Signing the Contract and What it Cost

In a few moments Espy had learned from Ethel all that Hetty had had to tell of her fellow-passengers of the previous day.

His interest and excitement were only second to Ethel’s, and he shared both her conviction and her presentiment.

“Yes,” he said eagerly, “it is your mother! I seem somehow to feel that it must be so; and now the question is how to bring you together.”

“Yes,” sighed Ethel, “we might all be here every day while the Exhibition lasts, yet never meet. But no, I will not fear it! I will trust in God, who hath helped me hitherto,” she added, smiling brightly through gathering tears.

Espy regarded her with admiring, loving eyes.

“That is right!” he said cheerfully, “and I feel sure your faith will be rewarded. You are looking tired; let us sit down here and rest while we talk it over.”

He had led her into a side path, and to a bench that stood in the shade of a wide-spreading tree.

“It may sound conceited,” he said, “but I do believe that my pictures are now to play a conspicuous part in the drama and do you good service – as truly they ought, being mine, and I your humble slave,” he added sportively, seeking to win her from anxiety and care.

She smiled, but sadly still, as she made answer: “I hope they may; but how is it to be managed? It is with them as with the rest of the Exposition – we and those we seek may visit them again and again, yet never at the same time.”

He mused a moment.

“They would perhaps think of inquiring for the artist in case your mother recognizes the likenesses, as I do feel pretty confident she will, at least if she has a good memory for faces; for surely Mrs. Kemper’s, and yours as a baby, would be likely to be strongly impressed upon it. And we must go there very often, singly or together.”

“And trust to Providence to bring us there at the right moment,” she added thoughtfully.

A moment of silent musing on the part of both, and Ethel suddenly sprang to her feet.

“I will go there now – this moment!”

“And may I go with you?”

“Yes, yes; come!” and she started almost on a run.

“Floy, Floy, not quite so fast!” he said, exerting himself to keep pace with her. “You will be all out of breath, and have no strength to push through the crowd.”

She slackened her speed and took his offered arm.

“Yes, you are right; I shall have need of all my strength. But oh, if I should be a moment too late!”

“Try to be calm, dear Floy,” he said low and tenderly, gazing down upon the agitated face in loving solicitude. “You have been very brave and hopeful thus far, and are, I trust, soon to be rewarded for it all. But try to be calm and collected. You will need to have full command of yourself.”

“I will try,” she answered with a deep-drawn sigh; “and oh, I am glad and thankful that I have you with me, Espy!”

“Bless you, darling, for the words!” he said, flushing with pleasure. “To be a comfort and support to you has long been the dearest wish of my heart.”

He led her on in the direction from which they had come at a rapid but steady pace, watching anxiously the while the changes in her speaking countenance. He was relieved to see a calm, peaceful, quiet look presently take the place of the painful agitation visible there a moment before.

He knew not the cause, but she had fled to the Rock that was higher than she. Whatever might befall, this Refuge could not fail, this Friend would never forsake.

While Ethel had sat listening with absorbing interest to Hetty’s story the persons of whom they spoke were in Horticultural Hall, which they left at nearly the same time that the first party separated and went their several ways.

“Memorial Hall comes next on our programme, does it not, wife?” said the older gentleman as they descended the steps of the main entrance.

“Yes,” she said, “but let us walk about here a little first; the sun is under a cloud at this moment, and these parterres and rustic seats are worth looking at.”

“They are lovely, mamma,” said the older girl; “but I’ve seen them several times, and I want to buy some little things at the Japanese Bazaar. So may I go on? and I’ll meet you in the avenue near the Art Building.”

Permission was given, and she tripped away. The others soon followed. Presently she came running breathlessly to meet them.

“Papa, mamma, I’ve had an adventure! An elderly gentleman rushed up to me, holding out his hand in the most cordial manner and looking as pleased as if he had just come upon his best friend after a long separation. ‘Why, Floy, my dear child, I am delighted to see you!’ he said, but I of course drew back and told him as politely as I could that he had made a mistake; that was not my name, and I was quite sure we had never met before. Then he grew very red in the face, and stammered out an apology. He had taken me for a young lady he used to know very well indeed, but hadn’t seen for two or three years; hoped I would excuse him, but really the resemblance was wonderful.”

“A mere pretence, you may depend!” cried her brother angrily. “And, Dora, you are not to go alone into a crowd again; you are quite too young and pretty.”

But the mother appeared strangely agitated. “Oh, my child, where is he?” she cried, trembling and turning pale. “Oh, if I had but seen him! Which way did he go? could you point him out to your father or me?”

“I think I should recognize him if I met him again,” the girl answered in surprise, “but I do not at all know where he went. But why, mamma, why should you wish to see him?”

The mother did not answer, did not seem to have heard the question. She was leaning heavily upon her husband’s arm for support, while he bent over her with low-breathed words of comfort and hope.

“Dear wife, bear up! What is this but another gleam of light for you?”

“Hush, Dora,” whispered the lad, drawing his sister aside. “Can you not guess? have you forgotten our mother’s quest – her life-long sorrow?”

“Oh, Ellis! to be sure! How could I be so stupid! Oh, why didn’t I think to detain and question the man? But, Ellis, it wasn’t the right name.”

“No; but what is easier than to change a name?”

“Yes, yes, that is true! Poor mamma! poor dear mamma! She will never rest; she cannot, till she finds her or knows that she is no more.”

“She has such a loving mother-heart,” said Ellis, “and she will blame herself, though I’m sure she has no reason.”

“What are you talking about?” asked little Nan, coming skipping back from an erratic excursion into one of the side paths. “Oh, Dora! did you get me that necklace?”

“Yes, little puss, I have it safe here in my bag.”

“Let me carry that; I did not notice that you had it,” Ellis said, taking the satchel.

He was invariably as politely attentive to his mother and sisters as to any other ladies.

The parents were moving slowly forward, the mother having recovered her accustomed calm, quiet manner, and the young people had fallen slightly into the rear. Another moment, and they were all passing up the broad marble steps leading into Memorial Hall.

They had hardly disappeared within the portal, when Espy and Ethel might have been seen traversing the avenue in the same direction.

Indifferent as to which part of the building received their first attention, the foremost party turned, as it were by a mere chance, into that appropriated to the exhibition of native talent. They moved slowly along, the parents still in advance, pausing as others were doing, now here, now there, as one painting or another drew their attention.

Suddenly the lady grasped her husband’s arm, a low, half-stifled cry escaping her lips. Was it joy? Was it anguish? It seemed a mingling of both.

“What is it, wife?” he asked in a startled tone, and throwing the other arm around her, for she seemed about to faint.

“Look, look!” she said, pointing to Espy’s picture of the child, beneath which they were standing. “It is – it is my baby! my little Ethel! my lost darling!” she sobbed half inarticulately, gazing at it with streaming eyes.

“Ha!” cried her husband, “is it possible! My darling, are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, it is she! Could a mother’s eyes be deceived? Can a mother’s heart forget? And the woman – the one who took her from me! That is her face. I remember perfectly every lineament. Oh, Rolfe, Rolfe, it is my lost baby! And there,” pointing to the companion picture, “there she is, grown to womanhood! Is not this a clue?”

“Yes, yes; the artist – we must find him.”

Their tones had not been loud, yet, in connection with the lady’s evident agitation, had attracted some notice, and a younger pair had hurriedly pushed their way toward them, coming up so close in their rear as to catch the last two or three sentences.

“I am the artist,” said Espy, “and this,” glancing at Ethel as the others turned quickly at the sound of his voice, “is the original of those two – ”

“Your name? your name?” gasped the lady, gazing eagerly, longingly, into the pale, excited face of the girl.

“Is Ethel Farnese. My mother’s was the same; and she, a widow, poor, dying as she believed, gave me to that woman – Mrs. Kemper.”

“I knew it! I knew it! My child! my long-lost child!” and instantly they were locked in each other’s arms, Ethel sobbing:

“Mother, mother! my own darling mother!”

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE MADAME’S QUEST IS ENDED

“I cannot speak; tears so obstruct my wordsAnd choke me with unutterable joy.” —Otway.“Were my whole life to come one heap of troubles,The pleasure of this moment would suffice,And sweeten all my griefs with its remembrance.” —Lee.

Madame Le Conte had remained at home that day, had slept all the morning, and now, in the latter part of the afternoon, was occupying a lounging chair in her boudoir and amusing herself with a novel.

“Hark! wasn’t that a carriage stopping at our door?” she said, looking up from her book and addressing her maid. “Yes, there’s a ring.”

“Katty’ll go. It’s Miss Ethel come home early, I presume, Madame,” answered Mary, not troubling herself to rise from her chair.

There was the sound of Kathleen’s step in the hall, the opening of the door, a man’s voice speaking, then the girl came quickly up the stairs and appeared before her mistress.

“Mr. Alden, Madame, and he wants to know may he come up here and spake till ye? Oh, don’t go for to be scared! Miss Ethel’s all right,” as the Madame turned pale and half rose from her chair.

“Bring him up then,” she gasped, falling back again and panting for breath.

She put no faith in Kathleen’s assurance, and was terribly alarmed. To lose Ethel would be almost like losing her own life.

But one glance at Espy’s face reassured her.

“Ah, Madame,” he said cheerily, declining by a wave of the hand the seat she pointed to, “I met a gentleman out at the Centennial who says he is a very old friend of yours, and would like much to see and speak with you. I have brought him to the house, feeling pretty sure you would be pleased to see him, but thought best to give you a little warning and an opportunity to decline doing so if you wished.”

“Who is he?”

“He requested me not to give his name, as he is anxious to see if you will recognize him.”

The lady’s curiosity was aroused.

“Very well, I will see him,” she said. “You may bring him up here at once; I am quite ready for the interview.”

The stranger, apparently troubled with no doubt that he would be received, had crept noiselessly up the stairs and was already almost at the door of the boudoir. Espy had only to turn and give him a nod, and instantly he stepped forward and stood before Madame Le Conte – a tall, handsome, middle-aged man.

But he started with amazement as his eye fell upon her face and figure.

“Do I – do I see before me my old acquaintance, Nannette Gramont?”

“That was my maiden name,” she said, gazing earnestly into his face as she half rose and held out her left hand, “but I am greatly altered, as I think you must be also, for your looks are utterly strange to me.”

“Rolfe Heywood,” he said, taking the offered hand while still keenly scanning her face.

“Rolfe Heywood! is it possible? can it be? Ah, yes, I know you now; I remember your smile. But – oh, can you tell me anything of my sister – my lost Ethel – my darling Pansy?”

The words came pantingly, sobbingly, while great tears chased each other down the bloated, swarthy cheeks.

“Yes, Nannette, she has been my wife – my beloved wife – for many years,” he said with emotion, thinking of the shock her sister’s changed appearance would give to the gentle, loving heart.

“Oh, thank God! thank God! Then she has not perished with want! I have not the darling’s blood on my hands!” cried the Madame, sinking back into her chair and weeping as if in bitterest grief.

“No, Nannette, though she was once very near it,” he said, bending over her and speaking in a very low tone.

“Do not reproach me!” she cried. “I too have suffered! God only knows how much!”

He signed to the wondering Mary to leave the room. His look, his gesture, were imperative, and the girl reluctantly obeyed.

“Poor creature!” he said, turning to the Madame again, “I do not reproach you, nor does she. No, her gentle heart is – has ever been – filled with sisterly affection toward you, and she now waits impatiently to be summoned to your presence.”

“Waits, do you say? Is she here? – my sister – my darling! Where? where? Oh, I beseech you not to keep us another moment apart!”

And she started up, wringing her hands and looking imploringly into his face.

“Calm yourself, Nannette; this agitation will hurt you,” he said in a kindly tone, gently forcing her back into her chair. “Your niece – my Ethel’s dear child – has told us of your invalid state, and I see that this excitement has almost deprived you of the power to breathe.”

“Don’t stop to talk now!” she panted, pushing him from her. “I shall go wild! Go, go and bring her! Bring her, or I shall die before your eyes!” And she struggled frantically for breath.

He was frightened lest she should indeed fail to recover it. He glanced hurriedly about the room, sprang to the bell-pull, but as he laid his hand on it, Mary, listening at an inner door, threw it open and rushed in.

“You’d better have let me stay, you see, sir,” she said a little sarcastically. “But don’t be scared. It’s more hysterics than anything else, and they’re not dangerous. I’ll bring her round presently.”

“Oh, will you go?” gasped the Madame, looking at her visitor and drawing a long breath that ended in almost a shriek.

“As soon as you are calm, Nannette,” he answered pityingly; “but till then I dare not bring her.”

“You’d better go out, sir, and I’ll call you the moment she’s fit,” said Mary. And he went. Espy, standing in the open door of an opposite room, beckoned Mr. Heywood in there.

Downstairs mother and daughter waited, in no haste to be called; for what greater joy than to be as they were now for the first time in so many, many years – alone together, and clasped in each other’s arms, cheek to cheek and heart to heart.

They sat in silence, broken only now and then by a sob (for the deepest joy is strangely akin to grief in its outward manifestations) or a whispered word of endearment.

“My precious, precious child! my long-lost darling!”

“Mother, mother! sweetest, dearest, darling mother!”

It was Mr. Heywood who at length broke in upon the glad interview.

“Ethel, love, my dear wife,” and his hand touched her hair gently, caressingly, “she will see you now.”

Mrs. Heywood started, strained her new-found daughter once more to her bosom with a long, silent, most tender caress, and, releasing her, left the room, leaning on her husband’s arm. She needed its strong support, for she was trembling very much.

“Be calm, love,” he whispered, bending over her and just touching his lips to her fair, open brow, as he paused with her at the foot of the stairs. “One moment. I must prepare you to find your sister much changed – greatly broken in health, yet not, I think, with any dangerous disease,” he hastened to add as he saw a look of anguish come into her eyes, the color suddenly fade out of her cheek, leaving it of an almost death-like pallor.

“Thank God for that!” she whispered faintly, “but how? – what? – ”

“She seems to be somewhat asthmatic and very nervous; has grown immensely fat, lost her clear complexion, vivacity of look and manner, and, I think, partially the use of her right hand also. She gave me the left in greeting.”

“Oh, Rolfe! is it so? – all that? My poor, poor dear sister!” she murmured, tears trickling down the pale cheeks.

He soothed her grief as tenderly as she would that of her little Nannette – the namesake of this beloved only sister – and at length, when she had grown calm again, half carried her up the stairs.

The Madame, listening to their approach, was threatened with a renewal of her hysterics, but Mary was equal to the emergency.

“Madame, Madame,” she said hastily, “calm yourself, or I shall have to call to them not to come in.”

“No, no, you shall do no such thing!” cried her mistress, controlling her nerves by a mighty effort; then, as at that instant the slender, graceful figure of Mrs. Heywood appeared in the doorway, she sprang up with a cry, extending both arms, while her huge frame trembled from head to foot.

Mrs. Heywood flew to meet the offered embrace. “Nannette, Nannette!” and tears fell fast as lip met lip in a long, clinging kiss.

“Pansy, Pansy! oh, my little Pansy! my darling! my wronged, long-suffering, abused little sister!” sobbed the Madame, holding her close, “can you, will you, forgive me, dear?”

“With all my heart, my own Nannette,” returned Ethel, weeping on her neck. Then, lifting her head and gazing tenderly into the agitated face so painfully changed to her, and noting the tumultuous heaving of the broad chest, “Oh, my poor, poor dear sister, how changed you are! how ill! You seem hardly able to breathe!”

“Yes, I have suffered,” panted the Madame. “I have mourned and wept over your loss, Pansy, and for many years have been constantly searching for you. Heaven be praised, darling, that I have found you at last!”

The last words were spoken gaspingly, and Ethel felt the stout arms relaxing their hold on her. Mr. Heywood sprang forward just in time to save his sister-in-law from falling, and with Mary’s assistance got her into her chair again, where she lay back on her cushions wheezing and panting in a way that greatly alarmed her sister.

Mary reassured her:

“It is nothing, ma’am. You’d know that if you’d been with her as long as I have. She’ll get over it in a few minutes. You see she gets kind of upset with anything that excites her.”

Mrs. Heywood knelt by the side of the chair, and, with tears streaming over her cheeks, took the Madame’s hand in hers, stroked it, and talked to her in soothing tones with loving, tender, pitying words, while Mr. Heywood stood by plying a fan and the maid administered remedies.

CHAPTER XL

THE CUP OVERFLOWS

“Swell, swell my joys; and faint not to declareYourselves as ample as your causes are.” —Jonson.

Our heroine, left alone in the parlor below, paced excitedly to and fro for several minutes; then dropping into a chair, rested her elbows on a table and covered her face with her hands.

Her heart was swelling with joy unutterable and thankfulness to that heavenly Friend who had been her ever-present help in time of trouble, her comfort and support in the dark days of adversity, and had at length brought her quest to this happy ending, and she was sending up to Him her silent but most fervent thanksgivings.

In an adjoining room three young people had been sitting for the last half-hour or more, very quiet and still, yet full of an eager expectancy that made the waiting time seem very long and tedious. They exchanged glances, and drew nearer together as Mr. and Mrs. Heywood mounted the stairway.

“What shall we do, Ellis?” whispered one. “She’s in there all alone, and must we wait till some one comes to take us in and introduce us in due form?”

“No, Dora, I should say not. Why should we? Come, both of you. I’ll be spokesman.”

Ethel heard the approaching footsteps, quiet, almost stealthy as they were, and taking her hands from her face, turned it toward them.

A lad with a noble face and gentlemanly manner, a fair young girl whom to look upon was like seeing her own reflection in the glass, except that this face was somewhat more youthful, lacking the maturity, sorrow, and care far more than years had brought to hers, and a little girl with a sweet, winsome face, blue eyes, and soft, flaxen curls, stood before her.

“Excuse us if we seem intruders,” said the lad, with a courtly bow and offering his hand, “but we don’t know how to wait till some older person shall find time to introduce us, for we know we have a right in you, if you will pardon me for saying it; but these are your sisters and mine, and I am your brother. Their names are Dora and Nannette Heywood, and mine is Ellis.”

“Oh, I am glad, glad!” cried Ethel, her face sparkling with pleasure as she embraced each in turn, then made them sit down, and called Katty to bring refreshments. “I am so happy, so happy!” she said, glancing from one to another with tears of joy trembling in her eyes. “To have found my dear, dear mother, for whom I’ve been searching for years, seems to fill my cup of bliss to overflowing; and now I have a dear brother and sisters in addition – oh, it seems too much delight for one heart to hold!”

The tears fairly rolled down in a shower as she concluded, and Dora, springing up, threw her arms about her neck.

“Oh, I love you already!” she cried. “Dear Ethel, dear sister!”

“Sister!” Ethel exclaimed. “Ah, I never thought to find any one who had the right to call me that! I had dear, adopted parents, who, until the day of their death, I supposed were indeed my own, but I never had a brother or sister, and I have often envied those who had. But how is it that I did not see you before, and that you know all about me?” she asked, looking from sister to brother.

“We were not far in the rear of our parents when they came upon the picture, and we heard and saw all that passed,” said Ellis.

“And understood it,” added Dora with eager animation, “for all our lives long mamma has talked to us of her dear, first-born baby, her darling little Ethel, lost in so sad a manner, and we have known that she was always looking for you and hoping to find you. Poor dear mamma!”

“Dear, happy mamma now!” corrected Ellis, with a smile and an affectionate, admiring glance at his newly-discovered sister.

For a short space overpowering emotion kept Ethel silent. How sweet it was to know that there had never been a time since her birth when she had not had a warm place in that loving mother-heart!

“Yes,” said Dora, “you are right there, Ellis. What joy there was in her face – although she was weeping, too – as I caught sight of it as papa helped her into the carriage that brought them here, and placed sister Ethel by her side.”

“That reminds me,” said Ethel, with sudden recollection, “that you did not come with us – you three. How did you get here?”

“The artist gave us the address while father was putting you ladies into the hack,” replied Ellis. “He told us, too, that it was our aunt’s house; and knowing that you were our sister we felt pretty secure of a welcome, so followed on. The distance, you know, is not great, and the street-cars brought us part of the way.”

“Now, Ellis, let our new sister talk awhile; I think it’s her turn,” said Nannette; and coming to Ethel’s side, and looking coaxingly into her face, “Won’t you please tell us where you’ve been all this time, and what you’ve been doing?” she asked. “How could you ever do without mamma, ’specially when you had no papa either?”

“I have wanted her very, very much since – since my dear adopted mother died,” Ethel answered, tears trembling in her eyes, while she put her arms about the child and kissed her tenderly. “Yes, little sister, I will tell you what you have asked,” and she went on to give a rapid sketch of her life, dwelling more at length upon her early childhood than on the events of after-years.

All three listened with intense interest, one or another putting an occasional question when there was a pause in her narrative.