Signing the Contract and What it Cost

There was a sad, aching void in the poor hungry heart which the Madame’s capricious, selfish affection could not fill. A hunger of the mind, too, for other and better intellectual food than the novels she was daily called upon to read aloud for the Madame’s delectation.

But, as says an old writer, “Young trees root all the faster for shaking,” and the young girl’s character deepened and strengthened under the trying but salutary discipline.

She was developing into a noble, well-poised woman, soft in manner, energetic in action, unworldly and unselfish to a remarkable degree. And making diligent use of the scraps of time she could secure to herself, she was accomplishing far more than she realized in the direction of mental culture.

On a bright, warm day in the latter part of April, 1876, Ethel sat in her boudoir looking over the morning paper. As usual, the advertisements claimed her first attention; for who could say that Espy and her mother might not be searching for her in the same way in which she was pursuing her quest for the latter?

Ah, nothing there for her. The daily recurring disappointment drew forth a slight sigh. An additional shade of sadness rested for an instant upon the fair face, then was replaced by a most sweet expression of patient resignation.

The paper was full of the coming Centennial. She read with interest the descriptions of the great buildings and the many curious and beautiful things already pouring into them; also of the preparations for the accommodation of the crowds of people from all parts of the world who were expected to flock thither.

A thought struck her, and her face lighted up; her heart beat fast. She started to her feet, the paper still in her hand; then dropping into her chair again, turned once more to the advertisements and marked one with her pencil, after which she sat for some moments in deep thought.

A tap at the door, and Mary, putting in her head, said, “The Madame wants you to come now, miss.”

Ethel hastened to obey the summons.

Madame Le Conte was in her boudoir, receiving a professional call from her physician, Dr. Bland.

The doctor rose with a smile as the young girl entered, and offered his hand in cordial greeting.

She seemed to bring with her a breath of the sweet spring air, so fresh and fair was she in her dainty morning dress of soft white cashmere, relieved by a bunch of violets at the throat, and another nestling amid the dark glossy braids of her hair.

The easy grace of her movements, the brightness of her eyes, the delicate bloom on the softly-rounded cheek and chin, spoke of perfect health.

“You are quite well?” he asked, handing her a chair.

“Quite, I am thankful to say. No hope of finding another patient in me, doctor,” she returned laughingly. “But what of Aunt Nannette?”

“I think she needs a change of air and scene. I have been trying to persuade her to go to Europe for the summer; or if she would stay a year, it would be better.”

“Preposterous idea!” wheezed the patient. “Hardly able to ride down town, how could I think of undertaking to cross the ocean? Suppose there should be a shipwreck; immensely heavy, unwieldy, helpless as I am, I’d go to the bottom like a lump of lead. No, no, home’s the only place for me.”

“You will get no better here, Madame,” said the doctor shortly.

“And we need not anticipate a shipwreck,” said Ethel. “The sea air might do you great good.”

“I tell you it’s nonsense to talk of it!” returned the Madame impatiently.

The doctor rose and bowed himself out. Ethel ran after him, stopped him in the hall, and talked eagerly for a few moments.

“By all means, if you can persuade her; anything for a change,” he answered, bidding the young girl a smiling adieu.

She stood musing a moment when he had left her; then rousing herself, hastened back to her aunt, who said reproachfully:

“I wish you wouldn’t run away and leave me alone, Ethel. I want to be read to.”

“And I am entirely at your service,” the young girl returned pleasantly, taking up the morning paper again and seating herself near the Madame’s easy chair. “There are some articles here about the Centennial which I am sure will interest you.”

She read with an enthusiasm that was contagious.

“What a pity we should miss it all!” exclaimed the Madame at length. “There will never be another Centennial of our country in my lifetime, or even in yours.”

“No; and why should we not go, as well as others?” Ethel answered with suppressed eagerness.

“Impossible, in my invalid condition.”

“Aunt Nannette,” cried Ethel, throwing down the paper and clasping her hands together in her excitement, “people will be flocking there from all parts of the land and the civilized world. I have a presentiment that my mother will be there, and that we shall meet her if we go!”

“Child, child! do you really think it?” cried the Madame, starting up, then sinking back again upon her cushions panting and trembling.

“I do, Aunt Nannette, I do indeed! and we shall never, never have such another opportunity. And Espy, too, will be there – I know it, I feel it! He is an artist. Will he not have a picture to exhibit?”

“Yes, yes, I see it! we must go! But how can I? how can we manage it? I can never live in a hotel, never exist in a crowd; I should suffocate!” And the Madame wheezed and panted and wiped the perspiration from her face, while her huge frame trembled like a jelly, so great was her agitation.

“I will tell you, Aunt Nannette,” said Ethel, dropping on her knees and taking the shaking hands in hers, while she lifted to the Madame’s troubled, distressed face her own – sparkling, animated, fairly radiant with hope and gladness. “I have already planned it all, and Dr. Bland approves. There are furnished houses to let. We will write and engage one for the whole season – six or eight months – and we will take our servants with us and go directly there, leaving this house in the care of a trusty middle-aged couple I know. We will have our own carriage and horses, and drive about the beautiful park to our hearts’ content. We will go now, while there is no crowd, and, having plenty of time, can see everything we care to look at without fatiguing ourselves by attempting too much at once.”

“How rapid you are! Really, child, you almost take my breath away!” panted the Madame, shaking her head dubiously, though evidently attracted by the bright picture Ethel had drawn.

“But you will go? I may make the arrangements? Oh, think what it would be to find your long-lost sister!” said Ethel, pressing the hands she held, and gazing with pleading eyes into the Madame’s face.

“Yes, yes! but ah, the journey? how am I to accomplish that?”

Ethel reassured her on that point, overruled one or two other objections which she raised, and, not giving her time to retract her permission, hastened to her writing-desk and wrote a note to Mr. Tredick, asking him to call that day or the next, and an answer to an advertisement of a furnished house to let in West Philadelphia, which, from the description, she felt nearly certain would suit them, engaging the first refusal, promising to be on the spot within a week, and to take immediate possession should everything prove to be as represented.

Both notes were despatched as soon as written, a message sent to the persons in whose care Ethel proposed to leave their present residence, and then she returned to her aunt.

“And now Mary and I will overhaul the trunks and decide, with your help, auntie, what is to be taken with us and what left behind.”

“Child, child,” cried the Madame breathlessly, “how precipitate you are! Engaged to be in Philadelphia in a week! How are we to prepare in that short space of time?”

“No great amount of preparation needed, auntie dear,” laughed Ethel, throwing her arms about the Madame’s neck.

“Shopping, Pansy, dressmaking – ”

“Ah, we have loads of dresses already!” interrupted the girl in her most persuasive tones. “And think of the hundreds of stores and dressmakers and milliners in Philadelphia! Can’t we get everything we want there? Don’t let us carry too many coals to Newcastle,” she ended, with a silvery laugh that brought a smile to her aunt’s face in spite of herself.

Madame Le Conte’s inertia was compelled to give way before Ethel’s energetic persistence, and the girl carried her point. In a week they were cosily established in a very pleasant residence within easy walking distance of the great Centennial grounds.

CHAPTER XXXVI

REUNITED

“After long storms and tempests overblown,
The sun at length his joyous face doth clear.” —

    Spenser.
Madame Le Conte had found the journey very fatiguing. For a few days she utterly refused to stir out of the house, indeed kept her room almost constantly, and would scarcely allow Ethel to go out of her sight.