Kitabı oku: «Signing the Contract and What it Cost», sayfa 14

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 rage
And 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 love
Come 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 see
What 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.

Mary’s entrance with a light, and the announcement that tea was ready, prevented a reply to the remark with which the Madame supplemented her promise, and the subject was not broached again during the hour or two that they remained together after the conclusion of the meal.

But having withdrawn to the privacy of her own apartments, Ethel sat long over the fire in her boudoir lost in thought, vainly trying to conjecture what cruelty her aunt could have been guilty of toward the sister she seemed to remember with such tender affection.

“Hate her!” she exclaimed half aloud, thinking of the Madame’s sadly-spoken words. “No, no, I could not do that, whatever she has done! I should be an ingrate if I could,” she added, sending a sweeping glance about the elegantly-appointed room, and as she did so catching the reflection in an opposite mirror of a slight, graceful, girlish figure richly and tastefully attired, reclining at ease on the most comfortable of softly-cushioned chairs in front of a glowing, beautiful fire.

Without the storm was raging with increased violence; it seemed to have culminated in a furious tempest.

Absorbed in her own musings, Ethel had hardly been conscious of it before; but now the howling of the wind, the dashing of the waves on the shore, and the rattling of the sleet against the windows made her shiver and sigh as she thought of the homeless on land and the sailors on the water alike exposed to this wild war of the elements.

Ah, were Espy and her dear unknown mother among the number? What a throb of fear and pain came with that thought!

But she put it resolutely aside. She would hope for the best, and – there was One who knew where each of these loved ones was, and who was able to take care of them. To His kind keeping she would commit both them and herself, and go to her rest with the peaceful, confiding trust of a little child.

“Ah, little one, how did you rest?” was Madame Le Conte’s morning salutation.

“Delightfully, auntie; dropped asleep the instant my head touched the pillow, and knew no more till I woke to find the sun shining in at the windows. And you? how did you rest?”

“Very little,” the Madame sighed, shaking her head sadly; “my asthma was worse than usual, and would scarcely allow me to lie down.”

“I am so sorry! But you are better?”

“Yes; the attack has passed.”

The tempest was over, the day still, calm, and bright, but intensely cold, and the streets were so blocked up by a heavy fall of snow that going out was not to be thought of; nor were they likely to be troubled with callers.

“We shall have the day to ourselves,” the Madame remarked as they left the breakfast-table, “and if you will invite me into your boudoir, Pansy, we will pass the morning there for variety.”

“I shall be delighted to entertain and wait upon you, Aunt Nannette,” Ethel answered, with a smile.

She was looking very lovely in a pretty morning dress of crimson cashmere, edged at neck and sleeves with ruches of soft, rich lace.

Having seen her aunt comfortably established in an easy chair, Ethel took possession of a low rocker near her side, and employing her busy fingers with some fancy work – a shawl of soft white zephyr which she was crocheting for Hetty – waited with outward composure, but inward impatience, for the fulfilment of yesterday’s promise.

The Madame sat with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes gazing into vacancy, her breathing somewhat labored, her thoughts evidently far away. To Ethel’s eager expectance it seemed a long time that she sat thus, but at length she began, in a low, even tone, much as if she were reading aloud, and with eyes still looking straight before her:

“I was eight years older than my sister Ethel, my little Pansy. There had been others, but they all died in infancy, and we two were the only ones left when our parents were taken. That was when Ethel was fourteen and I twenty-two.

“I tried to be a mother to her. I was very fond of her, yet now I can see that I always cared more for my own happiness than for hers – always wanted to be first, and to rule her.

“We lived in Jefferson, Indiana, a mere village, to which the family had removed shortly before the death of our father; he and mother went very near together, both dying of congestive chills. We were left with a little home of our own and a modest competence, and we continued to keep house, a middle-aged woman who had been in the family from the time of my birth matronizing us and taking the oversight of domestic affairs.”

Madame Le Conte paused for breath, and Ethel said softly, “Aunt, you have never told me the family name; it seems odd enough that I should never have heard it – my own mother’s maiden name.”

“Gramont – Nannette and Ethel Gramont we were called, and I have always thought them very pretty names.”

Again the Madame paused for a moment. Her voice trembled slightly as she resumed:

“It was something more than a year after we were left alone in the world that Rolfe Heywood came to Jefferson and opened a dry-goods store. He was a fine-looking, gentlemanly fellow, some twenty three or four years old, I should think, well educated, of agreeable manners, and rather fond of ladies’ society.

“I was pleased with him, and the liking seemed to be mutual. He became a frequent visitor at our house, and soon the girls began to tease me about him. He was said to be paying attention to me, and indeed I think he was at first, and I gave him some little encouragement – not much, for I had several suitors, and was naturally inclined to coquetry; but I liked Rolfe Heywood best of all. I think partly because I was less sure of him than of the others, and that piqued my vanity and pride.

“He did not offer himself, but kept on coming to the house and making himself very much at home there. And so things went on for nearly two years, when all at once I discovered that it was Ethel he admired and wanted. She was seventeen now, and a sweeter, prettier creature you never saw. Ah, my darling little Pansy!”

Tears rolled down the Madame’s cheeks. She hastily wiped them away.

“How did you make the discovery, aunt?” her niece asked in low but eager tones.

“By a look I saw him give her, and which she did not see. It made me furious at him, and I vowed he should never have her. I thought she did not care for him. I kept her out of his way as much as I could, and she made no resistance. But the more obstacles I threw in his way the more eager after her he became.

“At length we learned that he had sold out his business and was going to California, and now my eyes were opened to the fact that Pansy did care for him, she turned so white when she heard the news.

“But I said to myself that it was only a passing fancy, and she would soon forget him. I watched her constantly, and contrived never to allow them to be alone together.

“But one day – the day he was to leave – he called, and found her alone in the parlor. He had not been there ten minutes, though, before I hurried in, pretending to think his call was meant as much for me as for her, and was just in time to prevent a declaration of love which I saw he was beginning.

“It was his last opportunity, and he went away without telling her his feelings or learning hers. He held her hand lingeringly in parting, but I gave him no chance to speak.

“Poor thing! she drooped sadly when he was gone, but I took no notice, saying to myself, ‘She’ll get over it in time.’

“I thought he would write, and he did. I took his letter from the office, deliberately broke the seal, read it (’twas full of passionate love, and would have been a cordial to the poor darling’s fainting heart), and answered with a cold rejection of his suit, imitating my sister’s hand so perfectly that even she could hardly have recognized it as a counterfeit, and signing her name.

“Monsieur Le Conte was paying me attention at this time, having come to the place some months before. He was a handsome, middle-aged man, of courtly manners and considerable wealth. I found his company agreeable, and before we had been acquainted a year we were married.

“He had an intimate friend, a distant relative, Adrian Farnese, who came to see us shortly after our marriage, and who took a violent fancy to Ethel from the first moment he set eyes on her.

“He courted her assiduously, but she turned coldly from him and rejected his addresses again and again, much to my husband’s annoyance and mine, for we both liked Adrian and desired the match.

“I undertook to reason with Ethel, saying everything I could think of in Adrian’s favor. She heard me in sad silence, and when at last I insisted upon her giving me a reason for her persistent rejection, she burst into tears, crying out, ‘Oh, how can I marry him when my heart is another’s?’

“Then I twitted her with giving her heart unasked, said I knew it was to Rolfe Heywood she had lost it, but he didn’t care for her now, if he ever had; that was plain enough from his silence. No doubt he had found a new sweetheart by this time – perhaps was already married.

“My poor little Pansy never answered back a word, but cried as if her heart would break.”

The Madame’s voice broke. She stopped, buried her face in her handkerchief, and sobbed aloud. Tears were stealing down the cheeks of her listener also, and for a moment neither spoke.

Then the Madame resumed her narrative:

“As I said before, Ethel and I were very different – she so gentle and yielding, so ready to think others wiser than herself; I proud and wilful, always made more determined by opposition. I resolved that she should marry Adrian Farnese.”

“Oh, how could you be so cruel?” cried her listener.

“Ah, try not to hate me! I have suffered terribly for my fault, as you shall learn presently,” said the Madame in piteous tones. “But how shall I tell of all my wicked unkindness to that poor child! I wrote a notice of the marriage of Rolfe Heywood, giving a fictitious name to the bride, and sent it to a paper published in New York. I was a subscriber, and when the number with the notice came I showed it to Ethel, saying, ‘You see I was right. Rolfe Heywood cared nothing for you, and is already united to another.’”

“She turned deathly white, seemed about to faint, but recovering herself a little, hastily left the room.

“‘Now,’ I thought, ‘she will presently give up and marry Adrian.’ But she would not hear of it, and avoided him whenever she could without absolute rudeness.

“‘No, she’ll never give up while she knows Rolfe Heywood is alive,’ I said to my husband one day.

“‘Then we must make her believe him dead,’ he answered.

“I was afraid to publish a false report of his death, but we got one printed on a slip of paper that had the appearance of having been cut from a newspaper, and I gave it to my sister. She swooned, and looked so deathlike, seemed so utterly crushed for days and weeks afterward, that I could scarcely refrain from telling her the whole truth. But the fear of my husband’s displeasure, and the thought that if I did Rolfe Heywood would get her after all, restrained me. So I kept my secret, and tried to make all other amends in my power by being very kind and sympathizing.

“Ah, her gratitude for it was quite touching – almost harder to withstand than her grief!

“She seemed gradually to recover from the shock, but was never again the light-hearted, merry creature she had been before Rolfe Heywood went away.”

“And she learned at last to love – ?” Ethel broke off without pronouncing the name.

“She finally gave up to us and married him,” sighed the Madame. “How much she loved him, if at all, I do not know. I tried to believe her not unhappy, and she made no complaint.

“However, they had not been married many months when a fierce quarrel arose between our husbands. It was about some money matters. I never fully understood it, but I then learned for the first time that it was more Pansy’s little fortune Adrian wanted than herself, and that Monsieur Le Conte’s influence was used in his favor because they had agreed that in that way he should cancel a debt owed to Adrian. Had I known this I would never have let them use me as their tool.”

“And he was my father!” murmured Ethel in a pained tone.

“Yes, child, and you might justly hate me for giving you such a one!” exclaimed the Madame almost passionately. “I’m afraid he was a bad man. I fear he was unkind to my sister; but she was loyal to him, poor thing.

“When the quarrel arose between him and Monsieur Le Conte I sided with my husband, and went to Ethel with his version of the affair; but she would not listen to me.

“‘I am his wife now,’ she said; ‘I will hear nothing against him. And you, Nannette, who brought about the match, should be the last to tempt me to do so.’

“I was very angry, and heaped bitter reproaches upon her,” pursued the Madame, almost overcome by emotion. “She heard them in grieved silence, which somehow only exasperated me the more, and I said still harder and more cruel words. And so I left her.”

For some minutes the room was filled with the sound of the Madame’s sobs, and Ethel wept with her.

“It was our last interview,” she began again in a broken voice. “A few days later her husband spirited her away no one knew whither, and from that day to this I have never heard a word from her or about her, except what I have learned through you – her child.

“I have now told you of my crime; I have yet to tell of its punishment. In spite of all my unkindness, I loved my sister; how dearly I never guessed till she was gone. I was nearly frantic at her loss, and at the thought of my last words to her.

“The world went prosperously with us so far as money was concerned. My husband invested my little fortune and his own partly in an oil-well, partly in a gold-mine in California, and we were wonderfully successful in both. But we were not happy. Remorse and anxiety about Pansy made me wretched and robbed me of my vivacity and my bloom. I grew dull and spiritless, and my husband began to neglect me and to seek the society of other women, whom, as he said, he found more entertaining.

“I sought forgetfulness in dress and all sorts of dissipation. I could not bear to be alone; but sometimes Monsieur Le Conte’s business would call him away for days and weeks together. I had no child, and I could not always go out or contrive to have company in the house; and so at times I would try to drown my misery in the wine-cup.