A FLITTING.
“The keen spirit
Seizes the prompt occasion, makes the thought
Start into instant action, and at once
Plans and performs, resolves and executes!”
HANNAH MORE.
“And all alone!” sighed Ethel, breaking the momentary pause that
followed the concluding sentence of the Madame’s story. “Ten years of
utter loneliness, save the presence of hired servants--of constant
ill-health and mental anguish, besides the dreadful loss of your right
hand! My poor, poor aunt, you have indeed suffered horribly and long!”
“Indeed I have, and I hope Heaven will accept it as some atonement!
Well, what is it, child: you deem it not sufficient?” as Ethel turned
upon her a pained, troubled look.
“Ah, Aunt Nannette,” she said, “there is but one atonement for sin,
even the blood of Christ.”
“My sister, my gentle, forgiving little Pansy, would think I had
endured far more than enough,” sobbed the Madame in an injured tone,
and almost turning her back upon her niece.
Ethel dropped her crocheting, rose hastily, and putting her arms about
the Madame’s neck, said soothingly, “Don’t misunderstand me, auntie
dear. I did not mean--I could not feel for a moment that my mother or
I could wish to add a feather’s weight to all you have suffered, or
help grieving over it, or wishing you might have been spared it.”
“What then?” asked the Madame petulantly, and with a movement as if she
would free herself from the enfolding arms.
“Only,” Ethel said gently, withdrawing them and resuming her seat,
“that sin as committed against God cannot be atoned for by anything
that we can do or suffer.”
“I shall try to sleep now,” said the Madame, closing her eyes. “I am
exhausted.”
And truly she looked as if she were; her face was haggard and old
beyond her years, and her eyes were swollen with weeping.
Ethel’s filled with tears as she gazed upon the careworn, miserable
face, and thought how wretched she was in spite of all her wealth; how
her wounded spirit would keep her so, even could her hand and health of
body be restored.
“Poor thing!” said the young girl to herself, “none but Jesus can do
her good, and she will not come to Him.”
Feigned sleep presently became real, and for an hour or more Ethel
was to all intents and purposes as much alone as if she had been sole
occupant of the room.
She did not move from her chair, but her fingers were busy with her
crocheting, her thoughts equally so with the tale to which she had been
listening.
It seemed to have made her acquainted with her mother, and she dwelt
upon her character, as drawn by Madame Le Conte, with ever-increasing
love and admiration.
How she pitied her sorrows--the separation from him who had won her
young, guileless heart, the news that he was lost to her, then of his
death! Ah how could _she_ bear such tidings of Espy! He would never
love another; but he might die. She shivered and turned pale at the
very thought. Ah, God grant she might be spared that heart-breaking
grief! But should it come, she would live single all her days; she
could never be forced or persuaded to do as her mother had done; her
nature was less gentle and yielding, better fitted to brave the storms
of life. That loveless marriage! ah, how sad! how dreadful the trials
that followed!
And her mother had married again. Rolfe Heywood was not really dead,
and perhaps--ah yes, it must have been he who had found and won her,
he the one whom she had always loved; Ethel was certain of it, certain
that none but he could have reconciled her, the bereaved, heart-broken
mother, to life, and so quickly gained her for his bride.
And had she forgotten her child in her new-found happiness? the child
who was now searching so eagerly, lovingly for her? No, no, the tender
mother-love could not be so easily quenched! No doubt unavailing
efforts had been made to recover her lost treasure; and though other
little ones had perhaps come to share that love, the first-born held
her own place in the mother’s heart.
“Oh, when shall I find her? how can I endure this waiting, waiting in
suspense? ’Tis the hardest thing in life to bear!” she exclaimed half
aloud, forgetting that she was not alone; letting her work fall in her
lap while she clasped her hands together over her beating heart and
drew a long, sighing breath.
“What--what is it?” cried Madame Le Conte, starting from her sleep and
rubbing her eyes. “Has anything happened?”
“No, nothing. How thoughtless I have been to disturb your slumbers!”
Ethel said, rising, bending over her, and gently stroking her hair.
“Oh,” sighed the Madame, “it is no matter! my dreams were not pleasant:
I am not sorry to have been roused from them. But what is it that you
find so hard to bear?”
“This suspense--this doubt whether my mother still lives; whether I
shall ever find her.”
“We will! we must!” cried the Madame with energy, starting up in her
chair as she spoke. “They say money can do everything, and I will pour
it out like water!”
“And I,” said Ethel low and tremulously, “will pray, _pray_ that, if
the will of God be so, we may be speedily brought together; and prayer
moves the Arm that moves the universe.”
“And we will share the waiting and suspense together; it will be easier
than for either alone. But if you have found it hard to endure for one
year, what do you suppose the ten that I have waited and watched have
been to me?”
Many, many times in the next two years, while looking, longing, hoping
even against hope for the finding of her mother and the coming of Espy,
Ethel’s heart repeated that cry, “Oh, this weary, weary waiting, this
torturing suspense! it is hard, hard to bear!”
Two years, and no word of or from either. Two years of freedom from
poverty with all its attendant ills. Two years of abounding wealth.
But poverty is not the greatest of evils, nor do riches always bring
happiness. Ethel’s life during this time had had other trials besides
the absence of those loved ones, and the uncertainty in regard to their
well-being and their return to her.
Her days, and often her nights also, were spent in attendance upon her
aunt, whose ailments seemed to increase, and who grew more and more
querulous, unreasonable, and exacting.
Ethel bore it all very patiently, seldom appearing other than cheerful
and content in her aunt’s presence, though sometimes giving way
to sadness and letting fall a few tears in the privacy of her own
apartments.
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.