Signing the Contract and What it Cost

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 The shanty inn had long since disappeared; the old dingy depot had been replaced by a new and larger one, affording much better accommodation to the travelling public; and dwelling-houses, fields, and gardens now occupied the space then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.