THE LONG-LOST DEED.
“Thus doth the ever-changing course of things
Run a perpetual circle, ever turning.”
Hetty and her mother had taken advantage of the slack time to pay a
long-promised visit to some friends in the country, leaving to Mrs.
Sharp the oversight of domestic affairs and the care of the store, with
such assistance as she could get from Araminta and Lucian, who were
home for the summer vacation.
John was, as usual, spending his vacation in farm work, while all the
apprentices and journey-women had left for the time being, except our
heroine and Annie Jones, who was an orphan and had neither home nor
friends to go to.
These two were kept pretty steadily employed upon the few dresses of
customers still on hand, and in preparing Miss Sharp’s wardrobe for
another year at boarding-school.
One morning Floy, who had been left for an hour or more sole occupant
of the work-room, was startled by the sudden entrance of Annie in a
state bordering on distraction.
“Oh, what shall I do! what shall I do!” she cried, wringing her hands
and pacing the floor to and fro with rapid steps, while great tears
rolled down her cheeks. “Oh, Miss Kemper, can you help me?”
“What is it, Annie?” Floy asked, stopping the machine which she was
running at the moment, and turning upon the girl a look of mingled
surprise and pity. “Stop crying and tell me, and I will certainly help
you if I can. Have you offended Mrs. Sharp?”
“Oh, yes, and worse than that: she says I’ve robbed her; but oh, I
haven’t! I wouldn’t steal a pin from anybody. But she won’t believe a
word I say, and she says if I don’t find the five dollars pretty quick
she’ll have me arrested and taken to prison; and Lucian wants to go off
for a policeman right away. Oh dear, oh dear!”
The girl’s distress and agitation were so great that Floy had some
difficulty in coming to a clear understanding of her trouble; but at
length, by dint of soothing and questioning, she learned the facts,
which were these:
Annie had been sent to carry home some finished work, taking with her a
receipted bill for thirty dollars, her instructions being not to leave
it unless it was paid.
The woman, a Mrs. Collins, a new customer, handed her twenty-five
dollars, saying that she would pay the rest at another time; and the
girl, from stupidity, carelessness, or bashfulness, allowed her to
retain the bill.
Mrs. Sharp sent her back for it, but the woman refused to give it up,
and, to the astonishment and dismay of the poor child, stoutly asserted
that she had paid the whole.
And now Mrs. Sharp accused Annie of retaining the missing sum, and with
much anger and indignation declared that she would send her to prison
unless she made good the loss within an hour.
“Oh, Miss Kemper,” sobbed the girl in conclusion, “I haven’t a dollar
or a friend in the world! and if I lose my character what will become
of me? Nobody’ll trust me, and I can’t get work, and I’ll just have to
starve.”
“I’m very sorry for you,” said Floy; “but trust in the Lord, and He
will help you; and if you are innocent, He will bring it to light some
day.”
“If I am innocent! oh, Miss Floy,” sobbed the girl, “you don’t think me
a thief, do you?”
“No, Annie, I don’t, if that’s any comfort to you, poor child!”
“I’m glad of that!” Annie said, a gleam of pleasure flitting over her
tear-swollen face, then burst out again, “But oh, what shall I do? Oh,
if I only had five dollars! Miss Floy, can you lend it to me? I’ll pay
it back some day, and never, never forget to ask God to bless you for
your kindness.”
“I would if I could, Annie, but I haven’t half that sum,” Floy was
beginning to say, when a sudden recollection stopped her.
In the old pocket-book found upon Mr. Kemper’s person after his death,
and kept by her as a sacred relic, she had safely stowed away the
golden half-eagle he had given her but a few moments before the awful
accident that had made her an almost penniless orphan.
For herself she would not have spent it unless reduced to the last
extremity of want; but her noble, generous heart could not withstand
Annie’s appeal.
“Wait here a moment; I will see,” she said in tremulous tones, and
hurried from the room.
Up to her own she ran, locked herself in, opened her trunk, and, diving
to the bottom, drew forth the old, worn, faded pocket-book.
For a moment she held it lovingly in her hand, hot tears rushing to her
eyes as she thought of that terrible scene enacted scarce a year ago.
But the present was no time for the indulgence of grief. She undid the
clasp and looked for the treasure she had come to seek.
Where was it? with fingers and eyes she examined each division, yet
without success. Had she been robbed? A sudden pang shot through her
heart at the thought.
But oh no, that could not be! The lining was much torn, and the coin
had doubtless slipped in between it and the outside.
She ran her fingers in and felt it there, and--something else: a
memorandum or bill probably. She pulled at it, tore the lining a little
more, and finally drew out a bit of folded paper that looked like a
leaf torn from a note-book.
Her heart gave a wild throb, and in her excitement the paper slipped
from her fingers and fell to the floor. She stooped and clutched it
hastily, eagerly, as if she feared it would even yet escape her; then,
with a strong effort at composure, opened out the folds with her
trembling fingers.
One glance told her that it was in very truth the long-sought deed of
gift.
She did not wait to read it in detail, but scanned the lines hurriedly.
The name--her mother’s name and her own--was what she sought; and
there it was--“Ethel Farnese”--perfectly legible, though evidently
written with unsteady fingers, as of one in great agitation of mind.
“Ethel Farnese!” repeated Floy half aloud, letting the paper fall into
her lap and clasping her hands together over it, while with a far-off
look in her lustrous eyes she gazed into space. “Ethel Farnese! and
that is who I am; who she was when she gave me to them! Ethel Farnese!
I seem to be not myself at all, but somebody else. How strange it
all is! just like a story or a dream.” And for a moment she sat with
her head upon her hand, overcome by a curious sense of loss and
bewilderment. Was she the same girl who had come into that room ten
minutes ago?
Then a thought struck her. “The will! might it not have shared the
hiding-place of the deed? Oh, what joy if she could but find _that_!”
She caught up the pocket-book again, the color coming and going in her
cheeks, her heart beating so fast she could hardly breathe, and with
remorseless fingers tore it apart till not a fold or crevice remained
unexplored; but alas! without any further discovery.
“Ah, he never made it!” she sighed sadly to herself, as she had done
months before.
She restored the pocket-book to its place, with the deed of gift safely
bestowed inside, locked her trunk, and with the gold piece in her hand
returned to the work-room.
Annie, pacing to and fro with agitated steps, was still its only
occupant. “Oh, I thought you’d never come!” she cried, stopping in her
walk and turning eagerly to Floy. “Have you got the money for me?
What’s the matter? you look as if something had happened.”
“I have the money--a five-dollar gold piece which I value so highly
as a keepsake that I would not spend it for myself unless I were in
absolute danger of starvation,” Floy said, answering the first query,
ignoring the other; “still I will lend it to you if necessary to save
you from arrest. But, Annie, wouldn’t your paying the money to Mrs.
Sharp look like an acknowledgment that you had really kept it back, as
she says?”
“I don’t know; maybe it would,” sobbed Annie, “but she’ll send me to
jail if I don’t. I don’t like to take your keepsake either; but oh
dear, oh dear! what shall I do?”
At that moment Mrs. Sharp came hastily into the room. She was a
quick-tempered woman, but not hard-hearted, and, her anger having had
time to cool, began now to relent toward the friendless girl who had
offended her. Still she did not like to retreat from the position she
had taken.
“Well, Annie, what are you going to do?” she asked in a tone whose
mildness surprised the child. “I hope you’ve concluded to give up the
money you’ve held back from me. You may as well, for it won’t do you
any good to keep it.”
“Oh, I would if I had it!” sobbed Annie, “but that woman never gave me
a cent more than what I handed to you; and if you don’t believe me you
can search me and my trunk.”
“Humph! there are other places where you could hide it,” was the quick,
sarcastic rejoinder.
“Miss Kemper,” turning to Floy, “what do _you_ think of this business?”
“I cannot believe that Annie would rob you, Mrs. Sharp, though she did
wrong in leaving the bill contrary to directions, and therefore might
in strict justice be required to make good your loss,” said Floy. “And
I think she is willing to do it if it were in her power; but you know
she has no money, and no way of earning any just now.”
“Well, she soon will be getting wages,” said Mrs. Sharp meditatively,
“and if she’ll agree that I shall keep the first five dollars--”
“Oh, I will, I will!” interrupted Annie, catching eagerly at the
suggestion and clasping her hands in passionate entreaty, “indeed I
will, if you’ll only believe I didn’t take it, and let me stay on here!
And I’ll never forget your kindness.”
Mrs. Sharp gave a somewhat ungracious consent that it should be so;
and hearing a customer enter the store, hurried back to wait upon her,
while the relieved Annie dried her eyes and took up the work she had
dropped when sent upon the unfortunate errand.
That she was spared the parting with her prized souvenir was certainly
a pleasure and relief to Floy, but the remembrance of that was soon
lost in the excitement of her recent discovery; her thoughts were full
of it, and with joy she said to herself, “Here is another step taken
toward the finding of my mother. I am more convinced than ever that
she still lives, and that the good God who has helped me thus far will
finally guide me to her; for now, knowing the name she once bore, I can
advertise in a way much more likely to attract her attention.”
But here a great obstacle--the want of money--presented itself, and the
girl’s busy brain set to work to contrive ways and means to earn the
needful funds.
The treasured half-eagle would not go very far, and it, she quickly
decided, must be kept as a reserve in case of dire necessity.
The question arose in her mind whether she should now drop her adopted
name and resume that which was hers by right of birth.
But such a course would involve explanations and confidences which she
did not care to give to those about her--these people who would feel
no interest in them or in her but that of idle curiosity. Hetty was
the only member of the family who knew, or had ever shown any desire
to know, anything of Floy’s history or hopes, and our heroine quickly
decided that until Hetty returned this secret should be all her own.