A LETTER, A STORY, AND A PROMISE.
“The love of gold, that meanest rage
And latest folly of man’s sinking age.”--MOORE.
Mr. Alden was so chagrined, so deeply repentant, so anxious to repair
the mischief he had done, that at length he wrote to Ethel himself,
apologizing, begging her to forgive and forget, assuring her that
his opposition to her union with Espy was entirely withdrawn--nay,
more, that he was extremely desirous that it should take place, and
entreating her to be kind to the lad should she ever meet or hear from
him again.
Ethel was with her aunt in the boudoir of the latter when this letter
was handed to her.
The weather was very cold, and a three days’ storm had kept them within
doors till the Madame had grown unusually dull and spiritless, weary
of every amusement within her reach, and ready to snatch at anything
that held out the least hope of relief from her consuming _ennui_. “Ah,
a letter!” she said, with a yawn. “Pansy, you are fortunate! no one
writes to me.”
“Because you write to no one, is it not, auntie?” the girl asked
playfully. “But will you excuse me if I open and read it?”
“Certainly, little one; who knows but you may find something
entertaining? Ah, what is it? may I hear?” as she saw the girl’s cheek
flush and her eye brighten, though her lip curled with a half-smile of
contempt.
Ethel read the letter aloud.
Madame Le Conte was all interest and attention.
“What! a lover, my little Pansy!” she cried, “and you never to tell
me of him! Fie! did you think I had grown too old to feel sympathy in
affairs of the heart?”
“Oh no, Aunt Nannette! but--you have troubles enough of your own, and I
did not think--”
“Ah, well, tell me now; a story, and above all a love-story--especially
of your love--will be the very thing to while away these weary hours.
And who knows but I may have the happiness of being able to help these
poor divided lovers?” she added, touching Ethel’s cheek caressingly
with the fingers of her left hand, as she had a habit of doing.
“Ah, have you not helped us already?” said the young girl, smiling
through gathering tears; “for I think he will come back some day and be
glad to learn that there is no longer anything to keep us apart.”
“Yes, I am sure of it. And now for the story.”
“You shall have it if you wish, aunt,” said Ethel earnestly, a slight
tremulousness and a sound of tears in her voice; “but to give you the
whole I must also tell the story of my childhood’s days.”
“Let me hear it, child! let me have the whole!” the Madame answered
almost impatiently; and Ethel at once complied.
She began with the first meeting between Espy and herself when they
were mere babies; drew a lovely picture of her life in infancy and
early youth; described the terrible scenes connected with the death
of her adopted parents and the circumstances that followed, including
her formal betrothal, the search for the missing papers, the quarrels
and estrangements, her visit to Clearfield, interview with Mrs. Dobbs,
arrival in Chicago, the conversation in Miss Lea’s boudoir, the sight
of Espy in the church the next Sunday, her interview with him in Mr.
Lea’s library; and, lastly, the manner in which she had learned the
fact of his sudden departure from the city the very day that she first
entered the Madame’s house, coming there in pursuit of her calling as a
dressmaker’s apprentice.
It was a long story, but the Madame’s interest never flagged.
“Ah,” she said, drawing a long breath at its conclusion, and feeling
for her niece’s hand that she might press it affectionately, for it was
growing dark in the room, “my poor child, what you have suffered! How
did you endure it all? how did you have courage to give up the property
and go to work for your living?”
“It was God who helped me,” said Ethel low and reverently, “else I
should have sunk under the repeated blows that took all my earthly
treasures from me. But He was left me; the joy of the Lord was my
strength; and, dear aunt, there is no other strength like that.”
Madame Le Conte sighed. “I wish I was as good as you are, my little
Pansy,” she said, stroking the young girl’s hair caressingly. “But I
intend to get religion before I die. I shall need it when it comes to
that,” she added, with a shudder.
“I need it to live by,” remarked Ethel very gently.
“‘Oh, who could bear life’s stormy doom,
Did not Thy wing of love
Come sweetly wafting, through the gloom,
Our peace-branch from above!’
“But, dear aunt, don’t tell me I am good; I am not, and my only hope is
in trusting solely in God’s offered pardon through the atoning blood
and imputed righteousness of Christ.”
“You never harmed anybody, Pansy, and so I’m sure you are safe enough.”
“That would not save me, aunt. ‘Except your righteousness shall exceed
the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case
enter into the kingdom of heaven,’ Jesus said, and His own is the only
righteousness that does that.”
“And you’ve suffered so much!” the Madame went on maunderingly, “and
I too--enough, I hope, to atone for all the evil I have done. Yes,”
moving the artificial hand slightly and bending upon it a look of
aversion and pain, while her voice sank almost to a whisper, “I am sure
my little Pansy would say so, cruel though it was.”
“What was?” The words burst half unconsciously from Ethel’s lips.
Madame Le Conte turned a startled look upon her.
“Not to-night, not to-night!” she said hurriedly. “To-morrow, perhaps.
Yes, yes, you have confided in me, and I will not be less generous
toward you. You shall hear all; and if you hate and despise me, I must
even bear it as best I may.”