Kitabı oku: «Signing the Contract and What it Cost», sayfa 5
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.
She must now do something for her own support. Her education qualified her for teaching, but finding no opening for that, while one presented itself for the learning of dress-making, for which she possessed both taste and talent, she decided to avail herself of it.
Her plan was to go to Chicago and apprentice herself to one of the most fashionable mantua-makers there.
Miss Wells would have been rejoiced to take Floy under her wing, but the girl felt an unconquerable repugnance to beginning her new career in Cranley, the scene of her former prosperity, and where she could not hope to avoid occasionally meeting with the Aldens.
In fact, her sensitive dread of such encounters led to the resolve not to return thither at all, but to go directly to the city and begin the new life at once, such a place as she desired having been already secured for her through some of her Clearfield friends.
She had formed a strong attachment for Mrs. Bond, which was fully reciprocated. They could not part without pain, yet cheered each other with the hope of meeting again at no very distant day, as Floy thought of returning to Clearfield to set up business on her own account when once she should be prepared for that.
“Don’t despair, dear child; brighter days will come; something tells me you will find your mother yet,” the old lady said in bidding her good-by.
As the train sped on its way through the busy streets of the town, over the prairies dotted here and there with neat farm-houses, and anon plunged into forests gay with the rich coloring of the Frost King’s pencil, Floy set herself resolutely to put aside thoughts of her losses, disappointments, anxieties, and perplexities, and to fix them upon the blessings that were still left her.
Gay and light-hearted she could not be, but hope kindled anew within her as she thought on Mrs. Bond’s last words. Ah, she would not despair! her long-lost mother, and Espy too, would yet be restored.
His words had deeply wounded her, but surely the love which had been given her from their very infancy could not be so suddenly withdrawn.
“We are moving very slowly; something must be wrong. Don’t you think so, miss?” queried a woman in the next seat, turning suddenly around upon Floy.
The words startled our heroine from her reverie, sending a sharp pang of grief and terror through her heart as they vividly recalled the horrors of the accident which had wrought her such woe. She had been hardly conscious of the fact, but certainly the train had gradually slackened speed for the last ten minutes or more; and now it stood still.
“What is wrong? why do we stop here where there is no station?” she asked of the conductor, who was passing the car window.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said; “the boiler has sprung a leak, and we’ll have to stand here a while till they can get another engine sent down from Clearfield.”
“Dear, dear!” fretted a thoughtless girl, “we shall be behind time all along the route now, miss our connections, and have no end of trouble.”
But Floy’s heart swelled with gratitude that things were no worse.
They had two long hours of waiting ere the train was again in motion, for the spot where it had halted was several miles from the nearest town, to which a messenger must be sent on foot to telegraph back to Clearfield for another engine; and when at last that arrived it had to propel the cars from behind, and the progress made was much slower than by the ordinary mode.
Many of the passengers ventured to relieve the tedium of the detention by strolling about the prairie in the near vicinity of their train, and for the greater part of the time the car in which Floy sat was nearly deserted.
Her attention was presently attracted by the fretting of a little child.
“Mother, I’m hungry; gi’ me a cake.”
“Now do be quiet, Sammy; you know I hain’t none for you,” returned the parent, “so what’s the use o’ teasin’? I’d give it to you in a minute if I had it.”
By Mrs. Bond’s thoughtful kindness Floy had been supplied with a bountiful lunch. She was very glad of that now, and opening her basket, she invited mother and child to partake with her.
“Thank you, miss,” said the former, a decent-looking countrywoman. “Sammy’ll be very glad of a bit of bread if you’ve got it to spare. I’d have brought a lunch along, but expected to be at my sister’s afore this, and it didn’t seem worth while.”
“I have abundance for all three of us,” returned Floy, with a winning smile, displaying her stores; “so do let me have the pleasure of sharing with you.”
“Yes, come, mother,” said Sammy, tugging at her skirts.
Thus urged, the woman accepted the invitation.
“Are you from Clearfield, miss?” she asked.
“I have been there for the past month or more. Is it there you live?”
“A little ways out o’ the town, on t’other side. I’ve been in that neighborhood nigh on to fifteen year now. Clearfield wasn’t much of a town when father moved out there, but it’s growed powerful fast these few years back.”
Floy’s heart gave a sudden bound, and she turned an eager, questioning glance upon the speaker. “I suppose you knew – everybody knew – every one else in the place when it was so small?”
“Why yes, of course we did, an’ mother she kep’ a boardin’-house an’ boarded the railroad hands. She was always for helping father along, and that’s the way I do by my Sammy. He’s named for his pap, you know,” nodding toward her boy and smiling proudly on him.
“Yes, sirree! and I’m a-goin’ to be as big a man as him some day!” cried the young hopeful, swallowing down one mouthful with great gusto and hastily cramming in another.
Floy pressed her hand to her side in the vain effort to still the loud beating of her heart.
“Did – did you ever hear any of those men – speak of a sort of shanty inn that stood not very far from the old depot?”
“Oh my, yes! and I’ve see it many a time; ’twas there better’n a year, I should say, after we come to the place. And I’ve heard Jack Strong (he was one o’ the switchmen on the road, and boarded with us a long spell after those folks pulled down their shanty and moved off) – I’ve heard him tell a pitiful kind of a story about a poor woman that come there one night clear beat out travellin’ through the storm (for ’twas an awful wild night, Jack said, so he did, a-rainin’ and hailin’, and the wind blowin’ so it blowed down lots o’ big trees in the woods). Well, as I was a-sayin’, the woman she’d been footing it all day, and with a child in her arms too; and Jack he told how some other folks that were there, a man and his wife, coaxed her to give the little girl to them, tellin’ her she’d got to die directly, and she’d better provide for it while she could; and how she give it to ’em and then ran screamin’ after the cars, ‘My child, my child! give me back my child!’ till she dropped down like dead, and would have fell flat in the mud and water in the middle of the road if Jack hadn’t a-caught her in his arms.”
Floy’s hands were clasped in her lap, cold beads of perspiration stood on her brow, her breath came pantingly, and her dilated eyes were fixed on the face of the narrator, who, however, was too busy brushing the crumbs off Sammy’s Sunday jacket to observe the look, but went on garrulously:
“Jack he carried her into the depot and laid her down on the settee; and while they were tryin’ to bring her to, an old gentleman (I disremember his name now) come in his covered wagon fur to git his son as was expected home from ’way off somewheres, but wasn’t there (he didn’t come till next day, Jack said), and the old gentleman he took the poor thing home with him.
“There, now, Sammy, hold still till I tie this hankercher round your neck. Them clo’es won’t be fit to be seen if you keep on droppin’ greasy crumbs over ’em.”
Floy was making a desperate effort to be calm.
“Where did he take her?” she asked, half concealing her agitated face behind the folds of her veil.
“Out to the old gentleman’s place; a splendid place they said it was. I can’t say just how fur off in the woods, where he’d cleared acres and acres of land. Jack never see her after she was took out there, but he said she didn’t die after all, but got married to the young feller that I told you was comin’ home on a visit to the old folks (I think they’d know’d each other afore she was married the first time, and kind a got separated somehow), and when she got about again he took her back with him, and I guess the old folks follered ’em after a bit.”
“Where, oh! where?” asked Floy imploringly.
The woman started and turned an earnest, inquiring gaze upon her.
“I beg pardon, but was they anything to you, miss?”
“I was the baby! and I’m looking for my mother. Oh, can you tell me where to find her?”
“That must a been a long while ago; you’re a heap bigger’n me, and I ain’t no baby,” remarked Sammy, disposing of the last mouthful of his lunch and wiping his hands on his mother’s handkerchief.
“Well, I never!” ejaculated the latter in wide-eyed astonishment. “And you was the baby! well now! Oh, do tell me! was those folks good to you?”
“As kind, as tender and loving as my own mother could possibly have been,” answered Floy, with emotion. “But oh, tell me where I shall find her!”
“Indeed, I wish I knowed! but I never did know whether ’twas to Californy or Oregon or some other o’ them fur-off places that they went.”
“And the man who told you the story?”
“Jack Strong? he went off years and years ago. They say he went to the war and got killed, and I guess it’s true.”
