REUNITED.
“After long storms and tempests overblown,
The sun at length his joyous face doth clear.”--SPENSER.
Madame Le Conte had found the journey very fatiguing. For a few days
she utterly refused to stir out of the house, indeed kept her room
almost constantly, and would scarcely allow Ethel to go out of her
sight.
This was hard on the young girl, for she was burning with impatience
to be looking, not upon the rare and beautiful things brought together
in the Exposition from all quarters of the earth, but for the loved
one of whom she had been in quest for years. Was she there? should she
see her? would they recognize each other? Ah, it seemed to her that
until that dear one was found she should have no eyes for anything
but the multitude of faces presented to her gaze. How could she wait?
how endure the slow torture of passing hour after hour, and day after
day, shut up with her invalid aunt, listening to her endless fretting
and complaining, her reproaches for having brought her away from the
home where she was so comfortable, the physician who so thoroughly
understood her constitution, wearing her out with the long journey with
really no object but a wild-goose chase after the unattainable; for now
she was quite convinced that her sister would have been found long
since had she been in the land of the living.
Ethel’s patience was sorely tried; her courage also, for it was
difficult to keep hope alive in her own breast while compelled to hear
an incessant repetition of these doleful prognostications.
But at last there was a rift in the cloud. Madame Le Conte woke
one morning feeling rested and refreshed by her night’s sleep, and
consequently in tolerable spirits, and Ethel succeeded in coaxing her
into her carriage. They drove to and about the park, visited the Main
Building, and the Madame spent a couple of hours in a rolling chair,
and returned home delighted with her day’s experience.
She had no more reproaches for her niece on the score of having
brought her to the great Exhibition almost against her will, but still
maintained that there was no reasonable hope of finding her lost sister
there.
Yet Ethel was not to be discouraged, but began every day with renewed
hope that ere its close her long quest should be ended.
“Mother, mother! and Espy, my own Espy!” her heart kept whispering in
the solitude of her own room, and as her eye moved from face to face in
the streets, the cars, the buildings and grounds of the Exposition.
She wanted to be there every day, and all day, because there, as it
seemed to her, she must find them; but her aunt could not bear the
fatigue of constant attendance, and was not willing to be left at
home till, to Ethel’s great joy, she came upon a lap-dog the exact
counterpart of the lost Frisky in appearance, and with fully as great
an aptitude for learning amusing little tricks; and the entertainment
Madame Le Conte found in teaching and caressing him was sufficient to
induce her to allow her niece occasionally to go out without her.
And those days when she was free from the care imposed by her aunt’s
companionship, and at liberty to roam about at her own sweet will, were
by far the most enjoyable to Ethel. She liked to lengthen them out, and
had often eaten her breakfast and gone long before the Madame awoke
from her morning nap, and sometimes the sun was near his setting when
she returned.
She was interested in the exhibits, yet few faces of men or women that
came within her range of vision escaped her observation. The main
object of her coming was never absent from her mind; she pursued her
search diligently, but at times physical weariness compelled her to
pause and rest awhile.
On a lovely day early in June, after four or five hours spent in the
usual manner, she turned aside from the vicinity of the hurrying
crowds, and seeking out a cool, quiet retreat in a little dell by the
side of a limpid stream of water, sat down on a bench in the shade of
some weeping willows.
With her hands folded in her lap, her eyes upon the rivulet that went
singing and dancing almost at her feet, she was thinking of her lost
loved ones, and weighing the chances of meeting them, when some one
sprang down the bank and pushed aside the drooping branches which half
concealed her from view. Lifting her eyes, there was a simultaneous,
joyous exclamation--
“Floy!”
“Espy!”
She hardly knew what followed--so sudden, so great was the glad
surprise--but in another moment he was sitting by her side, her hand in
his, one arm about her waist, while in an ecstasy of delight he gazed
into her blushing, radiant face.
For a time their joy was beyond words; but what need of them? Was it
not enough that they were together?
At last Espy spoke. His tones were low and pleading.
“Floy, darling, you will not send me from you again? It is true I have
not gained my father’s consent (I have not even seen him or so much
as heard from him for over two years), but I am no longer a child; am
pushing my own way in the world, and since this thing will affect my
happiness so much more nearly than his, and probably long after he has
gone from earth, I cannot think it is required of us to wait for that.”
He paused, but the girl did not speak. Her eyes were on the ground, a
soft blush suffused her cheek, and a slight smile trembled about her
full red lips.
She perceived that Espy had heard nothing of her changed circumstances
and the consequent alteration in his father’s feelings; and, for
reasons of her own, she preferred that he should for the present remain
in ignorance of these things; yet she could not drive him from her
again, could not deny to him or herself the happiness that now might be
lawfully theirs.
Besides, she felt that his reasoning was sound; that he was of age
to choose for himself, and to disregard his father’s refusal to give
consent.
“Floy, Floy, you will not, cannot be so cruel as to bid me begone?”
Espy’s voice was full of passionate entreaty, and his grasp tightened
upon her hand.
“No, no, I cannot,” she faltered; “I cannot so reward such love and
constancy as yours. When we last met you refused to accept your
freedom, and--you--shall not have it now,” she concluded playfully,
lifting a smiling, blushing face to his for an instant, then half
averting it as she caught the look of ecstasy in his.
“Your willing slave for life, I hug my chain!” he cried in transport.
“Which means me, I suppose,” she laughed, for he drew his arm more
closely about her as he spoke.
“A golden chain,” he whispered low and rapturously; “such fetters and
warder as Fitz-James appointed for the Graeme.”
Another arch smile, and another swift, bewitching glance from the
lustrous eyes, were the only reply vouchsafed him; but he seemed
satisfied.
“Floy, my own little wife!” he whispered, bending over her to look
into the blushing, happy face, “this moment repays me for all the
loneliness, all the struggles of the past two years.”
Then he went on to tell of a long, weary, fruitless search for her.
He had returned to Chicago shortly after his mother’s death, hoping to
learn her address from the Leas, but found their house closed and a
bill of sale upon it. The newspapers told him of Mr. Lea’s defalcation
and subsequent suicide, but he could not discover the whereabouts of
the family, nor in any other way obtain a clue to the residence of her
whom he was so anxiously seeking.
At length, abandoning its personal prosecution for the time, but
engaging a friend to continue it for him, he went to Italy to pursue
the study of his art, determined to make fame and money as a worthy
offering to his “little love” when she should be found.
“It has been my dream by day and by night, dearest,” he said, “and has
been partially realized. I have sold some pictures at very good prices,
and am hoping much from some I have on exhibition here. If they do for
me what I hope, I shall soon be able to make a home for you, where, God
helping me,” he added low and reverently, “I will shield you from every
evil and make your life as bright and joyous and free from care as that
of any bird.”
How her heart went out to him in proud, fond appreciation as he said
these words, his face, as he bent over her and looked into hers with
his soulful eyes, all aglow with love and delight.
“But tell me,” he exclaimed as with sudden recollection, “how has it
fared with you during all these long, weary months that we have been so
far apart? Well, I trust, for you are looking in far better health than
when I saw you last. But how came you here in Philadelphia? I hoped,
yet called myself a fool for hoping, that I might find you here, for I
could not suppose you had means to come, much as you might desire to do
so.”
“Yes,” she said softly, “I did greatly desire to come, and a good
Providence opened the way, Espy,” and she looked earnestly at him. “I
have found the deed of gift, learned my true name, and discovered--no,
not my mother,” as she saw the question in his eyes, “but her sister,
who is now helping me in my search.”
“Oh, Floy, how glad I am! And I, too, will help!” he exclaimed.
“Helping you to find your lost mother has always been a part of my
dream, and I have been working to that end. I have thought that she,
if living and prosperous, would come to this great Exhibition, this
Centennial of our country, and the subjects for my pictures were chosen
accordingly; I have painted for her eye more than for any other. But
I shall not describe them,” he continued in response to her eager,
inquiring look. “They were hung only this morning, and I will take you
to see them.”
She rose hastily, but he drew her back.
“Not yet, Floy, darling! let us stay here a little longer. I think the
crowd may lessen in the next hour, and there is so much I want to say
to you--to ask you. What of this new-found relative--this aunt? Are you
happy with her? is she kind to you?”
“She is very fond of me, and I have a good home with her,” Ethel
answered, smiling brightly as she turned her face to him. “And she will
be glad, very glad, to see you, Espy. I have told her the whole story
of our acquaintance and engagement, and she is deeply interested for us
both.”
He flushed with pleasure.
“Ah, Floy, my little love! our skies are brightening; the course of
true love begins to run smooth. How glad I am for you!”
“Do you know,” she said gayly, “that you have not asked me my true
name? though I told you I had found it.”
“Ah, yes; I want to hear it, and how and where you found the paper; but
I think you must let me call you always by the name I have loved so
dearly since we were mere babies. I think no other can ever sound so
sweet to my ear.”
“I shall allow my willing slave to have his own way in this one thing,”
she returned sportively. “I do not object to being Floy to you, though
all others call me Ethel.”
“Ethel!” he said, “that is a sweet name too.”
“Yes; allow me to introduce myself. Mr. Alden, I am Ethel Farnese,
sometimes called Pansy by my aunt--a pet name she had formerly bestowed
upon my mother, the first Ethel Farnese.”
“I like that also,” he said, gazing with all a lover’s admiration into
the sparkling, animated face. “You are rich in sweet names, as who has
a better right?”
“Where is your curiosity?” she queried. “You have not even asked if I
found the will.”
“No, to be sure! And you did?”
She shook her head. “I am quite convinced that it never existed.”
“I presume you are right there. But I have found my curiosity, and am
burning with desire to hear how you came to discover the other paper,
to find your aunt, and--and all the rest of it. You remember that I
know absolutely nothing of your history from the time of your leaving
Cranley to this, except the few moments that we were together in Mr.
Lea’s library.”
“And I,” she returned, “am burning with desire to see those pictures,
and to learn how they are to assist me in my quest. The story is too
long to be told in an hour, Espy, with all the minute detail that I
know you would require. So you shall have it at another time.”
“Will you let me see you home, and spend the evening with you?”
“Yes, if my aunt will spare me. She’s an invalid, and seems to value my
society far beyond its real worth.”
“Then her estimate must be high indeed,” he responded in the same
playful tone. “But since it is your wish, fair lady, I will now conduct
you to the Art Gallery and show you the pictures.”
He led her out of the little dell up a flight of steps in the grassy
bank, and together they traversed the winding paths and broad avenues
that led to the Art Building, walking along side by side silently,
yet only dimly conscious of the delicious summer air, the brilliant
sunlight, the gay parterres, the crowds of people in the walks and
passing up and down the broad, white marble steps of Memorial Hall as
they ascended them.
For once Ethel had utterly forgotten her quest, and did not look into
a single one of the hundreds of faces she passed. But a bright little
girl, standing at the foot of those same marble steps, and holding fast
to the hand of a young man, was more observant.
“What a pretty lady, Ellis!” she said, gazing after Ethel’s lithe,
graceful figure as it flitted by. “And she looks like Dora. I thought
it was at first, but she has another sort of dress on.”
“Yes, Nan, it was a pretty face, and something like Dora’s, I thought
too,” returned the lad. “You are tired, little sister, and yonder is an
empty seat. Shall we go to it?”
“Yes--no; see, they’re coming now.”
Then letting go his hand, and running to meet a lady and gentleman who
were sauntering toward them from the direction of the Main Building,
“Papa and mamma,” she cried, “Ellis and I have been waiting a long
time. Shall we go in now to see the pictures?”
“It is growing late, Nan, and tea will be ready by the time we can
get home if we start at once,” said the father. “Your mother is much
fatigued, too--very tired indeed; so we will leave the pictures for
another time.”
“Well, I don’t care, if mamma’s tired,” said the child, putting her
hand into his.
Both parents smiled approval, and the little party walked away together
toward the place of exit from the grounds.
In the mean time Espy was making way for himself and Ethel through the
crowds that filled the corridors of Memorial Hall.
Reaching that portion of the building appropriated to the works
of American artists, he paused for a moment or two before several
paintings in succession, calling her attention to the good points of
each, and giving the artist’s name; but when they came to his own he
waited silently for her to speak.
One glance, and she turned to him, her eyes full, her features working
with emotion.
“Mother!” was the one word that came low and gaspingly from the
quivering lips.
His face was a study, the gratified pride of the artist mingling with
the tender sympathy of the lover.
He drew her arm within his, for she was trembling like an aspen leaf.
She allowed him to support her while she turned again to the picture
and studied it with mournful pleasure.
Mrs. Kemper’s face was a peculiar one, and had changed but little
during the fifteen quiet, uneventful years of her life in Cranley. This
picture of Espy’s--painted from memory--represented her as he had first
seen her, with the little Ethel by her side dressed as she was then,
and holding her doll in her arms. The pretty baby-face was as perfect a
likeness as the other. Memory had done him good service here also, and,
in addition, he had had the assistance of a photograph taken about that
time.
A second painting hung by the side of the first--a full-length portrait
of our heroine standing on the threshold of her Cranley home, as Espy
had seen her on looking back after bidding her good-by when leaving for
college the last time before the accident that wrought such woe to the
young, light-hearted girl whose pathway had been hitherto so bright and
sunny.
It was a speaking likeness of a very lovely face, fair and winning,
with the freshness of early youth and the sweetness and vivacity lent
it by a keen intellect and a happy, loving heart. The figure and
attitude were the perfection of symmetry and grace.
It received many a lingering look of admiration from strangers, but a
single glance was all that Ethel bestowed upon it.
But Mrs. Kemper’s face chained her. For many minutes her eyes were
riveted upon it.
“Do not sell this; I must have it,” she said to Espy as at last she
turned sighing away.
“It is yours from this moment,” he said, flashing upon her a look of
ecstatic love.
“It must be late; see how long the shadows are!” she remarked as
they came down the marble steps. “Ah, my aunt has sent for us! how
fortunate!” as she espied a carriage at some little distance, Rory upon
the box, driving slowly along and looking this way and that as if in
search of some one.
She signalled him, and in another minute they were bowling rapidly
homeward.
Arrived, Espy was requested to take a seat in the parlor while Ethel
ran up to her aunt’s room.
The Madame was at first disposed to be cross, but on hearing the
wonderful news her mood changed.
“Was ever anything so fortunate!” she cried, hugging her niece
enthusiastically. “My darling Pansy, I congratulate you with all my
heart. He shall be quite at home here and the course of true love run
smooth from this on, if I can make it do so.”
Then Mary was directed to go down and show the young gentleman to a
room where he could attend to the duties of the toilet, the Madame
remarking:
“One always feels like washing and brushing after tramping round all
day in the heat and dust. And, Pansy, you must make him understand that
we consider him just one of ourselves. The tea-table is already set in
my boudoir; another plate shall be added, and we will all sup there
together. Now run away and make yourself fine.”
“Neat and ladylike, but not too fine, auntie,” Ethel responded, bending
down to her with a smiling face, her cheeks glowing, her eyes dancing
with health and happiness. “For a reason I have, I want him not to know
or suspect how rich we are, so please help on my innocent deception.”
“Very well, it is all one to me what he thinks about that,” the Madame
answered good-naturedly, and Ethel tripped away to make the necessary
changes in her attire.
In common with other sensible people, she dressed very simply and
inexpensively for a day at the Centennial. Her toilet for the evening
was charmingly becoming, and suited to Espy’s artist taste, yet but
little more elaborate or costly than the other.
Espy was much struck by the Madame’s appearance, so different from
that of her fair niece--her unwieldy figure, enormous size, swarthy
features, ungainly movements, and asthmatic breathing; but she was very
gracious to him, an excellent foil to Ethel’s beauty, and so kindly
considerate as to leave them to themselves for the evening directly tea
was over.