Signing the Contract and What it Cost

The morning and most of the afternoon were passed in tedious lounging in the gentlemen’s reading-room of the hotel and aimless wanderings about the city streets. Then the longing to see Floy, and learn what effect these changes really were likely to have upon his future relations with her, became so overpowering that he turned his steps perforce toward the Madame’s dwelling. It was Ethel herself who admitted him.

“I knew it was your ring,” she said, hastily closing the door and lifting to his a face perfectly radiant with joy and gladness.

He had been reproaching himself only a moment before for the anxiety and sadness his absence had probably caused her, but it seemed she had felt nothing of the kind.

“Ah,” thought he, “it is plain to be seen that I am no longer necessary to her happiness.”

“But what is the matter?” she asked, the brightness suddenly dying out of her face as she caught the dismal expression of his. “Are you ill, dear Espy? Have the pictures been abused by those cruel critics? I feared something was wrong when I found you were staying away so long.”

“Did you, indeed? I’m sorry, but hope it has not troubled you greatly,” he returned in a slightly sarcastic tone. “No, there is nothing wrong with me,” putting a meaning emphasis on the personal pronoun.

She gave him a surprised, hurt look, but merely said in a quiet tone:

“Come into the parlor, Espy. There is no one there.”

He followed her in, feeling ashamed of himself, but, too proud to show it, put on an indifferent air, and leaning against the mantel, toyed idly with its ornaments, leaving it to her to break the silence that succeeded their entrance.

“Espy, is this kind? is it generous?” she said at length.

“Is what? I’m doing no mischief here,” he said, willfully misunderstanding her; but turning, and seeing the pained expression of her face, his better nature conquered. “No, Floy, darling, it is neither! it is shameful!” he cried, hurrying to her and taking both hands in his. “But the demon of jealousy has taken possession of me. I see now that it is that.”

“Jealousy! of whom?” she asked in surprise, but not repulsing him.

“Of – of your mother, brother, sisters,” he said, coloring with shame. “There! it is out; and what do you think of your lover now?”

“That he is – what shall I say? more fond than wise?” and she looked up brightly, the red lips smiling, the large, lustrous eyes a trifle misty.

“Let’s kiss and make up, as the children say,” he whispered, bending over her till his mustache came in suspiciously close proximity to her face.

“I haven’t been quarrelling,” she returned, with an arch smile.

They sat down side by side on a sofa.

“I have missed you, naughty boy,” she said, still playfully, “because I wanted somebody to tell my gladness to, if for no other reason. Oh, Espy!” and her tone changed to one of deep feeling, “I am so blest! I seem to have nothing more to ask for! I, who have been such a lonely waif, have now found not only the mother I have been so long almost hopelessly seeking (and such a dear, darling mother, too), but father, brother, sisters, and even grand-parents. Old Mr. and Mrs. Heywood were here this morning – they are the loveliest old couple! – and took me right to their hearts, bidding me call them grandpa and grandma, as my brother and sisters do.”

“Very strange, very!” remarked Espy, with a smile that belied his words. “Ah, Floy,” he added with a sigh, “I only wish I had some assurance that I shall find equal favor with them, or at least with your mother.”

“You need have no fears, Espy,” she said. “My mother and I passed the night together in each other’s arms – she sharing my bed – but not sleeping much, you may be sure. We talked till daybreak, each giving the other an account of her life during the years of our separation. I told her all about you – yes, everything – and she fully approves my choice, is ready to give you a son’s place in her dear, warm heart, only she says we must not ask to marry for a year or more (which you know we did not expect to do anyhow), because she must have me for a little while.”

His face was radiant.

“Bless her!” he cried. “I was afraid she would object to my poverty, particularly as I imagine them to be very wealthy.”

“Mother says they are not that; only comfortably well-to-do. Their home is in that land of fruit and flowers, Santa Barbara, and Aunt Nannette has already promised to go with them on their return and make her home there, and – ah, don’t look so dismal, for though I, of course, cannot consent to be left behind, all want you to go also and settle there.”

“I’ve not the least objection; in fact, am delighted with the idea!” he said with animation. “And so it’s all arranged! Everything has come out right in spite of the doubts and fears with which I’ve been tormenting myself.”

“Ah, there was no need,” she said gayly; “but

“‘Human bodies are sic fools,
For a’ their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them
They mak’ enow themsels to vex ’em.’”

“Burns was a sage,” he remarked, laughing, “but I can’t say that I find the application particularly complimentary. And you are not disappointed in your mother?”

“Disappointed! I would not have her different in any respect. I find, to my unspeakable joy, that, besides possessing the sweetest natural disposition, she is an earnest, devoted Christian.”

“I am glad for your sake. Where is she now? I should like to see her again.”

“Stay and spend the evening with us, and you shall. Just now she is lying down. I persuaded her to try to take a nap while Aunt Nannette was doing so.”

“Thank you. Then I will come back,” he said, rising, “but I must leave now for a while. I had forgotten a business letter that must go by the next mail.”

He went, and Ethel stole softly upstairs to her own room and sat down there to think over her great happiness – so great that hardly yet could she fully believe in its reality. Presently she started up, and going to a bureau-drawer, took from it the old, worn, faded pocket-book that, because of her love for the departed, in whose service its brightness had grown dim, was so precious a relic. A moment she stood gazing upon it, a tender dewiness in her soft, bright eyes, then opening, drew forth a tiny folded paper. A light, quick step coming from an adjoining room caused her to turn her head.

“Mother!” she cried in low, musical tones, rapturous with love and gladness.

“Darling daughter!” Mrs. Heywood responded, putting her arms about the slender, girlish figure, and folding it to her heart with a tender caress.

Their joy, though no longer expressed in tears, was still almost too deep for words.

For several moments they stood holding each other in a silent embrace; then Ethel, putting the folded paper into her mother’s hand, said:

“Here, dear mamma, is a proof of my identity that till now I had forgotten to produce.”

“It is altogether unnecessary, my precious child,” Mrs. Heywood answered, opening the paper as she spoke. But as her eye glanced down the written page her cheek suddenly paled, and she uttered a low cry.

“This!” she said, with a shudder, “my contract with Mr. Kemper! Child, child, put it into the fire! Never let me see it again! Oh, what the signing of it has cost me!”

THE END