Signing the Contract and What it Cost

“Dost thou deem
It such an easy task from the fond breast
To root affection out?” —

    Southey.
“What shall I do? what shall I do?” Mrs. Alden asked herself again and again as, in great perturbation of spirit, she awaited Espy’s return. “How angry and distressed he’ll be, poor boy!”

She was at a loss to determine whether it would be best to break the news to him herself, or to let him hear it first from Floy or his father.

But circumstances decided for her. As she sat at the window watching the lengthening shadows as the sun drew near his setting, and saying to herself that Espy was very late – it was nearly tea-time, and she almost began to fear that he had met with some accident – she heard the gate swing, and turning her head saw him coming up the gravel walk that led from it to the house.

He moved with rapid strides, and there was an angry flush on his cheek, an indignant light in his eye, which told her at once that he had already been made aware of the unfortunate turn affairs had taken.

In a moment more he stood before her with folded arms, firmly-set mouth, and stern eyes.

“Espy, my son! Oh, I am so sorry!”

“Yes, mother,” he said, “my father and I have had a quarrel; he called me into his office as I passed, and ordered me to give up all thoughts of Floy – my little Floy that I’ve loved from my very infancy!”

“And what did you say, Espy?” she asked tremulously, feeling as if the very unreasonableness and tyranny of the command must have of itself almost deprived him of the power of speech.

“Say, mother? that he might as well ask me to shoot myself through the heart, and that I’d never give her up; I’d die first.”

“But – but, Espy, what – what if she gives you up?” gasped his mother, fairly frightened by his vehemence.

He staggered back as if struck by a heavy blow, while a deathly pallor overspread his face for an instant.

“But she will not!” he said hoarsely; “she has pledged herself to me, and she’ll never prove false to her word.”

“But she is very proud, Espy – too proud, I think, to come into a family where she’s not wanted; and she’s a good girl, and will see that it’s your duty to obey your father.”

He dropped into a chair, and for a moment seemed lost in thought; then with a sigh, “My father may have a right to control me even in this while I am a minor; but, as you know, mother, in six months I shall have reached my majority, and then I’ll be my own master, and shall consider that in a matter which will affect my happiness so much more nearly than his, and probably for my whole life, I have a right to follow my own wishes. Besides, there is Floy’s happiness to be taken into account. She says she loves me; we’ve pledged ourselves to each other, my father consenting to it at the time – and could he ask me to play so base a part as to forsake the dear girl merely because she has become poor and friendless? I think even he would despise me if I could be guilty of such meanness; and most assuredly I should despise myself!”

He had risen to his feet with the last sentence, and now, as he stood erect before her, with kindling eye and glowing cheek, he looked so noble and manly that his mother’s heart swelled with pride in her son.

“No, you’ll never do anything mean or dishonorable, Espy,” she said, smiling up at him.

Then growing suddenly grave, and an anxious, troubled look stealing over her face at the recollection of her husband’s anger, which she knew must have waxed hot at his son’s resistance to his demand: “But there’ll be no peace between your father and you if you go against his will; so if Floy chooses to break the engagement herself, you needn’t feel called upon to try to hold her to it.”

“Mother,” he said, “you are keeping something back; tell me all. You have spoken to her – told her what father says?”

His eyes were gazing steadily into hers, and there was a mingling of grief and suppressed wrath that made her fear to answer him. She hesitated, then said hastily:

“You’d better go to her. She can tell you what she likes.”

He turned without a word, caught up his hat, and went.

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.