AFTER THE RAIN, SUNLIGHT; AFTER THE STORM, A CALM.
“Oh, love! how are thy precious, sweetest moments
Thus ever cross’d, thus vex’d with disappointments!
Now pride, now fickleness, fantastic quarrels,
And sullen coldness, give us pain by turns;
Malicious meddling chance is ever busy
To bring us fears, disquiet and delays.”
Espy, having seen the door of Madame Le Conte’s boudoir close upon Mr.
and Mrs. Heywood, stole softly down the stairs, thinking to join his
Floy in the parlor. But as he neared the half-open door he caught a
glimpse of Ellis and his sisters, and heard the voice of the latter,
who was at that moment making his little introductory speech.
Espy turned away and quietly left the house, unable to reason down a
jealous feeling, which he was only dimly conscious was such, that he
was no longer necessary to Floy’s happiness.
“I will not go back again to-night,” he said to himself. “She will not
miss me.”
He had fully sympathized in her joy over the discovery of her
long-sought parent, and he was very glad for her even now; but
physically weary, and suffering from the exhaustion consequent upon the
reaction from great excitement, he began to be oppressed with gloomy
thoughts and forebodings.
“These people are rich,” he soliloquized. “They will despise me for
my poverty, will want Floy to give me up for some wealthier suitor;
and if they fail in that, will make the poor darling wretched by their
opposition. Yes, that’s just how it will be; it’s always the way; the
more people have the more they want.” And at that moment he almost
hated the gentle, sweet-faced woman and noble-looking man whom an hour
ago he had most heartily admired.
Arrived at his hotel, he was hurrying to his room, intending to
shut himself up there to the undisturbed indulgence of his dismal
prognostications, when his steps were arrested by a waiter, who handed
him a card, saying:
“The gentleman’s in his room, sir--No. 58, second floor--and wishes you
to call on him there, sir. Told me to deliver card and message right
away when you came in.”
“Very well,” Espy answered shortly, and obeyed the summons at once. The
card was his father’s.
Mr. Alden was in excellent spirits, and greeted his son with effusion.
He was glad to see him looking so well; hoped his affairs were
prospering as regarded both the paintings and his relations to Floy.
Then, hardly waiting for a reply, he went on:
“I’ve had a delightful time; got back this morning; landed from the
train at the Centennial; spent the day there; and, by the way, I met a
young thing out there this afternoon who is wonderfully like Floy. Took
her for her at first sight, and made a fool of myself by rushing up and
offering to shake hands. Have been cogitating on the subject, and come
to the conclusion that it may be a younger sister--half-sister, you
know--supposing the mother lived and married again. What do you think?”
“Floy _has_ a sister--two of them, in fact,” returned the son dryly,
“and I think it altogether probable that the girl you speak of was one
of them.”
“You don’t say!” cried Mr. Alden in astonishment. “And she’s found her
mother, has she?”
“She has.”
“And sisters too?”
“And brother and step-father; there’s a whole family.”
“Whew! So many more to inherit the old Madame’s estate! Bad thing for
Floy that!”
“She doesn’t think so,” retorted Espy indignantly. “I never saw her
look so unutterably happy, and I honor her for it.”
“Humph! you do, eh? And what effect will all this have on _your_
prospects? Will the new-found parents approve the choice of the lovely
heiress?”
“That remains to be seen, sir,” Espy answered, coloring deeply and half
averting his face. “It is not many hours since the first meeting of
mother and daughter after their long separation, and, of course, they
have not yet been able to think beyond the present moment.”
“Well, well, my boy, I hope no objection will be raised; but if there
should be, don’t you be too ready to give her up. And it’s my belief
that she’ll stick to you through thick and thin.”
“I don’t know, sir; she might deem it her duty to wait for her mother’s
consent,” Espy answered despondingly.
“Well, yes, maybe so. I remember she has a troublesome conscience, or
streak of stubbornness, whichever you please to call it. But don’t
borrow trouble. Many a one would think a rising young artist of good
disposition, respectable family, and fine appearance not a very bad
match even for an heiress,” remarked the elder gentleman, regarding his
son with a proudly affectionate smile.
“If they could see him through his father’s eyes,” Espy said, returning
the smile, more reassured and comforted by the fatherly flattery
than he cared to own even to himself. But when he had retired to the
solitude of his own room he presently returned to his bitter and
desponding mood. How could he feel sure even that Floy might not in
time be weaned from him by these new-found relatives in case they did
not fancy the match, seeing that already she was so taken up with them
that he was quite forgotten? The greater part of the night was spent in
gratuitous self-torture, but toward morning he fell into a sound sleep,
from which he did not wake till the sun was several hours high.
He started up with a confused feeling that something was wrong. Then
it all came back to him in a flash--yesterday’s happy ending of Floy’s
quest, with its attendant scenes.
His first emotion was, as before, one of keen sympathy in her abounding
joy, but this was speedily replaced by the jealous pangs, the doubts
and fears, from which sleep had brought him temporary relief. Upon
inquiry he learned that his father, with whom the keeping of early
hours was a life-long habit, had already breakfasted and gone out. Then
the question suggested itself whether he himself should go, as usual,
to Madame Le Conte’s to learn Floy’s plans for the day, and become her
escort to the Exposition or elsewhere, if such were her pleasure.
He held the point in debate for a time, but finally decided to stay
away for the morning at least, saying gloomily to himself:
“She will not need me, very likely will not so much as miss me; and the
others will most assuredly not desire my presence.”
The morning and most of the afternoon were passed in tedious lounging
in the gentlemen’s reading-room of the hotel and aimless wanderings
about the city streets. Then the longing to see Floy, and learn what
effect these changes really were likely to have upon his future
relations with her, became so overpowering that he turned his steps
perforce toward the Madame’s dwelling. It was Ethel herself who
admitted him.
“I knew it was your ring,” she said, hastily closing the door and
lifting to his a face perfectly radiant with joy and gladness.
He had been reproaching himself only a moment before for the anxiety
and sadness his absence had probably caused her, but it seemed she had
felt nothing of the kind.
“Ah,” thought he, “it is plain to be seen that I am no longer necessary
to her happiness.”
“But what is the matter?” she asked, the brightness suddenly dying out
of her face as she caught the dismal expression of his. “Are you ill,
dear Espy? Have the pictures been abused by those cruel critics? I
feared something was wrong when I found you were staying away so long.”
“Did you, indeed? I’m sorry, but hope it has not troubled you greatly,”
he returned in a slightly sarcastic tone. “No, there is nothing wrong
with _me_,” putting a meaning emphasis on the personal pronoun.
She gave him a surprised, hurt look, but merely said in a quiet tone:
“Come into the parlor, Espy. There is no one there.”
He followed her in, feeling ashamed of himself, but, too proud to show
it, put on an indifferent air, and leaning against the mantel, toyed
idly with its ornaments, leaving it to her to break the silence that
succeeded their entrance.
“Espy, is this kind? is it generous?” she said at length.
“Is what? I’m doing no mischief here,” he said, willfully
misunderstanding her; but turning, and seeing the pained expression
of her face, his better nature conquered. “No, Floy, darling, it is
neither! it is shameful!” he cried, hurrying to her and taking both
hands in his. “But the demon of jealousy has taken possession of me. I
see now that it is that.”
“Jealousy! of whom?” she asked in surprise, but not repulsing him.
“Of--of your mother, brother, sisters,” he said, coloring with shame.
“There! it is out; and what do you think of your lover now?”
“That he is--what shall I say? more fond than wise?” and she looked
up brightly, the red lips smiling, the large, lustrous eyes a trifle
misty.
“Let’s kiss and make up, as the children say,” he whispered, bending
over her till his mustache came in suspiciously close proximity to her
face.
“_I_ haven’t been quarrelling,” she returned, with an arch smile.
They sat down side by side on a sofa.
“I have missed you, naughty boy,” she said, still playfully, “because
I wanted somebody to tell my gladness to, if for no other reason. Oh,
Espy!” and her tone changed to one of deep feeling, “I am so blest! I
seem to have nothing more to ask for! I, who have been such a lonely
waif, have now found not only the mother I have been so long almost
hopelessly seeking (and such a dear, darling mother, too), but father,
brother, sisters, and even grand-parents. Old Mr. and Mrs. Heywood were
here this morning--they are the loveliest old couple!--and took me
right to their hearts, bidding me call them grandpa and grandma, as my
brother and sisters do.”
“Very strange, _very_!” remarked Espy, with a smile that belied his
words. “Ah, Floy,” he added with a sigh, “I only wish I had some
assurance that _I_ shall find equal favor with them, or at least with
your mother.”
“You need have no fears, Espy,” she said. “My mother and I passed
the night together in each other’s arms--she sharing my bed--but not
sleeping much, you may be sure. We talked till daybreak, each giving
the other an account of her life during the years of our separation.
I told her all about you--yes, everything--and she fully approves my
choice, is ready to give you a son’s place in her dear, warm heart,
only she says we must not ask to marry for a year or more (which you
know we did not expect to do anyhow), because she must have me for a
little while.”
His face was radiant.
“Bless her!” he cried. “I was afraid she would object to my poverty,
particularly as I imagine them to be very wealthy.”
“Mother says they are not that; only comfortably well-to-do. Their home
is in that land of fruit and flowers, Santa Barbara, and Aunt Nannette
has already promised to go with them on their return and make her home
there, and--ah, don’t look so dismal, for though I, of course, cannot
consent to be left behind, all want you to go also and settle there.”
“I’ve not the least objection; in fact, am delighted with the idea!” he
said with animation. “And so it’s all arranged! Everything has come out
right in spite of the doubts and fears with which I’ve been tormenting
myself.”
“Ah, there was no need,” she said gayly; “but
“‘Human bodies are sic fools,
For a’ their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them
They mak’ enow themsels to vex ’em.’”
“Burns was a sage,” he remarked, laughing, “but I can’t say that I
find the application particularly complimentary. And you are not
disappointed in your mother?”
“Disappointed! I would not have her different in any respect. I find,
to my unspeakable joy, that, besides possessing the sweetest natural
disposition, she is an earnest, devoted Christian.”
“I am glad for your sake. Where is she now? I should like to see her
again.”
“Stay and spend the evening with us, and you shall. Just now she is
lying down. I persuaded her to try to take a nap while Aunt Nannette
was doing so.”
“Thank you. Then I will come back,” he said, rising, “but I must leave
now for a while. I had forgotten a business letter that must go by the
next mail.”
He went, and Ethel stole softly upstairs to her own room and sat down
there to think over her great happiness--so great that hardly yet could
she fully believe in its reality. Presently she started up, and going
to a bureau-drawer, took from it the old, worn, faded pocket-book that,
because of her love for the departed, in whose service its brightness
had grown dim, was so precious a relic. A moment she stood gazing upon
it, a tender dewiness in her soft, bright eyes, then opening, drew
forth a tiny folded paper. A light, quick step coming from an adjoining
room caused her to turn her head.
“Mother!” she cried in low, musical tones, rapturous with love and
gladness.
“Darling daughter!” Mrs. Heywood responded, putting her arms about the
slender, girlish figure, and folding it to her heart with a tender
caress.
Their joy, though no longer expressed in tears, was still almost too
deep for words.
For several moments they stood holding each other in a silent embrace;
then Ethel, putting the folded paper into her mother’s hand, said:
“Here, dear mamma, is a proof of my identity that till now I had
forgotten to produce.”
“It is altogether unnecessary, my precious child,” Mrs. Heywood
answered, opening the paper as she spoke. But as her eye glanced down
the written page her cheek suddenly paled, and she uttered a low cry.
“This!” she said, with a shudder, “my contract with Mr. Kemper! Child,
child, put it into the fire! Never let me see it again! Oh, what the
signing of it has cost me!”
THE END.