best of everything. Oh, I
shall never, never forget your goodness! no, not even if--”
“If what, Floy?”
“Even though another has--has won you--”
“No, no, never!” he cried, taking her hands again. “I never have,
never can love any one but you. Why should you think it?” and he gazed
searchingly into her eyes.
Then she told him something of what she had involuntarily heard a few
days previous while waiting in Carrie Lea’s bedroom.
He was indignant and evidently surprised to learn that the girl had
his photograph; puzzled, too, to conjecture how it had come into her
possession.
“It must have been somehow through her brother,” he said after a
moment’s thought. “But, Floy, I have never paid her any particular
attention,” he added with deprecating look and tone.
“I believe you fully, Espy,” she replied, with a confiding smile; “but
since I have released you from your engagement to me--”
“I do not accept my release,” he interrupted impulsively, “and that
being the case, I am answerable to you for my conduct toward other
women.”
She shook her head, and was opening her lips to speak again, when the
sound of approaching steps prevented. She drew hastily away from Espy’s
side, and, seating herself by a window, seemed to have her attention
fully occupied with something that was going on in the street.
The door opened.
“Miss, Mrs. Lea says you’ll please walk up now to her dressing-room.”
Espy, standing before the grate with his back to the door, turned at
the words and made a stride forward, his face blazing with indignation,
but only to see Floy’s black skirt vanish through the door, which
instantly closed between them.
“What does it mean?” he asked himself half aloud; “I thought she was
merely making a morning call, but that fellow spoke to her as if she
were a menial like himself.”
There was a sound of light laughter and gay girlish voices on the
stairway, and in the hall without, the door again opened, and the
smiling face of Miss Carrie Lea looked in.
“The sleigh’s at the door, Mr. Alden, and we’re all ready waiting for
you.”
He had engaged to drive out with the ladies at that hour in Mr. Lea’s
fine sleigh, behind his handsome, spirited bays; and anxious though
he was beyond expression to snatch another interview with Floy by
intercepting her as she should leave the house, he felt compelled to
go, not being able on the spur of the moment to think of any plausible
excuse.
Since there was no alternative, he made the best of it; with smile
and jest handed the ladies to their places, tucked the buffalo-robes
carefully about them, took his seat by Carrie Lea’s side, and drove
off, fervently hoping that something would occur to cause a speedy
return.
CHAPTER XX.
A SUDDEN SUMMONS.
“I tell thee life is but one common care,
And man was born to suffer and to fear.”--PRIOR.
Mrs. Lea’s dressing-room was gorgeous with crimson and gold; they were
the prominent colors of its adornment, from the velvet carpet on the
floor to the gayly-frescoed ceiling.
The lady herself, arrayed in a morning robe of dark blue silk,
and wearing a great quantity of heavy jewelry, reclined upon a
crimson-satin-covered couch. She evidently belonged to the shoddy
aristocracy, and her sallow, slightly-wrinkled face expressed nothing
but supercilious pride and fretful discontent.
She greeted Floy with an angry nod and the question: “What’s the reason
Mrs. Sharp sends you instead of coming herself? You can tell her I
don’t like such treatment, and I consider that my money is as good
as any other body’s. She says in her note you can fit as well as she
can; but I don’t believe it; it stands to reason that a ’prentice-girl
couldn’t do as well as her mistress.”
Floy’s cheek flushed, but she stood with an air of dignity, silently
waiting for the end of the tirade, then quietly asked:
“Am I to fit your dress, Mrs. Lea?”
“Can you? that’s the question.”
“You have Mrs. Sharp’s opinion in regard to my ability. I can only say
that I am ready to do my best, or to return to her with your message,
as you please.”
“Well, I guess you may cut and fit the lining, and I can judge by the
looks of it whether to allow you to go on and do up the job. Eliza,”
turning to her maid, “bring the things. You know where they are.”
Floy had not been invited to sit down, but feeling ill able to stand,
quietly took possession of the nearest chair.
Mrs. Lea elevated her eyebrows and muttered something angrily about
“impudence and upstarts, and some folks making themselves very much at
home in other folks’ houses.”
Floy seemed not to hear, but kept her seat till the maid returned with
the required articles, and Mrs. Lea was ready to stand up and be fitted.
This proved a tedious and trying process to both, by reason of Mrs.
Lea’s impatience and captiousness; but at length Floy’s efforts
resulted in so signal a success that she was graciously permitted, in
Mrs. Lea’s phrase, “to go on and do up the job.”
“Why, it fits elegant!” she exclaimed at the final trying on. “I
declare Mrs. Sharp couldn’t a done it better herself, and you may tell
her I said as much.”
Floy was gratified, for the Leas were among Mrs. Sharp’s best
customers. Her patience and forbearance had been sorely tried, but
had not failed, and now she was rewarded for the restraint put upon
herself.
Her pulses quickened as she passed the library door in going out,
though she knew Espy was not there now, for she had heard the departure
of the sleighing party, and they had not returned.
Another hour had slipped away before they came, and Espy was met at the
door by a telegram to the effect that his mother was lying dangerously
ill, and he must hasten home without delay if he would see her alive.
Espy read it at a glance; and turning a pale, agitated countenance upon
the servant, who stood waiting,
“I must be gone at once,” he said.
“Yes, sir; I expected as much, and I’ve packed your valise, sir; here
it is all right--everything in it that you’d left in your room.”
“Thank you; it was very thoughtful and kind. I will have to leave my
adieus to the ladies and gentlemen with you. Tell them I have been
suddenly summoned home. My mother is very ill, and I shall have barely
time to catch the train. Good-by.”
And dropping a dollar into the man’s hand, Espy seized the valise and
rushed away in hot pursuit of a passing street-car.
Even at that moment of grief, anxiety, and haste, he remembered with a
sharp pang that this sudden departure robbed him of the opportunity to
obtain another interview with Floy or to learn her address.
During the two hours’ drive his thoughts had been so full of her, their
late interview, and plans for securing another, that he found no little
difficulty in attending to the small talk of his companions, and was
more than once rallied by them upon his absence of mind.
It was the more annoying since he was the only gentleman of the party,
young Lea being confined to his room that day with a severe cold.
Great were the chagrin and disappointment of Carrie when she heard of
Espy’s abrupt departure. The others cared less, as she had managed to
monopolize almost all his attentions.
Floy’s heart meanwhile was in a tumult of mingled emotions--joy that
she had heard from Espy’s own lips the assurance of his faithfulness to
her, sorrow that duty seemed still to forbid their betrothment.
Well was it for her in those days that necessity compelled her to
constant employment, and that much thought had to be given to her work.
The diversion of her mind from her cares and griefs was further
assisted by the occurrences of the next day.
It was two hours since the early breakfast at Mrs. Sharp’s, and in
the work-room all was life, activity, and bustle: the buzz of three
sewing-machines, the busy hum of voices giving and asking instructions,
the click of the scissors cutting out garments and their trimmings,
making a confusion of sounds.
Floy, putting the finishing touches to the rich silk she had fitted
yesterday for Mrs. Lea, was wondering if she should be commissioned
to carry home this dress, her heart trembling with mingled pleasure
and pain at thought of a possible meeting with Espy if sent upon that
errand.
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.”
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