Signing the Contract and What it Cost

CHAPTER XXXI

A WONDROUS CHANGE

“Herein fortune shows herself more kindThan is her custom.” —Shakespeare.

Mr. Tredick, having accomplished his mission by breaking the good news to Madame Le Conte and ushering Floy into her presence, quietly withdrew, and, leaving a message with Mary to the intent that he would call again the next morning, returned to his office.

This was a memorable day in Floy’s life, the turning of a new page in her history.

Mary was presently despatched with a note to Mrs. Sharp briefly stating the facts, and with orders to bring away the few effects of the young girl which were there.

The news created a great sensation in the Sharp household, as Mary duly reported on her return, telling her story in a way which showed that she had keenly enjoyed her part in the scene, and that she was delighted to know that our heroine was no longer a mere transient sojourner in the Madame’s house.

Floy, in her capacity of dressmaker, had won golden opinions from the servants, and both were scarcely less pleased than astonished at the strange turn affairs had taken.

“It’s perfectly amazin’, as I told ’em down there,” said Mary in conclusion. “Who’d have thought that day you came here, lookin’ so sweet and sad in your black dress, to make that new gownd for the Madame, that you’d more real right in the house than any of us except the Madame herself!”

“I hope she will never need to look so sad again,” said Madame Le Conte, gazing with fond pride at the pretty face of her niece. “My dear, would you be willing to lay off your mourning now for my sake?”

The request caused such a flood of sad and tender memories that for a moment Floy was utterly unable to speak.

“I long to see you dressed as your mother used to be at your age,” the Madame went on. “She usually wore white gowns with pink or blue ribbons, and it was sweetly becoming.”

Floy conquered herself with a strong effort.

“I will, Aunt Nannette; I would do more than that to give you pleasure,” she said, with a winning smile, though tears trembled in her eyes and a bright drop rolled down her cheek as she spoke.

Madame Le Conte saw it, and appreciated the sacrifice.

“Dear child!” she said, “I see you are going to be a great comfort to me. I am no longer alone in the world, thank fortune! nor are you. It was a happy chance that brought us together at last, wasn’t it, dear?”

“A kind Providence, aunt,” Floy responded in cheerful tones, “and I am very glad and thankful to know that I have at least one living relative in the world. And a good home,” she added, with a bright smile. “I have not been cast adrift for a year without learning the value of that.”

It was a double house, and Floy had been already assigned a suite of spacious, elegantly-furnished apartments on the opposite side of the hall from the Madame’s own, and also told that she was to be joint mistress with her aunt, take the oversight of the domestic affairs, order what she pleased for her meals, and make free use of domestics, carriage and horses, the grand piano in the parlor, the library – in short, everything belonging to the establishment.

Floy was touched by this kindness and generosity of her aunt, and felt that she might well be willing to make some sacrifices to confer pleasure in return. This feeling was increased tenfold by the occurrences of the next day.

Mr. Tredick called according to appointment, was for a short time closeted with the Madame in her boudoir; then Floy was summoned to join them, when, to her amazement, she learned that her aunt had made over to her property in bonds, stocks, and mortgages to the amount of one hundred thousand dollars.

The girl’s first impulse was to return it with the idea that Madame Le Conte was impoverishing herself, and forgetful that other heirs might yet be found. Grateful tears filled her eyes; she was too much overcome to speak for a moment.

“It is a very generous gift,” the lawyer said, looking at her in surprise at her silence.

“Generous? it is far too much!” Floy burst out, finding her voice. “Dear aunt, what have you left for yourself? and have you not forgotten that my mother may be living and may have children by her second husband, who will be quite as nearly related to you as I?”

“No, child, take it. I have plenty left for myself and them,” the Madame answered, with a pleased laugh.

“That is quite true, my dear young lady,” remarked Mr. Tredick; “for though I consider this a generous gift for Madame Le Conte to bestow during her lifetime, it is not one fifth of what she is worth.”

Floy rose hastily and came to the side of her aunt’s easy chair.

“Ah, little one! are you satisfied now to take and enjoy it?” the Madame asked, touching the fair young cheek caressingly as the girl bent over her with features working with emotion.

It was not so much the abundant wealth so suddenly showered upon her as the affection she saw in the act of its bestowal which overcame Floy, so sweet was love to the lonely heart that for a year past had known so dreary a dearth of it.

“I will, dear auntie,” she said, smiling through her fast-falling tears. “But what return can I make for all your generous kindness?”

“My generous kindness!” the Madame repeated in a tone of contempt; then at some sad memory a look of keen distress swept over her face, and her voice grew low and husky. “It is a small atonement for the past,” she said, “the past that can never be recalled!”

Mr. Tredick was busied with some legal document, and seemed quite oblivious of what was passing between the ladies. Presently he folded the paper up, handed it, with several others, to Floy with the smiling injunction to keep them carefully, inquired of the Madame if she had any further commands for him, and, receiving a reply in the negative, bowed himself out.

As the door closed on her solicitor, the Madame lifted a tiny silver bell from the table at her side and tapped it lightly.

“The carriage waits, ladies,” said Mary, appearing in answer.

“Then we will go at once,” returned her mistress. “Pansy, my dear, put on your hat.”

A heavy rain during the night had wrought a sudden and delightful change in the temperature of the atmosphere; light clouds still partially obscured the sun, and a fresh breeze was blowing from the lake. The ladies had voted it a fine day for shopping, and decided to avail themselves of it for that purpose.

A few moments later they were bowling rapidly along toward the business part of the city in the Madame’s elegant, easily-rolling, softly-cushioned carriage, drawn by a pair of handsome, spirited grays, the pride of Rory’s heart.

They returned some hours after laden with great store of costly and beautiful things which Madame Le Conte had insisted upon heaping on her niece.

There were several ready-made dresses, and in one of these Floy made her appearance at the tea-table spread for herself and aunt in the boudoir of the latter.

The robe was white; a fine French muslin, trimmed with beautiful lace. Floy had fastened it at the throat with a pale pink rose, and placed another among the glossy braids of her dark brown hair.

“Ah, how lovely you look, my darling!” the Madame exclaimed, gazing upon her in delighted admiration. Then, the tears springing to her eyes, “I could almost believe that my little Pansy of other days stands before me,” she said.

While they were at the table her eyes continually sought her niece’s face, and when they left it she called for her jewel-box, saying, “You must let me add something to your attire, Pansy.”

The Madame had a great fondness for gold and precious stones, and Floy’s eyes opened wide in astonishment and admiration at the store of diamonds, pearls, rubies, emeralds, amethysts, and sapphires, adorning brooches, ear-rings, finger-rings, chains, and necklaces shortly spread before her.

“Have I not a fine collection?” asked their owner, gloating over them with intense satisfaction. “Take your choice, Pansy; take any or all you want; they will probably all belong to you some day.”

“Oh, thank you! I should be astonished at such an offer, auntie, had you not already shown yourself so wonderfully generous,” said Floy, coloring with pleasure. “But am I not too young to wear such things?”

“Not pearls, at all events,” said the Madame, throwing a beautiful necklace, composed of several strands of very large and fine ones, about the young girl’s neck, then adding bracelets, brooch, and ear-rings to match.

“Oh, auntie, what a present! they are too lovely for anything!” cried Floy in delight.

“This, too, you must have,” said the Madame, putting a jewel-case into her hand.

Floy opened it with eager curiosity. It contained a gold chain and a tiny gold watch, both ornamented with pearls.

“Do you like it?” asked the Madame.

“Like it!” cried Floy; “I am charmed with it! I have always wanted a watch, but never had one. My dear adopted father had promised me one on my eighteenth birthday, but I was all alone in the world before that came,” she added, her voice sinking low and trembling with emotion.

CHAPTER XXXII

ETHEL AT HOME

“Pleasures mix’d with pains appear,Sorrow with joy, and hope with fear.” —Swift.

Madame Le Conte had missed her afternoon nap, and was much fatigued by the unusual exertions and excitement of the day.

It was quite early when she dismissed her niece for the night – so early that as Floy (or Ethel, as we should perhaps now call her) passed into her own apartments and stood for a moment before a window of her bedroom looking toward the west, she saw that the glow of the sunset had not yet faded from the sky.

She, too, was weary, but felt no disposition to seek her pillow yet, though the bed with its snowy drapery looked very inviting.

She was glad to be alone; she wanted time to collect her thoughts, to compose her mind after the constant whirl of excitement of the past two days.

Her spirit was buoyant with hope to-night; she would find her long-lost mother, and Espy would find her; for that he would search for her, that he would be true to her, she never doubted.

And there was no bar to their union now; now that she was possessed of twice the fortune she had resigned, Mr. Alden would be only too glad to give consent.

The blissful certainty of that was the greatest happiness this sudden gift of wealth had brought or could bring to her.

But there were minor ones which she was far from despising. She thought with a thrill of joy of the ability it gave her to show her gratitude and affection to those who had befriended her in adversity, and to relieve poverty and distress.

And then the removal of the necessity of laboring for her own support – what a relief it was! what a delightful sense of ease and freedom she was conscious of, as, turning from the window, she glanced at her luxurious surroundings and remembered that she would not be called up in the morning to a day of toil; that she might choose her own hours for rising and retiring; that she would have time and opportunity for the cultivation of mind and heart, for the keeping up of her accomplishments, and for many innocent pleasures that want of means had obliged her to forego during the past year!

The communicating doors between her apartments stood wide open, giving a free circulation of air. She sauntered through the dressing-room into the boudoir beyond, a beautiful room looking out upon the lake.

A cool, refreshing breeze gently stirred the curtains of costly lace and kissed the fair cheek of our heroine as she ensconced herself in an easy chair beside the window, and, with her elbow on its arm, her chin in her hand, gazed out over the dark waters, where she could faintly discern the outlines of a passing row-boat and the white sails of two or three vessels in the offing.

A tap at the outer door, and Kathleen put in her head, asking:

“Shall I light the gas for you, Miss – Miss – ”

“Ethel,” returned her young mistress, smiling. “Not here, Katty, but in the bedroom. And turn it quite low. The moon will be rising presently, and I shall sit here till I see it.”

“If you’ll excuse me, miss, but you do look lovely in that white dress and them pearls,” said the girl, stepping in and turning an admiring glance upon the graceful figure at the window. “They was just made for the likes of you, wid your shining eyes, your pink cheeks, and purty red lips, an’ your skin that’s the color o’ cream an’ soft an’ fine an’ smooth as a babby’s.”

Ethel shook her head and laughed.

“Ah, Katty, you have been kissing the blarney-stone,” she said. “My cheeks are pale and my skin dark compared with yours. And your sunny brown tresses are far prettier, to my thinking, than my own darker locks.”

“Och, Miss Ethel, an’ it’s mesilf that would thrade aven and throw in a thrifle to boot!” replied Kathleen, with a blush and a smile. “But it’s attendin’ to yere orders I should be, and it’s proud I’ll be to attind to ’em if ye’ll be plazed to ring whin I’m wanted,” she added as she courtesied and left the room.

“They are certainly very beautiful,” thought Ethel, looking down at the pearls on her wrist gleaming out whitely in the darkening twilight, “the dress, too, with its exquisite lace. And I – I seem to have lost my identity with the laying off of my mourning!” And a tear fell, a sigh was breathed to the memory of those for whom she had worn it.

“Yet why should I grieve any longer for them, dear as they were to me?” she thought; “for them, the blessed dead whom I would not for worlds recall to earth.”

A hush came over her spirit; she forgot herself and her changed circumstances as she seemed to see those beloved ones walking the golden streets, casting their crowns at Jesus’ feet, and to hear the distant echo of their voices singing the song of the redeemed.

And one day she should join them there and unite in their song; but ah, what a long, weary road must be travelled first! how many foes there were to be overcome, how many dangers and temptations to be passed through on the way!

The Saviour’s words, “How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom,” came forcibly to mind, and she trembled at thought of her newly-acquired possessions, and lifted up her heart to Him for strength to use them aright.

Then she fell to considering the duties of her new situation, and saw very plainly that one of the first was to devote herself to the task of making her aunt as comfortable and happy as possible.

But she had been musing a long while: the moon rode high in the heavens, the night wind had grown cool and damp. She rose, dropped the curtain, and withdrew to her dressing-room to prepare for her night’s rest.

No life is so dark as to be utterly without blessings, none so bright as to be wholly exempt from trials. Ethel’s rose did not prove a thornless one. Madame Le Conte was exacting in her affection, and made heavy draughts upon the time and patience of her niece.

The young girl soon found that her cherished plans for the improvement of her mind must be given up, except as she could prevail upon her aunt to join her in the effort by listening to books worth the reading, which was very seldom, the Madame having no taste or appetite for solid mental food.

She wanted Ethel with her constantly in her waking hours, chatting with or reading to her, and her preference was always for the latest and most exciting novels.

Ethel grieved to learn, what indeed she had suspected all along, that her new-found relative was utterly worldly. Madame Le Conte had not entered a church for years; and though a very handsomely-bound Bible lay on the table in her boudoir, it was never opened – never till Ethel’s advent into the household; but she was not long in persuading her aunt to permit her to read aloud to her a few verses every day.

The Madame consented to gratify her darling, but did not always take note of what was read. Still Ethel persevered in sowing the seed, hoping, believing that some day it would spring up and bear fruit.

She succeeded also, after some weeks of persistent effort, in coaxing the Madame to accompany her occasionally in her attendance upon the services of the sanctuary.

Ethel had been religiously brought up, had early united with the church, and though but young in years, had attained, through the blessing of God upon the trials of the past months, to some maturity of Christian character; had learned in her own personal experience how sweet it is to cast all our burdens of sin and sorrow and care upon the Lord; how a sense of His love can sustain in every trial, temptation, and affliction.

And as day by day she perceived the restless unhappiness of her aunt, groaning and fretting under her physical sufferings, weighed down with remorse on account of something in her past life, Ethel knew not what, and sometimes full of the cares that riches bring, especially to such as find in them their chief treasure, she longed with an ever-increasing desire to lead the poor lady to this divine Friend and see her become a partaker of this blessed trust.

But the Madame foiled every attempt to introduce the subject, always broaching some other topic of conversation, or closing her eyes as if drowsy and politely requesting her niece to be silent that she might take a nap.

There were two other subjects that, for the first few months after they came together, the Madame avoided with more or less care – Ethel’s previous life and her own; and perceiving her aversion, the young girl forbore to speak of them.

She did not, however, forget or neglect her old friends, but wrote to those at a distance of her changed circumstances, and, as the Christmas holidays again drew near, found great pleasure in preparing a handsome present for each.

Hetty and her mother were remembered in like manner, and treated to an occasional drive in the Madame’s fine carriage; only occasional because they were so busy, and Ethel generally accompanied in her drives by the Madame herself, and her maid.

Hetty rejoiced greatly in the improved fortunes of our heroine, but not more than Miss Wells and Mr. Crosby. Both of these wrote, congratulating her heartily, and the latter added that he had vastly enjoyed communicating the tidings to Mr. Alden, and seeing him almost ready to tear his hair with vexation that he had been the means of keeping such an heiress, or perhaps rather such a fortune, out of his family, for Espy had gone and left no clue to his whereabouts.

CHAPTER XXXIII

A LETTER, A STORY, AND A PROMISE

“The love of gold, that meanest rageAnd latest folly of man’s sinking age.” —Moore.

Mr. Alden was so chagrined, so deeply repentant, so anxious to repair the mischief he had done, that at length he wrote to Ethel himself, apologizing, begging her to forgive and forget, assuring her that his opposition to her union with Espy was entirely withdrawn – nay, more, that he was extremely desirous that it should take place, and entreating her to be kind to the lad should she ever meet or hear from him again.

Ethel was with her aunt in the boudoir of the latter when this letter was handed to her.

The weather was very cold, and a three days’ storm had kept them within doors till the Madame had grown unusually dull and spiritless, weary of every amusement within her reach, and ready to snatch at anything that held out the least hope of relief from her consuming ennui. “Ah, a letter!” she said, with a yawn. “Pansy, you are fortunate! no one writes to me.”

“Because you write to no one, is it not, auntie?” the girl asked playfully. “But will you excuse me if I open and read it?”

“Certainly, little one; who knows but you may find something entertaining? Ah, what is it? may I hear?” as she saw the girl’s cheek flush and her eye brighten, though her lip curled with a half-smile of contempt.

Ethel read the letter aloud.

Madame Le Conte was all interest and attention.

“What! a lover, my little Pansy!” she cried, “and you never to tell me of him! Fie! did you think I had grown too old to feel sympathy in affairs of the heart?”

“Oh no, Aunt Nannette! but – you have troubles enough of your own, and I did not think – ”

“Ah, well, tell me now; a story, and above all a love-story – especially of your love – will be the very thing to while away these weary hours. And who knows but I may have the happiness of being able to help these poor divided lovers?” she added, touching Ethel’s cheek caressingly with the fingers of her left hand, as she had a habit of doing.

“Ah, have you not helped us already?” said the young girl, smiling through gathering tears; “for I think he will come back some day and be glad to learn that there is no longer anything to keep us apart.”

“Yes, I am sure of it. And now for the story.”

“You shall have it if you wish, aunt,” said Ethel earnestly, a slight tremulousness and a sound of tears in her voice; “but to give you the whole I must also tell the story of my childhood’s days.”

“Let me hear it, child! let me have the whole!” the Madame answered almost impatiently; and Ethel at once complied.

She began with the first meeting between Espy and herself when they were mere babies; drew a lovely picture of her life in infancy and early youth; described the terrible scenes connected with the death of her adopted parents and the circumstances that followed, including her formal betrothal, the search for the missing papers, the quarrels and estrangements, her visit to Clearfield, interview with Mrs. Dobbs, arrival in Chicago, the conversation in Miss Lea’s boudoir, the sight of Espy in the church the next Sunday, her interview with him in Mr. Lea’s library; and, lastly, the manner in which she had learned the fact of his sudden departure from the city the very day that she first entered the Madame’s house, coming there in pursuit of her calling as a dressmaker’s apprentice.

It was a long story, but the Madame’s interest never flagged.

“Ah,” she said, drawing a long breath at its conclusion, and feeling for her niece’s hand that she might press it affectionately, for it was growing dark in the room, “my poor child, what you have suffered! How did you endure it all? how did you have courage to give up the property and go to work for your living?”

“It was God who helped me,” said Ethel low and reverently, “else I should have sunk under the repeated blows that took all my earthly treasures from me. But He was left me; the joy of the Lord was my strength; and, dear aunt, there is no other strength like that.”

Madame Le Conte sighed. “I wish I was as good as you are, my little Pansy,” she said, stroking the young girl’s hair caressingly. “But I intend to get religion before I die. I shall need it when it comes to that,” she added, with a shudder.

“I need it to live by,” remarked Ethel very gently.

“‘Oh, who could bear life’s stormy doom,Did not Thy wing of loveCome sweetly wafting, through the gloom,Our peace-branch from above!’

“But, dear aunt, don’t tell me I am good; I am not, and my only hope is in trusting solely in God’s offered pardon through the atoning blood and imputed righteousness of Christ.”

“You never harmed anybody, Pansy, and so I’m sure you are safe enough.”

“That would not save me, aunt. ‘Except your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven,’ Jesus said, and His own is the only righteousness that does that.”

“And you’ve suffered so much!” the Madame went on maunderingly, “and I too – enough, I hope, to atone for all the evil I have done. Yes,” moving the artificial hand slightly and bending upon it a look of aversion and pain, while her voice sank almost to a whisper, “I am sure my little Pansy would say so, cruel though it was.”

“What was?” The words burst half unconsciously from Ethel’s lips.

Madame Le Conte turned a startled look upon her.

“Not to-night, not to-night!” she said hurriedly. “To-morrow, perhaps. Yes, yes, you have confided in me, and I will not be less generous toward you. You shall hear all; and if you hate and despise me, I must even bear it as best I may.”

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE MADAME’S CONFESSION

“Can wealth give happiness? look round and seeWhat gay distress! what splendid misery!” —Young.

Ethel had never betrayed the slightest curiosity in regard to her aunt’s crippled condition, not only refraining from asking questions, but with delicate tact seeming utterly unconscious of it; but the Madame’s words to-night, and the slight accompanying gesture, so plainly indicating that the loss of her hand was in some way connected with that past which so filled her with remorse, kindled in the young girl’s breast a strong desire to learn the whole truth; and since her aunt had voluntarily promised to tell her all, she did not feel called upon to repress the wish.