Signing the Contract and What it Cost

CHAPTER XLI

AFTER THE RAIN, SUNLIGHT; AFTER THE STORM, A CALM

Espy, having seen the door of Madame Le Conte’s boudoir close upon Mr. and Mrs. Heywood, stole softly down the stairs, thinking to join his Floy in the parlor. But as he neared the half-open door he caught a glimpse of Ellis and his sisters, and heard the voice of the latter, who was at that moment making his little introductory speech.

Espy turned away and quietly left the house, unable to reason down a jealous feeling, which he was only dimly conscious was such, that he was no longer necessary to Floy’s happiness.

“I will not go back again to-night,” he said to himself. “She will not miss me.”

He had fully sympathized in her joy over the discovery of her long-sought parent, and he was very glad for her even now; but physically weary, and suffering from the exhaustion consequent upon the reaction from great excitement, he began to be oppressed with gloomy thoughts and forebodings.

“These people are rich,” he soliloquized. “They will despise me for my poverty, will want Floy to give me up for some wealthier suitor; and if they fail in that, will make the poor darling wretched by their opposition. Yes, that’s just how it will be; it’s always the way; the more people have the more they want.” And at that moment he almost hated the gentle, sweet-faced woman and noble-looking man whom an hour ago he had most heartily admired.

Arrived at his hotel, he was hurrying to his room, intending to shut himself up there to the undisturbed indulgence of his dismal prognostications, when his steps were arrested by a waiter, who handed him a card, saying:

“The gentleman’s in his room, sir – No. 58, second floor – and wishes you to call on him there, sir. Told me to deliver card and message right away when you came in.”

“Very well,” Espy answered shortly, and obeyed the summons at once. The card was his father’s.

Mr. Alden was in excellent spirits, and greeted his son with effusion. He was glad to see him looking so well; hoped his affairs were prospering as regarded both the paintings and his relations to Floy.

Then, hardly waiting for a reply, he went on:

“I’ve had a delightful time; got back this morning; landed from the train at the Centennial; spent the day there; and, by the way, I met a young thing out there this afternoon who is wonderfully like Floy. Took her for her at first sight, and made a fool of myself by rushing up and offering to shake hands. Have been cogitating on the subject, and come to the conclusion that it may be a younger sister – half-sister, you know – supposing the mother lived and married again. What do you think?”

“Floy has a sister – two of them, in fact,” returned the son dryly, “and I think it altogether probable that the girl you speak of was one of them.”

“You don’t say!” cried Mr. Alden in astonishment. “And she’s found her mother, has she?”

“She has.”

“And sisters too?”

“And brother and step-father; there’s a whole family.”

“Whew! So many more to inherit the old Madame’s estate! Bad thing for Floy that!”

“She doesn’t think so,” retorted Espy indignantly. “I never saw her look so unutterably happy, and I honor her for it.”

“Humph! you do, eh? And what effect will all this have on your prospects? Will the new-found parents approve the choice of the lovely heiress?”

“That remains to be seen, sir,” Espy answered, coloring deeply and half averting his face. “It is not many hours since the first meeting of mother and daughter after their long separation, and, of course, they have not yet been able to think beyond the present moment.”

“Well, well, my boy, I hope no objection will be raised; but if there should be, don’t you be too ready to give her up. And it’s my belief that she’ll stick to you through thick and thin.”

“I don’t know, sir; she might deem it her duty to wait for her mother’s consent,” Espy answered despondingly.

“Well, yes, maybe so. I remember she has a troublesome conscience, or streak of stubbornness, whichever you please to call it. But don’t borrow trouble. Many a one would think a rising young artist of good disposition, respectable family, and fine appearance not a very bad match even for an heiress,” remarked the elder gentleman, regarding his son with a proudly affectionate smile.

“If they could see him through his father’s eyes,” Espy said, returning the smile, more reassured and comforted by the fatherly flattery than he cared to own even to himself. But when he had retired to the solitude of his own room he presently returned to his bitter and desponding mood. How could he feel sure even that Floy might not in time be weaned from him by these new-found relatives in case they did not fancy the match, seeing that already she was so taken up with them that he was quite forgotten? The greater part of the night was spent in gratuitous self-torture, but toward morning he fell into a sound sleep, from which he did not wake till the sun was several hours high.

He started up with a confused feeling that something was wrong. Then it all came back to him in a flash – yesterday’s happy ending of Floy’s quest, with its attendant scenes.

His first emotion was, as before, one of keen sympathy in her abounding joy, but this was speedily replaced by the jealous pangs, the doubts and fears, from which sleep had brought him temporary relief. Upon inquiry he learned that his father, with whom the keeping of early hours was a life-long habit, had already breakfasted and gone out. Then the question suggested itself whether he himself should go, as usual, to Madame Le Conte’s to learn Floy’s plans for the day, and become her escort to the Exposition or elsewhere, if such were her pleasure.

He held the point in debate for a time, but finally decided to stay away for the morning at least, saying gloomily to himself:

“She will not need me, very likely will not so much as miss me; and the others will most assuredly not desire my presence.”

The morning and most of the afternoon were passed in tedious lounging in the gentlemen’s reading-room of the hotel and aimless wanderings about the city streets. Then the longing to see Floy, and learn what effect these changes really were likely to have upon his future relations with her, became so overpowering that he turned his steps perforce toward the Madame’s dwelling. It was Ethel herself who admitted him.

“I knew it was your ring,” she said, hastily closing the door and lifting to his a face perfectly radiant with joy and gladness.

He had been reproaching himself only a moment before for the anxiety and sadness his absence had probably caused her, but it seemed she had felt nothing of the kind.

“Ah,” thought he, “it is plain to be seen that I am no longer necessary to her happiness.”

“But what is the matter?” she asked, the brightness suddenly dying out of her face as she caught the dismal expression of his. “Are you ill, dear Espy? Have the pictures been abused by those cruel critics? I feared something was wrong when I found you were staying away so long.”

“Did you, indeed? I’m sorry, but hope it has not troubled you greatly,” he returned in a slightly sarcastic tone. “No, there is nothing wrong with me,” putting a meaning emphasis on the personal pronoun.

She gave him a surprised, hurt look, but merely said in a quiet tone:

“Come into the parlor, Espy. There is no one there.”

He followed her in, feeling ashamed of himself, but, too proud to show it, put on an indifferent air, and leaning against the mantel, toyed idly with its ornaments, leaving it to her to break the silence that succeeded their entrance.

“Espy, is this kind? is it generous?” she said at length.

“Is what? I’m doing no mischief here,” he said, willfully misunderstanding her; but turning, and seeing the pained expression of her face, his better nature conquered. “No, Floy, darling, it is neither! it is shameful!” he cried, hurrying to her and taking both hands in his. “But the demon of jealousy has taken possession of me. I see now that it is that.”

“Jealousy! of whom?” she asked in surprise, but not repulsing him.

“Of – of your mother, brother, sisters,” he said, coloring with shame. “There! it is out; and what do you think of your lover now?”

“That he is – what shall I say? more fond than wise?” and she looked up brightly, the red lips smiling, the large, lustrous eyes a trifle misty.

“Let’s kiss and make up, as the children say,” he whispered, bending over her till his mustache came in suspiciously close proximity to her face.

“I haven’t been quarrelling,” she returned, with an arch smile.

They sat down side by side on a sofa.

“I have missed you, naughty boy,” she said, still playfully, “because I wanted somebody to tell my gladness to, if for no other reason. Oh, Espy!” and her tone changed to one of deep feeling, “I am so blest! I seem to have nothing more to ask for! I, who have been such a lonely waif, have now found not only the mother I have been so long almost hopelessly seeking (and such a dear, darling mother, too), but father, brother, sisters, and even grand-parents. Old Mr. and Mrs. Heywood were here this morning – they are the loveliest old couple! – and took me right to their hearts, bidding me call them grandpa and grandma, as my brother and sisters do.”

“Very strange, very!” remarked Espy, with a smile that belied his words. “Ah, Floy,” he added with a sigh, “I only wish I had some assurance that I shall find equal favor with them, or at least with your mother.”

“You need have no fears, Espy,” she said. “My mother and I passed the night together in each other’s arms – she sharing my bed – but not sleeping much, you may be sure. We talked till daybreak, each giving the other an account of her life during the years of our separation. I told her all about you – yes, everything – and she fully approves my choice, is ready to give you a son’s place in her dear, warm heart, only she says we must not ask to marry for a year or more (which you know we did not expect to do anyhow), because she must have me for a little while.”

His face was radiant.

“Bless her!” he cried. “I was afraid she would object to my poverty, particularly as I imagine them to be very wealthy.”

“Mother says they are not that; only comfortably well-to-do. Their home is in that land of fruit and flowers, Santa Barbara, and Aunt Nannette has already promised to go with them on their return and make her home there, and – ah, don’t look so dismal, for though I, of course, cannot consent to be left behind, all want you to go also and settle there.”

“I’ve not the least objection; in fact, am delighted with the idea!” he said with animation. “And so it’s all arranged! Everything has come out right in spite of the doubts and fears with which I’ve been tormenting myself.”

“Ah, there was no need,” she said gayly; “but

“Burns was a sage,” he remarked, laughing, “but I can’t say that I find the application particularly complimentary. And you are not disappointed in your mother?”

“Disappointed! I would not have her different in any respect. I find, to my unspeakable joy, that, besides possessing the sweetest natural disposition, she is an earnest, devoted Christian.”

“I am glad for your sake. Where is she now? I should like to see her again.”

“Stay and spend the evening with us, and you shall. Just now she is lying down. I persuaded her to try to take a nap while Aunt Nannette was doing so.”

“Thank you. Then I will come back,” he said, rising, “but I must leave now for a while. I had forgotten a business letter that must go by the next mail.”

He went, and Ethel stole softly upstairs to her own room and sat down there to think over her great happiness – so great that hardly yet could she fully believe in its reality. Presently she started up, and going to a bureau-drawer, took from it the old, worn, faded pocket-book that, because of her love for the departed, in whose service its brightness had grown dim, was so precious a relic. A moment she stood gazing upon it, a tender dewiness in her soft, bright eyes, then opening, drew forth a tiny folded paper. A light, quick step coming from an adjoining room caused her to turn her head.

“Mother!” she cried in low, musical tones, rapturous with love and gladness.

“Darling daughter!” Mrs. Heywood responded, putting her arms about the slender, girlish figure, and folding it to her heart with a tender caress.

Their joy, though no longer expressed in tears, was still almost too deep for words.

For several moments they stood holding each other in a silent embrace; then Ethel, putting the folded paper into her mother’s hand, said:

“Here, dear mamma, is a proof of my identity that till now I had forgotten to produce.”

“It is altogether unnecessary, my precious child,” Mrs. Heywood answered, opening the paper as she spoke. But as her eye glanced down the written page her cheek suddenly paled, and she uttered a low cry.

“This!” she said, with a shudder, “my contract with Mr. Kemper! Child, child, put it into the fire! Never let me see it again! Oh, what the signing of it has cost me!”