“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!”