Signing the Contract and What it Cost

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.