ETHELYN'S

MISTAKE

BY

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES

AUTHOR OF "MILDRED; OR, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION, " "MISSMC'DONALD, " "TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE, " "ENGLISHORPHANS, " "EDITH LYLE'S SECRET, " "THELEIGHTON HOMESTEAD, " "MILLBANK;OR, ROGER IRVING'S WARD, " ETC. 

MARY J. HOLMES SERIES

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUMEBy MARY J. HOLMES

Aikenside. Bad Hugh. Cousin Maude. Darkness and Daylight. Dora Deane. Edith Lyle's Secret. English Orphans, The. Ethelyn's Mistake. Family Pride. Homestead on the Hillside, The. Hugh Worthington. Leighton Homestead, The. Lena Rivers. Maggie Miller. Marion Grey. Meadow Brook. Mildred; or, The Child of Adoption. Millbank; or, RogerIrving's Ward. Miss McDonald. Rector of St. Marks, The. Rosamond. Rose Mather. Tempest and Sunshine. 

_Price, postpaid, 50c. Each, or any threebooks for $1. 25_

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

 I. ETHELYN. II. THE VAN BUREN SET. III. RICHARD MARKHAM. IV. THE BRIDAL. V. THE HONEYMOON. VI. MRS. MARKHAM'S WAYS. VII. GETTING HOME. VIII. ANDY. IX. DINNER, AND AFTER IT. X. FIRST DAYS IN OLNEY. XI. CALLS AND VISITING. XII. SOCIETY. XIII. GOING TO WASHINGTON. XIV. THE FIRST DAY OF RICHARD'S ABSENCE. XV. ANDY TRIES TO FIND THE ROOT OF THE MATTER. XVI. WASHINGTON. XVII. RICHARD'S HEIR. XVIII. DAYS OF CONVALESCENCE. XIX. COMING TO A CRISIS. XX. THE CRISIS. XXI. THE RESULT. XXII. ETHIE'S LETTERS. XXIII. THE DESERTED HUSBAND. XXIV. THE INVESTIGATION. XXV. IN CHICOPEE. XXVI. WATCHING AND WAITING. XXVII. AFFAIRS AT OLNEY. XXVIII. THE GOVERNOR. XXIX. AFTER YEARS OF WAITING. XXX. ETHIE'S SIC. XXXI. MRS. DR. VAN BUREN. XXXII. CLIFTON. XXXIII. THE OCCUPANT OF NO. 102. XXXIV. IN RICHARD'S ROOM. XXXV. MRS. PETER PRY TAKES A PACK. XXXVI. IN DAVENPORT. XXXVII. AT HOME. XXXVIII. RICHARD AND ETHELYN. XXXIX. RECONCILIATION. 

ETHELYN'S MISTAKE

CHAPTER I

ETHELYN

There was a sweet odor of clover blossoms in the early morning air, andthe dew stood in great drops upon the summer flowers, and dropped fromthe foliage of the elm trees which skirted the village common. There wasa cloud of mist upon the meadows, and the windings of the river could bedistinctly traced by the white fog which curled above it. But the fogand the mists were rolling away as the warm June sun came over theeastern hills, and here and there signs of life were visible in thelittle New England town of Chicopee, where our story opens. Themechanics who worked in the large shoe-shop halfway down Cottage Row hadbeen up an hour or more, while the hissing of the steam which carriedthe huge manufactory had been heard since the first robin peeped fromits nest in the alders down by the running brook; but higher up, onBellevue Street, where the old inhabitants lived, everything was quiet, and the loamy road, moist and damp with the dews of the previous night, was as yet unbroken by the foot of man or rut of passing wheel. 

The people who lived there, the Mumfords, and the Beechers, and theGrangers, and the Thorns, did not strictly belong to the working class. They held stocks in railroads, and mortgages on farms, and so couldafford to sleep after the shrill whistle from the manufactory hadwakened the echoes of the distant hills and sounded across the watersof Pordunk Pond. Only one dwelling here showed signs of life, and thatthe large square building, shaded in front with elms and ornamented atthe side with a luxuriant queen of the prairie, whose blossoms wereturning their blushing faces to the rising sun. This was the Bigelowhouse, the joint property of Mrs. Dr. Van Buren, née Sophia Bigelow, wholived in Boston, and her sister, Miss Barbara Bigelow, the quaintest andkindest-hearted woman who ever bore the sobriquet of an old maid, andwas aunt to everybody. She was awake long before the whistle soundedacross the river and along the meadow lands, where some of the workmenlived, and just as the robin, whose nest for four summers had been underthe eaves where neither boy nor cat could reach it, brought the firstworm to its clamorous young, she pushed the fringed curtain from heropen window, and with her broad frilled cap still on her head, stood fora moment looking out upon the morning as it crept up the eastern sky. "She will have a nice day for her wedding. May her future life be asfair, " Aunt Barbara whispered softly, then kneeling before the windowwith her head bowed upon the sill, she prayed earnestly for God'sblessing on the bridal to take place that night beneath her roof, andupon the young girl who had been both a care and a comfort since theChristmas morning eighteen years before, when her half-sister Julia hadcome home to die, bringing with her the little Ethelyn, then but twoyears old. 

Aunt Barbara's prayers were always to the point. She said what she hadto say in the fewest possible words, wasting no time in repetition, andon this occasion she was briefer than usual, for the good woman had manythings upon her mind this morning. First, there was Betty to rouse andget into a state of locomotion, a good half hour's work, as Aunt Barbaraknew from a three years' experience. There was the "sponge" put to risethe previous night. She must see if that had risen, and with her ownhands mold the snowy breakfast rolls which Ethelyn liked so much. Therewere the chambers to be inspected a second time, to ascertain ifeverything was in its place, and dinner to be prepared for the "VanBuren set" expected up from Boston, while last, though far from least, there was Ethelyn herself to waken when the clock should chime the hourof six, and this was a pleasure which good Aunt Barbara would not forthe world have foregone. Every morning for the last sixteen years, whenEthelyn was at home, she had gone to the pleasant, airy chamber whereher darling slept, and bending over her had kissed her fair, glowingcheek, and so called her back from the dreamless slumber which otherwisemight have been prolonged to an indefinite time, for Ethelyn did notbelieve in the maxim, "Early to bed and early to rise, " and alwaysbegged for a little more indulgence, even after the brown eyes unclosedand flashed forth a responsive greeting to the motherly face bendingabove them. 

This morning, however, it was not needful that Aunt Barbara should wakenher, for long before the robin sang, or the white-fringed curtain hadbeen pushed aside from Aunt Barbara's window, she was awake, and thebrown eyes, which had in them a strange expression for a bride's eyes towear, had scanned the eastern horizon wistfully, aye, drearily it maybe, to see if it were morning, and when the clock in the kitchen struckfour, the quivering lip had whispered, oh, so sadly, "Sixteen hoursmore, only sixteen, " and with a little shiver the bed-clothes had beendrawn more closely around the plump shoulders, and the troubled face hadnestled down among the pillows to smother the sigh which never ought tohave come from a maiden's lips upon her wedding day. The chamber of thebride-elect was a pleasant one, large and airy and high, with windowslooking out upon the Chicopee hills, and from which Ethelyn had many atime watched the fading of the purplish twilight as, girl-like, shespeculated upon the future and wondered what it might have in store forher. One leaf of the great book had been turned and lay open to herview, but she shrank away from what was written there, and wished somuch that the record were otherwise. Upon the walls of Ethelyn's chambermany pictures were hung, some in water colors, which she had doneherself in the happy schooldays which now seemed so far away, and somein oil, mementos also of those days. Pictures, too, there were ofpeople, one of dear Aunt Barbara, whose kindly face was the first tosmile on Ethelyn when she woke, and whose patient, watchful eyes seemedto keep guard over her while she slept. Besides Aunt Barbara's picturethere was another one, a fair, boyish face, with a look not whollyunlike Ethelyn, herself, save that it lacked the firmness and decisionwhich were so apparent in the proud curve of her lip and the flash ofher brown eyes. Fair-haired and blue-eyed, with something feminine inevery feature, it seemed preposterous that the original could ever makea young girl's heart ache as Ethelyn Grant's was aching that Junemorning, when, taking the small oval frame from the wall, she kissed itpassionately, and then thrust it away into the bureau drawer, which heldother relics than the oval frame. It was, in fact, the grave ofEthelyn's buried hopes--the tomb she had sworn never to unlock again;but now, as her fingers lingered a moment amid the mementos of the yearswhen, in her girlish ignorance, she had been so happy, she felt herresolution giving way, and sitting down upon the floor, with her longhair unfastened and falling loosely about her, she bowed her head overburied treasures, and dropped into their grave the bitterest tears shehad ever shed. Then, as there swept over her some better impulse, whispering of the wrong she was doing to her promised husband, she said:

"I will not leave them here to madden me again some other day. I willburn them, every one. "

There were matches within her reach, while the little fireplace was notfar away, and, sitting just where she was, Ethelyn Grant burned oneafter another, letters and notes, some directed in schoolboy style, andothers showing a manlier hand, as the dates grew more recent and theenvelopes bore a more modern and fashionable look. Over one, thefreshest and the last, Ethelyn lingered a moment, her eyes growing darkwith passion, and her lips twitching nervously as she read:

"BOSTON, April--

"Dear Ethie: I reckon mother is right, after all. She generally is, youknow, so we may as well be resigned, and believe it wicked for cousinsto marry each other. Of course I can never like Nettie as I have likedyou, and I feel a twinge every time I remember the dear old times. Butwhat must be must, and there's no use fretting. Do you remember oldColonel Markham's nephew from out West--the one who wore the short pantsand the rusty crape on his hat when he visited his uncle, in Chicopee, some years ago? I mean the chap who helped you over the fence the timeyou stole the colonel's apples. He has become a member of Congress, andquite a big gun for the West, at least, mother thinks. He called on herto-day with a message from Mrs. Woodhull, but I did not see him. He goesup to Chicopee to-morrow, I believe. He is looking for a wife, they say, and mother thinks it would be a good match for you, as you could go toWashington next winter and queen it over them all. But don't, Ethie, don't for thunder's sake! It fairly makes me faint to think of youbelonging to another, even though you may never belong to me. Yoursalways, Frank. "

There was a dark, defiant look in Ethelyn's face as she applied thematch to this letter, and then watched it blacken and crisp upon thehearth. How well she remembered the day when she received it--the dark, dismal April day, when the rain which dropped so fast from the leadenclouds, seemed weeping for her, who could not weep then, so complete washer humiliation, so utter her desolation. That was not quite threemonths ago, and so much had happened since then as the result of thatM. C. 's visit to Chicopee. He was there again, this morning, an inmate ofthe great yellow house, with the large, old-fashioned brass knocker, and, by just putting aside her curtain, Ethelyn could see the verywindow of the chamber where he slept. But Ethelyn had other matters inhand, and if she thought at all of that window whose shutters wererarely opened except when Colonel Markham had, as now, an honoredguest, it was with a faint shudder of terror, and she went on destroyingmementos which were only a mockery of the past. One little note, thefirst ever received from Frank, after a, memorable morning in thehuckleberry hills, she could not burn. It was only a line, and, if readby a stranger, would convey no particular meaning; so she laid it asidewith the lock of light, soft hair, which clung to her fingers with akind of caressing touch, and brought to her hot eyelids a mist whichcooled their feverish heat. And now nothing remained of the treasuresbut a tiny tortoise-shell box, where, in its bed of pink cotton, lay alittle ring, with "Ethie" marked upon it. It was too small for thefinger it once encircled, for Ethel was but a child when first she woreit. Her hands were larger; plumper, now, and it would not pass thesecond joint of her finger, though she exerted all her strength to pushit on, taking a kind of savage delight in the pain it caused her, andfeeling that she was thus revenging herself on someone, she hardly knewor cared whom. At last, however, with a quick, jerking motion she drewit off, and covering her face with her hands, moaned bitterly:

"It hurts! it hurts! just as the bonds hurt which are closing around myheart. Oh! Frank, Frank, it was cruel to serve me so. "

There was a step in the hall below. Aunt Barbara was coming to wakenEthelyn, and, with a spring, the young girl bounded to her feet, swepther hands twice across her face, and, shedding back from her foreheadher wealth of bright brown hair, laughingly confronted the good woman, who, in the same breath, expressed her surprise that her niece was onceup without being called, and her wonder at the peculiar odor pervadingthe apartment. 

"Smells if all the old newspapers in the barrel up garret had been burntat once, " she said; but the fireplace, which lay in shadow, told notales, and Aunt Barbara never suspected the pain tugging at the heart ofthe girl, whose cheeks glowed with an unnatural red as she dashed hotwater over neck, and arms, and face, playfully plashing a few largedrops upon her aunt's white apron, and asking if there was not an oldadage, "Blessed is the bride the sun shines on. " "If so, I must begreatly blessed, " she said, pushing open the eastern shutter, andletting in a flood of yellow sunlight. 

"The day bids fair to be a scorcher. I hope it will grow cool thisevening. A crowded party is so terrible when one feels hot anduncomfortable, and the millers and horn-bugs come in so thickly, and Ialways get so red in the face. Please, auntie, you twist up my hair in aflat knot--no matter how. I don't seem to have any strength in my armsthis morning, and my head is all in a whirl. It must be the weather, "and, with a long, panting breath, Ethelyn sank, half fainting, into achair, while her frightened aunt ran for water, and camphor, andcologne, hoping Ethelyn was not coming down with fever, or any otherdire complaint, on this her wedding day. 

"It is the weather, most likely, and the awful amount of sewing you'vedone these last few weeks, " said Aunt Barbara; and Ethelyn suffered herto think so, though she herself had a far different theory with regardto that almost fainting fit, which served as an excuse for her unusualpallor, for her listless apathy, and her want of appetite, even for theflaky rolls, and the delicious strawberries, and thick, yellow creamwhich Aunt Barbara put before her. 

She was not hungry, she said, as she turned over the berries with herspoon, and pecked at the snowy rolls. By and by she might wantsomething, perhaps, and then Betty would make her a slice of toast tostay her stomach till the late dinner they were to have on Aunt VanBuren's account--that lady always professing to be greatly shocked atthe early dinners in Chicopee, and generally managing, during her visitshome, to change entirely the ways and customs of Aunt Barbara Bigelow'swell-ordered household. 

"I wish she was not coming, or anybody else. Getting married is a bore!"Ethelyn exclaimed, while Aunt Barbara looked curiously enough at her, wondering, for the first time, if the girl's heart were really in thismarriage, which for weeks had been agitating the feminine portion ofChicopee, and for which so great preparations had been made. 

Wholly honest and truthful and sincere herself, Aunt Barbara seldomsuspected wrong in others, and so when Ethelyn, one April night, after adrive around the road which encircles Pordunk Pond, came to her andsaid, "Congratulate me, auntie, I am to be Mrs. Judge Markham, " she hadbelieved all was well, and that as sister Sophia Van Buren, of Boston, had so often averred, there was not, nor ever had been, anything seriousbetween dandyish Frank, Mrs. Van Buren's only son, who parted his curlyhair in the middle, and the high-spirited, impulsive Ethelyn, whose eyesshone like stars as she told of her engagement, and whose hand was icycold as she held it up to the lamp-light to show the large diamond whichflashed from the fourth finger as proof of what she said. The stoneitself was of the first water, but the setting was old, so old that aconnoisseur in such matters might wonder why Judge Markham had chosensuch a ring as the seal of his betrothal. Ethelyn knew why, and thesoftest, kindliest feeling she had experienced for her promised husbandwas awakened when he told her of the fair young sister whose name wasDaisy, and who for many years had slept on the Western prairie beneaththe blossoms whose name she bore. This young girl, loving God with allher soul, loved too all the beautiful things he had made, and rejoicedin them as so much given her to enjoy. Brought up in the far West, wherethe tastes of the people were simpler than those of our Easternneighbors, it was strange, he said, how strong a passion she possessedfor gems and precious stones, especially the diamond. To have for herown a ring like one she once saw upon a grand Chicago lady was her greatambition, and knowing this the brother hoarded carefully his ownearnings, until enough was saved to buy the coveted ring, which hebrought to his young sister on her fourteenth birthday. But death eventhen had cast its shadow around her, and the slender fingers soon grewtoo small for the ring, which she nevertheless kept constantly by her, admiring its brilliancy, and flashing it in the sunlight for the sake ofthe rainbow hues it gave. And when, at last, she lay dying in herbrother's arms, with her golden head upon his breast, she had given backthe ring, and said, "I am going, Richard, where there are far morebeautiful things than this: 'for eye hath not seen, neither hath itentered into the heart of man, the things prepared for those who loveHim, ' and I do love Him, brother, oh! so much, and feel His arms aroundme now as sensibly as I feel yours. His will stay after yours areremoved, and I am done with earth; but keep the ring, Brother Dick, andwhen in after years you love some pure young girl as well as you loveme, only different--some girl who will prize such things, and is worthyof it--give it to her, and tell her it was Daisy's; tell her for me, andthat I bade her love you, as you deserve to be loved. "

All this Richard Markham had said to Ethelyn as they stood for a fewminutes upon the beach of the pond, with its waters breaking softly uponthe sands at their feet, and the young spring moon shining down uponthem like Daisy's eyes, as the brother described them when they lastlooked on him. There was a picture of Daisy in their best room at home, an oil painting made by a traveling artist, Richard said, and some dayEthelyn would see it, for she had promised to be his wife, and theengagement ring--Daisy's ring--was on her finger, sparkling in themoonbeam, just as it used to sparkle when the dead girl held it in thelight. It was a superb diamond--even Frank, with all his fastidiousness, would admit that, Ethelyn thought, her mind more, alas! on Frank and hisopinion than on what her lover was saying to her, of his believing thatshe was pure and good as Daisy could have desired, that Daisy wouldapprove his choice, if she only knew, as perhaps she did; he could nothelp feeling that she was there with them, looking into theirhearts--that the silvery light resting so calmly on the silent water wasthe halo of her invisible presence blessing their betrothal. This was agood deal for Richard Markham to say, for he was not given to poetry, orsentiment, or imagery, but Ethelyn's face and Ethelyn's eyes had playedstrange antics with the staid, matter-of-fact man of Western Iowa, andstirred his blood as it had never been stirred before. He did fancy hisangel-sister was there; but when he said so to Ethelyn she started witha shiver, and asked to be driven home, for she did not care to have evendead eyes looking into her heart, where the fires of passion weresurging and swelling, like some hidden volcano, struggling to be free. She knew she was doing wrong--knew she was not the pure maiden whomDaisy would have chosen--was not worthy to be the bride of Daisy'sbrother; but she must do something or die, and as she did not care todie, she pledged her hand with no heart in it, and hushing the voice ofconscience clamoring so loudly against what she was doing, walked backacross the yellow sand, beneath the spring moonlight, to where thecarriage waited, and, in comparative silence, was driven to AuntBarbara's gate. 

This was the history of the ring, and here, as well as elsewhere, we maytell Ethelyn's history up to the time when, on her bridal day, she satwith Aunt Barbara at the breakfast table, idly playing with her spoonand occasionally sipping the fragrant coffee. The child of AuntBarbara's half-sister, she inherited none of the so-called Bigelowestate which had come to the two daughters, Aunt Barbara and AuntSophia, from their mother's family. But the Bigelow blood of which AuntSophy Van Buren was so proud was in her veins, and so to this aunt shewas an object of interest, and even value, though not enough so towarrant that lady in taking her for her own when, eighteen years beforeour story opens, her mother, Mrs. Julia Bigelow Grant, had died. Thistask devolved on Aunt Barbara, whose great motherly heart opened at onceto the little orphan who had never felt a mother's loss, so faithful andtrue had Aunt Barbara been to her trust. Partly because she did not wishto seem more selfish than her sister, and partly because she reallyliked the bright, handsome child who made Aunt Barbara's home so cheery, Mrs. Dr. Van Buren of Boston, insisted upon superintending the littleEthelyn's education, and so, when only twelve years of age, Ethelyn wastaken from the old brick house under the elms, which Mrs. Dr. Van Burenof Boston despised as the "district school where Tom, Dick, and Harrycongregated, " and transplanted to the highly select and very expensiveschool taught by Madame--, in plain sight of Beacon Street and BostonCommon. And so, as Ethelyn increased in stature, she grew also in wisdomand knowledge, both of books and manners, and the style of the greatworld around her. Mrs. Dr. Van Buren's house was the resort both of thefashionable and literary people, with a sprinkling of the religious, forthe great lady affected everything which could effect her interest. Naturally generous, her name was conspicuous on all subscription listsand charitable associations, while the lady herself owned a pew in----Church, where she was a regular attendant, together with her only son, Frank, who was taught to kneel and respond in the right places and bowin the creed, and then, after church, required to give a synopsis of thesermon, by way of proving that his mind had not been running off afterthe dancing school he attended during the week, under his mother'swatchful supervision. Mrs. Van Buren meant to be a model mother, andbring up her boy as a model man, and so she gave him every possibleadvantage of books and teachers, while far in the future floated thepossibility that she might some day reign at the White House, not as thePresident's wife--this could not be, she knew, for the man who had madeher Mrs. Dr. Van Buren of Boston slept in the shadow of a very tallmonument out at Mount Auburn, and the turf was growing fresh and greenover his head. So if she went to Washington, as she fondly hoped shemight, it would be as the President's mother; but when examination afterexamination found Frank at the foot of his class, and teacher afterteacher said he could not learn, she gave up the presidential chair, andcontenting herself with a seat in Congress, asked that great painsshould be taken to bring out the talent for debate and speech-makingwhich she was sure Frank possessed; but when even this failed, andnineteen times out of twenty Frank could get no farther than "My nameis Norval, on the Grampian Hills, " she yielded the M. C. Too, and setherself to make him a gentleman, polished, refined, and cultivated--one, in short, who was au fait with all that fashionable society required;and here she succeeded better. Frank was perfectly at home on thedancing floor or in the saloons of gaiety, or the establishment of afashionable tailor, so that when Ethelyn, at twelve, went down toBoston, she found her tall, slender, light-haired cousin of sixteen aperfect dandy, with a capability and a disposition to criticise andlaugh at whatever there was of gaucherie in her country manners andcountry dress. In some things the two were of mutual benefit to eachother. Ethelyn, who could conquer any lesson however difficult, helpedthick-headed, indolent Frank in his studies, translating his hardpassages in Virgil, working out his problems in mathematics, and evenwriting, or at least revising and correcting, his compositions, while hein return gave her lessons in etiquette as practiced by the Bostongirls, teaching her how to polka a waltz gracefully, so he would not beashamed to introduce her as his cousin, he said, at the children'sparties which they attended together. It was not strange that Frank VanBuren should admire a girl as bright and piquant and pretty as hiscousin Ethelyn, but it was strange that she should idolize him, bearingpatiently with all his criticisms, trying hard to please him, andfeeling more than repaid for her exertions by a word of praise orcommendation from her exacting teacher, who, viewing her at first as apoor relation, was inclined to be exacting, if not overbearing, in hisdemands. But as time passed on all this was changed, and thewell-developed girl of fifteen, whom so many noticed and admired, wouldno longer be patronized by the young man Frank, who, finding himself indanger of being snubbed, as he termed Ethelyn's grand way of putting himdown, suddenly awoke to the fact that he loved his high-spirited cousin, and he told her so one hazy day, when they were in Chicopee, and hadwandered up to a ledge of rocks in the huckleberry hills whichoverlooked the town. 

"They might as well make a sure thing of it, " he said, in his off-handway. "If she liked him and he liked her, they would clinch the bargainat once, even if they were so young. " And so, when they went down thehill back to the shadow of the elm trees, where Mrs. Dr. Van Buren satcooling herself and reading "Vanity Fair, " there was a tiny ring onEthelyn's finger, and she had pledged herself to be Frank's wife someday in the future. 

Frank had promised to tell his mother, for Ethelyn would have noconcealment; and so, holding up her hand and pointing to the ring, hesaid, more in jest than earnest:

"Look, mother, Ethie and I are engaged. If you have any objections, state them now, or ever after hold your peace. "

He did not think proper to explain either to his mother or Ethie thatthis was his second serious entanglement, and that the ring had beenbought before for a pretty milliner girl, at least six years his senior, whose acquaintance he had made at Nahant the summer previous, and whomhe had forgotten when he learned that to her taste his mother wasindebted for the stylish bonnet she sported every season. Frankgenerally had some love affair in hand--it was a part of his nature; andas he was not always careful in his choice, the mother had occasionallyfelt a twinge of fear lest, after all her care, some terriblemésalliance should be thrust upon her by her susceptible son. So shelistened graciously to the news of his betrothal--nay, she was pleasedwith it, as for the time being it would divert his mind and keep him outof mischief. That he would eventually marry Ethelyn was impossible, forhis bride must be rich; but Ethelyn answered the purpose now, and couldeasily be disposed of when other and better game appeared. So thescheming woman smiled, and said "it was not well for cousins to marryand even if it were, they were both too young to know their minds, andwould do well to keep their engagement a secret for a time, " and thenreturned to Becky Sharp, while Frank went to sleep upon the lounge, andEthelyn stole off upstairs to dream over her happiness, which was asreal to her as such a thing could well be to an impulsive, womanly girlof fifteen summers. She, at least, was in earnest, and as time passed onFrank seemed to be in earnest, too, devoting himself wholly to hiscousin, whose influence over him was so great that he was fast becomingwhat Aunt Barbara called a man, while his mother began again to havevisions of a seat in Congress, and brilliant speeches, which would findtheir way to Boston and be read and admired in the circles in whichshe moved. 

And so the days and years wore on until Frank was a man oftwenty-four--a third-rate practitioner, too, whose sign, "Frank VanBuren, Attorney-at-law, " etc. , looked very fresh and respectable infront of the office on Washington Street, and Frank himself began tohave thoughts of claiming Ethelyn's promise and having a home of hisown. He would not live with his mother, he said; it was more independentto be alone; and then, from some things he had discovered in hisbride-elect, he had an uneasy feeling that possibly the brown ofEthelyn's eyes might not wholly harmonize with the gray of his mother's, "for Ethie was spunky as the old Nick, " he argued with himself, while"for perversity and self-conceit his mother could not be beaten. " It wasbetter they should keep up two households, his mother seeing to both, and if need be, supplying the wants of both. To do Frank justice, he hadsome very correct notions with regard to domestic happiness, and had hebeen poor and dependent upon his own exertions he might have been anaverage husband; at least he would have gotten on well with Ethelyn, whose stronger nature would have upheld his and been like a supportingprop to a feeble timber. As it was, he drew many pleasing pictures ofthe home which was to be his and Ethie's. Now it was in the city, nearto his mother's and Mrs. General Tophevie, his mother's intimate friend, whose house was the open sesame to the crême de la crême of Bostonsociety; but oftener it was a rose-embowered cottage, of easy access tothe city, where he could have Ethie all to himself when his day's laborwas over, and where the skies would not be brighter than Ethie's eyesas she welcomed him home at night, leaning over the gate in the palebuff muslin he liked so much, with rosebuds in her hair. 

He had seen her thus so often in fancy, that the picture had become areality, and refused to be erased at once from the mental canvas, when, in January, Miss Nettie Hudson, niece to Mrs. General Tophevie, camefrom Philadelphia, and at once took prestige of everything on thestrength of the one hundred thousand dollars of which she was soleheiress. The Hudson blood was a mixture of blacksmith's and shoemaker's, and peddler's too, it was said; but that was far back in the past. TheHudsons of the present day scarcely knew whether peddler were spelledwith two d's or one. They bought their shoes at the most fashionableshops, and could, if they chose, have their horses shod with gold, andso the handsome Nettie reigned supreme as belle. The moment Mrs. Dr. VanBuren saw her, she recognized her daughter-in-law, the future Mrs. Frank, and Ethie's fate was sealed. There had been times when Mrs. Dr. Van Buren thought it possible that Ethelyn might, after all, be the mostfavored of women, the wife of her son. These times were at Saratoga, andNewport, and Nahant, where Ethelyn Grant was more sought after than anyyoung lady there, and where the proud woman herself took pride intalking of "my niece, " hinting once, when Ethelyn's star was at itsheight, of a childish affaire du coeur between the young lady and herson, and insinuating that it might yet amount to something. She changedher mind when Nettie came with her one hundred thousand dollars, andshowed a willingness to be admired by Frank. That childish affaire ducoeur was a very childish affair, indeed; she never gave it a moment'sthought herself--she greatly doubted if Frank had ever been in earnest, and if Ethelyn had led him into an entanglement, she would not, ofcourse, hold him to his promise if he wished to be released. He musthave a rich wife to support him in his refined tastes and luxurioushabits, for her own fortune was not so great as many supposed. She mightneed it all herself, as she was far from being old, and then again itwas wicked for cousins to marry each other. It did not matter if themothers were only half-sisters; there was the same blood in the veins ofeach, and it would not do at all, even if Ethelyn's affections wereenlisted, which Mrs. Van Buren greatly doubted. 

This was what Mrs. Dr. Van Buren said to Ethelyn, after a stormyinterview with Frank, who had at first sworn roundly that he would notgive Ethie up, then had thanked his mother not to meddle with hisbusiness, then bidden her "go to thunder, " and finally, between a cryand a blubber, said he should always like Ethie best if he married ahundred Netties. This was in the morning, and the afternoon train hadcarried Mrs. Dr. Van Buren to Chicopee, where Ethelyn's glowing faceflashed a bright welcome when she came, but was white and pallid as theface of a corpse when the voluminous skirts of Mrs. Van Buren's poplindress passed through the gate next day and disappeared in the directionof the depot. Aunt Barbara was not at home--she had gone to visit afriend in Albany; and so Ethelyn met and fought with her pain alone, stifling it as best she could, and succeeding so well that Aunt Barbara, on her return, never suspected the fierce storm which Ethelyn had passedthrough during her absence, or dreamed how anxiously the young girlwatched and waited for some word from Frank which should say that he wasready to defy his mother, and abide by his first promise. But no suchletter came, and at last, when she could bear the suspense no longer, Ethelyn wrote herself to her recreant lover, asking if it were really sothat hereafter their lives lay apart from each other. If such was hiswish, she was content, she said, and Frank Van Buren, who could notdetect the air of superb scorn which breathed in every line of thatletter, felt somehow aggrieved that "Ethie should take it so easy, " andrelieved too, that with her he should have no trouble, as he hadanticipated. He was getting used to Nettie, and getting to like her, too, for her manner toward him was far more agreeable than Ethie'sbrusque way of manifesting her impatience at his lack of manliness. Itwas inexplicable how Ethie could care for one so greatly her inferior, both mentally and physically, but it would seem that she loved him allthe more for the very weakness which made her nature a necessity of his, and the bitterest pang she had ever felt came with the answer whichFrank sent back to her letter, and which the reader has seen. 

 * * * * *

It was all over now, settled, finished, and two days after she hunted upAunt Barbara's spectacles for her, and then sat very quiet while the oldlady read Aunt Sophia's letter, announcing Frank's engagement with MissNettie Hudson, of Philadelphia. Aunt Barbara knew of Ethelyn'sengagement with Frank, but like her sister at the time of itsoccurrence, she had esteemed it mere child's play. Later, however, asshe saw how they clung to each other, she had thought it possible thatsomething might come of it, but as Ethelyn was wholly reticent on thatsubject, it had never been mentioned between them. When, however, thenews of Frank's second engagement came, Aunt Barbara looked over herspectacles straight at the girl, who, for any sign she gave, might havebeen a block of marble, so rigid was every muscle of her face, and eventhe tone of her voice as she said:

"I am glad Aunt Sophia is suited. Frank will be pleased with anything. "

"She does not care for him and I am glad, for he is not half smartenough for her, " was Aunt Barbara's mental comment, as she laid theletter by for a second reading, and then told her niece, as the lastitem of news, that old Captain Markham's nephew had come, and they weremaking a great ado over him now that he was a member of Congress, and aJudge, too. They had asked the Howells and Grangers and the Cartersthere to tea for the next day, she said, adding that she and Ethelynwere also invited. "They want to be polite to him, " old Mrs. Markhamsaid. Aunt Barbara continued, "but for my part, if I were he, I shouldnot care much for politeness that comes so late. I remember when he washere ten years ago, on such a matter, and they fairly acted as if theywere ashamed of him then; but titles make a difference. He's anHonorable now, and the old Captain is mighty proud of him. "

What Aunt Barbara had said was strictly true, for there had been a timewhen proud old Captain Markham ignored his brother's family living onthe far prairies of the West; but when the eldest son, Richard, calledfor him, had become a growing man, as boys out West are apt to do, rising from justice of the peace to a member of the State Legislature, then to a judgeship, and finally to a seat in Congress, and all beforehe was quite thirty-two, the Captain's tactics changed, and a mostcordial letter, addressed to "My dear nephew, " and signed "Youraffectionate uncle, " was sent to Washington, urging a visit from theyoung man ere he returned to Iowa. 

And that was how Richard Markham, M. C. , came to be in Chicopee at theprecise time when Ethelyn's heart was bleeding at every pore, and readyto seize upon any new excitement which would divert it from its pain. She remembered well the time he had once before visited Chicopee. Shewas a little girl of ten, fleeing across the meadow-land from a maddenedcow, when a tall, athletic young man had come to her rescue, standingbetween her and danger, helping her over the fence, picking up the apronfull of apples which she had been purloining from the Captain's orchard, and even pinning together a huge rent made in her dress by catching itupon a protruding splint as she sprang to the ground. She was too muchfrightened to know whether he had been wholly graceful in his endeavorsto serve her, and too thankful for her escape to think that possibly hertorn dress was the result of his rather awkward handling. She rememberedonly the dark, handsome face which bent so near to hers, the brown, curly head actually bumping against her own, as he stooped to gather thestolen apples. She remembered, too, the kindly voice which asked if "heraunt would scold, " while the large, red hands pinned together theunsightly seam, and she liked the Westerner, as the people of Chicopeecalled the stranger who had recently come among them. Frank was inChicopee then, fishing on the river, when her mishaps occurred; and onceafter that, when walking with him, she had met Richard Markham, whobowed modestly and passed on, never taking his hands from his pocketswhere they were planted so firmly, and never touching his hat as Franksaid a gentleman would have done. 

"Isn't he handsome?" Ethelyn had asked, and Frank had answered, "Lookswell enough, though anybody with half an eye would know he was a codgerfrom the West. His pants are a great deal too short; and look at hiscoat--at least three years behind the fashion; and such a hat, with thatrusty old band of crape around it. Wonder if he is in mourning for hisgrandmother. Oh, my! we boys would hoot him in Boston. He's what Icall a gawky. "

That settled it with Ethelyn. If fourteen-year-old Frank Van Buren, whose pants and coats and neckties and hats were always the latest make, said that Richard Markham was a gawky, he was one, and henceforth duringhis stay in Chicopee, the Western young man was regarded by Ethelyn witha feeling akin to pity for his benighted condition. Aunt Barbara's pewwas very near to Captain Markham's, and Richard, who was not much of achurchman, and as often as any way lounged upon the faded damaskcurtains, instead of standing up, often met Ethelyn's brown eyes fixedcuriously upon him, but never dreamed that she regarded him as a speciesof heathen, whom it would be a pious act to Christianize. Richard rarelythought of himself at all, or if he did, it was with a feeling that he"was well enough "; that if his mother and "the neighbors" weresatisfied with him, as he knew they were, he ought to be satisfied withhimself. So he had no suspicion of the severe criticism passed upon himby the little girl who read the service so womanly, he thought, eatingcaraway and lozenges between times, and whose face he carried in memoryback to his prairie home, associating her always with the gracefuldark-brown heifer bearing so strong a resemblance to the cow which hadso frightened Ethelyn on the day of his first introduction to her. 

But he forgot her in the excitement which followed, when he began togrow rapidly, as only Western men can grow, and we doubt if she had beenin his mind for years until her name was mentioned by Mrs. Dr. VanBuren, who saw in him a most eligible match for her niece. He was wellconnected--own nephew to Captain Markham, and first cousin to Mrs. Senator Woodhull, of New York, who kept a suite of servants for herselfand husband, and had the finest turn-out in the Park. Yes, he would donicely for Ethelyn and by way of quieting her conscience, which keptwhispering that she had not been altogether just to her niece, Mrs. Dr. Van Buren packed her trunk and took the train for Chicopee the very dayof Mrs. Captain Markham's tea party. 

Ethelyn was going, and she looked very pretty in her dark-green silk, with the bit of soft, rich lace at the throat and the scarlet ribbon inher hair. She was not dressed for effect. She cared very little, infact, what impression she made upon the Western Judge, though she didwonder if, as a Judge, he was much improved from the raw young man whomFrank had called a "gawky. " He was standing with his elbow upon themantel talking to Susie Granger, when Ethelyn entered Mrs. Markham'sparlor; one foot was carelessly crossed over the other, so that only thetoe of the boot touched the carpet, while his hand grasped his largehandkerchief rather awkwardly. He was not at ease with the ladies; hehad never been very much accustomed to their society. He did not knowwhat to say to them, and Susie's saucy black eyes and sprightly mannerevidently embarrassed and abashed him. That vocabulary of small talk soprevalent in society, and a limited knowledge of which is rathernecessary to one's getting on well with everybody, were unknown to him, and he was casting about for some way to escape from his companion, whenEthelyn was introduced, and his mind went back to the stolen apples andthe torn dress which he had pinned together. 

Judge Markham was a tall, finely formed man, with deep hazel eyes, whichcould be very stern or very soft in their expression, just as his moodhappened to be. But the chief attraction of his face was his smile, which changed his entire expression, making him very handsome, asEthelyn thought, when he stood for a moment holding her hand betweenboth his broad palms and chatting familiarly with her as with an oldacquaintance. He could talk to her better than to Susie Granger, forEthie, though neither very deep nor learned, was fond of books andtolerably well versed in the current literature of the day. Besidesthat, she had a faculty of seeming to know more than she really did andso the impression left upon the Judge's mind, when the little party wasover and he had returned from escorting Ethelyn to her door, was thatMiss Grant was far superior to any girl he had ever met since Daisydied, and like the Judge in Whittier's "Maud Muller, " he whistledsnatches of an old love tune he had not whistled in years, as he wentslowly back to his uncle's, and thought strange thoughts for him, thegrave old bachelor who had said he should never marry. He was notlooking for a wife, as rumor intimated, but he dreamed of Ethelyn Grantthat night, and called upon her the next day, and the next, until thevillage began to gossip, and Mrs. Dr. Van Buren was in an ecstasy ofdelight, talking openly of the delightful time her niece would have inWashington the next winter, and predicting for her a brilliant career asreigning belle, and even hinting the possibility of her taking a houseso as to entertain her Boston friends. 

And Ethelyn herself had many and varied feelings on the subject, thestrangest of which was a perverse desire to let Frank know that she didnot care--that her heart was not broken by his desertion, and that therewere those who prized her even if he did not. She had criticised JudgeMarkham very severely. She had weighed him in the balance with Frank, and found him sadly, wanting in all those little points which sheconsidered as marks of culture and good breeding. He was not a ladies'man; he was even worse than that, for he was sometimes positively rudeand ungentlemanly, as she thought, when he would open a gate or a doorand pass through it first himself instead of holding it deferentiallyfor her, as Frank would have done. He did not know how to swing hiscane, or touch his hat, or even bow as Frank Van Buren did; while thecut of his coat, if not six, was at least two years behind the times, and he did not seem to know it either. All these things Ethelyn wroteagainst him; but the account was more than balanced by the seat inCongress, the anticipated winter in Washington, the great wealth he wassaid to possess, the high estimation in which she knew he was held, andthe keen pang of disappointment from which she was suffering. This lastreally did the most to turn the scale in Richard's favor, for, like manya poor, deluded girl, she fancied that marrying another was the surestway to forget a past which it was not pleasant to remember. Sherespected Judge Markham highly, and knew that in everything pertainingto a noble manhood he was worth a dozen Franks, even if he never hadbeen to dancing school, and did not obsequiously pick up thehandkerchief which she purposely dropped to see what he would do. Andso, when Aunt Sophia had gone back to the city, and Judge Markham was ina few days to return to his Western home, she rode with him around thePond, and when she came back the dead Daisy's ring was upon her fingerand she was a promised wife. A dozen times since then she had beentempted to write to Richard Markham, asking to be released from herengagement; for, bad as she has thus far appeared to the reader, therewere many noble traits in her character, and she shrank from wrongingthe man of whom she knew she was not worthy. 

But the deference paid her as Mrs. Judge Markham-elect, the delight ofAunt Sophia, the approbation of Aunt Barbara, the letter ofcongratulation sent her by Mrs. Senator Woodhull, Richard's cousin, andmore than all, Frank's discomfiture, as evinced by the complaining notehe sent her, prevailed to keep her to her promise, and the bridegroom, when he came in June to claim her hand, little guessed how heavy was theheart which lay in the bosom of the young girl so passively sufferinghis caresses, but whose lips never moved in response to the kiss hepressed upon them. 

She was very shy, he thought--more so, even, than when he saw her last;but he loved her just as well, and never suspected that, when on thefirst evening of his arrival he sat with his arm around her, wondering alittle what made her so silent, she was burning with mortificationbecause the coat he wore was the very same she had criticised lastspring, hoping in her heart of hearts that long before he came to heragain it might find its proper place, either in the sewing society orwith some Jewish vender of old clothes. Yet here it was again, and herhead was resting against it, while her heart beat almost audibly, andher voice was even petulant in its tone as she answered her lover'squestions. Ethelyn was making a terrible mistake, and she knew it, hating herself for her duplicity, and vaguely hoping that somethingwould happen to save her from the fate she so much dreaded. But nothingdid happen, and it was now too late to retract herself. The bridaltrousseau was prepared under Mrs. Van Buren's supervision, the bridalguests were bidden, the bridal tour was planned, the bridegroom hadarrived, and she would keep her word if she died in the attempt. 

And so we find her on her bridal morning wishing nobody was coming, anddenouncing getting married "a bore, " while Aunt Barbara looked at her insurprise, wondering if everything were right. In spite of her ill humor, she was very handsome that morning in her white cambric wrapper, withjust a little color in her cheeks and her heavy hair pushed back inbehind her ears and twisted under the silk net. Ethelyn cared little forher looks--at least not then; by and by she might, when it was time forMrs. Dr. Van Buren to arrive with Frank and Nettie Hudson, whom she hadnever seen. She should want to look her very best then, but now it didnot matter, even if her bridegroom was distant not an eighth of a mile, and would in all probability be coming in ere long. She wished he wouldstay away--she would rather not see him till night; and she experienceda feeling of relief when, about nine o'clock, Mrs. Markham's maidbrought her a little note which read as follows:

"DARLING ETHIE:

"You must not think it strange if I do not come to you this morning, forI am suffering from one of my blinding headaches, and can scarcely seeto write you this. I shall be better by night. Yours lovingly, "RICHARD MARKHAM. "

Ethelyn was sitting upon the piazza steps, arranging a bouquet, when thenote was brought to her; and as it was some trouble to put all the rosesfrom her lap, she sent the girl for a pencil, and on the back of thenote wrote hastily:

"It does not matter, as you would only be in the way, and I havesomething of a headache, too. 

"E. GRANT. "

"Take this back to Judge Markham, " she said to the girl, and thenresumed her bouquet-making, wondering if every bride-elect were aswretched as herself, or if to any other maiden of twenty the world hadever looked so desolate and dreary, as it did to her this morning. 

CHAPTER II

THE VAN BUREN SET

Captain Markham's carryall, which Jake, the hired man, had brushed upwonderfully for the occasion, had gone over to West Chicopee after theparty from Boston--Mrs. Dr. Van Buren, with Frank, and his betrothed, Miss Nettie Hudson, from Philadelphia. Others had been invited from thecity, but one after another their regrets had come to Ethelyn, who wouldgladly have excused the entire set, Aunt Van Buren, Frank and all, though she confessed to herself a great deal of curiosity with regard toMiss Nettie, whom she had never seen; neither had she met Frank sincethe dissolution of their engagement, for though she had been in Boston, where most of her dresses were made, Mrs. Dr. Van Buren had wiselyarranged that Frank should be absent from home. She was herself notwilling to risk a meeting between him and Ethelyn until matters were toowell adjusted to admit of a change, for Frank had more than once shownsigns of rebellion. He was in a more quiescent state now, having made uphis mind that what could not be cured must be endured, and as he hadsensibility enough to feel very keenly the awkwardness of meetingEthelyn under present circumstances, and as Miss Nettie was really veryfond of him, and he, after a fashion, was fond of her, he was in thebest of spirits when he stepped from the train at West Chicopee andhanded his mother and Nettie into the spacious carryall of which he hadmade fun as a country ark, while they rode slowly toward Aunt BarbaraBigelow's. Everything was in readiness for them. The large north chamberwas aired and swept and dusted, and only little bars of light camethrough the closed shutters, and the room looked very cool and nice, with its fresh muslin curtains looped back with blue, its carpet of thesame cool shade, its pretty chestnut furniture, its snowbank of a bed, and the tasteful bouquets which Ethelyn had arranged--Ethelyn, wholingered longer in this room than the other one across the hall, thebridal chamber, where the ribbons which held the curtains were white, and the polished marble of the bureau and washstand, sent a shiverthrough her veins whenever she looked in there. She was in her own cozychamber now, and the silken hair, which in the early morning had beentwisted under her net, was bound in heavy braids about her head, while apearl comb held it in its place, and a half-opened rose was fastenedjust behind her ear. She had hesitated some time in her choice of adress, vacillating between a pale buff, which Frank had always admired, and a delicate blue muslin, in which Judge Markham had once said shelooked so pretty. The blue had won the day, for Ethelyn felt that sheowed some concession to the man whose kind note she had treated socavalierly that morning, and so she wore the blue for him, feeling gladof the faint, sick feeling which kept the blood from rushing too hotlyto her face, and made her fairer and paler than her wont. She knew thatshe was very handsome when her toilet was made, and that was one secretof the assurance with which she went forward to meet Nettie Hudson whenat last the carryall stopped before the gate. 

Mrs. Dr. Van Buren was tired, and hot, and dusty, and as she was alwaysa little cross when in this condition, she merely kissed Ethelyn once, and shaking hands with Aunt Barbara, went directly to the north chamber, asking that a cup of tea might be made for her dinner instead of thecoffee whose fragrant odor met her olfactories as she stepped into thehouse. First, however, she introduced Nettie, who after glancing atEthelyn, turned her eyes wonderingly upon Frank, thinking his greetingof his cousin rather more demonstrative than was exactly becoming evenif they were cousins, and had been, as Mrs. Dr. Van Buren affirmed, justlike brother and sister. That was no reason why Frank should have woundhis arm around her waist, and kept it there, while he kissed her twice, and brought such a bright color to her cheeks. Miss Nettie cared justenough for Frank Van Buren to be jealous of him. She wanted all hisattentions herself, and so the little blonde was in something of a petas she followed on into the house, and twisted her hat strings into ahard knot, which Frank had to disentangle for her, just as he had tokiss away the wrinkle which had gathered on her forehead. She was abeautiful little creature, scarcely larger than a child of twelve, witha pleading, helpless look in her large, blue eyes which seemed to besaying: "Look at me; speak to me, won't you?--notice me a little. "

She was just the one to be made a tool of; and Ethelyn readily saw thatshe had been as clay in Mrs. Van Buren's skillful hands. 

"Pretty, very pretty, but decidedly a nonentity and a baby, " wasEthelyn's mental comment, and she felt something like contempt forFrank, who, after loving and leaning on her, could so easily turn toweak little Nettie Hudson. 

At the sight of Frank and the sound of his voice, she had felt all theolden feeling rushing back to her heart; but when, after Nettie hadfollowed Mrs. Van Buren to her chamber, and she stood for a moment alonewith him, he felt constrained to say something, and stammered out, "It'sdeuced mean, Ethie, to serve you so, and mother ought to be indicted. Ihope you don't care much, " all her pride and womanliness was roused andshe answered promptly: "Of course, I don't care; do you think I wouldwish to marry Judge Markham if I were not all over that childish affair?You have not seen him yet. He is a splendid man. "

Ethelyn felt better after paying this tribute to Richard Markham, andshe liked him better, too, now that she had spoken for him, but Frank'sreply, "Yes, mother told me so, but said there was a good deal of yourWesternism about him yet, " jarred on her feelings as she plucked theroses growing at the end of the piazza and crushed them, thorns and all, in her hands, feeling the smart less than the dull, heavy throbbing ather heart. Frank did not seem to her just as he used to be; he was thesame polished dandy as of old, and just as careful to perform everylittle act of gallantry, but the something lacking which she had alwaysfelt to a certain extent was more perceptible now, and to herself sheaccused him of having degenerated since he had passed from herinfluence. She never dreamed of charging it to her interviews with JudgeMarkham, whose topics of conversation were so widely different fromFrank's. She was not generous enough to concede anything in his favor, though she felt glad that Frank was not quite the same he had been--itwould make the evening bridal before her easier to bear; and Ethelyn'seyes were brighter and her smiles more frequent as she sat down todinner and answered Mrs. Van Buren's question: "Where is the Judge thathe does not dine with us?"

"Sick, is he?" Mrs. Van Buren said, when told of his headache, whileFrank remarked, "Sick of his bargain, maybe, " laughing loudly at his ownjoke, while the others laughed in unison; and so the dinner passed offwithout that stiffness which Ethelyn had so much dreaded. 

After it was over, Mrs. Dr. Van Buren felt better, and began to talk ofthe "Judge, " and to ask if Ethelyn knew whether they would board or keephouse in Washington the coming winter. Ethelyn did not know. She hadnever mentioned Washington to Richard Markham, and he had never guessedhow much that prospective season at the capital had to do with herdecision. That it would be hers to enjoy she had no shadow of doubt, butas she felt then she did not particularly care to keep up a householdfor the sake of entertaining her aunt, and possibly Frank and his wife, so she replied that she presumed "they should board, as it would be theshort session--if he was re-elected they might consider the house. "

"There may be a still higher honor in store for him than a re-election, "Mrs. Van Buren said, and then proceeded to speak of a letter which shehad received from a lady in Camden, who had once lived in Boston, andwho had written congratulating her old friend upon her niece's goodfortune. "There was no young man more popular in that section of thecountry than Judge Markham, " she said, "and there had been serious talkof nominating him for governor. Some, however, thought him too young, and so they were waiting for a few years when he would undoubtedly beelected to the highest office in the State. "

This piece of intelligence had greatly increased Mrs. Van Buren'srespect for the lady-elect of Iowa's future governor, and she gave theitem of news with a great deal of satisfaction, but did not tell thather correspondent had added, "It is a pity, though, that he does notknow more of the usages of good society. Ethelyn is so refined andsensitive that she will be often shocked, no doubt, with the manners ofthe husband and his family. "

This clause had troubled Mrs. Dr. Van Buren. She really liked Ethelyn, and now that she was out of Frank's way she liked her very much, andwould do a good deal to serve her. She did not wish her to be unhappy, as she feared she might be from the sundry rumors which had reached herconcerning that home out West, whither she was going. So, when, afterdinner, they were alone for a few moments, she endeavored to impressupon her niece the importance of having an establishment of her own assoon as possible. 

"It is not well for sons' wives to live with the mother, " she said. "Shedid not mean that Nettie should live with her; and Ethelyn should atonce insist upon a separate home; then, if she should see any littlething in her husband's manners which needed correcting, she could do itso much better away from his mother. I do not say that there is anythingwrong in his manners, " she continued, as she saw how painfully redEthelyn was getting, "but it is quite natural there should be, livingWest as he does. You cannot expect prairie people to be as refined asBostonians are; but you must polish him, dear. You know how; you havehad Frank for a model so long; and even if he does not improve, peopleoverlook a great deal in a member of Congress, and will overlook more ina governor, so don't feel badly, darling, " and Mrs. Van Buren kissedtenderly the poor girl, before whom all the dreary loneliness of thefuture had arisen like a mountain, and whose heart even at that latehour would fain have drawn back if possible. 

But when, by the way of soothing her, Mrs. Van Buren talked of thewinter in Washington, and the honors which would always be accorded toher as the wife of an M. C. , and then dwelt upon the possibility of herone day writing herself governor's lady, Ethelyn's girlish ambition wasroused, and her vanity flattered, so that the chances were that evenFrank would have been put aside for the future greatness, had he beenoffered to her. 

It was five o'clock now, in the afternoon, nearly time for the bridaltoilet to commence, and Mrs. Van Buren began to wonder "why the Judgehad not appeared. " He was better of his headache and up and around, themaid had reported, when at four she brought over the remainder of Mrs. Captain Markham's silver, which had not been sent in the morning, andthen went back for extra napkins. There was no need to tell Ethelyn that"he was up and around, " for she had known it ever since a certainshutter had been opened, and a man in his shirt-sleeves had appearedbefore the window and thrown water from the wash bowl upon the lilacbushes below. Ethelyn knew very well that old Mrs. Markham's servantswere spoiled, that her domestic arrangements were not of the best kind, and that probably there was no receptacle for the dirty water except theground; but she did not consider this, or reflect that aside from allother considerations the act was wholly like a man; she only thought itlike him, Judge Markham, and feelings of shame and mortification, suchas no woman likes to entertain with regard to her husband, began to riseand swell in her heart. In the excitement of her toilet, however, sheforgot everything, even the ceremony for which she was dressing, andwhich came to her with a shiver when a bridesmaid announced that CaptainMarkham's carriage had just left his yard with a gentleman in it. 

Judge Markham was on his way to his bridal. 

CHAPTER III

RICHARD MARKHAM

He preferred to be called Richard by his friends and Mr. Markham bystrangers--not that he was insensible to the prestige which the title ofJudge or Honorable gave him, but he was a plain, matter-of-fact man, whohad not been lifted off his balance, or grown dizzy by the rapidity withwhich he had risen in public favor. At home he was simply Dick to histhree burly brothers, who were at once so proud and fond of him, whilehis practical, unpretending mother called him Richard, feeling, however, that it was very proper for the neighbors to give him the title ofJudge. Of Mrs. Markham we shall have occasion to speak hereafter, so nowwe will only say that she saw no fault in her gifted son, and she wasready to do battle with anyone who should suggest the existence of afault. Richard's wishes had never been thwarted, but rather deferred toby the entire family, and, as a natural consequence, he had come tobelieve that his habits and opinions were as nearly correct as they wellcould be. He had never mingled much in society--he was not fond of it;and the "quilting bees" and "sugar pulls" and "apple parings" which hadprevailed in his neighborhood were not at all to his taste. He greatlypreferred his books to the gayest of frolics, and thus he early earnedfor himself the sobriquet of "the old bachelor who hated girls"; all butAbigail Jones, the shoemaker's daughter, whose black eyes and bright redcheeks had proved too much for the grave, sober Richard. His first actof gallantry was performed for her, and even after he grew to be Judgehis former companions never wearied of telling how, on the occasion ofhis first going home with the fair Abigail Jones from spelling school, he had kept at a respectful distance from her, and when the lights fromher father's window became visible he remarked that "he guessed shewould not be afraid to go the rest of the way alone, " and abruptlybidding her good-night, ran back as fast as he could run. Whether thisstory were true or not, he was very shy of the girls, though thedark-eyed Abigail exerted over him so strong an influence that, at theearly age of twenty he had asked her to be his wife, and she hadanswered yes, while his mother sanctioned the match, for she had knownthe Joneses in Vermont, and knew them for honest, thrifty people, whosedaughter would make a faithful, economical wife for any man. But deathcame in to separate the lovers, and Abigail's cheeks grew redder still, and her eyes were strangely bright as the fever burned in her veins, until at last when the Indian-summer sun was shining down upon theprairies, they buried her one day beneath the late summer flowers, andthe almost boy-widower wore upon his hat the band of crape which Ethelynremembered as looking so rusty when, the year following, he came toChicopee. Richard Markham believed that he had loved Abigail truly whenshe died, but he knew now that she was not the one he would have chosenin his mature manhood. She was suitable for him, perhaps, as he was whenhe lost her, but not as he was now, and it was long since he had ceasedto visit her grave, or think of her with the feelings of sad regretwhich used to come over him when, at night, he lay awake listening tothe moaning of the wind as it swept over the prairies, or watching theglittering stars, and wondering if she had found a home beyond them withDaisy, his only sister. There was nothing false about Richard Markham, and when he stood with Ethelyn upon the shore of Pordunk Pond, and askedher to be his wife, he told her of Abigail Jones, who had been two yearsolder than himself, and to whom he was once engaged. 

"But I did not give her Daisy's ring, " he said; and he spoke veryreverently as he continued, "Abigail was a good, sensible girl, and evenif she hears what I am saying she will pardon me when I tell you that itdid not seem to me that diamonds were befitting such as she; Daisy, I amsure, had a different kind of person in view when she made me keep thering for the maiden who would prize such things, and who was worthy ofit. Abigail was worthy, but there was not a fitness in giving it to her, neither would she have prized it; so I kept it in its little box with acurl of Daisy's hair. Had she become my wife, I might eventually havegiven it to her, but she died, and it was well. She would not havesatisfied me now, and I should--"

He was going to add "should not have been what I am, " but that wouldhave savored too much of pride, and possibly of disrespect for the dead;so he checked himself, and while his rare, pleasant smile broke all overhis beaming face, and his hazel eyes grew soft and tender in theirexpression, he said: "You, Ethelyn, seem to me the one Daisy would havechosen for a sister. You are quiet, and gentle, and pure like her, and Iam so glad of the Providence which led me to Chicopee. They said I waslooking for a wife, but I had no such idea. I never thought to marryuntil I met you that afternoon when you wore the pretty delaine, withthe red ribbon in your hair. Do you remember it, Ethelyn?"

Ethelyn did not answer him at once. She was looking far off upon thewater, where the moonlight lay sleeping, and revolving in her mind theexpediency of being equally truthful with her future husband, and sayingto him, "I, too, have loved, and been promised to another. " She knewshe ought to tell him this and she would, perhaps, have done so, forEthie meant to be honest, and her heart was touched and softened byRichard's tender love for his sister; but when he was so unfortunate asto call the green silk which Madame--, in Boston, had made, a prettydelaine, and her scarlet velvet band a "red ribbon, " her heart hardened, and her secret remained untold, while her proud lip half curled in scornat the thought of Abigail Jones, who once stood, perhaps, as she wasstanding, with her hand on Richard Markham's and the kiss of betrothalwet upon her forehead. Ah, Ethie, there was this difference: Abigail hadkissed her lover back, and her great black eyes had looked straight intohis with an eager, blissful joy, as she promised to be his wife, andwhen he wound his arm around her, she had leaned up to the bashfulyouth, encouraging his caresses, while you--gave back no answeringcaress, and shook lightly off the arm laid across your neck. PossiblyRichard thought of the difference, but if he did he imputed Ethelyn'scold impassiveness to her modest, retiring nature, so different fromAbigail's. It was hardly fair to compare the two girls, they were sowholly unlike, for Abigail had been a plain, simple-hearted, buxomcountry girl of the West, whose world was all contained within thelimits of the neighborhood where she lived, while Ethie was ahigh-spirited, petted, impulsive creature, knowing but little of suchpeople as Abigail Jones, and wholly unfitted to cope with any worldoutside that to which she had been accustomed. But love is blind, and sowas Richard; for with his whole heart he did love Ethelyn Grant; and, notwithstanding his habits of thirty years, she could then have moldedhim to her will, had she tried, by the simple process of love. But, alas! there was no answering throb in her heart when she felt the touchof his hand or his breath upon her cheek. She was only conscious of adesire to avoid his caress, if possible, while, as the days went by, shefelt a growing disgust for "Abigail Jones, " whose family, she gatheredfrom her lover, lived near to, and were quite familiar with, his mother. 

In happy ignorance of her real feelings, so well did she dissemblethem, and so proper and ladylike was her deportment, Richard bade hergood-by early in May, and went back to his Western home, writing to heroften, but not such letters, it must be confessed, as were calculated towin a maiden's heart, or keep it after it was won. If he was awkward atlove-making, and only allowed himself to be occasionally surprised intoflashes of tenderness, he was still more awkward in letter-writing; andEthelyn always indulged in a headache, or a fit of blues, afterreceiving one of his short, practical letters, which gave but littlesign of the strong, deep affection he cherished for her. Those were harddays for Ethelyn--the days which intervened between her lover's biddingher adieu and his return to claim her hand--and only her deeply woundedpride, and her great desire for a change of scene and a winter inWashington, kept her from asking a release from the engagement she knewnever ought to have been. Aside, however, from all this, there was somegratification in knowing that she was an object of envy to Susie Graham, and Anna Thorn, and Carrie Bell, either of whom would gladly have takenher place as bride-elect of an M. C. , while proud old Captain Markham'sfrequent mention of "my nephew in Congress, ahem!" and Mrs. Dr. VanBuren's constant exultation over the "splendid match, " helped to keep upthe glamour of excitement, so that her promise had never been revoked, and now he was there to claim it. He had not gone at once to MissBigelow's on his arrival in Chicopee, for the day was hot and sultry, and he was very tired with his forty-eight hours' constant travel, andso he had rested a while in his chamber, which looked toward Ethelyn's, and then sat upon the piazza with his uncle till the heat of the day waspast, and the round red moon was showing itself above the eastern hillsas the sun disappeared in the west. Then, in his new linen coat, cut andmade by Mrs. Jones, mother to Abigail, deceased, he had started for thedwelling of his betrothed. Ethelyn had seen him as he came from thedepot in Captain Markham's carriage, and her cheek had crimsoned, andthen grown pale at sight of the ancient-looking hair trunk swingingbehind the carriage, all unconscious of the indignation it was exciting, or of the vast difference between itself and the two huge Saratogatrunks standing in Aunt Barbara Bigelow's upper hall, and looking soclean and nice in their fresh coverings. Poor Ethelyn! That hair trunk, which had done its owner such good service in his journeys to and fromWashington, and which the mother had packed with so much care, neverdreaming how very, very far it was behind the times, brought the hotblood in torrents to her face, and made the white hands clasp each otherspasmodically, as she thought "Had I known of that hair trunk, I wouldcertainly have told him no. "

Even Abigail Jones, the shoemaker's daughter, faded into insignificancebefore this indignity, and it was long before Ethelyn could recover hercomposure or her pulse resume its regular beat. She was in no haste tosee him; but such is the inconsistency of perverse girlhood that, because he delayed his coming, she felt annoyed and piqued, and was halftempted to have a headache and go to bed, and so not see him at all. Buthe was coming at last, linen coat and all; and Susie Graham, who hadstopped for a moment by the gate to speak with Ethelyn, pronounced him"a magnificent-looking fellow, " and said to Ethelyn, "I should think youwould feel so proud. "

Susie did not observe the linen coat, or if she had, she most likelythought it a very sensible arrangement for a day when the thermometerstood no degrees in the shade; but Susie was not Boston finished. Shehad been educated at Mount Holyoke, which made a difference, Ethelynthought. Still, Susie's comment did much towards reconciling her to thelinen coat; and, as Richard Markham came up the street, she did feel athrill of pride and even pleasure, for he had a splendid figure andcarried himself like a prince, while his fine face beamed all over withthat joyous, happy expression which comes only from a kind, true heart, as he drew near the house and his eye caught the flutter of a white robethrough the open door. Ethelyn was very pretty in her cool, cambricdress, with a bunch of sweet English violets in her hair; and at sightof her the man usually so grave and quiet, and undemonstrative withthose of the opposite sex, felt all his reserve give way, and there wasa world of tenderness in his voice and a misty look in his eye, as hebent over her, giving her the second kiss he had ever given to her, andasking, "How is my darling to-night?"

She did not take his arm from her neck this time--he had a right to keepit there--and she suffered the caress, feeling no greater inconveniencethan that his big hand was very warm and pressed a little too hardsometimes upon her shoulders. He spoke to her of the errand on which hehad come, and the great, warm hand pressed more heavily as he said, "Itseems to me all a dream that in a few days you will be my own Ethie, mywife, from whom I need not be parted"; and then he spoke of his motherand his three brothers, James, and John, and Anderson, or Andy, as hewas called. Each of these had sent kindly messages to Richard'sbride--the mother saying she should be glad to have a daughter in herhome, and the three brothers promising to love their new sister so muchas to make "old Dick" jealous, if possible. 

These messages "old Dick" delivered, but wisely refrained from tellinghow his mother feared he had not chosen wisely, that a young lady withBoston notions was not the wife to make a Western man very happy. Neither did he tell her of an interview he had with Mrs. Jones, who hadalways evinced a motherly care over him since her daughter's death, andto whom he had dutifully communicated the news of his intended marriage. It was not what Mrs. Jones had expected. She had watched Richard'supward progress with all the pride of a mother-in-law, lamenting oftento Mrs. Markham that poor Abigail could not have lived to share hisgreatness, and during the term of his judgeship, when he stayed mostlyin Camden, the county seat, she had, on the occasion of her going totown with butter and eggs, and chickens, taken a mournful pleasure inperambulating the streets, and selecting the house where Abigail might, perhaps, have resided, and where she could have had her cup of younghyson after the fatigue of the day, instead of eating her dry lunch ofcheese and fried cakes in the rather comfortless depot, while waitingfor the train. Richard's long-continued bachelorhood had given herpeculiar pleasure, inasmuch as it betokened a continual remembrance ofher daughter; and as her youngest child, the blooming Melinda, who wasas like the departed Abigail as sisters ever are to each other ripenedinto womanhood, and the grave Richard spoke oftener to her than to theother maidens of the prairie village, she began to speculate upon whatmight possibly be, and refused the loan of her brass kettle to theneighbor whose husband did not vote for Richard when he ran for memberof Congress. Melinda, too, had her little ambitions, her silent hopesand aspirations, and even her vague longings for a winter in Washington, As the Markham house and the Jones house were distant from each otheronly half a mile, she was a frequent visitor of Richard's mother, alwaysassisting when there was more work than usual on hand and on theoccasion of Richard's first going to Washington ironing his shirts andpacking them herself in the square hair trunk which had called forthEthelyn's ire. Though she did not remember much about "Abby, " she knewthat, had she lived, Richard would have been her brother; and somehow heseemed to her just like one now, she said to Mrs. Markham, as she hemmedhis pocket handkerchiefs, working his initials in the corner with pinkfloss, and upon the last and best, the one which had cost sixty-two anda half cents, venturing to weave her own hair, which was long, andglossy, and black, as Abigail's had been. Several times a week duringRichard's absence, she visited Mrs. Markham, inquiring always after "theJudge, " and making herself so agreeable and useful, too, inclear-starching and doing up Mrs. Markham's caps, and in giving receiptsfor sundry new and economical dishes, that the good woman herselffrequently doubted if Richard could do better than take the black-eyedMelinda; and when he told her of Ethelyn Grant, she experienced afeeling of disappointment and regret, doubting much if a Boston girl, with Boston notions, would make her as happy as the plainer Melinda, whoknew all her ways. Something of this she said to her son, omitting, ofcourse, that part of her thoughts which referred to Melinda. With Mrs. Jones, however, it was different. In her surprise and disappointment shelet fall some remarks which opened Richard's eyes a little, and made himlook at her half amused and half sorry, as, suspending her employment ofparing apples for the dinner pie she put the corner of her apron to hereyes, and "hoped the new bride would not have many airs, and would putup with his mother's ways. 

"You, " and here the apron and hand with the knife in it came down fromher eyes--"you'll excuse me, Richard, for speaking so plain, but youseem like my own boy, and I can't help it. Your mother is the best andcleverest woman in the world, but she has some peculiarities which aBoston girl may not put up with, not being used to them as Melin--Imean, as poor Abigail was. "

It was the first time it had ever occurred to Richard that his motherhad peculiarities, and even now he did not know what they were. Takingher all in all, she was as nearly perfect, he thought, as a woman wellcould be, and on his way home from his interview with Mrs. Jones hepondered in his mind what she could mean, and then wondered if for theasking he could have taken Melinda Jones to the fireside where he wasgoing to install Ethelyn Grant. There was a comical smile about hismouth as he thought how little either Melinda or Abigail would suit himnow; and then, by way of making amends for what seemed disrespect to thedead, he went round to the sunken grave where Abigail had slept for somany years, and stood again just where he had stood that day when hefancied the light from his heart had gone out forever. But he could notbring back the olden feeling, or wish that Abigail had lived. 

"She is happy now--happier than I could have made her. It is better asit is, " he said, as he walked away to Daisy's grave, where his tearsdropped just as they always did when he stood by the sod which coveredthe fairest, brightest, purest being he had ever known, excepthis Ethie. 

She was just as pure and gentle and good as blue-eyed Daisy had been, and on the manly face turned so wistfully to the eastward there was aworld of love and tenderness for the Ethie who, alas, did not deserve itthen, and to whom a few weeks later he gave his mother's kindly message. Then, remembering what Mrs. Jones had said, he felt in duty boundto add:

"Mother has some peculiarities, I believe most old people have; but Itrust to your good sense to humor them as much as possible. She has hadher own way a long time, and though you will virtually be mistress ofthe house, inasmuch as it belongs to me, it will be better for mother totake the lead, as heretofore. "

There was a curl on Ethelyn's lip as she received her first lesson withregard to her behavior as daughter-in-law; but she made no reply, noteven to ask what the peculiarities were which she was to humor. Shereally did not care what they were, as she fully intended having anestablishment of her own in the thriving prairie village, just half amile from her husband's home. She should probably spend a few weeks withMrs. Markham, senior, whom she fancied a tall, stately woman, wearingheavy black silk dresses and thread lace caps on great occasions, andhaving always on hand some fine lamb's-wool knitting work when she satin the parlor where Daisy's picture hung. Ethelyn could not tell why itwas that she always saw Richard's mother thus, unless it were what Mrs. Captain Markham once said with regard to her Western sister-in-law, sending to Boston for a black silk which cost three dollars per yard--agreat price for those days--and for two yards of handsome thread lace, which she, the Mrs. Captain, had run all over the city to get, "John'swife was so particular to have it just the pattern and width shedescribed in her letter. "

This was Richard's mother as Ethelyn saw her, while the house on theprairie, which she knew had been built within a few years, presented avery respectable appearance to her mind's eye, being large, andfashioned something after the new house across the Common, which had abay window at the side, and a kind of cupola on the roof. It would bequite possible to spend a few weeks comfortably there, especially as shewould have the Washington gayeties in prospect, but in the spring, when, after a winter of dissipation she returned to the prairies, she shouldgo to her own home, either in Olney or Camden; the latter, perhaps, asRichard could as well live there as elsewhere. This was Ethelyn's plan, but she kept it to herself, and changing the conversation from Richard'smother and her peculiarities, she talked instead of the places they wereto visit--Quebec and Montreal, the seaside and the mountains, and lastlythat great Babel of fashion, Saratoga, for which place several of herdresses had been expressly made. 

Ethelyn had planned this trip herself, and Richard, though knowing howawfully he should be bored before the summer was over, had assented toall that she proposed, secretly hoping the while that the last days ofAugust would find him safe at home in Olney among his books, his horses, and his farming pursuits. He was very tired that night, and he did nottarry longer than ten, though a word from Ethelyn would have kept himfor hours at her side, so intoxicated was he with her beauty, and soquiet and happy he felt with her; but the word was not spoken, and heleft her standing on the piazza, where he could see the gleaming of herwhite robes when he looked back, as he more than once did ere reachinghis uncle's door. 

The next three days passed rapidly, bringing at last the eventful onefor which all others were made, it seemed to him, as he looked out uponthe early, dewy morning, thinking how pleasant it was there in thatquiet New England town, and trying to fight back the unwelcome headachewhich finally drove him back to his bed, from which he wrote the littlenote to Ethelyn, who might think strange at his non-appearance when hehad been accustomed to go to her immediately after breakfast. He neverdreamed of the relief it was to her not to have him come, as he layflushed and heated upon his pillow, the veins upon his foreheadswelling with their pressure of hot blood, and his ear strained to catchthe first sound of the servant's returning step. Ethelyn would eithercome herself to see him, or send some cheerful message, he was sure. How, then, was he disappointed to find his own note returned, with theassurance that "it did not matter, as he would only be in the way. "

Several times he read it over, trying to extract some comfort from it, and finding it at last in the fact that Ethelyn had a headache, too. This was the reason for her seeming indifference; and in wishing himselfable to go to her, Richard forgot in part his own pain, and fell into aquiet sleep, which did him untold good. It was three o'clock when atlast he rose, knowing pretty well all that had been doing during thehours of his seclusion in the darkened room. The "Van Buren set" hadcome, and he overheard Mrs. Markham's Esther saying to Aunt Barbara'sBetsy, when she came for the silver cake-basket, that "Mr. Frank seemedin mighty fine spirits, considering all the flirtations he used to havewith Miss Ethelyn. "

This was the first intimation Richard had received of a flirtation, andeven now it did not strike him unpleasantly. They were cousins, hereflected, and as such had undoubtedly been very familiar with eachother. It was natural, and nothing for which he need care. He did notcare, either, as he deliberately began to make his wedding toilet, thinking himself, when it was completed, that he was looking unusuallywell in the entire new suit which his cousin, Mrs. Woodhull, hadinsisted upon his getting in New York, when on his way home in April hehad gone that way and told her of his approaching marriage. It was asplendid suit, made after the most approved style, and costing a sumwhich he had kept secret from his mother, who, nevertheless, guessedsomewhere near the truth, and thought the Olney tailor would have suitedhim quite as well at a quarter the price, or even Mrs. Jones, who, having been a tailoress when a young girl in Vermont, still kept up herprofession to a limited extent, retaining her "press-board" and "goose, "and the mammoth shears which had cut Richard's linen coat after aChicago pattern of not the most recent date Richard thought very littleabout his personal appearance--too little, in fact--but he felt a glowof satisfaction now as he contemplated himself in the glass, feelingonly that Ethelyn would be pleased to see him thus. 

And Ethelyn was pleased. She had half expected the old coat of she didnot know how many years' make, and there was a fierce pang of pain inher heart as she imagined Frank's cool criticisms, and saw, in fancy, the contrast between the two men. So when Judge Markham alighted at thegate, and from her window she took in at a glance his tout ensemble, therevulsion of feeling was so great that the glad tears sprang to hereyes, and a brighter, happier look broke over her face than had beenthere for many weeks. She was not present when Frank was introduced tohim; but when next she met her cousin, he said to her, in his usualoff-hand way, "I say, Ethie, he is pretty well got up for a Westerner. But for his eyes and teeth I should never have known him for the chapwho wore short pants and stove-pipe hat with the butternut-coloredcrape. Who was he in mourning for anyway?"

It was too bad to be reminded of Abigail Jones, just as she wasbeginning to feel more comfortable; but Ethelyn bore it very well, andlaughingly answered, "For his sweetheart, I dare say, " her cheeksflushing very red as Frank whispered slyly, "You are even, then, onthat score. "

No man of any delicacy of feeling or true refinement would have madethis allusion to the past, with his first love within a few hours of herbridal, and his own betrothed standing near. But Frank had neitherdelicacy of feeling nor genuine refinement, and he even felt a secretgratification in seeing the blood mount to Ethelyn's cheeks as he thusreferred to the past. 

CHAPTER IV

THE BRIDAL

There was a great deal of sincere and tender interest in Richard'smanner when, in reply to his inquiries for Ethelyn's headache, AuntBarbara told him of the almost fainting fit in the morning and herbelief that Ethelyn was not as strong this summer as she used to be. 

"The mountain air will do her good, I trust, " casting wistful glances upthe stairs and toward the door of the chamber, where girlish voices wereheard, Nettie Hudson and Susie Granger chatting gayly and utteringexclamations of delight as they arranged and adjusted Ethelyn'sbridal robes. 

Once during the period of his judgeship Richard had attended a large andfashionable bridal party, but when, on his return to Olney, MelindaJones questioned him with regard to the dresses of the bride and theguests, he found himself utterly unable to give either fabric, fashion, or even color, so little attention had he given to the subject. He nevernoticed such things, he said, but he believed some of the dresses weremade of something flimsy, for he could see through them, and he knewthey were very long, for he had stepped on some half dozen. And this wasall the information the inquisitive Melinda could obtain. Dress was oflittle consequence, he thought, so it was clean and whole. 

This was his theory; but when, as the twilight deepened on the Chicopeehills, and the lamps were lighted in Aunt Barbara's parlors, and oldCaptain Markham began to wonder "why the plague the folks did not come, "as he stalked up and down the piazza in all the pride and pomposity ofone who felt himself to all intents and purposes the village aristocrat, and when the mysterious door of Ethie's room, which had been closed solong, was opened, and the bridegroom told that he might go in, hestarted in surprise at the beautiful tableau presented to his view as hestepped across the threshold. As was natural, he fancied that neverbefore had he seen three young girls so perfectly beautiful as the threebefore him--Ethie, and Susie, and Nettie. 

As a matter of course, he gave the preference to Ethelyn, who was very, very lovely in her bridal robes, with the orange wreath resting like acoronet upon her marble brow. There were pearls upon her fair neck andpearls upon her arms, the gift of Mrs. Dr. Van Buren, who had waitedtill the very last, hoping the Judge would have forethought enough tobuy them himself. But the Judge had not. He knew something of diamonds, for they had been Daisy's favorites; but pearls were novelties to him, and Ethelyn's pale cheeks would have burned crimson had she known thathe was thinking "how becoming those white beads were to her. "

Poor, ignorant Richard! He will know more by and by of what constitutesa fashionable lady's toilet; but now he is in blissful ignorance ofminutiae, and sees only the tout ensemble, which he pronounces perfect. He was half afraid of her, though, she seemed so cold, so passive, sosilent, and when in the same breath Susie Granger asks if he ever sawanyone so lovely as Ethelyn and bids him kiss her quick, he starts andhesitates, and finally kisses Susie instead. He might, perhaps, havedone the same with Ethelyn if she had not stepped backward to avoid it, her long train sweeping across the hearth where that morning she hadknelt in such utter desolation, and where now was lying a bit ofblackened paper, which the housemaid's broom had not found when, earlyin the day, the room was swept and dusted. So Ethelyn's white satinbrushed against the gossamer thing, which floated upward for a moment, and then settled back upon the heavy, shining folds. It was Richard whosaw it first, and Richard's hand which brushed away the skeleton ofFrank's letter from the skirts of his bride, leaving a soiled, yellowishstain, which Susie Granger loudly deplored, while Ethelyn only drew herdrapery around her, saying coldly, that "it did not matter in the least. She would as soon have it there as not. "

It was meet, she thought, that the purity of her bridal garments shouldbe tarnished; for was not her heart all stained, and black, and crispwith cruel deception? That little incident, however, affected herstrangely, bringing back so vividly the scene on the ledge of rocksbeneath the New England laurels, where Frank had sat beside her andpoured words of boyish passion into her ear. There was for a moment apitiful look of anguish in her eyes as they went out into the summernight toward the huckleberry hills, where lay that ledge of massy rock, and then come back to the realities about her. Frank saw the look ofpain, and it awoke in his own breast an answering throb as he wonderedif, after all, Ethie would not have preferred that he were standing byher instead of the grave Judge, fitting on his gloves with anawkwardness which said that such articles were comparative strangers tohis large, red hands. 

It was time now to go down. The guests had all arrived, the clergymanwas waiting, and Captain Markham had grown very red in the face with hisimpatience, which his wife tried in vain to quiet. If at this lastmoment there arose in Ethelyn's bosom any wild impulse to break awayfrom the dreadful scene, and rush out into the darkness which lay sosoftly upon the hills, she put it aside, with the thought, "too latenow--forever too late"; and taking the arm which Richard offered her, she went mechanically down the staircase into the large parlor where thewedding guests were assembled. Surely, surely, she did not know what shewas doing, or realize the solemn words: "I charge and require you both, as ye shall answer at the great day, when the secrets of all heartsshall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye maynot be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it, forbe ye well assured, " and so forth. She did not even hear them; for thenumb, dead feeling which crept over her, chilling her blood, and makingher hand, which Richard took in his while he fitted the wedding ring, socold and clammy to the touch, that Richard felt tempted to hold andchafe it in his own warm, broad palms; but that was not in accordancewith the ceremony, and so he let it fall, wondering that Ethelyn couldbe so cold when the sweat was standing in great drops upon his own face, and moistening his wavy hair, which clustered in short, thick curlsaround his brow, making him look so handsome, as more than one maidenthought, envying Ethelyn her good fortune, and marveling at the pallorof her lips and the rigidity of her form. 

The ceremony was ended, and Ethelyn Grant was Mrs. Richard Markham; butthe new name brought no blushes to her cheek, nor yet the kiss herhusband gave her, nor the congratulations of the guests, nor AuntBarbara's tears, which dropped upon the forehead of her darling as thegood woman bent over her and thought how she had lost her; but whenFrank Van Buren stooped down to touch her lips the sluggish bloodquickened and a thrill went through and through her veins, sending thebright color to her cheeks, which burned as with a hectic flush. Franksaw the power he held, but to his credit he did not then exult; he onlyfelt that it was finished, that Ethie was gone past his recall; and forthe first time in his life he experienced a genuine pang of desolation, such as he had never felt before, and he fought hard to master hisemotions while he watched the bride receiving the bridal guests. Anotherthan Frank was watching her, too--Mrs. Dr. Van Buren--who at one timefeared lest Ethelyn should faint, and who, as soon as an opportunityoffered, whispered to her niece, "Do, Ethie, put some animation in yourmanner or people will think you an unwilling bride. "

For a moment a gleam of anger flashed from the eyes which lookedunflinchingly into Mrs. Van Buren's, and the pale lips quivered withpassion. But Ethelyn had too much pride to admit of her letting thepeople know what she was suffering, and so with great effort she ralliedher fainting spirits, and twice ere the evening was at a close her merrylaugh was heard even above Susie Granger's, as a knot of her gaycompanions gathered round her with their merry jokes and gay repartees. 

Susie Granger was in her happiest mood, and her lively spirits seemed topervade the whole party. Now that he knew her better, Richard was moreat ease with her, and returned her playful sallies until even Ethelynwondered to see him so funny. He never once forgot her, however, as wasevinced by the loving glances he bent upon her, and by his hoveringconstantly at her side, as if afraid to lose her. 

Once, when they were standing together and Frank was near to them, Richard laid his hand upon Ethelyn's shoulder which the cut of thewedding dress left bare. It was a very beautiful neck--white, and plump, and soft--and Richard's hand pressed somewhat heavily; but with a shiverEthelyn drew herself away, and Frank, who was watching her, fancied hesaw the flesh creep backward from the touch. Perhaps it was a feeling ofpity, and perhaps it was a mean desire to test his own influence overher, which prompted him carelessly to take her hand to inspect thewedding-ring. It was only her hand, but as Frank held it in his own, hefelt it growing warm and flushed, while the color deepened on Ethelyn'scheeks, and then died suddenly away at Frank's characteristic remark, spoken for her ear alone, "You feel like thunder, Ethie, and so do I. "

The speech did Ethelyn good. No matter how she felt, it was not Frank'splace to speak to her thus. She was now a wife, and she meant to be trueto her marriage vow, both in look and deed; so, with an impatientgesture, she flung aside Frank's hand, repelling him fiercely with thereply, "You are mistaken, sir--at least, so far as I am concerned. "

After that she stayed more with Richard, and once, of her own accord, she put her arm in his and stood half leaning against him with bothhands clasped together, while he held the bouquet which Mrs. SenatorWoodhull had sent by express from New York. It is true that Richardsmelled and breathed upon the flowers oftener than was desirable; andonce Ethelyn saw him extracting leaves from the very choicest blossoms;but on the whole he did very well, considering that it was the firsttime he had ever held a lady's bouquet in such an expensive holder. 

As Ethelyn had predicted, the evening was hot and sultry; but the bugsand beetles and millers she had dreaded did not come in to annoy her, and when, as the clock struck twelve, the company dispersed, they weresincere in their assertions of having passed a delightful evening, andmany were the good wishes expressed for Mrs. Judge Markham's happinessas the guests took their way to their respective homes. 

An hour later and the lights had disappeared from Miss Barbara Bigelow'swindows, and the summer stars looked down upon the quiet house wherethat strange bridal had been. 

CHAPTER V

THE HONEYMOON

From Mrs. Senator Woodhull's elegant house--where Mrs. Judge Markham hadbeen petted, and flattered, and caressed, and Mr. Judge Markham had beenadroitly tutored and trained without the least effect--the newly weddedpair went on to Quebec and Montreal, and thence to the White Mountains, where Ethelyn's handsome traveling dress was ruined and Richard's linencoat, so obnoxious to his bride, was torn past repair and laid away inone of Ethelyn's trunks, with the remark that "Mother could mend it forAndy, who always took his brother's cast-off clothes. " The hair trunkhad been left in Chicopee, and so Ethelyn had not that to vex her. 

Noticed everywhere, and admired by all whom she met, the first part ofher wedding trip was not as irksome as she had feared it might be. Pleased, as a boy, with his young bride, Richard was all attention, andEthelyn had only to express a wish to have it gratified, so that casuallookers-on would have pronounced her supremely happy. And Ethelyn'sheart did not ache one-half so hard as on that terrible day of herbridal. In the railway car, on the crowded steamboat, or at the largehotels, where all were entire strangers, she forgot to watch andcriticise her husband, and if any dereliction from etiquette did occur, he yielded so readily to her suggestion that to him seemed an easy task. The habits of years, however, are not so easily broken, and by the timeSaratoga was reached, Richard's patience began to give way beneathEthelyn's multifarious exactions and the ennui consequent upon histraveling about so long. Still he did pretty well for him, growing veryred in the face with his efforts to draw on gloves a size too small, andfeeling excessively hot and uncomfortable in his coat, which he woreeven in the retirement of his own room, where he desired so much toindulge in the cool luxury of shirt-sleeves--a suggestion which Ethelynheard with horror, openly exclaiming against the glaring vulgarity, andasking, a little contemptuously, if that were the way he had beenaccustomed to do at home. 

"Why, yes, " he answered. "Out West upon the prairies we go in forcomfort, and don't mind so small a matter as shirt-sleeves on asweltering August day. "

"Please do not use such expressions as sweltering and go in--they do notsound well, " Ethelyn rejoined. "And now I think of it, I wish you wouldtalk more to the ladies in the parlor. You hardly spoke to Mrs. Cameronlast evening, and she directed most of her conversation to you, too. Iwas afraid she would either think that you were rude, or else that youdid not know what to say. "

"She hit it right, if she came to the latter conclusion, " Richard said, good-humoredly, "for the fact is, Ethie, I don't know what to say tosuch women as she. I am not a ladies' man, and it's no use trying tomake me over. You can't teach old dogs new tricks. "

Ethie fairly groaned as she clasped her bracelets upon her arms andshook down the folds of her blue silk; then after a moment shecontinued: "You can talk to me, and why not to others?"

"You are my wife, Ethie, and I love you, which makes a heap ofdifference, " Richard said, and winding his arms around Ethie's waist hedrew her face toward his own and kissed it affectionately. 

They had been three days at Saratoga when this little scene occurredand their room was one of those miserable little apartments in theAinsworth block which look out upon nothing but a patch of weeds and therear of a church. Ethelyn did not like it at all, and liked it the lessbecause she felt that to some extent her husband was to blame. He oughtto have written and engaged rooms beforehand--Aunt Van Buren always did, and Mrs. Col. Tophevie, and everybody who understood the ins and outs offashionable life. But Richard did not understand them. He believed intaking what was offered to him without making a fuss, he said. He hadnever been to Saratoga before, and he secretly hoped he should nevercome again, for he did not enjoy those close, hot rooms and worm-eatenfurniture any better than Ethelyn did, but he accepted it with a bettergrace, saying, when he first entered it, that "he could put up with'most anything, though to be sure it was hotter than an oven. "

His mode of expressing himself had never suited Ethelyn. Particular, andeven elegant in her choice of language, it grated upon her sensitiveear, and forgetting that she had all her life heard similar expressionsin Chicopee, she charged it to the West, and Iowa was blamed for thefaults of her son more than she deserved. At Saratoga, where they metmany of her acquaintances, all of whom were anxious to see thefastidious Ethelyn's husband, it seemed to her that he was more remissthan ever in those little things which make up the finished gentleman, while his peculiar expressions sometimes made every nerve quiver withpain. The consequence of this was that Ethelyn became a very littlecross, as Richard thought, though she had never so openly attacked himas on that day, the third after their arrival, when to her horror hetook off his coat, preparatory to a little comfort, while she wasdressing for dinner. At Ethelyn's request, however, he put it on again, saying as he did so, that he was "sweating like a butcher, " which remarkcalled out his wife's contemptuous inquiries concerning his habits athome. Richard was still too much in love with his young wife to feelvery greatly irritated. In word and deed she had done her duty towardhim thus far, and he had nothing to complain of. It is true she was veryquiet and passive, and undemonstrative, never giving him back any caressas he had seen wives do. But then he was not very demonstrative himself, and so he excused it the more readily in her, and loved her all thesame. It amused him that a girl of twenty should presume to criticisehim, a man of thirty-two, a Judge, and a member of Congress, to whom theOlney people paid such deference, and he bore with her at first just asa mother would bear with the little child which assumed asuperiority over her. 

This afternoon, however, when she said so much to him, he was consciousof a very little irritation, for he was naturally high-spirited. But heput the feeling down, and gayly kissed his six-weeks bride, who, touchedwith his forbearance, kissed him back again, and suffered him to holdher cool face a moment between his hot, moist hands, while he bentover her. 

She did respect him in spite of his vulgarism; nor was she unconsciousof the position which, as his wife, she held. It was very pleasant tohear people say of her when she passed by:

"That is Mrs. Judge Markham, of Iowa--her husband is a member ofCongress. "

Very pleasant, too, to meet with his friends, other M. C. 's, who paidher deference on his account. Had they stayed away from Saratoga allmight have been well; but alas, they were there, and so was all ofEthelyn's world--the Tophevies, the Hales, the Hungerfords and VanBurens, with Nettie Hudson, opening her great blue eyes at Richard'smistakes and asking Frank in Ethelyn's hearing, "if that Judge Markham'smanners were not a little outré. "

They certainly were outré, there was no denying it, and Ethelyn's bloodtingled to her finger tips as she wondered if it would always be so. Itis a pitiable thing for a wife to blush for her husband, to watchconstantly lest he depart from those little points of etiquette whichwomen catch intuitively, but which some of our most learned men fail tolearn in a lifetime. And here they greatly err, for no man, however wellversed he may be in science and literature, is well educated, or wellbalanced, or excusable, if he neglects the little things which goodbreeding and common politeness require of him, and Richard was somewhatto be blamed. It did not follow because his faults had never beenpointed out to him that they did not exist, or that others did notobserve them besides his wife. Ethelyn, to be sure, was more deeplyinterested than anyone else, and felt his mistakes more keenly, while atthe same time she was over-fastidious, and had not the happiest facultyfor correcting him. She did not love him well enough to be very carefulof wounding him, but the patience and good humor with which he receivedher reprimand that hot August afternoon, when the thermometer was onehundred in the shade, and any man would have been excusable forretorting upon his wife who lectured him, awoke a throb of somethingnearer akin to love than anything she had felt since the night when shestood upon the sandy beach and heard the story of Daisy. 

Richard was going to do better. He would wear his coat all the time, both day and night, if Ethelyn said so, He would not lean his elbow onthe table while waiting for dessert, as he had more than once beenguilty of doing; he would not help himself to a dish before passing itto the ladies near him; he would talk to Mrs. Cameron in the evening, and would try not to be so absorbed in his own thoughts as to pay noattention when Mrs. Tophevie was addressing herself directly to him; hewould laugh in the right place, and, when spoken to, would answer insomething besides monosyllables; he would try to keep his hands out ofhis pockets and his handkerchief out of his hand, or at least he wouldnot "snap it, " as Ethie said he had done on the first evening of hisarrival at Saratoga. In short, he promised a complete reformation, evensaying that if Ethelyn would select some person who was an fait in thosematters in which he was so remiss, he would watch and copy that man tothe letter. Would she name someone? And Ethelyn named her cousin Frank, while Richard felt a flush of something like resentment that he shouldbe required to imitate a person whom in his secret heart he despised asdandyish, and weak, and silly, and "namby-pamby, " as he would probablyhave expressed it if he had not forsworn slang phrases of every kind. But Richard had pledged his word, and meant to keep it; and so it was toall appearances a very happy and loving couple which, when the dinnergong sounded, walked into the dining room with Mrs. Dr. Van Buren's set, Ethelyn's handsome blue silk sweeping far behind her, and her white barearm just touching the coat-sleeve of her husband, who was not insensibleto the impression made by the beautiful woman at his side. 

There were no lectures that night, for Richard had done his best, talking at least twenty times with both Mrs. Cameron and Mrs. ColonelTophevie, whom he found more agreeable than he had supposed. Then he hadheld Ethelyn's white cloak upon his arm, and stood patiently against thewall, while up at the United States she danced set after set--first, theLancers, with young Lieutenant Gray, then a polka with John Tophevie, and lastly, a waltz with Frank Van Buren, who whirled his fair partnerabout the room with a velocity which made Richard dizzy and awoke sundrythoughts not wholly complimentary to that doubtful dance, the waltz. Richard did not dance himself, at least not latterly. In his youngerdays, when he and Abigail Jones attended the quilting-frolics togetherand the "paring bees, " he had with other young men, tried his feet atScotch reels, French fours, "The Cheat, " and the "Twin Sisters, " withoccasionally a cotillion, but he was not accomplished in the art. Eventhe Olney girls called him awkward, preferring almost anyone else for apartner, and so he abandoned the floor and cultivated his head ratherthan his heels. He liked to see dancing, and at first it was ratherpleasant watching Ethelyn's lithe figure gliding gracefully through theintricate movements of the Lancers; but when it came to the waltz, hewas not so sure about it, and he wondered if it were necessary for FrankVan Buren to clasp her as tightly about the waist as he did, or for herto lean so languidly upon his shoulder. 

Richard was not naturally jealous--certainly not of Frank Van Buren; buthe would rather his wife should not waltz with him or any other man, andso he said to her, asking this concession on her part in return for allhe had promised to attempt; and to Ethelyn's credit we record that sheyielded to her husband's wishes, and, greatly to Frank's surprise, declined the waltz which he had proposed the following evening. But shemade amends in other dances, keeping poor Richard waiting for her nightafter night, until he actually fell asleep and dreamed of the log cabinon the prairie, where he had once danced a quadrille with Abigail Jonesto the tune of Money-musk, as played by the Plympton brothers--the oneon a cracked violin, and the other on an accordion. 

A tap of Mrs. Tophevie's fan brought him back to consciousness, and hewas almost guilty of a sigh as the log cabin faded from his vision, withthe Plymptons and Abigail Jones, leaving instead that heated ballroom, with its trained orchestra, its bevy of fair young girls, its score ofwhite-kidded dandies with wasp-like waists and perfumed locks, and Ethiesmiling in their midst. 

Saratoga did not agree with Richard. He grew sick first of the water;then of the fare; then of the daily routine of fashionable follies; thenof the people; and then, oh! so sick of the petty lectures which Ethelyngradually resumed as he failed in his attempts to imitate Frank VanBuren and appear perfectly at ease in everybody's presence. Saratoga wasa "confounded bore, " he said, and though he called himself a brute, anda savage, and a heathen, he was only very glad when toward the last ofAugust Ethelyn became so seriously indisposed as to make a longer stayin Saratoga impossible. Newport, of course, was given up, and Ethelyn'sdesire was to go back to Chicopee and lie down again in the dear oldroom which had been hers from childhood. Aunt Barbara's toast, AuntBarbara's tea, and Aunt Barbara's nursing, would soon bring her allright again, she said; but in this she was mistaken, for although thetoast, and the tea, and the nursing each came in its turn, the Septemberflowers had faded, and the trees on the Chicopee hills were beginning toflaunt their bright October robes ere she recovered from the low, nervous fever, induced by the mental and bodily excitement through whichshe had passed during the last three or four months. 

Although he knew it was necessary that he should be at home if he wouldtransact any business before the opening of his next session inWashington, Richard put aside all thoughts of self, and nursed his wifewith a devotedness which awakened her liveliest gratitude. 

Richard was not awkward in the sick-room. It seemed to be his specialprovidence, and as he had once nursed and cared for Daisy and the babybrother who died, so he now cared for Ethelyn, until she began to misshim when he left her side, and to listen for his returning step when hewent out for an hour or so to smoke and talk politics with his uncle, Captain Markham. With Mrs. Dr. Van Buren and Frank and the fashionableworld all away, Richard's faults were not so perceptible, and Ethelyneven began to look forward with considerable interest to the time whenshe should be able to start for her Western home, about which she hadbuilt many delusive castles. Her piano had already been sent on inadvance, she saying to Susie Granger, who came in while it was beingboxed, that as they were not to keep house till spring she should nottake furniture now. Possibly they could find what they needed inChicago; if not, they could order from Boston. 

Richard, who overheard this remark, wondered what it meant, for he hadnot the most remote idea of separating himself from his mother. She wasvery essential to his happiness; and he was hardly willing to confess tohimself how much during the last summer he had missed her. She had a wayof petting him and deferring to his judgment and making him feel thatRichard Markham was a very nice kind of man, far different fromEthelyn's criticisms, which had sometimes led him seriously to inquirewhether he were a fool or not. No, he could not live apart from hismother--he was firm upon that point; but there was time enough to say sowhen the subject should be broached to him. So he went on nailing downthe cover to the pine box, and thinking as he nailed what a nice kitchencupboard the box would make when once it was safely landed at his homein the prairie, and wondering, too, how his mother--who was not veryfond of music--would bear the sound of the piano and if Ethie would bewilling for Melinda Jones to practice upon it. He knew Melinda had takenlessons at Camden, where she had been to school, and he had heard herexpress a wish that someone nearer than the village had an instrument, as she should soon forget all she had learned. Somehow Melinda was agood deal in Richard's mind, and when a button was missing from hisshirts, or his toes came through his socks--as was often the case atSaratoga--he found himself thinking of the way Melinda had of helping"fix his things" when he was going from home, and of hearing his mothersay what a handy girl she was, and what a thrifty, careful wife shewould make. He meant nothing derogatory to Ethelyn in thesereminiscences; he would not have exchanged her for a thousand Melindas, even if he had to pin his shirt bosoms together and go barefoot all hislife. But Melinda kept recurring to his mind much as if she had been hissister, and he thought it would be but a simple act of gratitude for allshe had done for him to give her the use of the piano for at least onehour each day. 

In blissful ignorance of all that was meditated against her, Ethelyn sawher piano taken away from the sitting room, where it would never standagain, and saw the tears which rolled down Aunt Barbara's faded cheeksas she, too, watched its going, and tried to fill up the vacancy it leftby moving a chair and a table and a footstool into the gap. Those werehard days for Aunt Barbara, harder than for Ethelyn, who liked theexcitement of traveling, and was almost glad when the crisp Octobermorning came on which she was to say good-by to the home which was hersno longer. Her two huge trunks stood in the hall, together with thesquare hair trunk which held Richard's wardrobe, and the three tin cansof peaches Mrs. Captain Markham was sending to her sister-in-law, withthe injunction to be sure and get that particular patent for cans if shewished her fruit to keep. In addition to these, an immense box had beenforwarded by express, containing, besides Ethelyn's wearing apparel, many little ornaments and pictures and brackets, which, during thewinter, might perhaps adorn the walls of the parlor where Daisy'spicture hung, and where, Richard had said, was also an oil-painting ofNiagara, omitting to add that it was the handiwork of Melinda Jones, that young lady having dabbled in paints as well as music during her twoterms schooling at Camden. Tucked away in various parts of the box werealso sundry presents, which, at Mrs. Dr. Van Buren's suggestion, Ethelynhad bought for her husband's family. For James, who, she had heardRichard say, was an inveterate smoker, there was a handsome velvetsmoking-cap which, having been bought at Saratoga, had cost an enormoussum; for John, an expensive pair of elaborately wrought slippers hadbeen selected; but when it came to Anderson, as Ethelyn persisted incalling the brother whom Richard always spoke of as Andy, she felt alittle perplexed as to what would be appropriate. Richard had talkedvery little of him--so little, in fact, that she knew nothing whateverof his tastes, except from the scrap of conversation she onceaccidentally overheard when the old captain was talking to Richard ofhis brothers. 

"Does Andy like busts as well as ever?" the captain had asked, butRichard's reply was lost as Ethelyn walked on. 

Still, she had heard enough to give her some inkling with regard to themysterious Andy. Probably he was more refined than either James orJohn--at all events, he was evidently fond of statuary, and his tastesshould be gratified. Accordingly, Boston was ransacked by Mrs. Dr. VanBuren for an exquisite head of Schiller, done in marble, and costingthirty dollars. Richard did not see it. The presents were a secret fromhim, all except the handsome point-lace coiffure which Aunt Barbarasent to Mrs. Markham, together with a letter which she had sat up tillmidnight to write, and in which she had touchingly commended her darlingto the new mother's care and consideration. 

"You will find my Ethie in some respects a spoiled child--[she wrote]but it is more my fault than hers. I have loved her so much, and pettedher so much, that I have doubt if she knows what a harsh word or crosslook means. She has been carefully and delicately brought up, but hasrepaid me well for all my pains by her tender love. Please, dear Mrs. Markham, be very, very kind to her, and you will greatly oblige, yourmost obedient servant, "BARBARA BIGELOW. 

"P. S. I dare say your ways out West are not exactly like our ways at theEast, and Ethie may not fall in with them at once, perhaps never withsome of them, but I am sure she will do what is right, as she is asensible girl. Again, yours with regret, B. B. "

The writing of this letter was not perhaps the wisest thing Aunt Barbaracould have done, but she was incited to it by what her sister Sophiatold her of the rumors concerning Mrs. Markham, and her own fears lestEthelyn should not be as comfortable with the new mother-in-law as waswholly desirable. To Richard himself she had said that she presumed thathis mother's ways were not like Ethie's--old people were different fromyoung ones--the world had improved since their day, and instead oftrying to bring young folks altogether to their modes of thinking, itwas well for both to yield something. That was the third time Richardhad heard his mother's ways alluded to; first by Mrs. Jones, who calledthem queer; second, by Mrs. Dr. Van Buren, who, for Ethie's sake hadalso dropped a word of caution, hinting that his mother's ways mightpossibly be a little peculiar; and lastly by good Aunt Barbara, whosignalized them as different from Ethelyn's. 

What did it mean, and why had he never discovered anything amiss in hismother? He trusted that Mrs. Jones, and Mrs. Van Buren, and Aunt Barbarawere mistaken. On the whole, he knew they were; and even if they werenot his mother could not do wrong to Ethie, while Ethie would, ofcourse, be willing to conform to any request made by a person so mucholder than herself as his mother was. So Richard dismissed that subjectfrom his mind, and Ethelyn--having never heard it agitated, except thattime when, with Mrs. Jones on his mind, Richard had thought proper tosuggest the propriety of her humoring his mother--felt no fears of Mrs. Markham, senior, whom she still associated in her mind with heavy blacksilk, gold-bowed spectacles, handsome lace and fleecy crochet-work. 

The October morning was clear and crisp and frosty, and the sun had notyet shown itself above the eastern hills, when Captain Markham'scarryall drove to Aunt Barbara's gate, followed by the longdemocratic-wagon which was to take the baggage. Ethelyn's spoiledtraveling dress had been replaced by a handsome poplin, which was madein the extreme of fashion, and fitted her admirably, as did everyportion of her dress, from her jaunty hat and dotted lace veil to theAlexandre kids and fancy little gaiters which encased her feet andhands. She was prettier even than on her bridal day, Richard thought, ashe kissed away the tears which dropped so fast even after the lastgood-by had been said to poor Aunt Barbara, who watched the flutter ofEthie's veil and ribbons as far as they could be seen, and then in thesecrecy of her own room knelt and prayed that God would bless and keepher darling, and make her happy in the new home to which she was going. 

It was very quiet and lonely in the Bigelow house that day, Aunt Barbarawalking softly and speaking slowly, as if the form of someone dead hadbeen borne from her side, while on the bed, which the housemaid Bettyhad made so plump and round there was a cavity made by Aunt Barbara'shead, which hid itself there many times as the good woman wentrepeatedly to God with the pain gnawing so at her heart. But in theevening, when a cheerful wood fire was kindled on the hearth of herpleasant sitting room, while Mrs. Captain Markham came in with herknitting work, to sit until the Captain called for her on his returnfrom the meeting where he was to oppose with all his might the buildingof a new schoolhouse, to pay for which he would be heavily taxed, shefelt better, and could talk composedly of the travelers, who by thattime were nearing Rochester, where they would spend the night. 

Although very anxious to reach home, Richard had promised that Ethelynshould only travel through the day, as she was not as strong as beforeher illness. And to this promise he adhered, so that it was near themiddle of the afternoon of the fifth day that the last change was made, and they took the train that would in two hours' time deposit them atOlney. At Camden, the county seat, they waited for a few moments. Therewas always a crowd of people here going out to different parts of thecountry, and as one after another came into the car Richard seemed toknow them all, while the cordial and rather noisy greeting which theygave "the Judge" struck Ethelyn a little oddly--it was so different fromthe quiet, undemonstrative manner to which she had been accustomed. Withat least a dozen men in shaggy overcoats and slouched hats she shookhands with a tolerably good grace, but when there appeared a tall, lank, bearded young giant of a fellow, with a dare-devil expression in hisblack eyes and a stain of tobacco about his mouth, she drew back, and tohis hearty "How are ye, Miss Markham? Considerable tuckered out, Ireckon?" she merely responded with a cool bow and a haughty stare, intended to put down the young man, whom Richard introduced as "TimJones, " and who, taking a seat directly in front of her, poured forth avolley of conversation, calling Richard sometimes "Dick, " sometimes"Markham, " but oftener "Squire, " as he had learned to do when Richardwas justice of the peace in Olney. Melinda, too, or "Melind, " wasmentioned as having been over to the "Squire's house helping the oldlady to fix up a little, " and then Ethelyn knew that the "savage" wasno other than brother to Abigail Jones, deceased. The discovery was nota pleasant one, and did not tend to smooth her ruffled spirits or lessenthe feeling of contempt for Western people in general, and Richard'sfriends in particular, which had been growing in her heart ever sincethe Eastern world was left behind and she had been fairly launched uponthe great prairies of the Mississippi Valley. Richard was a princecompared with the specimens she had seen, though she did wonder that heshould be so familiar with them, calling them by their first names, andeven bandying jokes with the terrible Tim Jones spitting his tobaccojuice all over the car floor and laughing so loudly at all the "Squire"said. It was almost too dreadful to endure, and Ethelyn's head wasbeginning to ache frightfully when the long train came to a pause, andthe conductor, who also knew Judge Markham, and called him "Dick, "screamed through the open door "O-l-ney!"

Ethelyn was at home at last. 

CHAPTER VI

MRS. MARKHAM'S WAYS

They were very peculiar, and no one knew this better than Mrs. Jones andher daughter Melinda, sister and mother to the deceased Abigail and theredoubtable Tim. Naturally bright and quick-witted, Melinda caughtreadily at any new improvement, and the consequence was that the Joneshouse bore unmistakable signs of having in it a grown-up daughter whosenew ideas of things kept the old ideas from rusting. After Melinda camehome from boarding-school the Joneses did not set the table in thekitchen close to the hissing cook stove, but in the pleasant diningroom, where there gradually came to be crocheted tidies on the backs ofthe rocking-chairs, and crayon sketches on the wall, and a pot ofgeraniums in the window, with a canary bird singing in his cage near by. At first, Mrs. Markham, who felt a greater interest in the Joneses thanin any other family--Mrs. Jones being the only woman in the circle ofher acquaintance to whom she would lend her copper boiler--looked alittle askance at these "new-fangled notions, " wondering how "Miss Jonesexpected to keep the flies out of her house if she had all the doorsa-flyin' three times a day, " and fearing lest Melinda was getting"stuck-up notions in her head, which would make her fit for nothing. "

But when she found there were no more flies buzzing in Farmer Jones'kitchen than in her own, and that Melinda worked as much as ever, andwas just as willing to lend a helping hand when there was need of hasteat the Markham house, her anxiety subsided, and the Joneses were welcometo eat wherever they chose, or even to have to wait upon the table, whenthere was company, the little black boy Pete, whom Tim had bought at aslave auction in New Orleans, whither he had gone on a flatboatexpedition two or three years before. But she never thought ofintroducing any of Melinda's notions into her own household. She "couldnot fuss" to keep so many rooms clean. If in winter time she kept a firein the front room, where in one corner her own bed was curtained off, and if in summer she always sat there when her work was done, it was allthat could be required of her, and was just as they used to do at herfather's, in Vermont, thirty years ago. Her kitchen was larger than Mrs. Jones', which was rather uncomfortable on a hot day when there waswashing to be done; the odor of the soap-suds was a little sickeningthen, she admitted, but in her kitchen it was different; she had had aneye to comfort when they were building, and had seen that the kitchenwas the largest, airiest, lightest room in the house, with four windows, two outside doors, and a fireplace, where, although they had a stove, she dearly loved to cook just as her mother had done in Vermont, andwhere hung an old-fashioned crane, with iron hooks suspended from it. Here she washed, and ironed, and ate, and performed her ablutions in thebright tin basin which stood in the sink near to the pail, with thegourd swinging in the top, and wiped her face on the rolling towel andcombed her hair before the clock, which served the double purpose oflooking-glass and timepiece. When company came--and Mrs. Markham was notinhospitable--the east room, where the bed stood, was opened; and if thecompany, as was sometimes the case, chanced to be Richard's friends, sheused the west room across the hall, where the chocolate-colored paperand Daisy's picture hung, and where, upon the high mantel, there was aplaster image of little Samuel, and two plaster vases filled withcolored fruit. The carpet was a very pretty Brussels, but it did notquite cover the floor on either side. It was a small pattern, and onthis account had been offered a shilling cheaper a yard, and so theeconomical Mrs. Markham had bought it, intending to eke out thedeficiency with drugget of a corresponding shade; but the merchant didnot bring the drugget, and the carpet was put down, and time went on, and the strips of painted board were still uncovered, save by thestraight row of haircloth chairs, which stood upon one side, and theold-fashioned sofa, which had cost fifty dollars, and ought to last atleast as many years. There was a Boston rocker, and a center table, withthe family Bible on it, and a volume of Scott's Commentaries, andfrosted candlesticks on the mantel and two sperm candles in them, withcolored paper, pink and green, all fancifully notched and put aroundthem, and a bureau in the corner, which held the boys' Sunday shirts andMrs. Markham's black silk dress, with Daisy's clothes in the bottomdrawer, and the silver plate taken from her coffin. There was agilt-framed looking-glass on the wall, and blue paper curtains at thewindows, which were further ornamented with muslin drapery. This was thegreat room--the parlor--where Daisy had died, and which, on thataccount, was a kind of sacred place to those who held the memory of thatsweet, little prairie blossom as the dearest memory of their lives. Hadshe lived, with her naturally refined tastes, and her nicety ofperceptions, there was no guessing what that farmhouse might have been, for a young girl makes a deal of difference in any family. But she died, and so the house, which when she died, was not quite finished, remainedmuch as it was--a large, square building, minus blinds, with a widehall in the center opening in front upon a broad piazza, and openingback upon a stoop, the side entrance to the kitchen. There was a picketfence in front; but the yard was bare of ornament, if we except thelilac bushes under the parlor windows, the red peony in the corner, andthe clumps of violets and daisies, which grew in what was intended forborders to the walk, from the front gate to the door. Sometimes thesummer showed here a growth of marigolds, with sweet peas and chinaasters, for Andy was fond of flowers, and when he had leisure he did alittle floral gardening; but this year, owing to Richard's absence, there had been more to do on the farm, consequently the ornamental hadbeen neglected, and the late autumn flowers which, in honor of Ethelyn'sarrival, were standing in vases on the center table and the mantel, werecontributed by Melinda Jones, who had been very busy in other portionsof the house working for the bride. 

She could do this now without a single pang of jealousy, for she was asensible girl, and after a night and a day of heaviness, and a vaguesense of disappointment, she had sung as merrily as ever, and no one wasmore interested in the arrival of Richard's bride than she, from thetime when Richard started eastward for her. Between herself and hermother there had been a long, confidential conversation, touching Mrs. Markham's ways and the best means of circumventing them, so that the newwife might not be utterly crushed with homesickness and surprise whenshe first arrived. No one could manage Mrs. Markham as well as Melinda, and it was owing to her influence wholly that the large, pleasantchamber, which had been Richard's ever since he became a growing man, was renovated and improved until it presented a very invitingappearance. The rag carpet which for years had done duty, and bore manytraces of Richard's muddy boots, had been exchanged for a newingrain--not very pretty in design, or very stylish either, butpossessing the merit of being fresh and clean. To get the carpet Melindahad labored assiduously, and had enlisted all three of the brothers, James, and John, and Andy in the cause before the economical motherconsented to the purchase. The rag carpet, if cleaned and mended, was asgood as ever, she insisted; and even if it were not, she could put onone that had not seen so much actual service. It was Andy who finallydecided her to indulge in the extravagance urged by Melinda Jones. Therewere reasons why Andy was very near to his mother's heart, and when heoffered to sell his brown pony, which he loved as he did his eyes, hismother yielded the point, and taking with her both Mrs. Jones andMelinda, went to Camden, and sat two mortal hours upon rolls ofcarpeting while she decided which to take. 

Mrs. Markham was not stingy with regard to her table; that was alwaysloaded with the choicest of everything, while many a poor family blessedher as an angel. But the articles she ate were mostly the products oftheir large, well-cultivated farm; they did not cost money directly outof her hand, and it was the money she disliked parting with, so shetalked and dickered, and beat the Camden merchant down five cents on ayard, and made him cut it a little short, to save a waste, and made himthrow in the thread and binding and swear when she was gone, wonderingwho "the stingy old woman was. " And yet the very day after her returnfrom Camden "the stingy old woman" had sent to her minister a loaf ofbread and a pail of butter, and to a poor sick woman, who lived in aleaky cabin off in the prairie, a nice, warm blanket for her bed, with abasket of delicacies to tempt her capricious appetite. 

In due time the carpet had been made, Melinda Jones sewing up three ofthe seams, while Andy, who knew how to use the needle almost as well asa girl, claimed the privilege of sewing at least half a seam on the newsister's carpet. Adjoining Richard's chamber was a little room whereMrs. Markham's flour and meal and corn were kept, but which, with alittle fitting up, would answer nicely for a bedroom, and after anamount of engineering, which would have done credit to the general of anarmy, Melinda succeeded in coaxing Mrs. Markham to move her barrels andbags, and give up the room for Ethelyn's bed, which looked very nice andinviting, notwithstanding that the pillows were small, and the bedsteada high poster, which had been in use for twenty years. Mrs. Markham knewall about the boxes, as she called them. There was one in Mrs. Jones'front chamber, but she had never bought one, for what then would she dowith her old ones--"with them laced cords, " so greatly preferable to thehard slats, which nearly broke her back the night she slept on some at afriend's house in Olney. 

Richard was fond of books, and had collected from time to time awell-selected library, which was the only ornament in his room whenMelinda first took it in hand; but when she had finished her work--whenthe carpet was down, and the neat, white shades were up at the windows;when the books which used to be on the floor and table, and chairs, andmantel, and window sills, and anywhere, were neatly arranged in the veryrespectable shelves which Andy made and James had painted; when thelittle sewing chair designed for Ethelyn was put before one window, andRichard's arm-chair before the other, and the drab lounge was drawn alittle into the room, and the bureau stood corner-ways, with a bottle ofcologne upon it, which John had bought, and a pot of pomade Andy hadmade, and two little pink and white mats Melinda had crocheted, the roomwas very presentable. Great, womanish Andy was sure Ethelyn would bepleased, and rubbed his hands jubilantly over the result of his labors, while Melinda was certainly pardonable for feeling that in return forwhat she had done for Richard's wife she might venture to suggest thatthe huge box, marked piano, which for ten days had been standing on thefront piazza, be opened and the piano set up, so that she could try itstone. This box had cost Andy a world of trouble, keeping him awakenights, and taking him from his bed more than once, as he fancied heheard a mysterious sound, and feared someone might be stealing theponderous thing, which it took four men to lift. With the utmostalacrity he helped in the unpacking, nearly bursting a blood-vessel ashe tugged at the heaviest end, and then running to the village with allhis speed, to borrow Mrs. Crandall's piano key, which, fortunately, fitted Ethelyn's, so that Melinda Jones was soon seated in state, andrunning her fingers over the superb five-hundred dollar instrument, Ethelyn's gift from Aunt Barbara on her nineteenth birthday. 

Melinda's fingers were strained and cut with carpet thread, and prickedwith carpet tacks, and red with washing dishes, but they moved nimblyover the keys, striking out with a will the few tunes she had learnedduring her two quarters' instruction. She had acquired a great deal ofknowledge in a short time, for she was passionately fond of music, andevery spare moment had been devoted to it, so that she had mastered thescales with innumerable exercises, besides learning several pieces, ofwhich Money-musk was one. This she now played with a sprightliness andenergy which brought Andy to his feet, while the cowhides moved to thestirring music in a fashion which would have utterly confounded poorEthelyn could she have seen them. But Ethelyn was miles and miles away. She was not coming for a week or more, and in that time Andy tried hishand at Yankee Doodle, playing with one finger, and succeeding farbeyond his most sanguine expectations. Andy was delighted with thepiano, and so was Eunice, the hired girl, who left her ironing and herdishes, standing with wiping towel or flatiron in hand, humming anaccompaniment to Andy's playing, and sometimes helping to find theproper key to touch next. 

Eunice was not an Irish girl, nor a German, nor a Scotch, but afull-blooded American, and "just as good as her employers, " with whomshe always ate and sat. It was not Mrs. Markham's custom to keep a girlthe year round, but when she did it was Eunice Plympton, the daughter ofthe drunken fiddler who earned his livelihood by playing for the dancesthe young people of Olney sometimes got up. He was anticipating quite awindfall from the infair it was confidently expected would be given byMrs. Markham in honor of her son's marriage; and Eunice herself hadwashed and starched and ironed the white waist she intended to wear onthe same occasion. Of course she knew she would have to wait and tendand do the running, she said to Melinda, to whom she confided herthoughts, but after the supper was over she surely might have one littledance, if with nobody but Andy. 

This was Eunice, and she had been with Mrs. Markham during the pastsummer; but her time was drawing to a close. All the heavy work wasover, the harvests were gathered in, the soap was made, the cleaningdone, the house made ready for Richard's wife, and it was theunderstanding that when that lady came and was somewhat domesticated, Miss Eunice was to leave. There was not much to do in the winter, Mrs. Markham said, and with Richard's wife's help she should get along. Alas!how little Ethelyn was prepared for the home which awaited her, and forthe really good woman, who, on the afternoon of her son's arrival, sawinto the oven the young turkey which Andy had been feeding for so verylong with a view to this very day, and then helped Eunice set the tablefor the expected guests. 

It did occur to Mrs. Markham that there might be a great propriety inEunice's waiting for once, inasmuch as there were plates to change, andcustard pie and minced, and pudding, to be brought upon the table, forthey were having a great dinner, but the good woman did not dare hint atsuch a thing, so the seven plates were put upon the table, and the chinacups brought from the little cupboard at the side of the chimney, andthe silver teapot, which was a family heirloom, and had been given Mrs. Markham by her mother, was brought also and rubbed up with what Eunicecalled a "shammy, " and the pickles, and preserves, and honey, and cheeseand jellies, and the white raised biscuits and fresh brown bread, andshredded cabbage and cranberry sauce, with golden butter, and pitchersof cream, were all arranged according to Eunice's ideas. The turkey wasbrowning nicely, the vegetables were cooking upon the stove, the odor ofsilver-skinned onions pervading the entire house. Eunice was grindingthe coffee, and the clock said it wanted but half an hour of car-time, when Mrs. Markham finally left the kitchen and proceeded to makeher toilet. 

Eunice's had been made some time ago, and the large-sized hoop she worehad already upset a pail and dragged a griddle from the stove hearth, greatly to the discomfiture of Mrs. Markham, who did not fancy hoops, though she wore a small one this afternoon under her clean andstiffly-starched dress of purple calico. St. Paul would have made her anexception in his restrictions with regard to women's apparel, forneither gold nor silver ornaments, nor braided hair, found any tolerancein her. She followed St. Paul strictly, except at such times as the goodpeople in the Methodist church at the east end of the village held aprotracted meeting, when she deviated so far from his injunction as tospeak her mind and tell her experience. 

She was a good and conscientious woman, practicing what she preached, and believing more in the inner than the outer adorning; but she lookedvery neat this afternoon in her purple calico, with a motherly whiteapron tied around her waist, and her soft, silvery hair combed smoothlyback from her forehead and twisted in a knot behind, about the size of ahalf dollar. This knot however, was hidden by the headdress whichMelinda had made from bits of black lace and purple ribbon, and which, though not at all like Aunt Barbara's Boston caps, was still veryrespectable, and even tasteful-looking. Almost too tasteful, Mrs. Markham thought, as she glanced at the tiny artificial flower tucked inamong the bows of ribbon. But Mrs. Markham did not remove the flower, for it was a daisy, and it made her think of the Daisy who died fourteenyears ago, and who, had she lived till now, would have beentwenty-eight. 

"A married woman, most likely, and I might have been grandmother, " Mrs. Markham sighed, and then, as she heard in fancy the patter of littlefeet at her side, and saw before her little faces with a look like Daisyin them, her thoughts went softly out to Richard's bride, through whomthis coveted blessing might come to her quiet household, and her heartthrobbed with a quick sudden yearning for the young daughter-in-law, now just alighting at the Olney station, for the Eastern train had come, and James was there with the democrat-wagon to meet it. 

CHAPTER VII

GETTING HOME

Olney was a thriving, busy little town, numbering five hundredinhabitants or thereabouts. It had its groceries, its dry goods stores, and its two houses for public worship--the Methodist andPresbyterian--while every other Sunday a little band of Episcopaliansmet for their own service in what was called the Village Hall, where, during week days, a small, select school was frequently taught by someYankee schoolmistress. It had its post office, too; and there was alsotalk of a bank after the railroad came that way, and roused the peopleto a state of still greater activity. On the whole, it was a prettytown, though different from Chicopee, where the houses slept soaristocratically under the shadow of the old elms, which had beengrowing there since the day when our national independence was declared. 

At home Ethelyn's pride had all been centered in Boston, and she hadsometimes thought a little contemptuously of Chicopee and itssurroundings; but the farther she traveled west the higher Chicopee rosein her estimation, until she found herself comparing every prairievillage with that rural town among the hills, which seemed to give itdignity, and made it so greatly superior to the dead levels of which shewas getting so weary. She had admired the rolling prairies at first, but, tired and jaded with her long journey, nothing looked well to hernow--nothing was like Chicopee--certainly not Olney, where the dwellingslooked so new and the streets were minus sidewalks. 

Ethelyn had a good view of it as the train approached it and even caughta passing glimpse of the white house in the distance which Richardpointed out as home, his face lighting up with all the pleasure of aschoolboy as he saw the old familiar waymarks and felt that he washome at last. 

Dropping her veil over her face Ethelyn arose to follow her husband, whoin his eagerness to grasp the hand of the tall, burly young man he hadseen from the window, forgot to carry her shawl and her satchel, whichlast being upon the car-rack, she tugged at it with all her strength, and was about crying with vexation at Richard's thoughtlessness, whenTim Jones, who while rolling his quid of tobacco in his great mouth, hadwatched her furtively, wondering how she and Melind would get along, gallantly came to her aid, and taking the satchel down kept it uponhis arm. 

"Take care of that air step. Better let me help you out. Dick is sotickled to see Jim that he even forgets his wife, I swan!" Tim said, offering to assist her from the train; but with a feeling of disgust toodeep to be expressed, Ethelyn declined the offer and turned away fromhim to meet the curious gaze of the young man whom Richard presented asbrother James. 

He was younger than his brother by half a dozen years, but he lookedquite as old, if not older. His face and hands were sunburnt and brown, his clothes were coarse, his pants were tucked into his tall, muddyboots, and he held in his hands the whip with which he had driven theshining bays, pricking up their ears behind the depot and eyeing askancethe train just beginning to move away. The Markhams were allgood-looking, and James was not an exception. The Olney girls called himvery handsome, when on Sunday he came to church in his best clothes andled the Methodist choir; but Ethelyn only thought him rough, and coarse, and vulgar, and when he bent down to kiss her she drew back haughtily. 

"Ethelyn!" Richard said, in the low, peculiar tone, which she had almostunconsciously learned to fear, just as she did the dark expression whichhis hazel eyes assumed as he said the single word "Ethelyn!"

She was afraid of Richard when he looked and spoke that way, and puttingup her lip, she permitted the kiss which the warm-hearted James gave toher. He was naturally more demonstrative than his brother, and moresusceptible, too; a pretty face would always set his heart to beatingand call out all the gallantry of his nature. Wholly unsophisticated, henever dreamed of the gulf there was between him and the new sister, whomhe thought so beautiful--loving her at once, because she was so pretty, and because she was the wife of Dick, their household idol. He was moreof a ladies' man than Richard, and when on their way to thedemocratic-wagon they came to a patch of mud, through which Ethelyn'sskirts were trailing, he playfully lifted her in his strong arms, andset her down upon the wagon-box, saying, as he adjusted her skirts: "Wecan't have that pretty dress spoiled, the very first day, withIowa mud. "

All this time Tim Jones had been dutifully holding the satchel, which henow deposited at Ethelyn's feet, and then, at James' invitation, hesprang into the hinder part of the wagon-box, and sitting down, let hislong limbs dangle over the backboard, while James sat partly inRichard's lap and partly in Ethelyn's. It had been decided that thedemocrat must come down again for the baggage; and so, three on a seat, with Tim Jones holding on behind, Ethelyn was driven through the town, while face after face looked at her from the windows of the differentdwellings, and comment after comment was made upon her pretty littleround hat, with its jaunty feather, which style had not then penetratedso far west as Olney. Rumors there were of the Eastern ladies wearinghats which made them look at least ten years younger than their actualage; but Ethelyn was the first to carry the fashion to Olney, and shewas pronounced very stylish, and very girlish, too, by those who watchedher curiously from behind their curtains and blinds. 

It was the close of a chill October day, and a bank of angry clouds hungdarkly in the western sky, while the autumn wind blew across theprairie; but colder, blacker, chillier far than prairie winds, orthreatening clouds, or autumnal day was the shadow resting on Ethelyn'sheart, and making her almost cry out with loneliness and homesickness, as they drew near the house where the blue paper curtains were hangingbefore the windows and Eunice Plympton's face was pressed against thepane. The daisies and violets and summer grass were withered and dead, and the naked branches of the lilac bush brushed against the house witha mournful, rasping sound, which reminded her of the tall sign-post inChicopee, which used to creak so in the winter wind, and keep her AuntBarbara awake. To the right of the house, and a little in the rear, wereseveral large, square corn-cribs, and behind these an inclosure in whichnumerous cattle, and horses, and pigs were industriously feeding, whilethe cobs, stripped, and soiled, and muddy, were scattered everywhere. Ethelyn took it all in at a glance, exclaiming, in a smothered voice, asthe wagon turned into the lane which led to the side door, "Not here, Richard; surely, not here!"

But Richard, if he heard her, did not heed her. He could not comprehendher utter desolation and crushing disappointment. Her imaginings of hishome had never been anything like this reality, and for a moment shefelt as if in a kind of horrible nightmare, from which she struggledto awake. 

"Oh! if it were only a dream, " she thought; but it was no dream, thoughas Richard himself lifted her carefully from the wagon, and depositedher upon the side stoop, there came a mist before her eyes, and for aninstant sense and feeling forsook her; but only for an instant, for thehall door was thrown open, and Richard's mother came out to greet herson and welcome her new daughter. 

But alas for Ethelyn's visions of heavy silk and costly lace! How theyvanished before this woman in purple calico, with ruffles of the samestanding up about the throat, and the cotton lace coiffure upon herhead! She was very glad to see her boy and wound both her arms aroundhis neck, but she was afraid of Ethelyn. She, too, had had her ideal, but it was not like this proud-looking beauty, dressed so stylishly, and, as it seemed to her so extravagantly, with her long, full skirt ofhandsome poplin trailing so far behind her, and her basque fitting hergraceful figure so admirably. Neither did the hat, rolled so jauntily onthe sides, and giving her a coquettish appearance, escape her notice, nor the fact that the dotted veil was not removed from the white face, even after Richard had put the little, plump hand in hers, and said:

"This, mother, is Ethie, my wife. I hope you will love each other for mysake. "

In her joy at seeing her pet boy again, Mrs. Markham would have done agreat deal for his sake, but she could not "kiss a veil, " as sheafterwards said to Melinda Jones, when she reached the point where shetalked straight out about her daughter-in-law. No, she could not kiss aveil, and so she only held and pressed Ethelyn's hand, and leading herinto the house, told her she was very welcome, and bade her come to thefire and take off her things, and asked if she was not tired, and coldand hungry. 

And Ethelyn tried to answer, but the great lumps were swelling in herthroat, and so keen a pain was tugging at her heart that when at last, astonished at her silence, Richard said, "What is the matter, Ethie--whydon't you answer mother?" she burst out in a pitiful cry:

"Oh, Richard, I can't, I can't; please take me back to Aunt Barbara. "

This was the crisis, the concentration of all she had been suffering forthe last hour, and it touched Mrs. Markham's heart, for she rememberedjust how wretched she had been when she first landed at the rude logcabin which was so long her Western home, and turning to Richard, shesaid, in an aside:

"She is homesick, poor child, as it's natural she should be at first. She'll be better by and by, so don't think strange of it. She seemsvery young. "

In referring to her youth, Mrs. Markham meant nothing derogatory to herdaughter-in-law, though Ethelyn did strike her as very young, in herpretty hat with her heavy hair low in her neck. She was finding anexcuse for her crying, and did not mean that Ethelyn should hear. Butshe did hear, and the hot tears were dashed aside at once. She was tooproud to be petted or patronized by Mrs. Markham, or apologized for byher, so she dried her eyes, and lifting her head, said proudly:

"I am tired to-night, and my head is aching so hard that I lost myself-control. I beg you will excuse me. Richard knows me too well toneed an excuse. "

A born duchess could not have assumed a loftier air, and in someperplexity Mrs. Markham glanced from her to Richard, as if asking whatto do next. Fortunately for all parties, Andy just then came in with hisbrother John, who approached his new sister with some little hesitation. He had heard Tim Jones' verdict, "Stuck up as the old Nick, " while evencautious James had admitted his fears that Dick had made a mistake, andtaken a wife who would never fit their ways. And this was why John hadbeen so late with his welcome. He had crept up the back stairs, anddonned his best necktie, and changed his heavy boots for a pair ofshoes, which left exposed to view a portion of his blue yarn socks. Hehad before changed his coat and vest, and tied on a handkerchief, but itwas not his best; not the satin cravat, with the pretty bow MelindaJones had made, and in which was stuck a rather fanciful pin he wore ongreat occasions. He was all right now, and he shook hands with his newsister, and asked if she were pretty well, and told her she was welcome, and then stepped back for Andy, who had been making his toilet when thebride arrived, and so was late with his congratulations. 

CHAPTER VIII

ANDY

Andy was a character in his way. A fall from his horse upon the groundhad injured his head when he was a boy, and since that time he had beenwhat his mother called a little queer, while the neighbors spoke of himas simple Andy, or Mrs. Markham's half-wit, who did the work of a girland knit all his own socks. He was next to Richard in point of age, buthe looked younger than either of his brothers, for his face was roundand fair, and smooth as any girl's. It is true that every Sunday of hislife he made a great parade with lather and shaving-cup, standing beforethe glass in his shirt-sleeves, just as the other boys did, andflourishing his razor around his white throat and beardless face, to theamusement of anyone who chanced to see him for the first time. 

In his younger days, when the tavern at the Cross Roads was just opened, Andy had been a sore trial to both mother and brothers, and many anight, when the rain and sleet were driving across the prairies, Richardhad left the warm fireside and gone out in the storm after the erringAndy, who had more than once been found by the roadside, with his hatjammed into every conceivable shape, his face scratched, and a tell-talesmell about his breath which contradicted his assertion "that somebodyhad knocked him down. "

Andy had been intemperate, and greatly given to what the old Captain inChicopee had designated as "busts"; but since the time when the churchmissionary, young Mr. Townsend, had come to Olney, and held his firstservice in the log schoolhouse, Andy had ceased to frequent the CrossRoads tavern, and Richard went no more in the autumnal storms to lookfor his wayward brother. There was something in the beautiful simplicityof the church service which went straight to Andy's heart, and more thanall, there was something in Mr. Townsend's voice, and manner, and face, which touched a responsive chord in the breast of the boyish Andy, andwhen at last the bishop came to that section of Iowa, his hands werefirst laid in blessing on the bowed head of Andy, who knelt to receivethe rite of confirmation in the presence of a large concourse of people, to most of whom the service and ceremony were entirely new. 

While rejoicing and thanking God for the change, which she felt waswholly sincere, Mrs. Markham had deeply deplored the pertinacity withwhich Andy had clung to his resolve to join "Mr. Townsend's church ornone. " She did not doubt Mr. Townsend's piety or Andy's either, but shedoubted the Episcopalians generally because they did not require morethan God himself requires, and it hurt her sore that Andy should go withthem rather than to her church across the brook, where Father Aberdeenpreached every Sunday against the pride, and pomp, and worldlinessgenerally of his Episcopal brethren. Andy believed in Mr. Townsend, andin time he came to believe heart and soul in the church doctrines astaught by him, and the beautiful consistency of his daily life was tohis mother like a constant and powerful argument in favor of the churchto which he belonged, while to his brothers it was a powerful argumentin favor of the religion he professed. 

That Andy Markham was a Christian no one doubted. It showed itself inevery act of his life; it shone in his beaming, good-natured face, andmade itself heard in the touching pathos of his voice, when he repeatedaloud in his room the prayers of his church, saying to his mother, whenshe objected that his prayers were made up beforehand: "And for theland's sake, ain't the sams and hims, which are nothing but prayers setto music, made up beforehand? A pretty muss you'd have of it ifeverybody should strike out for himself, a singin' his own words just asthey popped into his head. "

Mrs. Markham was not convinced, but she let Andy alone after that, simply remarking that "the prayer-book would not always answer thepurpose; there would come a time when just what he wanted wasnot there. "

Andy was willing to wait till that time came, trusting to Mr. Townsendto find for him some way of escape; and so the matter dropped, and hewas free to read his prayers as much as he pleased. He had heard fromRichard that his new sister was of his way of thinking--that though nota member of the church except by baptism, she was an Episcopalian, andwould be married by that form. 

It was strange how Andy's great, warm heart went out toward Ethelynafter that. He was sure to like her; and on the evening of the bridal, when the clock struck nine, he had taken his tallow candle to his room, and opening his prayer-book at the marriage ceremony, had read itcarefully through, even to the saying: "I, Richard, take thee, Ethelyn, "etc. , kneeling at the proper time, and after he was through evenventuring to improvise a prayer of his own, in which he asked, not thatEthelyn might be happy with his brother--there was no doubt on thatpoint, for Richard was perfect in his estimation--but that "old Dick"might be happy with her--that he, Andy, might do his whole duty by her, and that, if it was right to ask it, she might bring him something fromthat famous Boston, which seemed to him like a kind of paradise, andalso that she need not at once discover that he did not know as much as"old Dick. "

This was Andy's prayer, which he had confessed to Mr. Townsend; and now, all shaven and shorn, with his best Sunday coat and a large bandanna inhis hand, he came in to greet his sister. It needed but a glance forEthelyn to know the truth, for Andy's face told what he was; but therewas something so kind in his expression and so winning in his voice, ashe called her "Sister Ethie, " that she unbent to him as she had unbentto no one else; and when he stooped to kiss her, she did not draw backas she had from James and John, but promptly put up her lips, and onlywinced a very little at the second loud, hearty smack which Andy gaveher, his great mouth leaving a wet spot on her cheek, which she wipedaway with her handkerchief. 

Richard had dreaded the meeting between his polished wife and his simplebrother more than anything else, and several times he had tried toprepare Ethelyn for it, but he could not bring himself to say, "Andy isfoolish"; for when he tried to do it Andy's pleading face came up beforehim just as it looked on the morning of his departure from home in June, when Andy had said to him: "Don't tell her what a shaller critter I am. Let her find it out by her learning. "

So Richard had said nothing particular of Andy, and now he watched himanxiously, to see the impression he was making, and, as he saw Ethelyn'smanner, marveling greatly at this new phase in her disposition. She didnot feel half so desolate after seeing Andy, and she let him hold herhand, which he stroked softly, admiring its whiteness, and evidentlycomparing it with his own. All the Markhams had large hands and feet, just as they were all good-looking. Even Andy had his points of beauty, for his soft brown hair was handsomer, if possible, than Richard's, andmore luxuriant, while many a city dandy might have coveted his white, even teeth, and his dark eyes were very placid and gentle in theirexpression. 

"Little sister" he called Ethelyn, who though not very short in stature, seemed to him so much younger than he had expected Dick's wife to bethat he applied the term "little" as he would to anything which hewished to pet. 

Ethelyn's hat was laid aside by this time, and the basquine, too, whichAndy thought the prettiest coat he had ever seen, and which Eunice, whowas bidden to carry Ethelyn's things away, tried on before the glass inEthelyn's chamber, as she did also the hat, deciding that Melinda Jonescould make her something like them out of a gray skirt she had at homeand one of Tim's palm-leaf hats. 

CHAPTER IX

DINNER, AND AFTER IT

Eunice had not fully seen the stranger, and so, when dinner wasannounced and Richard led her out, with Andy hovering at her side, shestood ready to be introduced, with the little speech she had beenrehearsing about "I hope to see you well, " etc. , trembling on the tip ofher tongue. But her plans were seriously disarranged. Six months beforeRichard would have presented her himself, as a matter of course; but hehad learned some things since then, and he tried not to see his mother'smeaning as she glanced from him to Eunice and then to Ethelyn, whoseproud, dignified bearing awed and abashed even her. Eunice, however, hadbeen made quite too much of to be wholly ignored now, and Mrs. Markhamfelt compelled to say, "Ethelyn, this--ah, this is--Eunice--EunicePlympton. "

That Eunice Plympton was the hired girl Ethelyn did not for a momentdream; but that she was coarse and vulgar, like the rest of Richard'sfamily, she at once decided, and if she bowed at all it was notperceptible to Eunice, who mentally resolved "to go home in the morningif such a proud minx was to live there. "

Mrs. Markham saw the gathering storm, and Richard knew by the drop ofher chin that Ethelyn had not made a good impression. How could she withthat proud cold look, which never for an instant left her face, butrather deepened in its expression as the dinner proceeded, and one afterthe other Mrs. Markham and Eunice left the table in quest of somethingthat was missing, while Andy himself, being nearest the kitchen, went tobring a pitcher of hot water for Ethelyn's coffee, lifting the kettlewith the skirt of his coat, and snapping his fingers, which wereslightly burned with the scalding steam. From the position she occupiedat the table Ethelyn saw the whole performance, and had it been in anyother house she would have smiled at Andy's grotesque appearance as heconverted his coat skirts into a holder; but now it only sent a colderchill to her heart as she reflected that these were Richard's people andthis was Richard's home. Sadly and vividly there arose before hervisions of dear Aunt Barbara's household, where Betty served so quietlyand where, except that they were upon a smaller scale, everything was aswell and properly managed as in Mrs. Dr. Van Buren's family. It wasseveral hours since she had tasted food, but she could scarcely swallowa morsel for the terrible homesick feeling swelling in her throat. Sheknew the viands before her were as nicely cooked as even Aunt Barbara orBetty could have cooked them--so much she conceded to Mrs. Markham andEunice; but had her life depended upon it she could not have eaten themand the plate which James had filled so plentifully scarcely diminishedat all. She did pick a little with her fork at the white, tender turkey, and tried to drink her coffee, but the pain in her head and the pain ather heart were both too great to allow of her doing more, and Mrs. Markham and Eunice both felt a growing contempt for a dainty thing whocould not eat the dinner they had been at so much pains to prepare. 

Ethelyn knew their opinion of her as well as if it had been expressed inwords; but they were so very far beneath her that whatsoever they mightthink was not of the slightest consequence. They were a vulgar, ignorantset, the whole of them, she mentally decided, as she watched theirmanners at table, noticing how James and John poured their coffee intotheir saucers, blowing it until it was cool, while Richard, feeling morefreedom now that he was again under his mother's wing, used his knifealtogether, even to eating jelly with it. Ethelyn was disgusted, andonce, as Richard's well-filled knife was moving toward his mouth, shegently touched his foot with her own; but if he understood her he didnot heed her, and went quietly on with his dinner. Indeed, it might betruly said of him that "Richard was himself again, " for his whole mannerwas that of a petted child, which, having returned to the mother whospoiled it, had cast off the restraint under which for a time it hadbeen laboring. Richard was hungry, and would have enjoyed his dinnerhugely but for the cold, silent woman beside him, who, he knew, waswatching and criticising all he did; but somehow at home he did not careso much for her criticisms as when alone with her at fashionable hotelsor with fashionable people. Here he was supreme, and none had everdisputed his will. Perhaps if Ethelyn had known all that was in hisheart she might have changed her tactics and tried to have been moreconciliatory on that first evening of her arrival at his home. ButEthelyn did not know--she only felt that she was homesick andwretched--and pleading a headache, from which she was really suffering, she asked to go to her room as soon as dinner was over. 

It was very pleasant up there, for a cheerful wood fire was blazing onthe hearth, and a rocking-chair drawn up before it, with a footstoolwhich Andy had made and Melinda covered, while the bed in the littleroom adjoining looked so fresh, and clean, and inviting, that with agreat sigh of relief, as the door closed between her and the "dreadfulpeople below, " Ethelyn threw herself upon it, and burying her face inthe soft pillows, tried to smother the sobs which, nevertheless, smoteheavily upon Richard's ear when he came in, and drove from him allthoughts of the little lecture he had been intending to give Ethelyntouching her deportment toward his folks. It would only be a fairreturn, he reflected, for all the Caudles he had listened to sopatiently, and duly strengthened for his task by his mother's remark toJames, accidentally overheard, "Altogether too fine a lady for us. Iwonder what Richard was thinking of, " he mounted the stairs resolved atleast to talk with Ethie and ask her to do better. 

Richard could be very stern when he tried, and the hazel of his eye wasdarker than usual, and the wrinkle between his eyebrows was deeper as hethus meditated harm against his offending wife. But the sight of thecrushed form lying so helplessly upon the bed and crying in such agrieved, heart-sick way, drove all thoughts of discipline from his mind. He could not add one iota to her misery. She might be cold, and proud, and even rude to his family, as she unquestionably had been, but she wasstill Ethie, his young wife, whom he loved so dearly; and bending overher, he smoothed the silken bands of her beautiful hair and said to hersoftly, "What is it, darling? Anything worse than homesickness? Hasanyone injured you?"

No one had injured her. On the contrary, all had met, or tried to meether with kindness, which she had thrust back upon them. Ethelyn knewthis as well as anyone, and Mrs. Markham, washing her dishes belowstairs, and occasionally wiping her eyes with the corner of the checkapron as she thought how all her trouble had been thrown away upon aproud, ungrateful girl, could not think less of Ethie than Ethie thoughtof herself, upstairs sobbing among the pillows. The family were ignorantand ill bred, as she counted ignorance and ill breeding; but they didmean to be kind to her, and she hated herself for her ingratitude in notat least seeming pleased with their endeavors to please her. Added tothis was a vague remembrance of a certain look seen in Richard's eye--alook which made her uneasy as she thought, "What if he should hateme, too?"

Richard was all Ethelyn had to cling to now. She respected, if she didnot love him, and when she heard his step upon the stairs, her heart, for an instant, throbbed with dread lest he was coming to chide her asshe deserved. When, then, he bent so kindly over her, and spoke to herso tenderly, all her better nature went out toward him in a sudden gushof something akin to love, and lifting her head, she laid it upon hisbosom, and drawing his arm around her neck, held it there with a senseof protection, while she said: "No one has injured me; but, oh, I am sohomesick, and they are all so different, and my head aches so hard. "

He knew she was homesick and it was natural that she should be; and heknew, too, that, as she said, they were "so different, " and though onthis point he could not fully appreciate her feelings he was sorry forher, and he soothed her aching head, and kissed her forehead, and toldher she was tired; she would feel better by and by, and get accustomedto their ways, and when, as he said this, he felt the shiver with whichshe repelled the assertion, he repressed his inclination to tell herthat she could at least conceal her aversion to whatever wasdisagreeable, and kissing her again, bade her lie down and try to sleep, as that would help her sooner than anything else, unless it were a cupof sage tea, such as his mother used to make for him when his head wasaching. Should he send Eunice up with a cup?

"No; oh, no, " and Ethelyn's voice expressed the disgust she felt for theyoung lady with red streamers in her hair, who had stared so at her andcalled her husband Richard. 

Ethelyn had not yet defined Eunice's position in the family--whether itwas that of cousin, or niece, or companion--and now that Richard hadsuggested her, she said to him:

"Who is this Eunice that seems so familiar?"

Richard hesitated a little and then replied:

"She is the girl who works for mother when we need help. "

"Not a hired girl--surely not a hired girl!" and Ethelyn opened herbrown eyes wide with surprise and indignation, wondering aloud what AuntSophia or Aunt Barbara would say if they knew she had eaten with andbeen introduced to a hired girl. 

Richard did not say, "Aunt Sophia or Aunt Barbara be hanged, orbe--anything, " but he thought it, just as he thought Ethelyn's ideasparticular and over-nice. Eunice Plympton was a respectable, trustygirl, and he believed in doing well for those who did well for him; butthat was no time to argue the point, and so he sat still and listened toEthelyn's complaint that Eunice had called him Richard, and wouldundoubtedly on the morrow address her as Ethelyn. Richard thought not, but changed his mind when, fifteen minutes later, he descended to thekitchen and heard Eunice asking Andy if he did not think "Ethelyn lookedlike the Methodist minister's new wife. "

This was an offense which even Richard could not suffer to passunrebuked, and sending Andy out on some pretext or other, he said thatto Eunice Plympton which made her more careful as to what she called hiswife, but he did it so kindly that she could not be offended with him, though she was strengthened in her opinion that "Miss Ethelyn was astuck-up, an upstart, and a hateful. Supposin' she had been waited onall her life, and brought up delicately, as Richard said, that was noreason why she need feel so big, and above speaking to a poor girl whenshe was introduced. " She guessed that "Eunice Plympton was fully asrespectable and quite as much thought on by the neighbors, if she didn'twear a frock coat and a man's hat with a green feather stuck in it. "

This was the substance of Eunice's soliloquy, as she cleaned thepotatoes for the morrow's breakfast, and laid the kindlings by thestove, ready for the morning fire. Still Eunice was not a bad-heartedgirl, and when Andy, who heard her mutterings, put in a plea forEthelyn, who he said "had never been so far away from home before, andwhose head was aching enough to split, " she began to relent, andproposed, of her own accord, to take up to the great lady a foot-bathtogether with hot water for her head. 

It was so long since Richard had been at home, and there was so much tohear of what had happened during his absence that instead of going backto Ethelyn he yielded to his mother's wish that he should stay with her, and sitting down in his arm-chair by the blazing fire, he found it sopleasant to be flattered and caressed and deferred to again, that he wasin some danger of forgetting the young wife who was thus left to thetender mercies of Andy and Eunice Plympton. Andy had caught eagerly atEunice's suggestion of the foot-bath, and offered to carry it uphimself, while Eunice followed with her towels and basin of hot water. It never occurred to either of them to knock for admittance, and Ethelynwas obliged to endure their presence, which she did at first with ashadow on her brow; but when Andy asked so pleadingly that she try thehot water, and Eunice joined her entreaties with his, Ethelyn consented, and lay very quiet while Eunice Plympton bathed the aching head andsmoothed the long, bright hair, which both she and Andy admired so much, for Andy, when he found that Ethelyn declined the foot-bath, concludedto remain a while, and sitting down before the fire, he scrutinized theform and features of his new sister, and made remarks upon the luxurianttresses which Eunice combed so carefully. 

It was something to have the homage of even such subjects as these, andEthelyn's heart grew softer as the pain gradually subsided beneathEunice's mesmeric touch, so that she answered graciously the questionspropounded by her as to whether that sack, or great-coat, or whatever itwas called, which she wore around her, was the very last style, how muchit took to cut it, and if Miss Markham had the pattern. On being toldthat "Miss Markham" had not the pattern, Eunice presumed Melinda Jonescould cut one, and then, while the cooled water was heating on the coalswhich Andy raked out upon the hearth, Eunice asked if she might just tryon the "vasquine" and let Miss Markham see how she looked in it. 

For a moment Ethelyn hesitated, but Eunice had been so kind, andproffered her request so timidly, that she could not well refuse, andgave a faint assent. But she was spared the trial of seeing her basquinestrained over Eunice's buxom figure by the entrance of Richard, who cameto say that Melinda Jones was in the parlor below. In spite of all Timhad said about madam's airs, and his advice that "Melinda should keepaway, " that young lady had ventured upon a call, thinking her intimacywith the family would excuse any unseemly haste, and thinking, too, itmay be, that possibly Mrs. Richard Markham would be glad to know therewas someone in Olney more like the people to whom she had beenaccustomed than Mrs. Markham, senior, and her handmaid, Eunice Plympton. Melinda's toilet had been made with direct reference to what Mrs. Ethelyn would think of it, and she was looking very well indeed in hergray dress and sack, with plain straw hat and green ribbons, whichharmonized well with her high-colored cheeks. But Melinda's pains hadbeen for naught, just as Richard feared, when she asked if "Mrs. Markham" was too tired to see her. 

Richard was glad to see Melinda, and Melinda was glad to see Richard--soglad that she gave him a hearty kiss, prefacing the act with the remark, "I can kiss you, now you are a married man. "

Richard liked the kiss, and liked Melinda's frank, open manner, whichhad in it nothing Van Burenish, as he secretly termed the studiedelegance of Mrs. Richard Markham's style. Melinda was natural, and hepromptly kissed her back, feeling that in doing so he was guilty ofnothing wrong, for he would have done the same had Ethelyn been present. She had a terrible headache, he said, in answer to Melinda's inquiry, and perhaps she did not feel able to come down. He would see. 

The hot water and Eunice's bathing had done Ethelyn good, and, with theexception that she was very pale, she looked bright and handsome, as shelay upon the pillows, with her loose hair forming a dark, glossy frameabout her face. 

"You are better, Ethie, " Richard said, bending over her, and playfullylifting her heavy hair. "Eunice has done you good. She's not so bad, after all. "

"Eunice is well enough in her place, " was Ethelyn's reply; and thenthere was a pause, while Richard wondered how he should introduceMelinda Jones. 

Perhaps it was vain in him, but he really fancied that the name of Joneswas distasteful to Ethelyn, just as the Van Buren name would have beenmore distasteful to him than it already was had he known of Frank's loveaffair. And to a certain extent he was right. Ethelyn did dislike tohear of the Joneses, whom she heartily despised, and her brow grewcloudy at once when Richard said, bunglingly, and as if it were not atall what he had come up to say: "Oh, don't you remember hearing me speakof Melinda Jones, whom I hoped you would like? She is very kind tomother--we all think a great deal of her; and though she knows it israther soon to call, she has come in for a few minutes, and would liketo see you. I should be so glad if you would go down, for it willgratify her, I know, and I really think we owe her something--she hasalways been so kind. "

But Ethelyn was too tired, and her head ached too hard to see visitors, she said; and besides that, "Miss Jones ought to have known that it wasnot proper to call so soon. None but a very intimate friend couldpresume upon such a thing. "

"And Melinda is an intimate friend, " Richard answered, a little warmly, as he left his wife, and went back to Melinda with the message, that"some time she should be happy to make Miss Jones' acquaintance, butto-night she really must be excused, as she was too tired to come down. "

All this time Andy had been standing with his back to the fire, hiscoat-skirts taken up in his arms, his light, soft hat on his head, andhis ears taking in all that was transpiring. Andy regarded his stylishsister-in-law as a very choice gem, which was not to be handled tooroughly, but he was not afraid of her; he was seldom afraid of anybody, and when Richard was gone, he walked boldly up to Ethelyn and said:

"I don't want to be meddlesome, but 'pears to me if you'd spoke out yourfeelings to Dick, you'd said, 'Tell Melinda Jones I don't want to seeher, neither to-night nor any time. ' Mebby I'm mistaken, but honest, doyou want to see Melinda?"

There was something so straightforward in his manner that, without beingthe least offended, Ethelyn replied:

"No, I do not. I am sure I should not like her if she at all resemblesher brother^ that terrible Timothy. "

Andy did not know that there was anything so very terrible about Tim. Heliked him, because he gave him such nice chews of tobacco, and wasalways so ready to lend a helping hand in hog-killing time, or when ahorse was sick; neither had he ever heard him called Timothy before, andthe name sounded oddly, but he classed it with the fine ways of his newsister, who called him Anderson, though he so much wished she wouldn't. It sounded as if she did not like him; but he said nothing on thatsubject now--he merely adhered to the Jones question, and withoutdefending Tim, replied:

"Gals are never much like their brothers, I reckon. They are softer, andfiner, and neater; leastways our Daisy was as different from us asdifferent could be, and Melinda is different from Tim. She's been toCamden high-school, and has got a book that she talks French out of; anddidn't you ever see that piece she wrote about Mr. Baldwin's boy, whofell from the top of the church when it was building, and was crushed todeath? It was printed, all in rhyme, in the Camden _Sentinel_, and Jimhas a copy of it in his wallet, 'long with a lock of Melinda's hair. Itell you she's a team. "

Andy was warming up with his subject, and finding Ethelyn a goodlistener, he continued:

"I want you to like her, and I b'lieve you orter, for if it hadn't beenfor her this room wouldn't of been fixed up as 'tis. Melinda coaxedmother to buy the carpet, and the curtings, and to put your bed inthere. Why, that was the meal room, where you be, and we used to keepbeans there, too; but Melinda stuck to it till mother moved the chestand the bags, and then we got some paint, and me and the boys andMelinda painted, and worked, hopin' all the time that you'd be pleased, as I guess you be. We wanted to have you like us. "

And simple-hearted Andy drew near to Ethelyn, who was softened more bywhat he said than she could have been by her husband's most urgentappeal. The thought of the people to whom she had been so cold, and evenrude, working and planning for her comfort, touched a very tender chord, and had Richard then proffered his request for her to go down, it isvery possible she might have done so; but it was too late now, and afterAndy left her she lay pondering what he had said and listening to thesound of voices which came up to her from the parlor directly beneathher room where James, and John, and Andy, and the mother, with Melinda, and Eunice, were talking to Richard, who was conscious of a greaterfeeling of content, sitting there in their midst again, than he hadknown in many a day. Melinda had been more than disappointed at Mrs. Richard's non-appearance, for aside from a curiosity to see the greatlady, there was a desire to be able to report that she seen her to otherfemales equally curious, whom she would next day meet at church. Itwould have added somewhat to her self-complacency as well as importancein their eyes, could she have quoted Mrs. Richard's sayings, and, described Mrs. Richard's dress, the very first day after her arrival. Itwould look as if the intimacy, which many predicted would end with Mrs. Ethelyn's coming, was only cemented the stronger; but no such honor wasin store for her. Ethelyn declined coming down, and with a good-humoredsmile Melinda said she was quite excusable; and then, untying herbonnet, she laid it aside, just as she did the indescribable air ofstiffness she had worn while expecting Mrs. Richard. 

How merrily they all laughed and chatted together! and how handsomeJames' eyes grew as they rested admiringly upon the sprightly girl, whoperfectly conscious of his gaze, never looked at him, but confined herattention wholly to Richard, until Andy asked "if they could not have abit of a tune. "

Then, for the first time, Richard discovered that Ethelyn's piano hadbeen unpacked, and was now standing between the south windows, directlyunder Daisy's picture. It was open, too, and the sheet of music upon therack told that it had been used. Richard did not care for himself, buthe was afraid of what Ethelyn might say, and wondered greatly why shehad not spoken of the liberty they had taken. 

Ethelyn had not observed the piano; or if she did she had paid noattention to it. Accustomed as she had always been to seeing one in theroom, she would have missed its absence more than she noticed itspresence. But when, as she lay half dozing and thinking of Aunt Barbara, the old familiar air of "Money-musk, " played with a most energetic hand, came to her ear, she started, for she knew the tone of her owninstrument--knew, too, that Melinda Jones' hands were sweeping thekeys--and all that Melinda Jones had done for her comfort was forgottenin the deep resentment which heated her blood and flushed her cheek asshe listened to "Old Zip Coon, " which followed "Money-musk, " a shufflingsound of feet telling that somebody's boots were keeping time after avery unorthodox fashion. Next came a song--"Old Folks at Home"--and inspite of her resentment Ethelyn found herself listening intently asJames' rich, deep bass, and John's clear tenor, and Andy's alto joinedin the chorus with Melinda's full soprano. The Markham boys were notedfor their fine voices; and even Richard had once assisted at a publicconcert; but to-night he did not sing--his thoughts were too intent uponthe wife upstairs and what she might be thinking of the performance, andhe was glad when the piano was closed and Melinda Jones had gone. 

It was later than he supposed, and the clock pointed to almost elevenwhen he at last said good-night to his mother and went, with ahalf-guilty feeling, to his room. But there were no chidings in storefor him; for, wearied with her journey and soothed by the music, Ethelynhad forgotten all her cares and lay quietly sleeping, with one handbeneath her cheek and the other resting outside the white counterpane. Ethie was very pretty in her sleep, and the proud, restless look abouther mouth was gone, leaving an expression more like a child's than likea girl of twenty. And Richard, looking at her, felt supremely happy thatshe was his, forgetting all of the past which had been unpleasant, andthinking only that he was blessed above his fellow mortals that he couldcall the beautiful girl before him his Ethelyn--his wife. 

CHAPTER X

FIRST DAYS IN OLNEY

There were a great many vacant seats in the Methodist church the morningfollowing Ethelyn's arrival, while Mr. Townsend was surprised at thesize of his congregation. It was generally known that Mrs. Judge Markhamwas an Episcopalian, and as she would of course patronize the VillageHall, the young people of Olney were there en masse, eager to see thenew bride. But their curiosity was not gratified. Ethelyn was too tiredto go out, Andy said, when questioned on the subject, while EunicePlympton, who was also of Andy's faith, and an attendant of the VillageHall, added the very valuable piece of information that "Miss Markham'sbreakfast had been taken to her, and that when she [Eunice] came awayshe was still in bed, or at all events had not yet made her appearancebelow. " This, together with Eunice's assertion that she was handsome, and Tim Jones' testimony that she was "mighty stuck-up, but awful neat, "was all the disappointed Olneyites knew of Mrs. Richard Markham, who, asEunice reported, had breakfasted in bed, and was still lying there whenthe one bell in Olney rang out its summons for church. She did notpretend to be sick--only tired and languid, and indisposed for anyexertion; and then it was much nicer taking her breakfast from thelittle tray covered with the snowy towel which Richard brought her, thanit was to go down stairs and encounter "all those dreadful people, " asshe mentally styled Richard's family; so she begged for indulgence thisonce, and Richard could not refuse her request, and so excused her tohis mother, who said nothing, but whose face wore an expression whichRichard did not like. 

Always strong and healthy herself, Mrs. Markham had but little charityfor nervous, delicate people, and she devoutly hoped that Richard's wifewould not prove to be one of that sort. When the dishes were washed, andthe floor swept, and the broom hung up in its place, and the sleeves ofthe brown, dotted calico rolled down, she went herself to see Ethelyn, her quick eye noticing the elaborate night-gown, with its dainty tucksand expensive embroidery, and her thoughts at once leaping forward toironing day, with the wonder who was to do up such finery. "Of course, though, she'll see to such things herself, " was her mental conclusion, and then she proceeded to question Ethelyn as to what was the matter, and where she felt the worst. A person who did not come down tobreakfast must either be sick or very babyish and notional, and asEthelyn did not pretend to much indisposition, the good woman naturallyconcluded that she was "hypoey, " and pitied her boy accordingly. 

Ethelyn readily guessed the opinion her mother-in-law was forming ofher, and could hardly steady her voice sufficiently to answer herquestions or repress her tears, which gushed forth the moment Mrs. Markham had left the room, and she was alone with Richard. Poor Richard!it was a novel position in which he found himself--that of mediatorbetween his mother and his wife; but he succeeded very well, soothingand caressing the latter, until when, at three o'clock in the afternoon, the bountiful dinner was ready, he had the pleasure of taking herdownstairs, looking very beautiful in her handsome black silk, and thepink coral ornaments Aunt Barbara had given her. There was nothing gaudyabout her dress; it was in perfect taste, and very plain too, as shethought, even if it was trimmed with lace and bugles. But she could nothelp feeling it was out of keeping when James, and John, and Eunicestared so at her, and Mrs. Markham asked her if she hadn't better tie onan apron for fear she might get grease or something on her. With readyalacrity Eunice, who fancied her young mistress looked like a queen, forgetting in her admiration that she had ever thought her proud, ranfor her own clean, white apron, which she offered to the lady. 

But Ethelyn declined it, saying, "My napkin is all that I shallrequire. "

Mrs. Markham, and Eunice, and Andy glanced at each other. Napkins were aluxury in which Mrs. Markham had never indulged. She knew they werecommon in almost every family of her acquaintance; but she did not seeof what use they were, except to make more washing, and as her standardof things was the standard of thirty years back she was not easilyconvinced; and even Melinda Jones had failed on the napkin question. Ethelyn had been too much excited to observe their absence the previousnight, and she now spoke in all sincerity, never dreaming that there wasnot such an article in the house. But there was a small square towel ofthe finest linen, and sacred to the memory of Daisy, who had hemmed itherself and worked her name in the corner. It was lying in the drawer, now, with her white cambric dress, and, at a whispered word from hermistress, Eunice brought it out and laid it in Ethelyn's lap, whileRichard's face grew crimson as he began to think that possibly hismother might be a very little behind the times in her householdarrangements. 

Ethelyn's appetite had improved since the previous night, and she didample justice to the well-cooked dinner; but her spirits were ruffledagain when, on returning to her room an hour or so after dinner, shefound it in the same disorderly condition in which she had left it. Ethelyn had never taken charge of her own room, for at Aunt Barbara'sBetty had esteemed it a privilege to wait upon her young mistress, whileAunt Van Buren would have been horror-stricken at the idea of any one ofher guests making their own bed. Mrs. Markham, on the contrary, couldhardly conceive of a lady too fine to do that service herself, andEunice was not the least to blame for omitting to do what she had neverbeen told was her duty to do. A few words from Richard, however, and thepromise of an extra quarter per week made that matter all right, andneither Betty nor Mrs. Dr. Van Buren's trained chambermaid, Mag, hadever entered into the clearing-up process with greater zeal than didEunice when once she knew that Richard expected it of her. She wasnaturally kind-hearted, and though Ethelyn's lofty ways annoyed hersomewhat, her admiration for the beautiful woman and her elegantwardrobe was unbounded, and she felt a pride in waiting upon her whichshe would once have thought impossible to feel in anything pertaining toher duties as a servant. 

The following morning brought with it the opening of the box where thefamily presents were; but Ethelyn did not feel as much interest in themnow as when they were purchased. She knew how out of place they were, and fully appreciated the puzzled expression on James' face when he sawthe blue velvet smoking cap. It did not harmonize with the common claypipe he always smoked on Sunday, and much less with the coarse cob thingshe saw him take from the kitchen mantel that morning just after he leftthe breakfast table and had donned the blue frock he wore upon the farm. He did not know what the fanciful-tasseled thing was for; but hereflected that Melinda, who had been to boarding school, could enlightenhim, and he thanked his pretty sister with a good deal of gentlemanlygrace. He was naturally more observing than Richard, and with the sameadvantages would have polished sooner. Though a little afraid ofEthelyn, there was something in her refined, cultivated manners verypleasing to him, and his soft eyes looked down upon her kindly as hetook the cap and carried it to his room, laying it carefully away in thedrawer where his Sunday shirts, and collars, and "dancing pumps, " andfishing tackle, and paper of chewing tobacco were. 

Meanwhile, John, who was even more shy of Ethelyn than James, had beenmade the recipient of the elegantly embroidered slippers, whichpresented so marked a contrast to his heavy cowhides, and were threesizes too small for his mammoth feet. Ethelyn saw the discrepancy atonce, and the effort it was for John to keep from laughing outright, ashe took the dainty things into which he could but little more thanthrust his toes. 

"You did not know what a Goliath I was, nor what stogies I wore; but Ithank you all the same, " John said, and with burning blushes Ethelynturned next to her beautiful Schiller--the exquisite little bust--whichAndy, in his simplicity mistook for a big doll, feeling a littleaffronted that Ethelyn should suppose him childish enough to care forsuch toys. 

But when Richard, who stood looking on, explained to his weak brotherwhat it was, saying that people of cultivation prized such things asthese, and that some time he would read to him of the great German poet, Andy felt better, and accepted his big doll with a very good grace. 

The coiffure came next, Mrs. Markham saying she was much obliged, andEunice asking if it was a half-handkerchief, to be worn about the neck. 

Taken individually and collectively, the presents were a failure--allbut the pretty collar and ribbon-bow, which, as an afterthought, Ethelyngave to Eunice, whose delight knew no bounds. This was something shecould appreciate, while Ethelyn's gifts to the others had been farbeyond them, and but for the good feeling they manifested might as wellhave been withheld. Ethelyn felt this heavily, and it did not tend tolessen the bitter disappointment which had been gnawing in her heartever since she had reached her Western home. Everything was differentfrom what she had pictured it in her mind--everything but Daisy's face, which, from its black-walnut frame above her piano, seemed to look solovingly down upon her. It was a sweet, refined face, and the soft eyesof blue were more beautiful than anything Ethelyn had ever seen. Shedid not wonder that every member of that family looked upon their lostDaisy as the household angel, lowering their voices when they spoke ofher, and even retarding their footsteps when they passed near herpicture. She did wonder, however, that they were not more like whatDaisy would have been, judging from the expression of her face and allRichard had said of her. 

Between Mrs. Markham and Ethelyn there was from the first a mutualfeeling of antagonism, and it was in no degree lessened by AuntBarbara's letter, which Mrs. Markham read three times on Sunday, andthen on Monday very foolishly talked it up with Eunice, whom she treatedwith a degree of familiarity wholly unaccountable to Ethelyn. 

"What did that Miss Bigelow take her for that she must ask her to bekind to Ethelyn? Of course she should do her duty, and she guessed herways were not so very different from other people's, either, " and thegood woman gave an extra twist to the tablecloth she was wringing, andshaking it out rather fiercely, tossed it into the huge clothes-basketstanding near. 

The wash was unusually large that day and as the unpacking of the boxhad taken up some time, the clock was striking two just as the lastclothespin was fastened in its place, and the last brown towel hung uponthe currant bushes. It was Mrs. Markham's weakness that her wash shouldbe fluttering in the wind before that of Mrs. Jones, which could beplainly seen from her kitchen window. But to-day Mrs. Jones was ahead, and Melinda's pink sun-bonnet was visible in the little back-yard asearly as eleven, at which time the Markham garments had just commencedto boil. The bride had brought with her a great deal of extra work, andwhat with waiting breakfast for her until the coffee was cold and thebaked potatoes "all soggy, " and then cleaning up the litter of "thatbox, " Mrs. Markham was dreadfully behind with her Monday's work. And itdid not tend to improve her temper to know that the cause of all herdiscomposure was "playing lady" in a handsome cashmere morning gown, with heavy tassels knotted at her side, while she was bending over thewashtub in a faded calico pinned about her waist, and disclosing thequilt patched with many colors, and the black yarn stockings footed withcoarse white. Not that Mrs. Markham cared especially for the differencebetween her dress and Ethelyn's--neither did she expect Ethelyn to"help" that day--but she might at least have offered to wipe the dinnerdishes, she thought. It would have shown her good will at all events. But instead of that she had returned to her room the moment dinner wasover, and Eunice, who went to hunt for a missing sock of Richard's, reported that she was lying on the lounge with a story book in her hand. 

"Shiffless, " was the word Mrs. Markham wanted to use, but she repressedit, for she would not talk openly against Richard's wife so soon afterher arrival, though she did make some invidious remarks concerning thehandsome underclothes, wondering "what folks were thinking of to put somuch work where it was never seen. Puffs, and embroidery, and lace, and, I vum, if the ruffles ain't tucked too, " she continued, in a despairingvoice, hoping Ethelyn knew "how to iron such filagree herself, for themercy knew she didn't. "

Now these same puffs, and embroidery, and ruffles, and tucks had excitedEunice's liveliest admiration, and her fingers fairly itched to see howthey would look hanging on the clothes bars after passing through herhands. That Ethelyn could touch them she never once dreamed. Herinstincts were truer than Mrs. Markham's and it struck her as perfectlyproper that one like Ethelyn should sit still while others served, andto her mistress' remarks as to the ironing, she hastened to reply: "I'da heap sight rather do them up than to iron the boys' coarse shirts andpantaloons. Don't you mind the summer I was at Camden working for MissAvery, who lived next door to Miss Judge Miller, from New York? She hadjust such things as these, and I used to go in sometimes and watch Katyiron 'em, so I b'lieve I can do it myself. Anyways, I want to try. "

Fears that Eunice might rebel had been uppermost in Mrs. Markham's mindwhen she saw the pile of elegant clothes, for she had a suspicion thatMrs. Ethelyn would keep as much aloof from the ironing-board as she didfrom the dish-washing; but if Eunice was willing and even glad of theopportunity, why, that made a difference, and the good woman began tofeel so much better that by the time the last article was on the line, the kitchen floor cleared up, and the basin of water heating on thestove for her own ablutions, she was quite amiably disposed toward hergrand daughter-in-law, who had not made her appearance since dinner. Ethelyn liked staying in her chamber better than anywhere else, and itwas especially pleasant there to-day, for Eunice had taken great painsto make it so, sweeping, and dusting and putting to rights, and pattingthe pillows and cushions just as she remembered seeing Melinda do, andthen, after the collar and ribbon had been given to her, going down onher hands and knees before the fire to wash the hearth with milk, whichgave to the red bricks a polished, shining appearance, and added much tothe cheerfulness of the room. Ethelyn had commended her pleasantly, and, in the seventh heaven of delight, Eunice had returned to her washing, taking greater pains than ever with the dainty puffs and frills, andputting in a stitch where one was needed. 

It was very evident that Eunice admired Ethelyn, and Ethelyn in returnbegan to appreciate Eunice; and when, after dinner, she went to herroom, and, wearied with her unpacking, lay down upon the lounge, shefelt happier than she had since her first sight of Olney. It waspleasant up there, and the room looked very pretty with the brackets andornaments, and pictures she had hung there instead of in the parlor, andshe decided within herself that though disappointed in every respect, she could be quite comfortable for the few weeks which must intervenebefore she went to Washington. She should spend most of the time in theretirement of her room, mingling as little as possible with the family, and keeping at a respectful distance from her mother-in-law, whom sheliked less than any of Richard's relations. 

"I trust the Olney people will not think it their duty to call, " shethought. "I suppose I shall have to endure the Joneses for Abigail'ssake. Melinda certainly has some taste; possibly I may like her, " andwhile cogitating upon Melinda Jones and the expected gayeties inWashington, she fell asleep; nor did Richard's step arouse her, when, about three o'clock, he came in from the village in quest of some lawdocuments he wished to see. 

Frank Van Buren would probably have kissed her as she lay there sleepingso quietly; but Richard was in a great hurry. He had plunged at onceinto business. Once there were forty men waiting to see and consult "theSquire, " whose reputation for honesty and ability was very great, andwhose simple assertion carried more weight than the roundest oath ofsome lawyers, sworn upon the biggest Bible in Olney. Waylaid at everycorner, and plied with numberless questions, he had hardly found anopportunity to come home to dinner, and now he had no time to waste inlove-making. He saw Ethelyn, however, and felt that his room had neverbeen as pleasant as it was with her there in it, albeit her coming wasthe cause of his books and papers being disturbed and tossed about andmoved where he had much trouble to find them. He felt glad, too, thatshe was out of his mother's way, and feeling that all was well, he foundhis papers and hurried off to the village again, while Ethelyn slept ontill Eunice Plympton came up to say that "Miss Jones and Melinda wereboth in the parlor and wanted her to come down. "

CHAPTER XI

CALLS AND VISITING

Mrs. Jones had risen earlier than usual that Monday morning, and feltnot a little elated when she saw her long line of snowy linen swingingin the wind before that of her neighbor, whom she excused on the scoreof Richard's wife. But when twelve o'clock, and even one o'clock struck, and still the back yard gave no sign, she began to wonder "if any of'em could be sick"; and never was flag of truce watched for moreanxiously than she watched for something which should tell that it wasall well at Sister Markham's. 

The sign appeared at last, and with her fears quieted, Mrs. Jonespursued the even tenor of her way until everything was done and herlittle kitchen was as shining as soap and sand and scrubbing brush couldmake it. Perhaps it was washing the patchwork quilt which Abigail hadpieced that brought the deceased so strongly to Mrs. Jones' mind, andmade her so curious to see Abigail's successor. Whatever it was, Mrs. Jones was very anxious for a sight of Ethelyn; and when her work wasdone she donned her alpaca dress, and tying on her black silk apron, announced her intention of "running into Mrs. Markham's just a minute. Would Melinda like to go along?"

Melinda had been once to no purpose, and she had inwardly resolved towait a while before calling again; but she felt that she would rather bewith her mother at her first interview with Ethelyn, for she knew shecould cover up some defects by her glibber and more correct manner ofconversing. So she signified her assent, but did not wear her bestbonnet as she had on Saturday night. This was only a run in, she said, never dreaming that, "for fear of what might happen if she was urged tostay to tea, " her mother had deposited in her capacious pocket theshirt-sleeve of unbleached cotton she was making for Tim. 

And so about four o'clock the twain started for the house of Mrs. Markham, who saw them coming and welcomed them warmly. She was alwaysglad to see Mrs. Jones, and she was doubly glad to-day, for it seemed toher that some trouble had come upon her which made neighborly sympathyand neighborly intercourse more desirable than ever. Added to this, there was in her heart an unconfessed pride in Ethelyn and a desire toshow her off. "Miss Jones was not going to stir home a step till aftersupper, " she said, as that lady demurred at laying off her bonnet. "Shehad got to stay and see Richard; besides that, they were going to havewaffles and honey, with warm gingerbread. "

Nobody who had once tested them, could withstand Mrs. Markham's wafflesand gingerbread. Mrs. Jones certainly could not; and when Eunice went upfor Ethelyn, that worthy woman was rocking back and forth in a lowrocking-chair, her brass thimble on her finger and Tim's shirt-sleeve inprogress of making; while Melinda, in her pretty brown merino and whitecollar, with her black hair shining like satin, sat in anotherrocking-chair, working at the bit of tatting she chanced to have in herpocket. Ethelyn did not care to go down; it was like stepping intoanother sphere leaving her own society for that of the Joneses; butthere was no alternative, and with a yawn she started up and begansmoothing her hair. 

"This wrapper is well enough, " she said, more to herself, than Eunice, who was still standing by the door looking at her. 

Eunice did not think the wrapper well enough. It was pretty, she knew, but not as pretty as the dresses she had seen hanging in Ethelyn'scloset when she arranged the room that morning; so she said, hesitatingly: "I wish you wouldn't wear that down. You were so handsomeyesterday in the black gown, with them red earrings and pin, and yourhair brushed up, so. "

Ethelyn liked to look well, even here in Olney, and so the wrapper waslaid aside, the beautiful brown hair was wound in heavy coils about theback of the head, and brushed back from her white forehead after afashion which made her look still younger and more girlish than she was. A pretty plaid silk, with trimmings of blue, was chosen for to-day, Eunice going nearly wild over the short jaunty basque, laced at thesides and the back. Eunice had offered to stay and assist at her youngmistress' toilet, and as Ethelyn was not unaccustomed to the office ofwaiting-maid, she accepted Eunice's offer, finding, to her surprise, that the coarse red fingers, which that day had washed and starched herlinen, were not unhandy even among the paraphernalia of a Bostonlady's toilet. 

"You do look beautiful, " Eunice said, standing back to admire Ethelyn, when at last she was dressed. "I have thought Melinda Jones handsome, but she can't hold a candle to you, nor nobody else I ever seen, exceptMiss Judge Miller, in Camden. She do act some like you, with her gowndragglin' behind her half a yard. "

Thus flattered and complimented, Ethelyn shook out her skirts, which"draggled half a yard behind, " and went downstairs to where Mrs. Jonessat working on Timothy's shirt, and Melinda was crocheting, while Mrs. Markham, senior, clean and neat, and stiff in her starched, purplecalico, sat putting a patch on a fearfully large hole in the knee ofAndy's pants. As Ethelyn swept into the room there fell a hush upon theinmates, and Mrs. Jones was almost guilty of an exclamation of surprise. She had expected something fine, she said--something different from theOlney quality--but she was not prepared for anything as grand andqueenly as Ethelyn, when she sailed into the room, with her embroideredhandkerchief held so gracefully in her hands, and in response to Mrs. Markham's introduction, bowed so very low, and slowly, too, her lipsscarcely moving at all, and her eyes bent on the ground. Mrs. Jonesactually ran the needle she was sewing with under her thumb in hersudden start, while Melinda's crocheting dropped into her lap. She, too, was surprised, though not as much as her mother. She, like Eunice, hadseen Mrs. Judge Miller, from New York, whose bridal trousseau wasimported from Paris, and whose wardrobe was the wonder of Camden. AndEthelyn was very much like her, only younger and prettier. 

"Very pretty, " Melinda thought, while Mrs. Jones fell to comparing her, mentally, with the deceased Abigail; wondering how Richard, if he hadever loved the one, could have fancied the other, they were so unlike. 

Of course, the mother's heart gave to Abigail the preference for allthat was good and womanly, and worthy of Richard Markham; but Ethelynbore off the palm for style, and beauty, too. 

"Handsome as a doll, but awfully proud, " Mrs. Jones decided, during theinterval in which she squeezed her wounded thumb, and got the needleagain in motion upon Timothy's shirt-sleeve. 

Ethelyn was not greatly disappointed in Mrs. Jones and her daughter; themother especially was much like what she had imagined her to be, whileMelinda was rather prettier--rather more like the Chicopee girls thanshe expected. There was a look on her face like Susie Granger, and thekindly expression of her black eyes made Ethelyn excuse her for wearinga magenta bow, while her cheeks were something the same hue. They werevery stiff at first, Mrs. Jones saying nothing at all, and Melinda onlyventuring upon common-place inquiries--as to how Ethelyn bore herjourney, if she was ever in that part of the country before, and how shethought she should like the West. This last question Ethelyn could notanswer directly. 

"It was very different from New England, " she said, "but she wasprepared for that, and hoped she should not get very homesick during thefew weeks which would elapse before she went to Washington. "

At this point Mrs. Markham stopped her patching and looked inquiringlyat Ethelyn. It was the first she had heard about Ethelyn's going toWashington; indeed, she had understood that Richard's wife was to keepher company during the winter, a prospect which since Ethelyn's arrivalhad not looked so pleasing to her as it did before. How in the worldthey should get on together without Richard, she did not know, and ifshe consulted merely her own comfort she would have bidden Ethelyn go. But there were other things to be considered--there was the greatexpense it would be for Richard to have his wife with him. Heretofore hehad saved a good share of his salary, but with Ethelyn it would be moneyout of his pocket all the time; besides that, there were reasons why itwas not proper for Ethelyn to go; her best place was at home. 

Thus reasoned Mrs. Markham, and when next her needle resumed its work onAndy's patch, Ethelyn's fate with regard to Washington was decided, foras thought the mother on that point, so eventually would think the son, who deferred so much to her judgment. He came in after a little, lookingso well and handsome that Ethelyn felt proud of him, and had he thenlaid his hand upon her shoulder, or put his arm around her waist, as hesometimes did when they were alone, she would not have shaken it off, aswas her usual custom. Indeed, such is the perversity of human nature, and so many contradictions are there in it, that Ethelyn rather wishedhe would pay her some little attention. She could not forget Abigail, with Abigail's mother and sister sitting there before her, and shewanted them to see how fond her husband was of her, hoping thus to provehow impossible it was that Abigail could ever have been to him what shewas. But Richard was shy in the presence of others, and would soonerhave put his arm around Melinda than around his wife, for fear he shouldbe thought silly. He was very proud of her, though, and felt a thrill ofsatisfaction in seeing how superior, both in look and manner, she was toMelinda Jones, whose buxom, healthy face grew almost coarse and homelyfrom comparison with Ethelyn's. 

As Ethelyn's toilet had occupied some time, it was five when she madeher appearance in the parlor, consequently she had not long to wait erethe announcement of supper broke up the tediousness she endured fromthat first call, or visit. The waffles and the gingerbread were all theyhad promised to be, and the supper passed off quietly, with theexception of a mishap of poor, awkward Andy, who tipped his plate of hotcakes and honey into his lap, and then in his sudden spring backward, threw a part of the plate's contents upon Ethelyn's shining silk. Thiswas the direst calamity of all, and sent poor Andy from the table soheart-broken and disconsolate that he did not return again, and Eunicefound him sitting on the wood-house steps, wiping away with hiscoat-sleeve the great tears which rolled down his womanish face. 

"Ethelyn never would like him again, " he said, calling himself "a greatblundering fool, who never ought to eat at the same table withcivilized folks. "

But when Ethelyn, who heard from Eunice of Andy's distress, went out tosee him, assuring him that but little damage had been done, that softwater and magnesia would make the dress all right again, he brightenedup, and was ready to hold Mr. Harrington's horse when, after dark, thatgentleman drove over from Olney with his wife and sister to call on Mrs. Richard. It would almost seem that Ethelyn held a reception thatevening, for more than the Harringtons knocked at the front door, andwere admitted by the smiling Eunice. It was rather early to call, theOlneyites knew, but there on the prairie they were not hampered withmany of Mrs. Grundy's rules, and so curious to see the "Boston lady, "several of the young people had agreed together between the Sundayservices to call at Mrs. Markham's the following night. They werewell-meaning, kind-hearted people, and would any one of them gone farout of their way to serve either Richard or his young wife; but theywere not Eastern bred, and feeling somewhat awed by Ethelyn's cold, frigid manner, they appeared shy and awkward--all except Will Parsons, the young M. D. Of Olney, who joked, and talked and laughed so loudly, that even Richard wondered he had never before observed how noisy Dr. Parsons was, while Andy, who was learning to read Ethelyn's face, triedonce or twice, by pulling the doctor's coat-skirts and giving him awarning glance, to quiet him down a little. But the doctor took nohints, and kept on with his fun, finding a splendid coadjutor in the"terrible Tim Jones, " who himself came over to call on Dick andhis woman. 

Tim was rigged out in his best, with a bright red cravat tied around hisneck, and instead of his muddy boots with his pants tucked in the tops, he wore coarse shoes tied with strings and flirted his yellow silkhandkerchief for the entire evening. It was dreadful to Ethelyn, for shecould see nothing agreeable in Richard's friends; indeed, their presencewas scarcely bearable, and the proud look on her face was so apparentthat the guests felt more or less ill at ease, while Richard was nearerbeing angry with Ethelyn than he had ever been. Will Parsons and TimJones seemed exceptions to the rest of the company, especially thelatter, who, if he noticed Ethelyn's evident contempt, was determinedto ignore it, and make himself excessively familiar. 

As yet, the open piano had been untouched, no one having the courage toask Ethelyn to play; but Tim was fond of music, and unhesitatinglyseating himself upon the stool, thrust one hand in his pocket, and withthe other struck the keys at random, trying to make out a few bars of"Hail, Columbia!" Then turning to Ethelyn he said, with a good-humorednod, "Come, old lady, give us something good. "

Ethelyn's eyes flashed fire, while others of the guests looked theirastonishment at Tim, who knew he had done something, but could not forthe life of him tell what. 

"Old lady" was a favorite title with him. He called his mother so, andMelinda, and Eunice Plympton, and Maria Moorehouse, whose eyes hethought so bright, and whom he always saw home from meeting on Sundaynights; and so it never occurred to him that this was his offense. ButMelinda knew, and her red cheeks burned scarlet as she tried to coverher brother's blunder by modestly urging Ethelyn to favor them withsome music. 

Of all the Western people whom she had seen, Ethelyn liked Melinda thebest. She had thought her rather familiar, and after the Olneyites camein and put her more at her ease, she fancied her a little flippant andforward; but, in all she did or said, there was so much genuinesincerity and frankness, that Ethelyn could not dislike her as she hadthought she should dislike a sister of Abigail Jones and the terribleTim. She had not touched her piano since her arrival, for fear of thehomesickness which its familiar tones might awaken, and when she sawTim's big red hands fingering the keys, in her resentment at thedesecration she said to herself that she never would touch it again; butwhen in a low aside Melinda added to her entreaties: "Please, Mrs. Markham, don't mind Tim--he means well enough, and would not be rude forthe world, if he knew it, " she began to give way, and it scarcely neededRichard's imperative, "Ethelyn, " to bring her to her feet. No oneoffered to conduct her to the piano--not even Richard, who sat justwhere he was; while Tim, in his haste to vacate the music stool, precipitated it to the floor, and got his leather shoes entangled inEthelyn's skirts. 

Tim, and Will Parsons, and Andy all hastened to pick up the stool, knocking their heads together, and raising a laugh in which Ethelyncould not join. Thoroughly disgusted and sick at heart, she felt much asthe Jewish maidens must have felt when required to give a song. Her harpwas indeed upon the willows hung, and her heart was turning sadly towardher far-off Jerusalem as she sat down and tried to think what she shouldplay to suit her audience. Suddenly it occurred to her to suit herselfrather than her hearers, and her snowy fingers--from which flashedDaisy's diamond and a superb emerald--swept the keys with a masterlygrace and skill. Ethelyn was perfectly at home at the piano, and dashingoff into a brilliant and difficult overture, she held her hearers for afew minutes astonished both at her execution and the sounds she made. Tothe most of them, however, the sounds were meaningless; their tastes hadnot yet been cultivated up to Ethelyn's style. They wanted somethingfamiliar--something they had heard before; and when the fine performancewas ended terrible Tim electrified her with the characteristicexclamation: "That was mighty fine, no doubt, for them that understandsuch; but, now, for land's sake, give us a tune. "

Ethelyn was horror-stricken. She had cast her pearls before swine; andwith a haughty stare at the offending Timothy, she left the stool, andwalking back to her former seat, said:

"I leave the tunes to your sister, who, I believe, plays sometimes. "

Somewhat crestfallen, but by no means browbeaten, Tim insisted thatMelinda should give them a jig; and, so, crimsoning with shame andconfusion, Melinda took the vacant stool and played her brother atune--a rollicking, galloping tune, which everybody knew, and which setthe feet to keeping time, and finally brought Tim and Andy to the floorfor a dance. But Melinda declined playing for a cotillion which herbrother proposed, and so the dancing arrangement came to naught, greatly to the delight of Ethelyn, who could only keep back her tears bylooking up at the sweet face of Daisy smiling down upon her from thewall. That was the only redeeming point in that whole assembly, shethought. She would not even except Richard then, so intense was herdisappointment and so bitter her regret for the mistake she made whenshe promised to go where her heart could never be. 

It was nine o'clock when the company dispersed. Each of the ladiescordially invited Ethelyn to call as soon as convenient, and Mrs. Harrington, a lady of some cultivation, whose husband was the villagemerchant, saying encouragingly to her, as she held her hand a moment, "Our Western manners seem strange to you, I dare say; but we are awell-meaning people, and you will get accustomed to us by and by. "

She never should--no, never, thought Ethelyn, as she went up to herroom, tired and homesick, and disheartened with this, her firstintroduction to the Olney people. It was a very cross wife that slept atRichard's side that night, and the opinion expressed of the Olneyiteswas anything but complimentary to the taste of one who had known themall his life and liked them so well. But Richard was getting accustomedto such things. Lectures did not move him now as they had at first, andovercome with fatigue from his day's work and the evening's excitement, he fell asleep, while Ethelyn was enlarging upon the merits of theterrible Tim, who had addressed her as "old lady" and asked her to"play a tune. "

CHAPTER XII

SOCIETY

In the course of two weeks all the people in Olney called upon Ethelyn, who would gladly have refused herself to them all. But after the morningwhen Andy stood outside the door of her room, wringing his hands ingreat distress at the tone of Richard's voice, and Ethelyn stayed in bedall day with the headache, and was nursed by Eunice and Melinda, Ethelyndid better, and was at least polite to those who called. She had saidshe would not see them, and Richard had said she should; and as heusually made people do as he liked, Ethelyn was forced to submit, butcried herself sick. It was very desolate and lonely upstairs that day, for Richard was busy in town, and the wind swept against the windowswith a mournful, moaning sound, which made Ethelyn think of dear oldChicopee, and the lofty elms through whose swaying branches the sameOctober wind was probably sighing on this autumnal day. But, oh! howvast the difference, she thought; for what would have been music ifheard at home among the New England hills, was agony here upon theWestern prairie. 

Ethelyn was very wretched and hailed with delight the presence ofMelinda Jones, who came in the afternoon, bringing a basket of deliciousapples and a lemon tart she had made herself. Melinda was very sorry forEthelyn, and her face said as much as she stood by her side and laid herhand softly upon the throbbing temples, pitying her so much, for sheguessed just how homesick she was there with Mrs. Markham, whose wayshad never seemed so peculiar, even to her, as since Ethelyn's arrival. "And still, " she thought, "I do not see how she can be so very unhappy, in any circumstances, with a husband like Richard. " But here Melindamade a mistake; for though Ethelyn respected her husband, and hadlearned to miss him when he was gone, and the day whose close was not tobring him back would have been very long, she did not love him as ahusband should be loved; and so there was nothing to fall back upon whenother props gave way. 

Wholly unsuspicious, Melinda sat down beside her, offering to brush herhair, and while she brushed and combed, and braided, and admired theglossy brown locks, she talked on the subject she thought mostacceptable to the young wife's ear--of Richard, and the great popularityhe had achieved, not only in his own county, but in neighboring ones, where he stood head and shoulders above his fellows. There was talk onceof making him governor, she said, but some thought him too young. Lately, however, she had heard that the subject was again agitated, adding that her father and Tim both thought it more than probable thatthe next election would take him to the gubernatorial mansion. 

"Tim would work like a hero for Richard, " she said. "He almost idolizeshim, and when he was up for Judge Tim's exertions alone procured for hima hundred extra votes. Tim is a rough, half-savage fellow, but he hasthe kindest of hearts, and is very popular with a certain class of menwho could not be reached by one more polished and cultivated. "

So much Melinda said, by way of excusing Tim's vulgarities; and then, with the utmost tact, she led the conversation back to Richard and thegovernorship, hinting that Ethelyn could do much toward securing thatoffice for her husband. A little attention, which cost nothing, would goa great ways, she said; and it was sometimes worth one's while to makean effort, even if they did not feel like it. More than one rumor hadreached Melinda's ear touching the pride of Dick Markham's wife--a pridewhich the Olney people felt keenly, and it the more keenly knowing thatthey had helped to give her husband a name; they had made him Judge, andsent him to Congress, and would like to make him governor, knowing wellthat that no office, however high, would change him from the plain, unpretending man, who, even in the Senate Chamber, would shake drunkenIke Plympton's hand, and slap Tim Jones on the back if need be. Theyliked their Dick, who had been a boy among them, and they thought itonly fair that his wife should unbend a little, and not freeze them sowith her lofty ways. 

"She'll kick the whole thing over if she goes on so, " Tim had said tohis father, in Melinda's hearing, and so, like a true friend to Richard, Melinda determined to try and prevent the proud little feet from doingso much mischief. 

Nor was she unsuccessful. Ethelyn saw the drift of the conversation, andthough for an instant her cheek crimsoned with resentment that sheshould be talked at by Melinda Jones, she was the better for thetalking, and the Olney people, when next they come in contact with her, changed their minds with regard to her being so very proud. She washomesick at first, and that was the cause of her coldness, they said, excusing her in their kind hearts, and admiring her as something farsuperior to themselves. Even Tim Jones got now and then a pleasant word, for Ethelyn had not forgotten the hundred extra votes. She would haverepelled the insinuation that she was courting favor or that hopes ofthe future governorship for Richard had anything to do with her changeddemeanor. She despised such things in others; but Ethelyn was human, andit is just possible that had there been nothing in expectancy she wouldnot have submitted with so good a grace to the familiarities with whichshe so constantly came in contact. At home she was cold and proud asever, for between her mother-in-law and herself there was no affinity, and they kept as far apart as possible, Ethelyn staying mostly in herroom, and Mrs. Markham, senior, staying in the kitchen, where EunicePlympton still remained. 

Mrs. Markham had fully expected that Eunice would go home within a fewdays after Ethelyn's arrival; but when the days passed on, Ethelynshowed no inclination for a nearer acquaintance with the kitchen--"nevereven offering to wipe the teacups on washing days, " as Mrs. Markhamcomplained to James, and John, and Andy--the good woman began tomanifest some anxiety on the subject, and finally went to Richard toknow if "he expected to keep a hired girl all winter or was Ethelyngoing to do some light chores. "

Richard really did not know; but after a visit to his room, where Ethiesat reading in her handsome crimson wrapper, with the velvet trimmings, he decided that she could "not do chores, " and Eunice must remain. Itwas on this occasion that Washington was broached, Mrs. Markhamrepeating what she heard Ethelyn saying to Melinda, and asking Richardif he contemplated such a piece of extravagance as taking his wife toWashington would be. In Richard's estimation there were other andweightier reasons why Ethelyn should remain quietly at home that winter. He did not especially mind the expense she might be to him, and he ownedto a weak desire to see her queen it over all the reigning belles, as hewas certain she would. Unbiased by his mother, and urged by Ethelyn, hewould probably have yielded in her favor; but the mother was first inthe field, and so she won the day, and Ethie's disappointment was asettled thing. But Ethie did not know it, as Richard wisely refrainedfrom being the first to speak of the matter. That she was going toWashington Ethelyn had no doubt, and this made her intercourse with theOlneyites far more endurable. Some of them she found pleasant, cultivated people--especially Mr. Townsend, the clergyman, who, afterthe Sunday on which she appeared at the Village Hall in her blue silkand elegant basquine, came to see her, and seemed so much like an oldfriend when she found that he had met at Clifton, in New York, some ofher acquaintances. It was easy to be polite to him, and to the peoplefrom Camden, who hearing much of Judge Markham's pretty bride, came tocall upon her--Judge Miller and his wife, with Marcia Fenton and MissElla Backus, both belles and blondes, and both some-bodies, according toEthelyn's definition of that word. She liked these people, and Richardfound no trouble in getting her to return their calls. She would gladlyhave stayed in Camden altogether, and once laughingly pointed out toRichard a large, vacant lot, adjoining Mr. Fenton's, where she wouldlike to have her new house built. 

There was a decided improvement in Ethelyn; nor did her old perversityof temper manifest itself very strongly until one morning, three weeksafter her arrival in Olney, when Richard suggested to her the proprietyof his mother's giving them a party, or infair, as he called it. Thepeople expected it, he said; they would be disappointed without it, and, indeed, he felt it was something he owed them for all their kindness tohim. Then Ethelyn rebelled--stoutly, stubbornly rebelled--but Richardcarried the point, and two days after the farmhouse was in a state ofdire confusion, wholly unlike the quiet which reigned there usually. Melinda Jones was there all the time, while Mrs. Jones was back andforth, and a few of the Olney ladies dropped in with suggestions andoffers of assistance. It was to be a grand affair--so far, at least, asnumbers were concerned--for everybody was invited, from Mr. Townsend andthe other clergy, down to Cecy Doane, who did dressmaking and tailoringfrom house to house. The Markhams were very democratic in theirfeelings, and it showed itself in the guests bidden to the party. Theywere invited from Camden as well--Mr. And Mrs. Miller, with MarciaFenton and Ella Backus; and after the two young ladies had come over toascertain how large an affair it was to be, so as to know what to wear, Ethelyn began to take some little interest in it herself and to give thebenefit of her own experience in such matters. But having a party inMrs. Dr. Van Buren's handsome house, where the servants were all so welltrained, and everything necessary was so easy of access, or even havinga party at Aunt Barbara's, was a very different thing from having onehere under the supervision of Mrs. Markham, whose ideas were so manyyears back, and who objected to nearly everything which Ethelynsuggested. But by dint of perseverance on Melinda's part her scrupleswere finally overcome; so that when the night of the party arrived thehouse presented a very respectable appearance, with its lamps ofkerosene, and the sperm candles flaming on the mantels in the parlor, and the tallow candles smoking in the kitchen. 

Mrs. Markham's bed had been removed from the sitting room, and thecarpet taken from the floor, for they were going to dance, and Eunice'smother had been working hard all day to keep her liege lord away fromthe Cross Roads tavern so that he might be presentable at night, andcapable of performing his part, together with his eldest son, who playedthe flute. She was out in the kitchen now, very large and important withthe office of head waiter, her hoops in everybody's way, and her faceradiant with satisfaction, as she talked to Mrs. Markham about what webetter do. The table was laid in the kitchen and loaded with all thesubstantials, besides many delicacies which Melinda and Ethelyn hadconcocted; for the latter had even put her hands to the work, andmanufactured two large dishes of Charlotte Russe, with pretty molds ofblanc-mange, which Eunice persisted in calling "corn-starch puddin', with the yallers of eggs left out, " There were trifles, and tarts, andjellies, and sweetmeats, with raised biscuits by the hundred, and loaveson loaves of frosted cake; while out in the woodshed, wedged in a tub ofice, was a huge tin pail, over which James, and John, and Andy, and evenRichard had sat, by turns, stirring the freezing mass. Mrs. Jones'little colored boy, who knew better how to wait on company than anyperson there, came over in his clean jacket, and out on the doorstep waseating chestnuts and whistling Dixie, as he looked down the road to seeif anybody was coming. Melinda Jones had gone home to dress, feelingmore like going to bed than making merry at a party, as she looped upher black braids of hair and donned her white muslin dress with thescarlet ribbons. Melinda was very tired, for a good share of the workhad fallen upon her--or rather she had assumed it--and her cheeks andhands were redder than usual when, about seven o'clock, Tim drove herover to Mrs. Markham's, and then went to the village after the dozen ormore of girls whom he had promised "to see to the doin's. "

But Melinda looked very pretty--at least James Markham thought so--whenshe stood up on tiptoe to tie his cravat in a better-looking bow thanhe had done. Since the night when Richard first told her of Ethelyn, ithad more than once occurred to Melinda that possibly she might yet bearthe name of Markham, for her woman nature was quick to see that James, at least, paid her the homage which Richard had withheld. But Melinda'smind was not yet made up, and as she was too honest to encourage hopeswhich might never be fulfilled, she would not even look up into thehandsome eyes resting so admiringly upon her as she tied the bow of thecravat and felt James' breath upon her burning cheeks. She did, however, promise to dance the first set with him, and then she ran upstairs tosee if Ethelyn needed her. But Eunice had been before her, and Ethelyn'stoilet was made. 

Had this party been at Mrs. Dr. Van Buren's, in Boston, Ethelyn wouldhave worn her beautiful white satin with the fleecy lace; but here itwould be out of place, she thought, and so she left it pinned up intowels at the bottom of her trunk, and chose a delicate lavender, trimmed with white appliqué. Lavender was not the most becoming colorEthelyn could wear, but she looked very handsome in it, with the softpearls upon her neck and arms. Richard thought her dress too low, whilemodest Andy averted his eyes, lest he should do wrong in looking uponthe beautiful round neck and shoulders which so greatly shocked hismother. "It was ridiculous and disgraceful for respectable wimmen folksto dress like that, " she said to Melinda Jones, who spoke up forEthelyn, saying the dress was like that of all fashionable ladies, andin fact was not as low as Mrs. Judge Miller wore to a reception whenMelinda was at school in Camden. 

Mrs. Markham "did not care for Miss Miller, nor forty more like her. Ethelyn looked ridickerlous, showing her shoulderblades, with that sharppoint running down her back, and her skirts moppin' the floor for half ayard behind. "

Any superfluity of length in Ethelyn's skirts was more thancounterbalanced by Mrs. Markham's, who this night wore the heavy blacksilk which her sister-in-law had matched in Boston ten years before. Ofcourse it was too narrow and too short, and too flat in front, Andysaid, admiring Ethelyn far more than he did his mother, even though thelatter wore the coiffure which Aunt Barbara had sent her, and a bigcollar made from the thread lace which Mrs. Captain Markham, ofChicopee, had also matched in Boston. Ethelyn was perfect, Andy thought, and he hovered constantly near her, noticing how she carried her hands, and her handkerchief, and her fan, and thinking Richard must beperfectly happy in the possession of such a gem. 

But Richard was not happy--at least not that night--for, with Mrs. Miller, and Marcia Fenton, and Ella Backus before her mind, Ethelyn hadlectured him again on etiquette, and Richard did not bear lecturing hereas well as at Saratoga. There it was comparatively easy to make himbelieve he did not know anything which he ought to know; but at home, where the old meed of praise and deference was awarded to him, where hisword was law and gospel, and he was Judge Markham, the potentate of thetown, Ethelyn's criticisms were not palatable, and he hinted that he wasold enough to take care of himself without quite so much dictation. Then, when he saw a tear on Ethelyn's eyelashes, he would have put hisarm around her and kissed it away, if she had not kept him back, tellinghim he would muss her dress. Still he was not insensible to her prettylooks, and felt very proud of her, as she stood at his side and shookthe hands of the arriving guests. 

By eight o'clock the Olneyites had assembled in full force; but it wasnot until the train came in and brought the élite from Camden that theparty was fairly commenced. There was a hush when the three ladies withveils on their heads went up the stairs, and a greater hush when theycame down again--Mrs. Judge Miller, splendid in green moire-antique, with diamonds in her ears, while Marcia Fenton and Ella Backus figuredin white tarletan, one with trimmings of blue, the other with trimmingsof pink, and both with waists so much lower than Ethelyn's that Mrs. Markham thought the latter very decent by comparison. 

It took the ladies a few minutes to inspect the cut of Mrs. Miller'sdress, and the style of hair worn by Marcia and Ella, whose heads hadbeen under a hairdresser's hands, and were curiosities to some of theOlneyites. But all stiffness vanished with the sound of Jerry Plympton'sfiddle, and the girls on the west side of the room began to look at theboys on the opposite side, who were straightening their collars andglancing at their "pumps. "

Ethelyn did not intend to dance, but when Judge Miller politely offeredto lead her to the floor, saying, as he guessed her thoughts, "Rememberthe old adage, 'among the Romans, and so forth, '" she involuntarilyassented, and even found herself leading the first cotillion to thesound of Jerry Plympton's fiddle. Mrs. Miller was dancing, too, as wereboth Marcia and Ella, and that in a measure reconciled her to what shewas doing. They knew something of the lancers there on the prairie, andterrible Tim Jones offered to call off "if Miss Markham would dance withhim and kind of keep him goin' straight. "

Tim had laid a wager with a companion as rough as himself, that he woulddance with the proud beauty, and this was the way he took to win thebet. The ruse succeeded, too, Richard's eyes and low-toned "Ethelyn!"availing more than aught else to drive Ethelyn to the floor with thedreadful Tim, who interlarded his directions with little asides of hisown, such as "Go it, Jim, " "Cut her down there, Tom, " "Hurry upyour cakes. "

Ethelyn could have screamed out with disgust, and the moment the set wasover she said to Richard, "I shall not dance again to-night. "

And she kept her word, until toward the close of the party when poorAndy, who had been so unfortunate as to find everybody engaged or tootired, came up to her as she was playing an accompaniment to Jerry's"Money-musk, " and with a most doleful expression, said to her, timidly:

"Please, sister Ethie, dance just once with me; none of the girls wantsto, and I hain't been in a figger to-night. "

Ethelyn could not resist Andy, whose face was perfectly radiant as heled her to the floor, and bumped his head against hers in bowing to her. Eunice was in the same set--her partner the terrible Tim--who crackedjokes and threw his feet about in the most astounding fashion. AndEthelyn bore it all, feeling that by being there with such people shehad fallen from the pedestal on which Ethelyn Grant once stood. Herlavender dress was stepped upon, and her point appliqué caught and tornby the big pin Andy had upon his coat cuff. Taken as a whole, that partywas the most dreadful of anything Ethelyn had endured and she could havecried for joy when the last guest had said good-night, and she was atliberty to lay her aching head upon her pillow. 

Four days after there was a large and fashionable party at Mrs. JudgeMiller's, in Camden, and Ethelyn went over in the cars, taking Eunicewith her as dressing-maid, and stopping at the Stafford House. Thatnight she wore her bridal robes, receiving so much attention that herhead was nearly turned with flattery. She could dance with the young menof Camden, and flirt with them, too--especially with Harry Clifford, who, she found, had been in college with Frank Van Buren. Harry Cliffordwas a fast young man, but pleasant to talk with for a while and Ethelynfound him very agreeable, saving that his mention of Frank made herheart throb unpleasantly; for she fancied he might know something ofthat page of her past life which she had concealed from Richard. Norwere her fears without foundation, for once when they were standingtogether near her husband, Harry said:

"It seems so strange that you are the Ethie about whom Frank used totalk so much, and a lock of whose hair he kept so sacred. I remember Itried to buy a part of it from him, but could not succeed until once, when his funds from home failed to come, and he was so hard up, as weused to say, that he actually sold, or rather pawned, half of theshining tress for the sum of five dollars. As the pawn was neverredeemed, I have the hair now, but never expected to meet with its fairowner, who needs not to be told that the tress is tenfold more valuablesince I have met her, and know her to be the wife of our esteemedMember, " and young Clifford bowed toward Richard, whose face wore aperplexed, dissatisfied expression. 

He did not fancy Harry Clifford much, and he certainly did not care tohear that he had in his possession a lock of Ethelyn's hair, while theallusions to Frank Van Buren were anything but agreeable to him. Neitherdid he like Ethelyn's painful blushes, and her evident desire for Harryto stop. It looked as if the hair business meant more than he would liketo suppose. Naturally bright and quick, young Clifford detectedRichard's thoughts, and directly began to wonder if there were notsomething somewhere which Judge Markham did not understand. 

"I mean to find out, " he thought, and watching an opportunity, whenEthelyn was comparatively alone, he crossed to her side and said in alow tone, "Excuse me, Mrs. Markham. If in my illusions to Frank VanBuren I touched a subject which has never been discussed betweenyourself and your husband, I meant no harm, I assure you. "

Instead of rebuking the impertinent young man, Ethelyn turned very red, and stammered out something about its being of no consequence; and soHarry Clifford held the secret which she had kept so carefully fromRichard, and that party in Camden was made the stepping-stone to much ofthe wretchedness that afterward came to our heroine. 

CHAPTER XIII

GOING TO WASHINGTON

Richard's trunk was ready for Washington. His twelve shirts, whichEunice had ironed so nicely, were packed away with his collars and newyarn socks, and his wedding suit, which he was carrying as a mere matterof form, for he knew he should not need it during his three months'absence. He should not go into society, he thought, or even attendlevees, with his heart as sore and heavy as it was on this, his last dayat home. Ethelyn was not going with him. She knew it now, and never didthe face of a six-months wife look harder or stonier than hers as shestayed all day in her room, paying no heed whatever to Richard, andleaving entirely to Eunice and her mother-in-law those little thingswhich most wives would have been delighted to do for their husbands'comfort. Ethelyn was very unhappy, very angry, and very bitterlydisappointed. The fact that she was not going to Washington had fallenupon her like a thunderbolt, paralyzing her, as it were, so that afterthe first great shock was over she seemed like some benumbed creaturebereft of care, or feeling, or interest in anything. 

She had remained in Camden the most of the day following Mrs. JudgeMiller's party, and had done a little shopping with Marcia Fenton andElla Backus, to whom she spoke of her winter in Washington as a matterof course, saying what she had to say in Richard's presence, and neverdreaming that he was only waiting for a fitting opportunity to demolishher castles entirely. Perhaps if Ethelyn had talked Washington openly toher husband when she was first married, and before his mother had gainedhis ear, her chances for a winter at the capital would have been fargreater than they were now. But she had only taken it for granted thatshe was going, and supposed that Richard understood it just as she did. She had asked him several times where he intended to board and why hedid not secure rooms at Willard's, but Richard's non-committal replieshad given her no cue to her impending fate. On the night of her returnfrom Camden, as she stood by her dressing bureau, folding away herpoint-lace handkerchief, she had casually remarked, "I shall not usethat again till I use it in Washington. Will it be very gay therethis winter?"

Richard was leaning his elbow upon the mantel, looking thoughtfully intothe fire, and for a moment he did not answer. He hated to demolishEthie's castles, but it could not be helped. Once it had seemed verypossible that she would go with him to Washington, but that was beforehis mother had talked to him upon the subject. Since then the fiat hadgone forth, and thinking this the time to declare it, Richard said atlast, "Put down your finery, Ethelyn, and come stand by me while I saysomething to you. "

His voice and manner startled Ethelyn, but did not prepare her for whatfollowed after she had "dropped her finery" and was standing byher husband. 

"Ethelyn, " he began, and his eyes did not move from the blazing fire, "it is time we came to an understanding about Washington. I have talkedwith mother, whose age certainly entitles her opinion to someconsideration, and she thinks that for you to go to Washington thiswinter would not only be improper, but also endanger your life;consequently, I hope you will readily see the propriety of remainingquietly at home where mother can care for you, and see that you are notat all imprudent. It would break my heart if anything happened to mydarling wife, or--" he finished the sentence in a whisper, for he wasnot yet accustomed to speaking of the great hope he had in expectancy. 

He was looking at Ethelyn now, and the expression of her face startledand terrified him, it was so strange and terrible. 

"Not go to Washington!" and her livid lips quivered with passion, whileher eyes burned like coals of fire. "I stay here all this long, drearywinter with your mother! Never, Richard, never! I'll die before I'll dothat. It is all--" she did not finish the sentence, for she would notsay, "It is all I married you for"; she was too much afraid of Richardfor that, and so she hesitated, but looked at him intently to see if hewas in earnest. 

She knew he was at last--knew that neither tears, nor reproaches, norbitter scorn could avail to carry her point, for she tried them all, even to violent hysterics, which brought Mrs. Markham, senior, into thefield and made the matter ten times worse. Had she stayed away Richardmight have yielded, for he was frightened at the storm he had invoked;but Richard was passive in his mother's hands, and listened complacentlywhile in stronger, plainer language than he had used she repeated insubstance all he had said about the impropriety of Ethelyn's minglingwith the gay throng at Washington. Immodesty, Mrs. Markham called it, with sundry reflections upon the time when she was young, and what youngmarried women did then. And while she talked poor Ethelyn lay upon thelounge writhing with pain and passion, wishing that she could die, andfeeling in her heart that she hated the entire Markham race, fromRichard down to the innocent Andy, who heard of the quarrel going onbetween his mother and Ethelyn, and crept cautiously to the door oftheir room, wishing so much that he could mediate between them. 

But this was a matter beyond Andy's ken. He could not even find apetition in his prayer-book suited to that occasion. Mr. Townsend hadassured him that it would meet every emergency; but for once Mr. Townsend was at fault, for with the sound of Ethelyn's angry voiceringing in his ears, Andy lighted his tallow candle and creeping up tohis chamber knelt down by his wooden chair and sought among the generalprayers for one suited "to a man and his wife quarreling. " There was aprayer for the President, a prayer for the clergy, a prayer forCongress, a prayer for rain, a prayer for the sick, a prayer for peoplegoing to sea and people going to be hanged, but there was nothing forthe point at issue, unless he took the prayer to be used in time of warand tumults, and that he thought would never answer, inasmuch as he didnot really know who was the enemy from which he would be delivered. Itwas hard to decide against Ethelyn and still harder to decide against"Dick, " and so with his brains all in a muddle Andy concluded to takethe prayer "for all sorts and conditions of men, " speaking very low andearnestly when he asked that all "who were distressed in mind, body, orestate, might be comforted and relieved according to their severalnecessities. " This surely covered the ground to a very considerableextent; or if it did not, the fervent "Good Lord, deliver us, " withwhich Andy finished his devotions, did, and the simple-hearted, trustingman arose from his knees comforted and relieved, even if Richard andEthelyn were not. 

With them the trouble continued, for Ethelyn kept her bed next day, refusing to see anyone and only answering Richard in monosyllables whenhe addressed himself directly to her. Once he bent over her and said, "Ethelyn, tell me truly--is it your desire to be with me, your dread ofseparation from me, which makes you so averse to be left behind?"

There was that in his voice which said that if this were the case hemight be induced to reconsider. But though sorely tempted to do it, Ethelyn would not tell a falsehood for the sake of Washington; so shemade no reply, and Richard drew from her silence any inference hepleased. He was very wretched those last days, for he could not forgetthe look of Ethelyn's eye or the sound of her voice when, as she finallygave up the contest, she said to him with quivering nostrils and steadytones, "You may leave me here, Richard, but remember this: not one wordor line will I write to you while you are gone. I mean what I say. Ishall abide by my decision. "

It would be dreadful not to hear a word from Ethie during all the drearywinter, and Richard hoped she would recall her words; but Ethelyn wastoo sorely wounded to do that. She must reach Richard somehow, and thiswas the way to do it. She did not come downstairs again after it wassettled. She was sick, she said, and kept her room, seeing no one butRichard and Eunice, who three times a day brought up her nicely cookedmeals and looked curiously at her as she deposited her tray upon thestand and quietly left the room. Mrs. Markham did not go up at all, forEthelyn charged her disappointment directly to her mother-in-law, andhad asked that she be kept away; and so, 'mid passion and tears andbitterness, the week went by and brought the day when Richard wasto leave. 

CHAPTER XIV

THE FIRST DAY OF RICHARD'S ABSENCE

The gray light of a November morning was breaking over the prairies whenRichard stooped down to kiss his wife, who did not think it worth herwhile to rise so early even to see him off. She felt that she had beenunjustly dealt with, and up to the very last maintained the same cold, icy manner so painful to Richard, who would fain have won from her onesmile to cheer him in his absence. But the smile was not given, thoughthe lips which Richard touched did move a little, and he tried tobelieve it was a kiss they meant to give. Only the day before Ethie hadheard from Aunt Van Buren that Frank was to be married at Christmas, when they would all go on to Washington, where they confidently expectedto meet Ethelyn. With a kind of grim satisfaction Ethelyn showed this toher husband, hoping to awaken in him some remorse for his cruelty toher, if, indeed, he was capable of remorse, which she doubted. She didnot know him, for if possible he suffered more than she did, though in adifferent way. It hurt him to leave her there alone feeling as she did. He hated to go without her, carrying only in his mind the memory of thewhite, rigid face which had not smiled on him for so long. He wanted herto seem interested in something, for her cold apathy of manner puzzledand alarmed him; so remembering her aunt's letter on the morning of hisdeparture, he spoke of it to her and said, "What shall I tell Mrs. VanBuren for you? I shall probably see more or less of them. "

"Tell nothing; prisoners send no messages, " was Ethelyn's reply; and inthe dim gray of the morning the two faces looked a moment at each otherwith such thoughts and passions written upon them as were pitiableto behold. 

But when Richard was fairly gone, when the tones of his voice biddinghis family good-by had ceased, and Ethelyn sat leaning on her elbow andlistening to the sound of the wheels which carried him away, such afeeling of utter desolation and loneliness swept over her that, buryingher face in the pillows, she wept bitterer tears of remorse and regretthan she had ever wept before. 

That day was a long and dreary one to all the members of the prairiefarmhouse. It was lonely there the first day of Richard's absence, butnow it was drearier than ever; and with a harsh, forbidding look uponher face, Mrs. Markham went about her work, leaving Ethelyn entirelyalone. She did not believe her daughter-in-law was any sicker thanherself. "It was only airs, " she thought, when at noon Ethelyn declinedthe boiled beef and cabbage, saying just the odor of it made her sick. "Nothing but airs and ugliness, " she persisted in saying to herself, asshe prepared a slice of nice cream toast with a soft-boiled egg and cupof fragrant black tea. Ethie did not refuse this, and was even graciousenough to thank her mother-in-law for her extra trouble, but she did itin such a queenly as well as injured kind of way, that Mrs. Markham feltmore aggrieved than ever, and, for a good woman, who sometimes spoke inmeeting, slammed the door considerably hard as she left the room andwent back to her kitchen, where the table had been laid ever sinceEthelyn took to eating upstairs. So long as she ate with the family Mrs. Markham felt rather obliged to take her meals in the front room, but itmade a deal more work, and she was glad to return to her olden ways oncemore. Eunice was gone off on an errand, and so she felt at liberty tospeak her mind freely to her boys as they gathered around the table. 

"It is sheer ugliness, " she said, "which keeps her cooped up there to bewaited on. She is no more sick than the dog; but law, I couldn't makeRichard b'lieve it. "

"Mother, you surely did not go to Richard with complaints of his wife, "and James looked reproachfully across the table at his mother, whoreplied: "I told him what I thought, for I wa'n't going to have himmiserable all the time thinking how sick she was, but I might as wellhave talked to the wind, for any good it did. He even seemedputcherky, too. "

"I should be more than putcherky if you were to talk to me against mywife if I had one, " James retorted, thinking of Melinda and the way shesang that solo in the choir the day before. 

It was a little strange that James and John and Andy all took Ethelyn'spart against their mother, and even against Richard, who they thoughtmight have taken her with him. 

"It would not have hurt her any more than fretting herself to death athome. No, nor half so much; and she must feel like a cat in a strangegarret there alone with them. "

It was John who said this--quiet John, who talked so little, and annoyedEthelyn so much by coming to the table in his blue frock, with his pantstucked in his boots and his curly hair standing every way. Though verymuch afraid of his grand sister-in-law, he admired her beyondeverything, and kept the slippers she brought him safely put away with alock of Daisy's hair and a letter written him by the young girl whosegrave was close beside Daisy's in the Olney cemetery. John had had hisromance and buried it with his heroine, since which time he had said butlittle to womankind, though never was there a truer heart than thatwhich beat beneath the homespun frock Ethelyn so despised. Richard hadbidden him to be kind to Ethie, and John had said he would; and afterthat promise was given had the farmhouse been on fire the sturdy fellowwould have periled life and limb to save her for Dick. To James, too, Richard had spoken a word for Ethie, and to Andy also; so that therewere left to her four champions in his absence--for Eunice had had hercharge, with promises of a new dress if faithful to her trust; and thusthere was no one against poor Ethelyn saving the mother-in-law, who madethat first dinner after Richard's absence so uncomfortable that Johnleft the table without touching the boiled Indian pudding, of which hewas so fond, while James rather curtly asked what there was to be gainedby spitting out so about Ethelyn, and Andy listened in silence, thinkinghow, by and by, when all the chores were done, he would take a basket ofkindlings up for Ethie's fire, and if she asked him to sit down, hewould do so and try and come to the root of the matter, and see if hecould not do something to make things a little better. 

CHAPTER XV

ANDY TRIES TO FIND THE ROOT OF THE MATTER

Ethelyn was very sick with a nervous headache, and so Andy did not go inwith his kindlings that night, but put the basket near the door, whereEunice would find it in the morning. It was a part of Richard's bargainwith Eunice that Ethie should always have a bright, warm fire to dressby, and the first thing Ethelyn heard as she unclosed her eyes was thesound of Eunice blowing the coals and kindlings into a blaze as sheknelt upon the hearth, with her cheeks and eyes extended to their utmostcapacity. It was a very dreary awakening, and Ethelyn sighed as shelooked from her window out upon the far-stretching prairie, where thefirst snows of the season were falling. There were but few objects tobreak up the monotonous level, and the mottled November sky frownedgloomily and coldly down upon her. Down in the back-yard James and Johnwere feeding the cattle; the bleating of the sheep and the lowing of thecows came to her ear as she turned with a shiver from the window. Howcould she stay there all that long, dreary winter--there where therewas not an individual who had a thought or taste in common with her own?She could not stay, she decided, and then as the question arose, "Wherewill you go?" the utter hopelessness and helplessness of her positionrushed over her with so much force that she sank down upon the loungewhich Eunice had drawn to the fire, and when the latter came up withbreakfast she found her young mistress crying in a heart-broken, despairing kind of way, which touched her heart at once. 

Eunice knew but little of the trouble with regard to Washington. Mrs. Markham had been discreet enough to keep that from her; and so shenaturally ascribed Ethie's tears to grief at parting with her husband, and tried in her homely way to comfort her. Three months were not verylong; and they would pass 'most before you thought, she said, addingthat she heard Jim say the night before that as soon as he got his graycolts broken he was going to take his sister all over the country andcheer her up a little. 

Ethie's heart was too full to permit her to reply, and Eunice soon lefther alone, reporting downstairs how white and sick she was looking. ToMrs. Markham's credit we record that with a view to please herdaughter-in-law, a fire was that afternoon made in the parlor, andEthelyn solicited to come down, Mrs. Markham, who carried theinvitation, urging that a change would do her good, as it was not alwaysgood to stay in one place. But Ethelyn preferred the solitude of her ownchamber, and though she thanked her mother-in-law for herthoughtfulness, she declined going down, and Mrs. Markham had made herfire for nothing. Not even Melinda came to enjoy it, for she was inCamden, visiting a schoolmate; and so the day passed drearily enoughwith all, and the autumnal night shut down again darker, gloomier thanever, as it seemed to Ethelyn. She had seen no one but Mrs. Markham andEunice since Richard went away, and she was wondering what had become ofAndy, when she heard his shuffling tread upon the stairs, and a momentafter, his round shining face appeared, asking if he might come in. Andy wore his best clothes on this occasion, for an idea had somehowbeen lodged in his brain that Ethelyn liked a person well dressed, andhe was much pleased with himself in his short coat and shorter pants, and the buff and white cotton cravat tied in a hard knot around hissharp, standing collar, which almost cut the bottom of his ears. 

"I wished to see you, " he said, taking a chair directly in front ofEthelyn and tipping back against the wall. "I wanted to come before, butwas afraid you didn't care to have me. I've got something for you now, though--somethin' good for sore eyes. Guess what 'tis?"

And Andy began fumbling in his pocket for the something which was tocheer Ethelyn, as he hoped. 

"Look a-here. A letter from old Dick, writ the very first day. That'swhat I call real courtin' like, " and Andy gave to Ethelyn the letterwhich John had brought from the office and which the detention of atrain at Stafford for four hours had afforded Richard an opportunityto write. 

It was only a few lines, meant for her alone, but Ethelyn's cheek didn'tredden as she read them, or her eyes brighten one whit. Richard waswell, she said, explaining to Andy the reason for his writing, and thenshe put the letter away, while Andy sat looking at her, wondering whathe should say next. He had come up to comfort her, but found it hard tobegin. Ethie was looking very pale, and there were dark rings around hereyes, showing that she suffered, even if Mrs. Markham did assert therewas nothing ailed her but spleen. 

At last Andy blurted out: "I am sorry for you, Ethelyn, for I know itmust be bad to have your man go off and leave you all alone, when youwanted to go with him. Jim and John and me talked it up to-day when wewas out to work, and we think you orto have gone with Dick. It must belonesome staying here, and you only six months married. I wish, and theboys wishes, we could do something to chirk you up. "

With the exception of what Eunice had said, these were the first wordsof sympathy Ethelyn had heard, and her tears flowed at once, while herslight form shook with such a tempest of sobs that Andy was alarmed, and getting down on his knees beside her, begged of her to tell him whatwas the matter. Had he hurt her feelings? he was such a blunderin'critter, he never knew the right thing to say, and if she liked he'd gostraight off downstairs. 

"No, Anderson, " Ethelyn said, "you have not hurt my feelings, and I donot wish you to go, but, oh, I am so wretched and so disappointed, too!"

"About goin' to Washington, you mean?" Andy asked, resuming his chair, and his attitude of earnest inquiry, while Ethelyn, forgetting all herreserve, replied: "Yes, I mean that and everything else. It has beennothing but disappointment ever since I left Chicopee, and I sometimeswish I had died before I promised to go away from dear Aunt Barbara's, where I was so happy. "

"What made you promise, then? I suppose, though, it was because youloved Dick so much, " simple-minded Andy said, trying to remember ifthere was not a passage somewhere which read, "For this cause shall aman leave father and mother and cleave unto his wife, and they twainshall be one flesh. "

Ethelyn would not wound Andy by telling him how little love had had todo with her unhappy marriage, and she remained silent for a moment, while Andy continued, "Be you disappointed here--with us, I mean, andthe fixins?"

"Yes, Anderson, terribly disappointed. Nothing is as I supposed. Richardnever told me what I was to expect, " Ethelyn replied, without stoppingto consider what she was saying. 

For a moment Andy looked intently at her, as if trying to make out hermeaning. Then, as it in part dawned upon him, he said sorrowfully:"Sister Ethie, if it's me you mean, I was more to blame than Dick, for Iasked him not to tell you I was--a--a--wall, I once heard Miss CaptainSimmons say I was Widder Markham's fool, " and Andy's chin quivered as hewent on: "I ain't a fool exactly, for I don't drool or slobber like TomBrown the idiot, but I have a soft spot in my head, and I didn't wantyou to know it, for fear you wouldn't like me. Daisy did, though, andDaisy knew what I was and called me 'dear Andy, ' and kissed me whenshe died. "

Andy was crying softly now, and Ethelyn was crying with him. The hardfeeling at her heart was giving way, and she could have put her armsaround this childish man, who after a moment continued: "Dick said hewouldn't tell you, so you must forgive him for that. You've found meout, I s'pose. You know I ain't like Jim, nor John, and I can't hold acandle to old Dick, but sometimes I've hope you liked me a little, evenif you do keep calling me Anderson. I wish you wouldn't; seems as iffolks think more of me when they say 'Andy' to me. "

"Oh, Andy, dear Andy, " Ethelyn exclaimed: "I do like you so much--likeyou best of all. I did not mean you when I said I was disappointed. "

"Who, then?" Andy asked, in his straightforward way. "Is it mother? Sheis odd, I guess, though I never thought on't till you came here. Yes, mother is some queer, but she is good; and onct when I had the typhoidand lay like a log, I heard her pray for 'her poor dear boy Andy';that's what she called me, as lovin' like as if I wasn't a fool, orsomethin' nigh it. "

Ethelyn did not wish to leave upon his mind the impression that hismother had everything to do with her wretchedness, and so cautiously asshe could she tried to explain to him the difference between the habitsand customs of Chicopee and Olney. Warming up with her theme as sheprogressed, she said more than she intended, and succeeded in drivinginto Andy's brain a vague idea that his family were not up to herstandard, but were in fact a long way behind the times. Andy was in adilemma; he wanted to help Ethelyn and did not know how. Suddenly, however, his face brightened, and he asked, "Do you belong tothe church?"

"Yes, " was Ethelyn's reply. 

"You do!" Andy repeated in some surprise, and Ethelyn replied, "Not theway you mean, perhaps; but when I was a baby I was baptized in thechurch and thus became a member. "

"So you never had the Bishop's hands upon your head, and done what theSaviour told us to do to remember him by?"

Ethelyn shook her head, and Andy went on: "Oh, what a pity, when he issuch a good Saviour, and would know just how to help you, now you are sosorry-like and homesick, and disappointed. If you had him you could tellhim all about it and he would comfort you. He helped me, you don't knowhow much, and I was dreadful bad once. I used to get drunk, Ethie--drunker'n a fool, and come hiccuppin' home with my clothes alltore and my hat smashed into nothin'. "

Andy's face was scarlet as he confessed to his past misdeeds, butwithout the least hesitation he went on: "Mr. Townsend found me one dayin the ditch, and helped me up and got me into his room and prayed overme and talked to me, and never let me off from that time till theSaviour took me up, and now it's better than three years since I tasteda drop. I don't taste it even at the sacrament, for fear what the tastemight do, and I used to hold my nose to keep shut of the smell. Mr. Townsend knows I don't touch it, and God knows, too, and thinks I'mright, I'm sure, and gives me to drink of his precious blood just thesame, for I feel light as air when I come from the altar. If religioncould make me, a fool and a drunkard, happy, it would do sights for youwho know so much. Try it, Ethie, won't you?"

Andy was getting in earnest now, and Ethelyn could not meet the glanceof his honest, pleading eyes. 

"I can't be good, Andy, " she replied; "I shouldn't know how to begin orwhat to do. "

"Seems to me I could tell you a few things, " Andy said. "God didn't wantyou to go to Washington for some wise purpose or other, and so he put itinto Dick's heart to leave you at home. Now, instead of crying aboutthat I'd make the best of it and be as happy as I could be here. I knowwe ain't starched up folks like them in Boston, but we like you, all ofus--leastwise Jim and John and me do--and I don't mean to come to thetable in my shirt-sleeves any more, if that will suit you, and I won'tblow my tea in my sasser, nor sop my bread in the platter; though ifyou are all done and there's a lot of nice gravy left, you won't mindit, will you, Ethelyn?--for I do love gravy. "

Ethelyn had been more particular than she meant to be with her reasonsfor her disappointment, and in enumerating the bad habits to which shesaid Western people were addicted, she had included the points uponwhich Andy had seized so readily. He had never been told before that hismanners were entirely what they ought not to be; he could hardly see itso now, but if it would please Ethie he would try to refrain, he said, asking that when she saw him doing anything very outlandish, she wouldremind him of it and tell him what was right. 

"I think folks is always happier, " he continued, "when they forgit toplease themselves and try to suit others, even if they can't see anysense in it. "

Andy did not exactly mean this as a rebuke, but it had the effect of oneand set Ethelyn thinking. Such genuine simplicity and frankness couldnot be lost upon her, and long after Andy had left her and gone to hisroom, where he sought in his prayer-book for something just suited toher case, she sat pondering all he had said, and upon the faith whichcould make even simple Andy so lovable and good. 

"He has improved his one talent far more than I have my five or ten, "she said, while regrets for her own past misdeeds began to fill herbosom, with a wish that she might in some degree atone for them. 

Perhaps it was the resolution formed that night, and perhaps it was theanswer to Andy's prayer that God would have mercy upon Ethie and inclineher and his mother to pull together better, which sent Ethelyn down tobreakfast the next morning and kept her below stairs a good portion ofthe day, and made her accept James' invitation to ride with him in theafternoon. Then when it was night again, and she saw Eunice carryingthrough the hall a smoking firebrand, which she knew was designed forthe parlor fire, she changed her mind about staying alone upstairs withthe books she had commenced to read, but brought instead the white, fleecy cloud she was knitting, and sat with the family, who had neverseen her more gracious or amiable, and wondered what had happened. Andythought he knew; he had prayed for Ethie, not only the previous night, but that morning before he left his room, and also during the day--oncein the barn upon a rick of hay and once behind the smoke-house. 

Andy always looked for direct answers to his prayers, and believing hehad received one his face was radiant with content and satisfaction, when after supper he brushed and wet his hair and plastered it down uponhis forehead, and changed his boots for a lighter pair of Richard's, andthen sat down before the parlor fire with the yarn sock he was knittingfor himself. Ethelyn had never seen him engaged in this feminineemployment before, and she felt a strong disposition to laugh, butfearing to wound him, repressed her smiles and seemed not to look at himas he worked industriously on the heel, turning and shaping it betterthan she could have done. It was not often that Ethelyn had favored thefamily with music, but she did so that night, playing and singing pieceswhich she knew were familiar to them, and only feeling a momentary pangof resentment when, at the close of "Yankee Doodle, " with variations, quiet John remarked that Melinda herself could not go ahead of that!Melinda's style of music was evidently preferable to her own, but sheswallowed the insult and sang "Lily Dale, " at the request of Andy, who, thinking the while of dear little Daisy, wiped his eyes with the leg ofhis sock, while a tear trickled down his mother's cheek and droppedinto her lap. 

"I thought Melinda Jones wanted to practice on the pianner, " Eunicesaid, after Ethelyn was done playing; "I heard her saying so one day andwondering if Miss Markham would be willin'. "

Ethelyn was in a mood then to assent to most anything, and she expressedher entire approbation, saying even that she would gladly give Melindaany assistance in her power. Ethelyn had been hard and cold and proud solong that she scarcely knew herself in this new phase of character, andthe family did not know her, either. But they appreciated it fully, andJames' eyes were very bright and sparkling when, in imitation of Andy, he bade his sister good-night, thinking, as she left the room howbeautiful she was and how pleased Melinda would be, and hoping she wouldfind it convenient to practice there evenings, as that would render anescort home absolutely necessary, unless "Terrible Tim" came for her. 

Ethelyn had not changed her mind when Melinda came home next day, and asa matter of course called at the Markhams' in the evening. But Ethelyn'soffer had come a little too late--Melinda was going to Washington tospend the winter! A bachelor brother of her mother's, living among themountains of Vermont, had been elected Member of Congress in the placeof the regular member, who had resigned, and as the uncle was wealthyand generous, and had certain pleasant reminiscences of a visit to Iowawhen a little black-eyed girl had been so agreeable to him, he hadwritten for her to join him in Washington, promising to defray allexpenses and sending on a draft for two hundred dollars, with which shewas to procure whatever she deemed necessary for her winter's outfit. Melinda's star was in the ascendant, and Ethelyn felt a pang ofsomething like envy as she thought how differently Melinda's winterwould pass from her own, while James trembled for the effect Washingtonmight have upon the girl who walked so slowly with him along the beatenpath between his house and her father's, and whose eyes, as she bade himgood-night, were little less bright than the stars shining down uponher. Would she come back like Ethelyn? He hoped not, for there wouldthen be an end to all fond dreams he had been dreaming. She woulddespise his homely ways and look for somebody higher than plain JimMarkham in his cowhide boots. James was sorry to have Melinda go, andEthelyn was sorry, too. It seemed as if she was to be left alone, fortwo days after Melinda's return, Marcia Fenton and Ella Backus came outfrom Camden to call, and communicated the news that they, too, weregoing on to Washington, together with Mrs. Judge Miller, whose fatherwas a United States Senator. It was terrible to be thus left behind, and Ethelyn's heart grew harder against her husband for dooming her tosuch a fate. Every week James, or John, or Andy brought from the post aletter in Richard's handwriting, directed to Mrs. Richard Markham, andonce in two weeks Andy carried a letter to the post directed inEthelyn's handwriting to "Richard Markham, M. C. , " but Andy neversuspected that the dainty little envelope, with a Boston mark upon it, inclosed only a blank sheet of paper! Ethelyn had affirmed so solemnlythat she would not write to her husband that she half feared to breakher vow; and, besides that, she could not forgive him for having lefther behind, while Marcia, Ella, and Melinda were enjoying themselves somuch. She knew she was doing wrong, and not a night of her life did shego to her lonely bed that there did not creep over her a sensation offear as she thought, "What if I should die while I am so bad?"

At home, in Chicopee, she used always to go through with a form ofprayer, but she could not do that now for the something which rose upbetween her and Heaven, smothering the words upon her lips, and so inthis dreadful condition she lived on day after day, growing more, andmore desolately and lonely, and wondering sadly if life would always beas dreary and aimless as it was now. And while she pondered thus, Andyprayed on and practiced his lessons in good manners, provoking the mirthof the whole family by his ludicrous attempts to be polite, and feelingsometimes tempted to give the matter up. Andy was everything to Ethelyn, and once when her conscience was smiting her more than usual with regardto the blanks, she said to him abruptly: "if you had made a wicked vow, which would you do--keep it or break it, and so tell a falsehood?"

Andy was not much of a lawyer, he said, but "he thought he knew somescripter right to the pint, " and taking his well-worn Bible he found andread the parable of the two sons commanded to work in theirfather's vineyard. 

"If the Saviour commended the one who said he wouldn't and then went anddid it, I think there can be no harm in your breaking a wicked vow:leastways I should do it. "

This was Andy's advice, and that night, long after the family were inbed, a light was shining in Ethelyn's chamber, where she sat writing toher husband, and as if Andy's spirit were pervading hers, she softened, as she wrote and asked forgiveness for all the past which she had madeso wretched. She was going to do better, she said, and when her husbandcame home she would try to make him happy. 

"But, oh, Richard, " she wrote, "please take me away from here to Camden, or Olney, or anywhere--so I can begin anew to be the wife I ought to be. I was never worthy of you, Richard. I deceived you from the first, andif I could summon the courage I would tell you about it. "

This letter which would have done so much good, was never finished, forwhen the morning came there were troubled faces at the prairiefarmhouse--Mrs. Markham looking very anxious and Eunice very scared, James going for the doctor and Andy for Mrs. Jones, while up in Ethie'sroom, where the curtains were drawn so closely before the windows, lifeand death were struggling for the mastery, and each in a measure comingoff triumphant. 

CHAPTER XVI

WASHINGTON

Richard had not been very happy in Washington. He led too quiet andsecluded a life, his companions said, advising him to go out more, andjocosely telling him that he was pining for his young wife and growingquite an old man. When Melinda Jones came, Richard brightened a little, for there was always a sense of comfort and rest in Melinda's presence, and Richard spent much of his leisure in her society, accompanying herto concerts and occasionally to a levee, and taking pains to show herwhatever he thought would interest her. It was pleasant to have a ladywith him sometimes, and he wished so much it had been practicable forEthelyn to have come. "Poor Ethie, " he called her to himself, pityingher because, vain man that he was, he thought her so lonely without him. This was at first, and before he had received in reply to his letterthat dreadful blank, which sent such a chill to his heart, making himcold, and faint, and sick, as he began to realize what it was in awoman's power to do. He had occasionally thought of Ethelyn's threat, not to write him a line, and felt very uncomfortable as he recalled theexpression of her eyes when she made it. But he did not believe she wasin earnest. She surely could not hold out against the letter he wrote, telling how he missed her every moment, and how, if it had been at alladvisable, he would have taken her with him. He did not know Ethelyn, and so was not prepared for the bitter disappointment in store for himwhen the dainty little envelope was put into his hand. It was herhandwriting--so much he knew; and there lingered about the missive fainttraces of the sweet perfume he remembered as pervading everything shewore or used. Ethelyn had not kept her vow; and with a throb of joyRichard tore open the envelope and removed the delicate tinted sheetinside. But the hand of the strong man shook and his heart grew heavy aslead when he turned the sheet thrice over, seeking in vain for some lineor word, or syllable or sign. But there was none. Ethelyn had kept hervow, and Richard felt for a moment as if all the world were ascompletely a blank as that bit of gilt-edged paper he crumpled sohelplessly in his hand. Anon, however, hope whispered that she wouldwrite next time; she could not hold out thus all winter; and so Richardwrote again with the same success, until at last he expected nothing, and people said of him that he was growing old, while even Melindanoticed his altered appearance, and how fast his brown hair was turninggray. Melinda was in one sense his good angel. She brought him news fromhome and Ethelyn, telling for one thing of Ethie's offer to teach hermusic during the winter; and for another, of Ethie's long drives uponthe prairie, sometimes with James, sometimes with John, but oftenestwith Andy, to whom she seemed to cling as to a very dear brother. 

This news did Richard good, showing a better side of Ethie's characterthan the one presented to him. She was not cold and proud to the familyat home; even his mother, who wrote to him once or twice, spoke kindlyof her, while James warmly applauded her, and Andy wrote a letter, wonderful in composition, and full of nothing but Ethelyn, who madetheir home so pleasant with her music, and songs, and pretty face. Therewas some comfort in this^ and so Richard bore his burden in silence, andno one ever dreamed that the letters he received with tolerableregularity were only blank, fulfillments of a hasty vow. 

With Christmas came the Van Buren set from Boston--Aunt Sophia, withFrank, and his girlish bride, who soon became a belle, flirting withevery man who offered his attentions, while Frank was in no way behindin his flirtations with the other sex. Plain, matter-of-fact MelindaJones was among the first to claim his notice after he learned that shewas niece of the man who drove such splendid blacks and kept so handsomea suite of rooms at Willard's; but Melinda was more than his match, andsnubbed him so unmercifully that he gave her up, and sneered at her as"that old-maidish girl from the West. " Mrs. Dr. Van Buren had beenprofuse in her inquiries after Ethelyn, and loud in her regrets at herabsence. She had also tried to patronize both Richard and Melinda, taking the latter with her to the theater and to a reception, and tryingto cultivate her for the sake of poor Ethie, who was obliged toassociate with her and people like her. Melinda, however, did not needMrs. Van Buren's patronage. Her uncle was a man of wealth and mark, whostood high in Washington, where he had been before. His niece could notlack attention, and ere the season was over the two rival belles atWashington were Mrs. Frank Van Buren, from Boston, and Miss MelindaJones, from Iowa. 

But prosperity did not spoil Melinda, and James Markham's chances werequite as good when, dressed in pink silk, with camelias in her hair, sheentertained some half-dozen judges and M. C. 's as when in brown delaineand magenta ribbons she danced a quadrille at some "quilting bee outWest. " She saw the difference, however, between men of cultivation andthose who had none, and began to understand the cause of Ethelyn's cold, proud looks when surrounded by Richard's family. She began also silentlyto watch and criticise Richard, comparing him with other men of equalbrain, and thinking how, if she were his wife, she would go to work tocorrect his manners. Possibly, too, thoughts of James, in his blue frockand cowhide boots, occasionally intruded themselves upon her mind; butif so, they did not greatly disturb her equanimity, for, let what mighthappen, Melinda felt herself equal to the emergency--whether it were toput down Frank Van Buren and the whole race of impudent puppies likehim, or polish rough James Markham if need be. How she hated Frank VanBuren when she saw his neglect of his young wife, whose money was all heseemed to care for; and how utterly she loathed and despised him afterthe night, when, at a party given by one of Washington's magnates, hestood beside her for half an hour and talked confidently to her ofEthelyn, whom, he hinted, he could have married if he would. 

"Why didn't you, then?" and Melinda turned sharply upon him, with a lookin her black eyes which made him wince as he replied: "Familyinterference--must have money, you know! But, zounds! don't I pityher!--tied to that clown, whom--"

Frank did not finish the sentence, for Melinda's eyes fairly blazed withanger as she cut him short with "Excuse me, Mr. Van Buren; I can'tlisten to such abuse of one whom I esteem as highly as I do JudgeMarkham. Why, sir, he is head and shoulders above you, in sense andintellect and everything which makes a man, " and with a haughty bow, Melinda swept away, leaving the shamefaced Frank alone in hisdiscomfiture. 

"I'd like to kick myself if I could, though I told nothing but thetruth. Ethie did want me confoundedly, and I would have married her ifshe hadn't been poor as a church mouse, " Frank muttered to himself, standing in the deep recess of the window, and all unconscious that justoutside upon the balcony was a silent, motionless form, which had heardevery word of his conversation with Melinda, and his soliloquyafterward. 

Richard Markham had come to this party just to please Melinda, but hedid not enjoy it. If Ethie had been there he might; but he could notforget the blank that day received, or the letter from James, which saidthat Ethelyn was not looking as well as usual, and had the morningpreviously asked him to turn back before they had ridden more than twomiles. He could not be happy with that upon his mind, and so he stolefrom the gay scene out upon the balcony, where he stood watching thequiet stars and thinking of Ethelyn, when his ear had caught by themention of her name. 

He had not thought before who the couple were standing so near to him, but he knew now it was Melinda and Frank Van Buren, and became aninvoluntary listener to the conversation which ensued. There was aclenching of his fist, a shutting together of his teeth, and an impulseto knock the boasting Frank Van Buren down; and then, as the pastflashed before him, with the thought that possibly Frank spoke the truthand Ethelyn had loved him, there swept over him such a sense of anguishand desolation that he forgot all else in his own wretchedness. It hadnever occurred to him that Ethelyn married him while all the time sheloved another--that perhaps she loved that other still--and the verypossibility of it drove him nearly wild. 

He was missed from the party, but no one could tell when he left, for noone saw him as he sprang down into the garden, and taking refuge in thepaths where the shades were the deepest, escaped unobserved into thestreet, and so back to his own room, where he went over all the pastand recalled every little act of affection on Ethelyn's part, weighed itin the balance with proofs that she did not care for him and never had. So much did Richard love his wife and so anxious was he to find herguiltless that he magnified every virtue and excused every error untilthe verdict rendered was in her favor, and Frank alone was thedelinquent--Frank, the vain, conceited coxcomb, who thought because awoman was civil to him that she must needs wish to marry him; Frank, thewretch who had presumed to pity his cousin, and called her husband aclown! How Richard's fingers tingled with a desire to thrash theinsulting rascal; and how, in spite of the verdict, his heart ached witha dull, heavy fear lest it might be true in part, that Ethie had oncefelt for Frank something deeper than what girls usually feel for theirfirst cousins. 

"And supposing she has?" Richard's generous nature asked. "Supposing shedid love this Frank once on a time well enough to marry him? She surelywas all over that love before she promised to be my wife, else she hadnot promised; and so the only point where she is at fault was inconcealing from me the fact that she had loved another first. I washonest with her. I told her of Abigail, and it was very hard to do it, for I felt that the proud girl's spirit rebelled against such as Abigailwas years ago. It would have been so easy, then, for Ethelyn to haveconfessed to me, if she had a confession to make; though how she couldever care for such a jackanapes as that baboon of a Frank is more than Ican tell. "

Richard was waxing warm against Frank Van Buren, whom he despised soheartily that he put upon his shoulders all the blame concerningEthelyn, if blame there were. He would so like to think her innocent, and he tried so hard to do it, that he succeeded in part, thoughfrequently as the days passed on, and he sat at his post in the House, listening to some tiresome speech, or took his solitary walk towardArlington Heights, a pang of something like jealousy and dread that allhad not been open and fair between himself and his wife cut like aknife through his heart, and almost stopped his breath. The shortsession was wearing to a close, and he was glad of it, for he longed tobe home again with Ethelyn, even if he were doomed to meet the samecoldness which those terrible blanks had brought him. Anything waspreferable to the life he led, and though he grew pale as ashes and hislimbs quivered like a reed when, toward the latter part of February, hereceived a telegram to come home at once, as Ethelyn was very sick, hehailed the news as a message of deliverance, whereby he could escapefrom hated Washington a few days sooner. He hardly knew when or how theidea occurred to him that Aunt Barbara's presence would be moreacceptable in that house, where he guessed what had happened; but occurto him it did; and Aunt Barbara, sitting by her winter fire and thinkingof Ethelyn, was startled terribly by the missive which bade her joinRichard Markham at Albany, on the morrow, and go with him to Iowa, whereEthie lay so ill. A pilgrimage to Mecca would scarcely have looked moreformidable to the good woman than this sudden trip to Iowa; but whereher duty was concerned she did not hesitate, and when at noon of thenext day the New York train came up the river, the first thing Richardsaw as he walked rapidly toward the Central Depot at Albany was AuntBarbara's bonnet protruding from the car window and Aunt Barbara's handmaking frantic passes and gestures to attract his notice. 

CHAPTER XVII

RICHARD'S HEIR

For one whole week the windows of Ethelyn's room were darkened as darkas Mrs. Markham's heavy shawl and a patchwork quilt could make them. Thedoctor rode to and from the farmhouse, looking more and more concernedeach time he came from the sick-room. Mrs. Jones was over almost everyhour, or if she did not come Tim was sent to inquire, his voice very lowand subdued as he asked, "How is she now?" while James' voice was lowerand sadder still as he answered, "There is no change. " Up and down thestairs Mrs. Markham trod softly, wishing that she had never harbored anunkind thought against the pale-faced girl lying so unconscious of allthey were doing for her. In the kitchen below, with a scared look uponher face, Eunice washed and wiped her dishes, and wondered if Richardwould get home in time for the funeral, and if he would order fromCamden a metallic coffin such as Minnie Dayton had been buried in; andEunice's tears fell like rain as she thought how terrible it was to dieso young, and unprepared, too, as she heard Mrs. Markham say to theMethodist clergyman when he came over to offer consolation. 

Yes, Ethelyn was unprepared for the fearful change which seemed so near, and of all the household none felt this more keenly than Andy, whosetears soaked through and through the leaf of the prayer-book, where wasprinted the petition for the sick, and who improvised many a touchingprayer himself, kneeling by the wooden chair where God had so often metand blessed him. 

"Don't let Ethie die, Good Father, don't let her die; at least not tillshe is ready, and Dick is here to see her--poor old Dick, who loves herso much. Please spare her for him, and take me in her place. I'm goodfor nothing, only I do hope I'm ready, and Ethie ain't; so spare her andtake me in her place. "

This was one of Andy's prayers--generous, unselfish Andy--who would havedied for Ethelyn, and who had been in such exquisite distress since thenight when Eunice first found Ethelyn moaning in her room, with herletter to Richard lying unfinished before her. No one had read thatletter--the Markhams were too honorable for that--and it had been putaway in the portfolio, while undivided attention was given to Ethelyn. She had been unconscious nearly all the time, saying once when Mrs. Markham asked, "Shall we send for Richard?" "Send for Aunt Barbara;please send for Aunt Barbara. "

This was the third day of Ethelyn's danger, and on the sixth there camea change. The shawl was pinned back from the window, admitting lightenough for the watchers by the bedside to see if the sufferer stillbreathed. Life was not extinct, and Mrs. Markham's lips moved with aprayer of thanksgiving when Mrs. Jones pointed to a tiny drop ofmoisture beneath the tangled hair. Ethelyn would live, the doctor said, but down in the parlor on the sofa where Daisy had lain was a littlelifeless form with a troubled look upon its face, showing that it hadfought for its life. Prone upon the floor beside it sat Andy, whisperingto the little one and weeping for "poor old Dick, who would mourn forhis lost boy. "

Andy was very sorry, and to one who saw him that day, and, ignorant ofthe circumstances, asked what was the matter that he looked so solemn, he answered sadly, "I have just lost my little uncle that I wanted tostand sponsor for. He only lived a day, " and Andy's tears flowed afreshas he thought of all he had lost with the child whose life numberedscarcely twenty-four hours in all. But that was enough to warrant itsbeing now among the spirits of the Redeemed, and heaven seemed fairer, more desirable to Andy than it had done before. His father was therewith Daisy and his baby uncle, as he persisted in calling Ethelyn's deadboy until James told him better, and pointed out the ludicrousness ofthe mistake. To Ethelyn Andy was tender as a mother, when at last theylet him see her, and his lips left marks upon her forehead and cheek. She was perfectly conscious now, and when told they had sent forRichard, manifested a good deal of interest, and asked when he wouldprobably be there. They were expecting him every train; but ere he camethe fever, which seemed for a time to have abated, returned with doubleforce and Ethelyn knew nothing of the kisses Richard pressed upon herlips, or the tears Aunt Barbara shed over her poor darling. 

There were anxious hearts and troubled faces in the farmhouse that day, for Death was brooding there again, and they who watched his shadowdarkening around them spoke only in whispers, as they obeyed thephysician's orders. When Richard first came in Mrs. Markham wound herarm around his neck, and said, "I am so sorry for you, my poor boy, "while the three sons, one after another, had grasped their brother'shand in token of sympathy, and that was all that had passed between themof greeting. For the rest of the day, Richard had sat constantly byEthelyn, watching the changes of her face, and listening to her as sheraved in snatches, now of himself, and the time he saved her from themaddened cow, and now of Frank and the huckleberries, which she saidwere ripening on the Chicopee hills. When she talked of this Richardheld his breath, and once, as he leaned forward so as not to lose aword, he caught Aunt Barbara regarding him intently, her wrinkled cheekflushing as she met his eye and guessed what was in his mind. If Richardhad needed any confirmation of his suspicions, that look on transparentAunt Barbara's face would have confirmed them. There had been somethingbetween Ethelyn and Frank Van Buren more than a cousinly liking, andRichard's heart throbbed powerfully as he sat by the tossing, restlessEthelyn, moaning on about the huckleberry hills, and the ledge of rockswhere the wild laurels grew. This pain he did not try to analyze; heonly said to himself that he felt no bitterness toward Ethelyn. She wastoo near to death's dark tide for that. She was Ethie--his darling--themother of the child that had been buried from sight before he came. Perhaps she did not love him, and never would; but he had loved her, oh!so much, and if he lost her he would be wretched indeed. And so, forgiving all the past of which he knew, and trying to forgive all hedid not know, he sat by her till the sun went down, and his mother camefor the twentieth time, urging him to eat. He had not tasted food thatday, and faint for the want of it he followed her to where the table hadbeen set, and supper prepared with a direct reference to hisparticular taste. 

He felt better and stronger when supper was over, and listened eagerlywhile Andy and Eunice, who had been the last with Ethelyn before hersudden illness, recounted every incident as minutely and reverently asif speaking of the dead. Especially did he hang on what Andy said withreference to her questioning him about the breaking of a wicked vow, andwhen Eunice added her mite to the effect that, getting up for somecamphor for an aching tooth, she had heard a groan from Ethelyn's room, and had found her mistress bending over a half-finished letter, whichshe "reckoned" was to him, and had laid away in the portfolio, he waitedfor no more, but hurried upstairs to the little bookcase where Eunicehad put the treasure--for it was a countless treasure, that unfinishedletter, which he read with the great tears rolling down his cheeks, andhis heart growing tenfold softer and warmer toward the writer, whoconfessed to having wronged him, and wished so much that she dare tellhim all. What was it she had to tell? Would he ever know? he askedhimself, as he put the letter back where he found it. Yes, she wouldsurely tell him, if she lived, as live she must. She was dearer to himnow than she had ever been, and the lips unused to prayer, save as aform, prayed most earnestly that Ethie might be spared. Then, as thereflashed upon him a sense of the inconsistency there was in keeping alooffrom God all his life, and going to him only when danger threatened, hebowed his head in very shame, and the prayer died on his lips. But Andyalways prayed--at least he had for many years; and so the wise strongbrother sought the simple weaker one, and asked him to do what he hadnot power to do. 

Andy's swollen eyes and haggard face bore testimony to his sorrow, andhis voice was very low and earnest, as he replied: "Brother Dick, I'mprayin' all the time. I've said that prayer for the sick until I've wornit threadbare, and now every breath I draw has in it the petition, 'Webeseech Thee to hear us, good Lord. ' There's nothing in that aboutEthie, it's true; but God knows I mean her, and will hear me allthe same. "

There was a touching simplicity in Andy's faith, which went to the heartof Richard, making him feel of how little avail was knowledge or wisdomor position if there was lacking the one thing needful, which Andy sosurely possessed. That night was a long, wearisome one at the farmhouse;but when the morning broke hope and joy came with it, for Ethelyn wasbetter, and in the brown eyes, which unclosed so languidly, there was alook of consciousness, which deepened into a look of surprise and joyfulrecognition as they rested upon Aunt Barbara. 

"Is this Chicopee? Am I home? Oh, Aunt Barbara, I am so glad! you can'tguess how glad, or know how tired and sorry your poor Ethie has been, "came brokenly from the pale lips, as Ethelyn moved nearer to AuntBarbara and laid her head upon the motherly bosom, where it had so oftenlain in the dear old Chicopee days. 

She did not notice Richard, or seem to know that she was elsewhere thanin Chicopee, back in the old home, and Richard's pulse throbbed quicklyas he saw the flush come over Ethie's face, and the look of pain creepinto her eyes, when a voice broke the illusion and told her she wasstill in Olney, with him and the mother-in-law leaning over the bed-railsaying, "Speak to her, Richard. "

"Ethie, don't you know me, too?--I came with Aunt Barbara. "

That was what he said, as he bent over her, seeking to take in his ownone of the feverish little hands locked so fast in those of AuntBarbara. She did know then, and remember, and her lip quivered in agrieved, disappointed way as she said, "Yes, Richard, I know now. I amnot at home, I'm here;" and the intonation of the voice as it utteredthe word "here, " spoke volumes, and told Aunt Barbara just how homesickand weary and wretched her darling had been here. She must not talkmuch, the physician said, and so with one hand in Richard's and one inAunt Barbara's she fell away to sleep again, while the family stole outto their usual avocations, Mrs. Markham and Eunice to their baking, James and John to their work upon the farm, and Andy to his Bethel inthe wood-house chamber, where he repeated: "Blessed be the Lord God ofIsrael who has visited and redeemed his people, " and added at theconclusion the Gloria Patri, which he thought suitable for the occasion. 

CHAPTER XVIII

DAYS OF CONVALESCENCE

They were very pleasant to Ethelyn, for with Aunt Barbara anticipatingevery want, and talking of Chicopee; she could not be very weary. It waspleasant, too, having Richard home again, and Ethie was very soft andkind and amiable toward him; but she did not tell him of the letter shehad commenced, or hint at the confession he longed to hear. It wouldhave been comparatively easy to write it, but with him there where shecould look into his face and watch the dark expression which was sure tocome into his eyes, it was hard to tell him that Frank Van Buren hadheld the first place in her affections, if indeed he did not hold itnow. She was not certain yet, though she hoped and tried to believe thatFrank was nothing more than cousin now. He surely ought not to be, withNettie calling him her husband, while she too was a wife. But so subtlewas the poison which that unfortunate attachment had infused into herveins that she could not tell whether her nature was cleared of it ornot, and so, though she asked forgiveness for having so literally kepther vow, and said that she did commence a letter to him, she kept backthe most important part of all. It was better to wait, she thought, until she could truly say, "I loved Frank Van Buren once, but now I loveyou far better than ever I did him. "

Had she guessed how much Richard knew, and how the knowledge wasrankling in his bosom, she might have done differently. But she took thecourse she thought the best, and the perfect understanding Richard hadso ardently hoped for was not then arrived at. For a time, however, there seemed to be perfect peace between them, and could Richard haveforgotten Frank Van Buren's words or even those of Ethie herself whenher fever was on, he would have been supremely happy. But to forget wasimpossible, and he often found himself wondering how much of Frank'sassertion was true, and if Ethelyn would ever be as open and honestwith him as he had tried to be with her. She did not get well very fast, and the color came slowly back into her lips and cheeks. She was farhappier than she had been before since she first came to Olney. Shecould not say that she loved her husband as a true wife ought to love aman like Richard Markham, but she found a pleasure in his society whichshe had never experienced before, while Aunt Barbara's presence was aconstant source of joy. That good woman had prolonged her stay farbeyond what she had thought it possible when she left Chicopee. Shecould not tear herself away, when Ethie pleaded so earnestly for her toremain a little longer, and so, wholly impervious to the hints whichMrs. Markham occasionally threw out, that her services were no longerneeded as nurse to Ethelyn, she stayed on week after week, seeing farmore than she seemed to see, and making up her mind pretty accuratelywith regard to the prospect of Ethie's happiness, if she remained aninmate of her husband's family. 

Aunt Barbara and Mrs. Markham did not harmonize at all. At first, whenEthie was so sick, everything had been merged in the one absorbingthought of her danger, and even the knowledge accidentally obtained thatRichard had paid Miss Bigelow's fare out there and would pay it back, had failed to produce more than a passing pang in the bosom of theclose, calculating, economical Mrs. Markham; but when the danger waspast, it kept recurring again and again, with very unpleasantdistinctness, that Aunt Barbara was an expense they could well dowithout. Nobody could quarrel with Aunt Barbara--she was so mild, andgentle, and peaceable--and Mrs. Markham did not quarrel with her, butshe thought about her all the time, and fretted over her, and rememberedthe letter she had written about her ways and her being good to Ethie, and wondered what she was there for, and why she did not go home, andasked her what time they generally cleaned house in Chicopee, and if shedared trust her cleaning with Betty. Aunt Barbara was a great annoyance, and she complained to Eunice and Mrs. Jones, and Melinda, who hadreturned from Washington, that she was spoiling Ethelyn, babying herso, and making her think herself so much weaker than she was. 

"Mercy knew, " she said, that in her day, when she was young and havingchildren, she did not hug the bed forever. She had something else to do, and was up and around in a fortnight at the most. Her table wasn'tloaded down with oranges and figs, and the things they called banannys, which fairly made her sick at her stomach. Nobody was carryin' her upglasses of milk-punch, and lemonade, and cups of tea, at all hours ofthe day. She was glad of anything, and got well the faster for it. Needn't tell her!--it would do Ethelyn good to stir around and take theair, instead of staying cooped up in her room, complaining that it ishot and close there in the bedroom. "It's airy enough out doors, " andwith a most aggrieved look on her face, Mrs. Markham put into the oventhe pan of soda biscuit she had been making, and then proceeded to laythe cloth for tea. 

Eunice had been home for a day or two with a felon on her thumb, andthus a greater proportion of the work had fallen upon Mrs. Markham, which to some degree accounted for her ill-humor. Mrs. Jones and Melindawere spending the afternoon with her, but the latter was up in Ethie'sroom. Melinda had always a good many ideas of her own, and she hadbrought with her several new ones from Washington and New York, whereshe had stayed for four weeks at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. But Melinda, though greatly improved in appearance, was not one whit spoiled. Inmanner, and the fit of her dress, she was more like Ethelyn and Mrs. Judge Miller, of Camden, than she once had been, and at first James wasa little afraid of her, she puffed her hair so high, and wore her gownsso long, while his mother, looking at the stylish hat and fashionablesack which she brought back from Gotham, said her head was turned, andshe was altogether too fine for Olney. But when, on the next rainySunday, she rode to church in her father's lumber wagon, holding theblue cotton umbrella over her last year's straw and waterproof--and whenarrived at the church she suffered James to help her to alight, jumpingover the muddy wheel, and then going straight to her accustomed seat inthe choir, which had missed her strong voice so much--the son changedhis mind, and said she was the same as ever; while after the day whenshe found Mrs. Markham making soap out behind the corn-house, andgood-humoredly offered to watch it and stir it while that lady went intothe house to see to the corn pudding, which Eunice was sure to spoil ifleft to her own ingenuity, the mother, too, changed her mind, and wishedRichard had been so lucky as to have fixed his choice on Melinda. ButJames was far from wishing a thing which would so seriously haveinterfered with his hopes and wishes. He was very glad that Richard'spreference had fallen where it did, and his cheery whistle was heardalmost constantly, and after Tim Jones told, in his blunt way, how"Melind was tryin' to train him, and make him more like them dandies atthe big tavern in New York, " he, too, began to amend, and taking Richardfor his pattern, imitated him, until he found that simple, loving Andy, in his anxiety to please Ethelyn, had seized upon more points ofetiquette than Richard ever knew existed, and then he copied Andy, having this in his favor: that whatever he did himself was done with acertain grace inherent in his nature, whereas Andy's attempts wereawkward in the extreme. 

Melinda saw the visible improvement in James, and imputing it rather toEthelyn's influence than her own, was thus saved from any embarrassmentshe might have experienced had she known to a certainty how large ashare of James Markham's thoughts and affections she possessed. She wasfrequently at the farmhouse; but had not made what her mother called avisit until the afternoon when Mrs. Markham gave her opinion so freelyof Aunt Barbara's petting and its effect on Ethelyn. 

From the first introduction Aunt Barbara had liked the practical, straightforward Melinda, in whom she found a powerful ally whenever anynew idea was suggested with regard to Ethelyn. To her Aunt Barbara hadconfided her belief that it was not well for Ethelyn to stay there anylonger--that she and Richard both would be better by themselves; anopinion which Melinda heartily indorsed, and straightway set herself atwork to form some plan whereby Aunt Barbara's idea might be carried out. 

Melinda was not a meddlesome girl, but she did like to help manage otherpeople's business, doing it so well, and evincing so little selfishnessin her consideration for others, that when once she had taken charge ofa person's affairs she was pretty sure to have the privilege again. WhenRichard ran for justice of the peace, and she was a little girl, she hadrefused to speak to three other little girls who flaunted the colors ofthe opposition candidate; and when he was nominated first for Judge andthen as member for the district, she had worked for him quite aszealously as Tim himself, and through her more than one vote, whichotherwise might have been lost, was cast in his favor. As she had workedfor him, so she now worked for Ethelyn, approaching Richard veryadroitly and managing so skillfully that when at last, on the occasionof her visit to his mother's, Aunt Barbara asked him, in her presenceand Ethelyn's, if he had never thought it would be well both for himselfand wife to live somewhere else than there at home, he never dreamedthat he was echoing the very ideas Melinda had instilled into his mindby promptly replying that "he had recently thought seriously of achange, " and then asked Ethie where she would like to live--in Olney orin Camden. 

"Not Olney--no, not Olney!" Ethelyn gasped, thinking how near that wasto her mother-in-law, and shrinking from the espionage to which shewould surely be subjected. 

Her preference was Davenport, but to this Richard would not listen. Indeed, he began to feel sorry that he had admitted a willingness tochange at all, for the old home was very dear to him, and he thought hewould never leave it. But he stood committed now, and Melinda followedhim up so dexterously, that in less than half an hour it was arrangedthat early in June Ethelyn should have a home in Camden--either a houseof her own, or a suite of rooms at the Stafford House, just which shepreferred. She chose the latter, and, womanlike, began at once in fancyto furnish and arrange the handsome apartments which looked out uponCamden Park, and which Melinda said were at present unoccupied. Melindaknew, for only two days before she had been to Camden with her brotherTim and dined at the Stafford House, and heard her neighbor on her rightinquire of his vis-à-vis how long since General Martin left the secondfloor of the new wing, and who occupied it now. This was a mere happenso, but Melinda was one of those to whom the right thing was alwayshappening, the desired information always coming; and if she didcontrive to ascertain the price charged for the rooms, it was onlybecause she understood that one of the Markham peculiarities was being alittle close, and wished to be armed at every point. 

Richard had no idea that Melinda was managing him, or that anyone wasmanaging him. He thought himself that Camden might be a pleasant placeto live; as an ex-Judge and M. C. He could get business anywhere; andthough he preferred Olney, inasmuch as it was home, he would, if Ethelynliked, try Camden for a while. It is true the price of the rooms, whichMelinda casually named, was enormous, but, then, Ethelyn's health andhappiness were above any moneyed consideration; and so, while Mrs. Markham below made and molded the soda biscuit, and talked aboutdreading the hot weather if "Ethelyn was going to be weakly, " AuntBarbara, and Melinda, and Richard settled a matter which made her eyesopen wide with astonishment when, after the exit of the Joneses and thedoing up of her work, it was revealed to her. Of course, she charged itall to Aunt Barbara, wishing that good woman as many miles away asintervened between Olney and Chicopee. Had the young people been goingto keep house, she would have been more reconciled, for in that casemuch of what they consumed would have been the product of the farm; butto board, to take rooms at the Stafford House where Ethelyn would havenothing in the world to do but to dress and gossip, was abominable. Thenwhen she heard of the price she opposed the plan with so much energythat, but for Aunt Barbara and Melinda Jones, Richard might havesuccumbed; but the majority ruled, and Ethelyn's eyes grew brighter, andher thin cheeks rounder, with the sure hope of leaving a place where shehad been so unhappy. She should miss Melinda Jones; and though she wouldbe near Mrs. Miller, and Marcia Fenton, and Ella Backus, they could notbe to her all Melinda had been, while Andy--Ethelyn felt the lumpsrising in her throat whenever she thought of him and the burst of tearswith which he had heard that she was going away. 

"I can't help thinkin' it's for the wuss, " he said, wiping his smoothface with the cuff of his coat-sleeve. "Something will happen as theresult of your goin' there. I feel it in my bones. "

Were Andy's words prophetic? Would something happen, if they went toCamden, which would not have happened had they remained in Olney?Ethelyn did not ask herself the question. She was too supremely happy, and if she thought at all, it was of how she could best accelerate herdeparture from the lonely farmhouse. 

When Mrs. Markham found that they were really going, that nothing shecould say would be of any avail, she gave up the contest, and, mother-like, set herself at work planning for their comfort, or ratherfor Richard's comfort. It was for him that the best and newestfeatherbed, weighing thirty pounds and a half to a feather, was airedand sunned three days upon the kitchen roof, the good woman littledreaming that if the thirty-pounder was used at all, it would do dutyunder the hair mattress Ethelyn meant to have. They were to furnishtheir own rooms, and whatever expense Mrs. Markham could save her boyshe meant to do. There was the carpet in their chamber--they could havethat; for after they were gone it was not likely the room would be used, and the old rag one would answer. They could have the curtains, too, ifthey liked, with the table and the chairs. Left to himself and hismother's guidance, Richard would undoubtedly have taken to Camden such apromiscuous outfit as would have made even a truckman smile; but therewere three women leagued against him, and so draft after draft was drawnfrom his funds in the Camden bank until the rooms were furnished; andone bright morning in early June, a week after Aunt Barbara started forChicopee, Ethie bid her husband's family good-by, and turning her backupon Olney, turned also the first leaf of her life's history inthe West. 

CHAPTER XIX

COMING TO A CRISIS

Richard was not happy in his new home; it did not fit him like the old. He missed his mother's petting; he missed the society of his plain, outspoken brothers; he missed his freedom from restraint, and he missedthe deference so universally paid to him in Olney, where he was the onlylion. In Camden there were many to divide the honors with him; andthough he was perhaps unconscious of it, he had been first so long thatto be one of many firsts was not altogether agreeable. With the new homeand new associates more like those to which she had been accustomed, Ethelyn had resumed her training process, which was not now borne aspatiently as in the halcyon days of the honeymoon, when most things worethe couleur de rose and were right because they came from the prettyyoung bride. Richard chafed under the criticisms to which he was sofrequently subjected, and if he improved on them in the least it was notperceptible to Ethlyn, who had just cause to blush for the carelesshabits of her husband--habits which even Melinda observed, when inAugust she spent a week with Ethelyn, and then formed one of a partywhich went for a pleasure trip to St. Paul and Minnehaha. From thisexcursion, which lasted for two weeks, Richard returned to Camden inanything but an amiable frame of mind. Ethelyn had not pleased him atall, notwithstanding that she had been unquestionably the reigning belleof the party--the one whose hand was claimed in every dance, and whosecompany was sought in every ride and picnic. Marcia Fenton and EllaBackus faded into nothingness when she was near, and they laughinglycomplained to Richard that his wife had stolen all their beaux away, andthey wished he would make her do better. 

"I wish I could, " was his reply, spoken not playfully, but moodily, justas he felt at the time. 

He was not an adept in concealing his feelings, which generally showedthemselves upon his face, or were betrayed in the tones of his voice, and when he spoke as he did of his wife the two young girls glancedcuriously at each other, wondering if it where possible that the graveJudge was jealous. If charged with jealousy Richard would have deniedit, though he did not care to have Ethelyn so much in Harry Clifford'ssociety. Richard knew nothing definite against Harry, except that hewould occasionally drink more than was wholly in accordance with asteady and safe locomotion of his body; and once since they had been atthe Stafford House, where he also boarded, the young lawyer had beeninvisible for three entire days. "Sick with a cold" was his excuse whenhe appeared again at the table, with haggard face and bloodshot eyes;but in the parlor, and halls, and private rooms, there where whispers ofsoiled clothes and jammed hats, and the servants bribed to keep thesecret that young lawyer Clifford's boots were carried dangling up toNo. 94 at a very late hour of the night on which he professed to havetaken his cold. After this, pretty Marcia Fenton, who, before Ethelyncame to town, had ridden oftenest after the black horses owned by Harry, tossed her curls when he came near, and arched her eyebrows in a mannerrather distasteful to the young man; while Ella Backus turned her backupon him, and in his hearing gave frequent lectures on intemperance andits loathsomeness. Ethelyn, on the contrary, made no difference in herdemeanor toward him. She cared nothing for him either way, except thathis polite attentions and delicate deference to her tastes and opinionswere complimentary and flattering, and so she saw no reason why sheshould shun him because he had fallen once. It might make him worse, andshe should stand by him as an act of philanthropy, she said to Richardwhen he asked her what she saw to admire in that drunken Clifford. 

Richard had no idea that Ethelyn cared in the least for Harry Clifford;he knew she did not, though she sometimes singled him out as one whosemanners in society her husband would do well to imitate. Of the twoyoung men, Harry Clifford and Frank Van Buren, who had been suggested tohim as copies, Richard preferred the former, and wished he could feel aseasy with regard to Frank as he was with regard to Harry. He had neverforgotten that fragment of conversation overheard in Washington, and astime went on it haunted him more and more. He had given up expecting anyconfession from Ethelyn, though at first he was constantly expecting it, and laying little snares by way of hints and reminders; but Ethelyn hadevidently changed her mind, and if there was a past which Richard oughtto have known, he would now probably remain in ignorance of it, unlesssome chance revealed it. It would have been far better if Richard hadtried to banish all thoughts of Frank Van Buren from his mind and takenEthelyn as he found her; but Richard was a man, and so, manlike, hehugged the skeleton which he in part had dragged into his home, andpetted it, and kept it constantly in sight, instead of thrusting it outfrom the chamber of his heart, and barring the door against it. Frank'sname was never mentioned between them, but Richard fancied that alwaysafter the receipt of Mrs. Dr. Van Buren's letters Ethelyn was a littlesad, and more disposed to find fault with him, and he sometimes wishedMrs. Dr. Van Buren might never write to them again. There was one of herletters awaiting Ethelyn after her return from Minnesota, and she readit standing under the chandelier, with Richard lying upon the couch nearby, watching her curiously. There was something in the letter whichdisturbed her evidently, for her face flushed, and her lips shut firmlytogether, as they usually did when she was agitated. Richard alreadyread Aunt Barbara's letters, and heretofore he had been welcome to Mrs. Van Buren's, a privilege of which he seldom availed himself, for hefound nothing interesting in her talk of parties, and operas andfashions, and the last new color of dress goods, and style ofwearing the hair. 

"It was too much twaddle for him, " he had said in reply to Ethelyn'squestions as to whether he would like to see what Aunt Van Burenhad written. 

Now, however, she did not offer to show him the letter, but crumpled itnervously in her pocket, and going to her piano, began to playdashingly, rapidly, as was her custom when excited. She did not knowthat Richard was listening to her, much less watching her, as he lay inthe shadow, wondering what that letter contained, and wishing so muchthat he knew. Ethelyn was tired that night, and after the first heat ofher excitement had been thrown off in a spirited schottische, she closedher piano, and coming to the couch where Richard was lying, sat down byhis side, and after waiting a moment in silence, asked "of what he wasthinking. "

There was something peculiar in the tone of her voice--something almostbeseeching, as if she either wanted sympathy, or encouragement for theperformance of some good act. But Richard did not so understand her. Hewas, to tell the truth, a very little cross, as men, and women, too, areapt to be when tired with sight-seeing and dissipation. He had been awayfrom his business three whole weeks, traveling with a party for not onemember of which, with the exception of his wife, Melinda, Marcia, andElla, did he care a straw. 

Hotel life at St. Paul he regarded as a bore, second only to life atSaratoga. The falls of Minnehaha "was a very pretty little stream, " hethought, but what people could see about it go into such ecstasies asEthelyn, and even Melinda did, he could not tell. Perhaps if HarryClifford had not formed a part of every scene where Ethelyn was theprominent figure, he might have judged differently. But Harry had beengreatly in his way, and Richard did not like it any more than he likedEthelyn's flirting so much with him, and leaving him, her husband, tolook about for himself. He had shown, too, that he did not like it toMarcia Fenton and Ella Backus who probably thought him a bear, asperhaps he was. On the whole, Richard was very uncomfortable in hismind, and Aunt Van Buren's letter did not tend in the least to improvehis temper; so when Ethelyn asked him of what he was thinking, andaccompanied her question with a stroke of her hand upon his hair, heanswered her, "Nothing much, except that I am tired and sleepy. "

The touch upon his hair he had felt to his finger tips, for Ethelynseldom caressed him even as much as this; but he was in too moody aframe of mind to respond as he would once have done. His manner was notvery encouraging, but, as if she had nerved herself to some painfulduty, Ethelyn persisted, and said to him next: "You have not seen AuntVan Buren's letter. Shall I read you what she says?"

Every nerve in Richard's body had been quivering with curiosity to seethat letter, but now, when the coveted privilege was within his reach, he refused it; and, little dreaming of all he was throwing aside, answered indifferently: "No, I don't know that I care to hear it. Ihardly think it will pay. Where are they now?"

"At Saratoga, " Ethelyn replied; but her voice was not the same which hadaddressed Richard first; there was a coldness, a constraint in it now, as if her good resolution had been thrown back upon her and frozen upthe impulse prompting her to the right. 

Richard had had his chance with Ethelyn and lost it. But he did not knowit, or guess how sorry and disappointed she was when at last she lefthim and retired to her sleeping-room. There was a window open in theparlor, and as the wind was rising with a sound of rain, Richard went toclose it ere following his wife. The window was near to the piano and ashe shut it something rattled at his feet. It was the crumpled letter, which Ethelyn had accidentally drawn from her dress pocket with thehandkerchief she held in her hand when she sat down by Richard. He knewit was that letter, and his first thought was to carry it to Ethelyn;then, as he remembered her offer to read it to him, he said, "Surelythere can be no harm in reading it for myself. A man has a right to knowwhat is in a letter to his wife. "

Thus reasoning, he sat down by the side light as far away from thebedroom door as possible and commenced Mrs. Dr. Van Buren's letter. Theywere stopping at the United States, and there was nothing particular atfirst, except her usual remarks of the people and what they wore; but onthe third page Richard's eye caught Frank's name, and skipping all else, leaped eagerly forward to what the writer was saying of her son. Hisconduct evidently did not please his mother; neither did the conduct ofNettie, who was too insipid for anything, the lady wrote, adding thatshe was not half so bright and pretty as when she was first married, buthad the headache and kept her own room most of the time, and was lookingso faded and worn that Frank was really ashamed of her. 

"You know how he likes brilliant, sparkling girls, " she wrote, "and ofcourse he has no patience with Nettie's fancied ailments. I can't saythat I altogether sympathize with her myself; and, dear Ethie, I mustacknowledge that it has more than once occurred to me that I did verywrong to meddle with Frank's first love affair. He would be far happiernow if it had been suffered to go on, for I suspect he has neverentirely gotten over it; but it is too late now for regrets. Nettie ishis wife, and he must make the best of it. "

Then followed what seemed the secret of the Van Buren discomfort. Thebank in which most of Nettie's fortune was deposited had failed, leavingher with only the scanty income of five hundred dollars a year, a sumnot sufficient to buy clothes, Mrs. Van Buren said. But Richard did notnotice this--his mind was only intent upon Frank's first love affair, which ought to have gone on. He did not ask himself whether, in case ithad gone on, Ethelyn would have been there, so near to him that her softbreathing came distinctly to his ear. He knew she would not; there hadbeen something between her and Frank Van Buren, he was convinced beyonda doubt, and the fiercest pang he had ever known was that which came tohim when he sat with Mrs. Dr. Van Buren's letter in his hand, wonderingwhy Ethie had withheld the knowledge of it from him, and if she hadoutlived the love which her aunt regretted as having come to naught. Then, as the more generous part of his nature began to seek excuses forher, he asked himself why she offered to read the letter if she hadreally been concerned in Frank's first love affair, and hope whisperedthat possibly she was not the heroine of that romance. There was comfortin that thought: and Richard would have been comforted if jealousy hadnot suggested how easy it was for her to skip the part relating toNettie and Frank, and thus leave him as much in the dark as ever. Yes, that was undoubtedly her intention. While seeming to be so open andhonest, she would have deceived him all the more. This was what Richarddecided, and his heart grew very hard against the young wife, who lookedso innocent and pretty in her quiet sleep, when at last he sought hispillow and lay down by her side. 

He was very moody and silent for days after that, and even his clientsdetected an irritability in his manner which they had never seen before. "There was nothing ailed him, " he said to Ethelyn, when she asked whatwas the matter, and accused him of being positively cross. She was verygay; Camden society suited her; and as the season advanced, and thefestivities grew more and more frequent, she was seldom at home morethan one or two evenings in the week, while the day was given either tothe arrangement of dress or taking of necessary rest, so that herhusband saw comparatively little of her, except for the moment when shealways came to him with hood and white cloak in hand to ask him how shelooked, before going to the carriage waiting at the door. Never in hergirlish days had she been so beautiful as she was now, but Richardseldom told her so, though he felt the magic influence of her brilliantbeauty, and did not wonder that she was the reigning belle. He seldomaccompanied her himself. Parties, and receptions, and concerts, werebores, he said; and at first he had raised objections to her goingwithout him. But after motherly Mrs. Harris, who boarded in the nextblock, and was never happier than when chaperoning someone, offered tosee to her and take her under the same wing which had sheltered sixfine and now well-married daughters, Richard made no further objections. He did not wish to be thought a domestic tyrant; he did not wish to seemjealous, and so he would wrap Ethie's cloak around her, and taking herhimself to Mrs. Harris' carriage, would give that lady sundry chargesconcerning her, bidding her see that she did not dance till whollywearied out, and asking her to bring her home earlier than the previousnight. Then, returning to his solitary rooms, he would sit nursing thedemon which might so easily have been thrust aside. Ethie was notinsensible to his kindness in allowing her to follow the bent of her owninclinations, even when it was so contrary to his own, and for his sakeshe did many things she might not otherwise have done. She snubbed HarryClifford and the whole set of dandies like him, so that, though theydanced, and talked, and laughed with her, they never crossed a certainline of propriety which she had drawn between them. She was verycircumspect; she tried at first in various ways to atone to Richard forher long absence from him, telling him whatever she thought wouldinterest him, and sometimes, when she found him waiting for her, andlooking so tired and sleepy, playfully chiding him for sitting up forher, and telling him that though it was kind in him to do so, shepreferred that he should not. This was early in the season; but afterthe day when Mrs. Markham, senior, came over from Olney to spend theday, and "blow Richard's wife up, " as she expressed it, everything waschanged, and Ethelyn stayed out as late as she liked without anyconcessions to Richard. Mrs. Markham, senior, had heard strange storiesof Ethelyn's proceedings--"going to parties night after night, with herdress shamefully low, and going to plays and concerts bareheaded, withflowers and streamers in her hair, besides wearing a mask, andpretending she was Queen Hortense. "

"A pretty critter to be, " Mrs. Markham had said to the kind neighbor whohad returned from Camden and was giving her the particulars in full ofEthelyn's misdoings. "Yes, a pretty critter to be! If I was goin' toturn myself into somebody else I'd take a decent woman. I wonder atRichard's lettin' her; but, law! he is so blind and she so headstrong!"

And the good woman groaned over this proof of depravity as shequestioned her visitor further with regard to Ethie's departuresfrom duty. 

"And he don't go with her much, you say, " she continued, feeling moreaggrieved than ever when she heard that on the occasion of Ethie'spersonating Hortense, Richard had also appeared as a knight of thesixteenth century, and borne his part so well that Ethelyn herself didnot recognize him until the mask was removed. 

Mrs. Markham could not suffer such high-handed wickedness to gounrebuked, and taking as a peace offering, in case matters assumed aserious aspect, a pot of gooseberry jam and a ball of head cheese, shestarted for Camden the very next day. 

Ethelyn did not expect her, but she received her kindly, and knowing howshe hated a public table, had dinner served in her own room, and then, without showing the least impatience, waited a full hour for Richard tocome in from the court-house, where an important suit was pending. Mrs. Markham was to return to Olney that night, and as there was no time tolose, she brought the conversation round to the "stories" she had heard, and little by little laid on the lash till Ethelyn's temper was roused, and she asked her mother-in-law to say out what she had to say at once, and not skirt round it so long. Then came the whole list of misdemeanorswhich Mrs. Markham thought "perfectly ridiculous, " asking her son how he"could put up with such work. "

Richard wisely forbore taking either side; nor was it necessary that heshould speak for Ethie. She was fully competent to fight her own battle, and she fought it with a will, telling her mother-in-law that she shouldattend as many parties as she pleased and wear as many masks. She didnot give up her liberty of action when she married. She was young yet, and should enjoy herself if she chose, and in her own way. 

This was all the satisfaction Mrs. Markham could get, and supremelypitying "her poor boy, " whom she mentally decided was "henpecked, " shetook the cars back to Olney, saying to Richard, who accompanied her tothe train, "I am sorry for you from the bottom of my heart. It would bebetter if you had stayed with me. "

Richard liked his mother's good opinion, but as he walked back to thehotel he could not help feeling that a mother's interference between manand wife was never very discreet, and he wished the good woman hadstayed at home. If he had said so to Ethelyn, when on his return to hisrooms he found her weeping passionately, there might have come a betterunderstanding between them, and she probably would have stayed with himthat evening instead of attending the whist party given by Mrs. Miller. But he had fully determined to keep silent, and when Ethelyn asked ifshe was often to be subjected to such insults, he did not reply. He wentwith her, however, to Mrs. Miller's, and knowing nothing of cards, almost fell asleep while waiting for her, and playing backgammon withanother fellow-sufferer, who had married a young wife and was thereon duty. 

Mrs. Markham, senior, did not go to Camden again, and when Christmascame, and with it an invitation for Richard and his wife to dine at thefarmhouse on the turkey Andy had fattened for the occasion, Ethelynperemptorily declined; and as Richard would not go without her, Mrs. Jones and Melinda had their seats at table, and Mrs. Markham wished forthe hundredth time that Richard's preference had fallen on the latteryoung lady instead of "that headstrong piece who would be his ruin. "

CHAPTER XX

THE CRISIS

It was the Tuesday before Lent. The gay season was drawing to a close, for Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Miller, who led the fashionable world of Camdenbefore Ethelyn's introduction to it, were the highest kind ofchurch-women, and while neglecting the weightier matters of the lawwere strict to bring their tithes of mint, and anise, and cummin. Theywere going to wear sackcloth and ashes for forty days and stay at home, unless, as Mrs. Miller said to Ethelyn, they met occasionally in eachother's house for a quiet game of whist or euchre. There could be noharm in that, particularly if they abstained on Fridays, as of coursethey should. Mr. Bartow himself could not find fault with so simple arecreation, even if he did try so hard to show what his views were withregard to keeping the Lenten fast. Mrs. Miller and Mrs. Howard intendedto be very regular at the morning service, hoping that the odor ofsanctity with which they would thus be permeated would in some way atonefor the absence of genuine heart-religion and last them for theremainder of the year. First, however, and as a means of helping her inher intended seclusion from the world, Mrs. Howard was to give thelargest party of the season--a sort of carnival, from which the revelerswere expected to retire the moment the silvery-voiced clock on hermantel struck the hour of twelve and ushered in the dawn of Lent. It wasto be a masquerade, for the Camdenites had almost gone mad on thatfashion which Ethelyn had the credit of introducing into their midst;that is, she was the first to propose a masquerade early in the season, telling what she had seen and giving the benefit of her largerexperience in such matters. 

It was a fashion which took wonderfully with the people, for thecuriosity and interest attaching to the characters was just suited tothe restless, eager temperament of the Camdenites, and they entered intoit with heart and soul, ransacking boxes and barrels and worm-eatenchests, scouring the country far and near and even sending as far asDavenport and Rock Island for the necessary costumes. Andy himself hadbeen asked by Harry Clifford to lend his Sunday suit, that young scampintending to personate some raw New England Yankee; and that was howMrs. Markham, senior, first came to hear of the proceedings which, toone of her rigid views, savored strongly of the pit, especially aftershe heard one of the parties described by an eye-witness, who mentionedamong other characters his Satanic Majesty, as enacted by HarryClifford, who would fain have appeared next in Andy's clothes! No wonderthe good woman was enraged and took the next train for Camden, givingher son and daughter a piece of her mind and winding up her discoursewith: "And they say you have the very de'il himself, with hoofs andhorns. I think you might have left him alone, for I reckon he was therefast enough if you could not see him. "

Ethelyn had not approved of Harry Clifford's choice, and with others haddenounced his taste as bad; but she enjoyed the masquerades generally, and for this last and most elaborate of all she had made greatpreparations. Richard had not opposed her joining it, but he did wince alittle when he found she was to personate Mary, Queen of Scots, wishingthat she would not always select persons of questionable character, likeHortense and Scotland's ill-fated queen. But Ethie had decided upon herrole without consulting him, and so he walked over piles ofancient-looking finery and got his boots tangled in the golden wig whichEthie had hunted up, and told her he should be glad when it was over, and wished mentally that it might be Lent the year around, and waspersuaded into saying he would go to the party himself, not as a masker, but in his own proper person as Richard Markham, the grave and dignifiedJudge whom the people respected so highly. Ethie was glad he was going. She would always rather have him with her, if possible; and the genuinesatisfaction she evinced when he said he would accompany her did muchtoward reconciling him to the affair about which so much was being saidin Camden. When, however, he came in to supper on Tuesday nightcomplaining of a severe headache, and saying he wished he could remainquietly at home, inasmuch as he was to start early the next morning forSt. Louis, where he had business to transact, Ethelyn said to him: "Ifyou are sick, of course I will not compel you to go. Mr. And Mrs. Millerwill look after me. "

She meant this kindly, for she saw that he was looking pale andhaggard, and Richard took it so then; but afterward her words became somany scorpions stinging him into fury. It would seem as if every box, and drawer, and bag, had been overturned, and the contents brought tolight, for ribbons, and flowers, and laces were scattered about in wildconfusion, while on the carpet, near the drawer where Ethie's littlemother-of-pearl box was kept, lay a tiny note, which had inadvertentlybeen dropped from its hiding-place when Ethie opened the box in quest ofsomething which was wanted for Queen Mary's outfit. Richard saw the notejust as he saw the other litter, but paid no attention to it then, andafter supper was over went out as usual for his evening paper. 

Gathered about the door of the office was a group of young men, all hisacquaintances, and all talking together upon some theme which seemed toexcite them greatly. 

"Too bad to make such a fool of himself, " one said, while another added, "He ought to have known better than to order champagne, when he knowswhat a beast a few drops will make of him, and he had a first-classcharacter for to-night, too. "

Richard was never greatly interested in gossip of any kind, butsomething impelled him now to ask of whom they were talking. 

"Of Hal Clifford, " was the reply. "A friend of his came last night toMoore's Hotel, where Hal boards, and wishing to do the generous host Halordered champagne and claret for supper, in his room, and got drunkerthan a fool. It always lasts him a day or two, so he is gone up forto-night. "

Richard had no time to waste in words upon Harry Clifford, and afterhearing the story started for his boarding-place. His route lay past theMoore House and as he reached it the door opened and Harry came reelingdown the steps. He was just drunk enough to be sociable, and spyingRichard by the light of the lamppost he hurried to his side, and takinghis arm in the confidential manner he always assumed when intoxicated, he began talking in a half-foolish, half-rational way, very disgustingto Richard, who tried vainly to shake him off. Harry was not to bebaffled, and with a stammer and a hiccough he began: "I say--a--now, oldchap, don't be so fast to get rid of a cove. Wife waiting for you, Isuppose. Deuced fine woman. Envy you; I do, 'pon honor, and so doessomebody else. D'ye know her old beau that she used to be engaged to, is here?"

"Who? What do you mean?" Richard asked, turning sharply upon hiscompanion, who continued:

"Why, Frank Van Buren. Cousin, you know; was chum with me in college, soI know all about it. Don't you remember my putting it to her that firsttime I met her at Mrs. Miller's? Mistrusted by her blushing there wasmore than I supposed; and so there was. He told me all about itlast night. "

Richard did not try now to shake off his comrade. There seemed to be aspell upon him, and although he longed to thrash the impudent young man, saying such things of Ethelyn, he held his peace, with the exception ofthe single question:

"Frank Van Buren in town? Where is he stopping?"

"Up at Moore's. Came last night; and between you and me, Judge, I took alittle too much. Makes my head feel like a tub. Sorry for Frank. He andhis wife ain't congenial, besides she's lost her money that Frankmarried her for. Serves him right for being so mean to Mrs. Markham, andI told him so when he opened his heart clear to the breast-bone and toldme all about it; how his mother broke it up about the time you were downthere; and, Markham, you don't mind my telling you, as an old friend, how he said she went to the altar with a heavier heart than she wouldhave carried to her coffin. Quite a hifalutin speech for Frank, who usedto be at the foot of his class. "

Richard grew faint and cold as death, feeling one moment an impulse toknock young Clifford down, and the next a burning desire to hear theworst, if, indeed, he had not already heard it. He would not questionHarry; but he would listen to all he had to say, and so kept quiet, waiting for the rest. Harry was just enough beside himself to take amalicious kind of satisfaction in inflicting pain upon Richard, as hewas sure he was doing. He knew Judge Markham despised him, and though, when sober, he would have shrunk from so mean a revenge, he could sayanything now, and so went on:

"She has not seen him yet, but will to-night, for he is going. I got himinvited as my friend. She knows he is here. He sent her a note thismorning. Pity I can't go, too; but I can't, for you see, I know howdrunk I am. Here we part, do we?" and Harry loosed his hold of Richard'sarm as they reached the corner of the street. 

Wholly stunned by what he had heard, Richard kept on his way, but nottoward the Stafford House. He could not face Ethelyn yet. He was notdetermined what course to pursue, and so he wandered on in the darkness, through street after street, while the wintry wind blew cold and chillabout him; but he did not heed it, or feel the keen, cutting blast. Hisblood was at a boiling heat, and the great drops of sweat were rollingdown his face, as, with head and shoulders bent like an aged man, hewalked rapidly on, revolving all he had heard, and occasionallywhispering to himself, "She carried a heavier heart to the altar thanshe would have taken to her coffin. "

"Yes, I believe it now. I remember how white she was, and how her handtrembled when I took it in mine. Oh! Ethie, Ethie, I did not deservethis from you. "

Resentment--hard, unrelenting resentment--was beginning to take theplace of the deep pain he had at first experienced, and it needed butthe sight of Mrs. Miller's windows, blazing with light, to change theusually quiet, undemonstrative man into a demon. 

"She is to meet him here to-night, it seems, and perhaps talk over herblighted life. Never, no, never, so long as bolts and bars have thepower to hold her. She shall not disgrace herself, for with all herfaults she is my wife, and I have loved her so much. Oh, Ethie, I loveyou still, " and the wretched man leaned against a post as he sent forththis despairing cry for the Ethie who he felt was lost forever. 

Every little incident which could tend to prove that what Harry had saidwas true came to his mind; the conversation overheard in Washingtonbetween Frank and Melinda, Ethelyn's unfinished letter, to which she hadnever referred, and the clause in Aunt Van Buren's letter relating toFrank's first love affair. He could not any longer put the truth asidewith specious arguments, for it stood out in all its naked deformity, making him cower and shrink before it. It was a very different man whowent up the stairs of the Stafford House to room No--from the man whotwo hours before had gone down them, and Ethelyn would hardly have knownhim for her husband had she been there to meet him. Wondering much athis long absence, she had at last gone on with her dressing, and then, as he still did not appear, she had stepped for a moment to the room ofa friend, who was sick, and had asked to see her when she was ready. Richard saw that she was out, and sinking into the first chair, his eyesfell upon the note lying near the bureau drawer. The room had partiallybeen put to rights, but this had escaped Ethie's notice, and Richardpicked it up, glowering with rage, and almost foaming at the mouth when, in the single word, "Ethie, " on the back, he recognized Frank VanBuren's writing!

He had it then--the note which his rival had sent, apprising his wife ofhis presence in town, and he would read it, too. He had no scruplesabout that, and his fingers tingled to his elbows as he opened the note, never observing how yellow and worn it looked, or that it was not dated. He had no doubt of its identity, and his face grew purple with passionas he read:

"MY OWN DARLING ETHIE: Don't fail to be there to-night, and, ifpossible, leave the 'old maid' at home, and come alone. We shall have somuch better time. Your devoted, "FRANK. "

Words could not express Richard's emotions as he held that note in hisshaking hand, and gazed at the words, "My own darling Ethie. " Quiet menlike Richard Markham are terrible when roused; and Richard was terriblein his anger, as he sat like a block of stone, contemplating the proofof his wife's unfaithfulness. He called it by that hard name, gratinghis teeth together as he thought of her going by appointment to meetFrank Van Buren, who had called him an "old maid, " and planned to havehim left behind if possible. Then, as he recalled what Ethelyn had saidabout his remaining at home if he were ill, he leaped to his feet, andan oath quivered on his lips at her duplicity. 

"False in every respect, " he muttered, "and I trusted her so much. "

It never occurred to him that the note was a strange one for what heimagined it to portend, Frank merely charging Ethelyn to be present atthe party, without even announcing his arrival or giving any explanationfor his sudden appearance in Camden. Richard was too much excited toreason upon anything, and stood leaning upon the piano, with his lividface turned toward the door, when Ethie made her appearance, lookingvery pretty and piquant in her Mary Stuart guise. She held her mask inher hand, but when she caught a glimpse of him she hastily adjusted it, and springing forward, "Where were you so long? I began to think youwere never coming. We shall be among the very last. How do I look asMary? Am I pretty enough to make an old maid like Elizabeth jealousof me?"

Had anything been wanting to perfect Richard's wrath, that allusion toan "old maid" would have done it. It was the drop in the brimmingbucket, and Richard exploded at once, hurling such language at Ethelyn'shead that, white and scared, and panting for breath, she put up both herhands to ward off the storm, and asked what it all meant. Richard hadlocked the door, the only entrance to their room, and stooping overEthelyn he hissed into her ear his meaning, telling her all he had heardfrom Harry Clifford, and asking if it were true. Ere Ethelyn could replythere was a knock at the door, and a servant's voice called out, "Carriage waiting for Mrs. Markham. "

It was the carriage sent by Mrs. Miller for Ethelyn, and quick asthought Richard stepped to the door, and unlocking it, said hastily, "Give Mrs. Miller Mrs. Markham's compliments, and say she cannot bepresent to-night. Tell her she regrets it exceedingly"; and Richard'svoice was very bitter and sarcastic in its tone as he closed the doorupon the astonished waiter; and relocking it, he returned again toEthelyn, who had risen to her feet, and with a different expression uponher face from the white, scared look it had worn at first, stoodconfronting him fearlessly now, and even defiantly, for this bold stephad roused her from her apathy; and in a fierce whisper, which, nevertheless, was as clear and distinct as the loudest tones could havebeen; she asked, "Am I to understand that I am a prisoner here in my ownroom? It is your intention to keep me from the party?"

"It is, " and with his back against the door, as if doubly to bar heregress, Richard regarded her gloomily, while he charged her with thespecial reason why she wished to go. "It was to meet Frank Van Buren, your former lover, " he said, asking if she could deny it. 

For a moment Ethelyn stood irresolute, mentally going over all thatwould be said if she stayed from Mrs. Miller's, where she was to be theprominent one, and calculating her strength to stem the tide of wonderand conjecture as to her absence which was sure to follow. She could notmeet it, she decided; she must go, at all hazards, even if, to achieveher purpose, she made some concessions to the man who had denounced herso harshly, and used such language as is not easily forgotten. 

"Richard, " she began, and her eyes had a strange glittering light inthem, "with regard to the past I shall say nothing now, but that Frankwas here in Camden I had not the slightest knowledge till I heard itfrom you. Believe me, Richard, and let me go. My absence will seem verystrange, and cause a great deal of remark. Another time I may explainwhat would best have been explained before. "

The light in her eyes was softer now, and her voice full of entreaty;for Ethie felt almost as if pleading for her life. But she might as wellhave talked to the wall for any good results it produced. Richard wasmoved from his lofty height of wrath and vindictiveness, but he did notbelieve her. How could he, with the fatal note in his hand, and thememory of the degrading epithet it contained, and which Ethie, too, hadused against him, still ringing in his ears? The virgin queen of Englandwas never more stony and inexorable with regard to the unfortunate Marythan was Richard toward his wife, and the expression of his face frozeall the better emotions rising in Ethie's heart, as she felt that in ameasure she was reaping a just retribution for her long deception. 

"I do not believe you, madam, " Richard said; "and if I were inclined todo so, this note, which Harry said was sent to you, and which I foundupon the floor, would tell me better, " and tossing into her lap thesoiled bit of paper, accomplishing so much harm, he continued: "There ismy proof; that in conjunction with the name of opprobrium, which youremember you insinuatingly used, asking if you were pretty enough tomake the old maid, Elizabeth, jealous. You are pretty enough, madam; butit is an accursed beauty which would attract to itself men of Frank VanBuren's stamp. "

Richard could not get over that epithet. He would have forgiven theother sin almost as soon as this, and his face was very dark and sternas he watched Ethelyn reading the little note. She knew in a moment whatit was, and the suddenness of its appearance before her turned her whiteand faint. It brought back so vividly the day when she received it--sixor seven years ago, the lazy September day, when the Chicopee hills worethe purplish light of early autumn, and the air was full of goldensunshine. It was a few weeks after the childish betrothal among thehuckleberry hills, and Frank had come up to spend a week with a boyfriend of his, who lived across the river. There was to be an exhibitionin the white schoolhouse, in the river district, and Frank had written, urging her to come, and asking that Aunt Barbara should be leftbehind--"the old maid, " he sometimes called her to his cousin, thinkingit sounded smart and manlike. Aunt Barbara had stayed at home fromchoice, sending her niece in charge of Susie Granger's mother; but thelong walk home, after the exercises were over, the lingering, loiteringwalk across the causeway, where the fog was riding so damply, thestopping on the bridge, and looking down into the deep, dark water, where the stars were reflected so brightly, the slow climbing of thedepot hill, and the long talk by the gate beneath the elms, whose longarms began to drop great drops of dew on Ethie's head ere the interviewwas ended--all this had been experienced with Frank, whose arm wasaround the young girl's waist, and whose hand was clasping hers, as withboyish pride and a laughable effort to seem manly, he talked of "ourengagement, " and even leaped forward in fancy to the time "when weare married. "

All this came back to Ethelyn, and she seemed to feel again the breathof the September night, and see through the clustering branches theflashing light waiting for her in the dear old room in Chicopee. Sheforgot for a moment the stern, dark face watching her so jealously, andso hardening toward her as he saw how pale she grew, and heard herexclamation of surprise when she first recognized the note, andremembered that in turning over the contents of the ebony box she musthave dropped it upon the floor. 

"Do you still deny all knowledge of Frank's presence in town?" Richardasked, and his voice recalled Ethelyn from the long ago back to thepresent time. 

He was waiting for her answer; but Ethie had none to give. Her hot, imperious temper was in the ascendant now. She was a prisoner for thenight; her own husband was the jailer, who she felt was unjust to her, and she would make no explanations, at least not then. He might thinkwhat he liked or draw any inference he pleased from her silence. And soshe made him no reply, except to crush into her pocket the paper whichshe should have burned on that morning when, crouching on thehearthstone at home, she destroyed all other traces of a past whichought never to have been. He could not make her speak, and his words ofreproach might as well have been given to the winds as to that cold, statue-like woman, who mechanically laid aside the fanciful costume inwhich she was arrayed, doing everything with a deliberation andcoolness more exasperating to Richard than open defiance would havebeen. A second knock at the door, and another servant appeared, saying, apologetically, that the note he held in his hand had been left at theoffice for Mrs. Markham early in the morning, but forgotten till now. 

"Give it to me, if you please. It is mine, " Ethelyn said, and somethingin her voice and manner kept Richard quiet while she took the offerednote and went back to the chandelier where, with a compressed lip andburning cheek, she read the genuine note sent by Frank. 

 * * * * *

"Dear cousin, " he wrote, "business for a Boston firm has brought me toCamden, where they have had debt standing out. Through the influence ofHarry Clifford, who was a college chum of mine, I have an invitation toMrs. Miller's, where I hope to meet yourself and husband. I should callto-day, but I know just how busy you must be with your costume, which Isuppose you wish to keep incog. , even from me. I shall know you, though, at once. See if I do not. Wishing to be remembered to the Judge, I am, yours truly, "FRANK VAN BUREN. "

 * * * * *

This is what Ethelyn read, knowing, as she read, that it would makematters right between herself and husband--at least so far as anappointment was concerned; but she would not show it to him then. Shewas too angry, too much aggrieved, to admit of any attempts on her partfor a reconciliation; so she put that note with the other, and then wentquietly on arranging her things in their proper places. Then, when thiswas done, she sat down by the window and peering out into the wintrydarkness watched the many lights and moving figures in Mrs. Miller'shouse, which could be distinctly seen from the hotel. Richard stillintended to take the early train for St. Louis, and so he retired atlast, but Ethelyn sat where she was until the carriages taking therevelers home had passed, and the lights were out in Mrs. Miller'swindows, and the bell of St. John's had ushered in the second hour ofthe fast. Not then did she join her husband, but lay down upon thesofa, where he found her when at six o'clock he came from his broken, feverish sleep, to say his parting words. He had contemplated thepropriety of giving up his trip and remaining at home while Frank VanBuren was in town, but this he could not very well do. 

"I will leave her to herself, " he thought, "trusting that what haspassed will deter her from any further improprieties. "

Something like this he said to her when, in the gray dawn, he stoodbefore her, equipped for his journey; but Ethelyn did not respond, andwith her cold, dead silence weighing more upon him than bitterreproaches would have done, Richard left her and took his way throughthe chill, snowy morning to the depot, little dreaming as he went ofwhen and how he and Ethelyn would meet again. 

CHAPTER XXI

THE RESULT

The bell in the tower of St. John's pealed forth its summons to thehouse of prayer, and one by one, singly or in groups, the worshiperswent up to keep this first solemn day of Lent--true, sincere worshipers, many of them, who came to weep, and pray, and acknowledge their pastmisdeeds; while others came from habit, and because it was the fashion, their pale, haggard faces and heavy eyes telling plainly of the lastnight's dissipation, which had continued till the first hour of themorning. Mrs. Howard was there, and Mrs. Miller, too, both glancinginquiringly at Judge Markham's pew and then wonderingly at each other. Ethelyn was not there. She had breakfast in her room after Richard left, and when that was over had gone mechanically to her closet and drawersand commenced sorting her clothes--hanging away the gayest, mostexpensive dresses, and laying across chairs and upon the bed the moreserviceable ones, such as might properly be worn on ordinary occasions. Why she did this she had not yet clearly defined, and when, after herwardrobe was divided, and she brought out the heavy traveling trunk, made for her in Boston, she was not quite certain what she meant to do. She had been sorely wounded, and, as she thought, without just cause. She knew she was to blame for not having told Richard of Frank beforeshe became his wife, but of the things with which he had so severelycharged her she was guiltless, and every nerve quivered and throbbedwith passion and resentment as she recalled the scene of the previousnight, going over again with the cruel words Richard had uttered in hisjealous anger, and then burning with shame and indignation as shethought of being locked in her room, and kept from attending themasquerade, where her absence must have excited so much wonder. 

"What did they say, and what can I tell them when we meet?" she thought, just as Mrs. Howard's voice was heard in the upper hall. 

Church was out, and several of the more intimate of Ethie's friends hadstopped at the Stafford House to inquire into so strange a proceeding. 

"Come to see if you were sick, or what, that you disappointed me so. Iwas vexed enough, I assure you, " Mrs. Miller said, looking curiouslyenough at Ethelyn, whose face was white as ashes, save where a crimsonspot burned on her cheeks, and whose lips were firmly pressed together. 

She did not know what to say, and when pressed to give a reasonstammered out:

"Judge Markham wished me to stay with him, and as an obedient wife Istayed. "

With ready tact the ladies saw that something was wrong, and kindlyforbore further remarks, except to tell what a grand affair it was, andhow much she was missed. But Ethie detected in their manner an unspokensympathy or pity, which exasperated and humiliated her more than openwords would have done. Heretofore she had been the envy of the entireset, and it wounded her deeply to fall from that pedestal to the levelof ordinary people. She was no longer the young wife, whose husbandpetted and humored her so much, but the wife whose husband was jealousand tyrannical, and even abusive, where language was concerned, and shecould not rid herself of the suspicion that her lady friends knew morethan they professed to know, and was heartily glad when they took theirdeparture and left her again alone. 

There was another knock at her door, and a servant handed in a cardbearing Frank Van Buren's name. He was in the office, the waiter said. Should he show the gentleman up?

Ethie hesitated a moment, and then taking her pencil wrote upon the backof the card, "I am too busy to see you to-day. "

The servant left the room, and Ethelyn went back to where her clotheswere scattered about and the great trunk was standing open. She did notcare to see Frank Van Buren now. He was the direct cause of every sorrowshe had known, and bitter feelings were swelling in her heart in placeof the softer emotions she had once experienced toward him. He wasnothing to her now. Slowly but gradually the flame had been dying out, until Richard had nothing to dread from him, and he was never nearer towinning his wife's entire devotion than on that fatal night when, by hisjealousy and rashness, he built so broad a gulf between them. 

"It is impossible that we should ever live together again, after allthat has transpired, " Ethelyn said, as she stood beside her trunk andinvoluntarily folded up a garment and laid it on the bottom. 

She had reached a decision, and her face grew whiter, stonier, as shemade haste to act upon it. Every article which Richard had bought waslaid aside and put away in the drawers and bureaus she would never seeagain. These were not numerous, for her bridal trousseau had been soextensive that but few demands had been made upon her husband's pursefor dress, and Ethelyn felt glad that it was so. It did not take long toput them away, or very long to pack the trunk, and then Ethie sat downto think "what next?"

Only a few days before a Mr. Bailey, who boarded in the house, andwhose daughter was taking music lessons, had tried to purchase herpiano, telling her that so fine a player as herself ought to have onewith a longer keyboard. Ethie had thought so herself, wishing sometimesthat she had a larger instrument, which was better adapted to thepresent style of music, but she could not bring herself to part withAunt Barbara's present. Now, however, the case was different. Money shemust have, and as she scorned to take it from the bank, where her checkwas always honored, she would sell her piano. It was hers to do with asshe liked, and when Mr. Bailey passed her door at dinner time he wasasked to step in and reconsider the matter. She had changed her mind, she said. She was willing to sell it now; there was such a superb affairdown at Shumway's Music Room. Had Mr. Bailey seen it?

Ethie's voice was not quite steady, for she was not accustomed todeception of this kind, and the first step was hard. But Mr. Bailey wasnot at all suspicious, and concluded the bargain at once; and two hourslater Ethie's piano was standing between the south windows of Mrs. Bailey's apartment, and Ethie, in her own room, was counting a roll ofthree hundred dollars, and deciding how far it would go. 

"There's my pearls, " she said, "if worst comes to worst I can sell themand my diamond ring. "

She did not mean Daisy's ring. She would not barter that, or take itwith her, either. Daisy never intended it for a runaway wife, andEthelyn must leave it where Richard would find it when he came back andfound her gone. And then as Ethie in her anger exulted over Richard'ssurprise and possible sorrow when he found himself deserted, some demonfrom the pit whispered in her ear, "Give him back the wedding ring. Leave that for him, too, and so remove every tie which once bound youto him. "

It was hard to put off Daisy's ring, and Ethelyn paused and reflected asthe clear stone seemed to reflect the fair, innocent face hanging on thewalls at Olney. But Ethie argued that she had no right to it, and so thedead girl's ring was laid aside, and then the trembling fingersfluttered about the plain gold band bearing the date of her marriage. But when she essayed to remove that, too, blood-red circles dancedbefore her eyes, and such a terror seized her that her hands droppedpowerless into her lap and the ring remained in its place. 

It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and the cars for Olney left atseven. She was going that way as far as Milford, where she could takeanother route to the East. She would thus throw Richard off the track ifhe tried to follow her, and also avoid immediate remark in the hotel. They would think it quite natural that in her husband's absence sheshould go for a few days to Olney, she reasoned; and they did think soin the office when at six she asked that her trunk be taken to thestation. Her rooms were all in order. She had made them so herself, sweeping and dusting, and even leaving Richard's dressing-gown andslippers by the chair where he usually sat the evenings he was at home. The vacancy left by the piano would strike him at once, she knew, and soshe moved a tall bookcase up there, and put a sofa where the bookcasehad been, and a large chair where the sofa had been, and pushed thecenter table into the large chair's place; and then her work wasdone--the last she would ever do in that room, or for Richard either. The last of everything is sad, and Ethie felt a thrill of pain as shewhispered to herself, "It is the last, last time, " and then thought ofthe outer world which lay all unknown before her. She would not allowherself to think, lest her courage should give way, and tried, bydwelling continually upon Richard's cruel words, to steel her heartagainst the good impulses which were beginning to suggest that what shewas doing might not, after all, be the wisest course. What would theworld say?--and dear Aunt Barbara, too? How it would wring her heartwhen she heard the end to which her darling had come! And Andy--simple, conscientious, praying Andy--Ethie's heart came up in her throat whenshe thought of him and his grief at her desertion. 

"I will write to Andy, " she said. "I will tell him how thoughts of himalmost deterred me from my purpose, " and opening her little writingdesk, which Richard gave her at Christmas, she took up her pen and heldit poised a moment, while something said: "Write to Richard, too. Surelyyou can do so much for him. You can tell him the truth at last, and lethim know how he misjudged you. "

And so the name which Ethie first wrote down upon the paper was not"Dear Brother Andy, " but simply that of "Richard. "

CHAPTER XXII

ETHIE'S LETTERS

"Stafford House, Feb. --, "Five o'clock in the afternoon. 

"RICHARD: I am going away from you forever, and When you recall thewords you spoke to me last night, and the deep humiliation you put uponme, you will readily understand that I go because we cannot livetogether any longer as man and wife. You said things to me, Richard, which women find hard to forgive, and which they never can forget. I didnot deserve that you should treat me so, for, bad as I may have been inother respects, I am innocent of the worst thing you alleged against me, and which seemed to excite you so much. Until I heard it from you, I didnot know Frank Van Buren was within a thousand miles of Camden. The notefrom him which I leave with this letter, and which you will remember wasbrought to the door by a servant, who said it had been mislaid andforgotten, will prove that I tell you truly. The other note which youfound, and which must have fallen from the box where I kept it, waswritten years ago, when I was almost a little girl, with no thought thatI ever could be the humbled, wretched creature I am now. 

"Let me tell you all about it, Richard--how I happened to be engaged toFrank, and how wounded and sore and sorry I was when you came the secondtime to Chicopee, and asked me to be your wife. "

Then followed the whole story of Ethelyn's first love. Nothing wasconcealed, nothing kept back. Even the dreariness of the day when AuntVan Buren came up from Boston and broke poor Ethie's heart, wasdescribed and dwelt upon with that particularity which shows how thelights, and shadows, and sunshine, and storms which mark certain eventsin one's history will impress themselves upon one's mind, as parts ofthe great joy or sorrow which can never be forgotten. Then she spoke ofmeeting Richard, and the train of circumstances which finally led totheir betrothal. 

"I wanted to tell you about Frank that night, on the shore of the pond, when you told me of Abigail, and twice I made up my mind to do so, butsomething rose up to prevent it, and after that it was very hard todo so. "

She did not tell him how she at first shrank away from his caresses witha loathing which made her flesh creep, but she confessed that she didnot love him, even when taking the marriage vow. 

"But I meant to be true to you, Richard. I meant to be a good wife, andnever let you know how I felt. You were different from Frank; differentfrom most men whom I had met, and you did annoy me so at times. You willtell me I was foolish to lay so much stress on little things, and so, perhaps, I was; but little things, rather than big, make up the sum ofhuman happiness, and, besides, I was too young to fully understand howany amount of talent and brain could atone for absence of culture ofmanner. Then, too, I was so disappointed in your home and family. Youknow how unlike they are to my own, but you can never know how terribleit was to me who had formed so different an estimate of them. I supposeyou will say I did not try to assimilate, and perhaps I did not. Howcould I, when to be like them was the thing I dreaded most of all? I dobelieve they tried to be kind, especially your brothers, and I shallever be grateful to them for their attempt to please and interest meduring that dreadful winter I spent alone, with you in Washington. Youdid wrong, Richard, not to take me with you, when I wanted so much togo. I know that, after what happened, you and your mother think you werefully justified in what you did; but, Richard, you are mistaken. Thevery means you took to avert a catastrophe hastened it instead. Thecruel disappointment and terrible homesickness which I endured hastenedour baby's birth, and cost its little life. Had it lived, Richard, Ishould have been a better woman from what I am now. It would have beensomething for me to love, and oh, my heart did ache so for an object onwhich to fasten. I did not love you when I became your wife, but I waslearning to do so. When you came home from Washington I was so glad tosee you, and I used to listen for your step when you went to Olney andit was time for you to return. Just in proportion as I was drawn towardyou, Frank fell in my estimation, and I wanted to tell you all about it, and begin anew. I was going to do so in that letter commenced the nightI was taken so ill, and two or three times afterwards I thought I woulddo it. Do you remember that night of our return from St. Paul? I found aletter from Aunt Van Buren, and asked if you would like to hear it. Youseemed so indifferent and amost cross about it, that the good angel leftme, and your chance was lost again. There was something in that letterabout Frank and me--something which would have called forth questionsfrom you, and I meant to explain if you would let me. Think, Richard. You will remember the night. You lay upon the sofa, and I sat downbeside you, and smoothed your hair. I was nearer to loving you then thanI ever was before; but you put me off, and the impulse did not comeagain--that is, the impulse of confession. A little more considerationon your part for what you call my airs and high notions would have wonme to you, for I am not insensible to your many sterling virtues, and Ido believe that you did love me once. But all that is over now. I made agreat mistake when I came to you, and perhaps I am making a greater onein going from you. But I think not. We are better apart, especiallyafter the indignities of last night. Where I am going it does notmatter to you. Pursuit will be useless, inasmuch as I shall have thestart of a week. Neither do I think you will search for me much. Youwill he happier without me, and it is better that I should go. You willgive the accompanying note to Andy. Dear Andy, my heart aches to itsvery core when I think of him, and know that his grief for me will begenuine. I leave you Daisy's ring. I am not worthy to keep that, so Igive it back. I wish I could make you free from me entirely, if thatshould be your wish. Perhaps some time you will be, and then when I amnothing to you save a sad memory, you will think better of me thanyou do now. 

"Good-by, Richard. We shall probably never meet again. Good-by. 

"ETHIE. "

She did not stop to read what she had written. There was not time forthat, and taking a fresh sheet, she wrote:

"DEAR, DARLING ANDY: If all the world were as good, and kind, and trueas you, I should not be writing this letter, with my arrangements madefor flight. Richard will tell you why I go. It would take me too long. Ihave been very unhappy here, though none of my wretchedness has beencaused by you. Dear Andy, if I could tell you how much I love you, andhow sorry I am to fall in your opinion, as I surely shall when you hearwhat has happened. Do not hate me, Andy, and sometimes when you pray, remember Ethie, won't you? She needs your prayers so much, for shecannot pray herself. I do not want to be wholly bad--do not want to belost forever; and I have faith that God will hear you. The beautifulconsistency of your everyday life and simple trust, have been powerfulsermons to me, convincing me that there is a reality in the religion youprofess. Go on, Andy, as you have begun, and may the God whom I am notworthy to name, bless you, and keep you, and give you every possiblegood. In fancy I wind my arms around your neck, and kiss your dear, kindface, as, with scalding tears, I write you good-by. 

"Farewell, Andy, darling Andy, farewell. "

Ethelyn had not wept before, but now, as Andy rose up before her withthe thought that she should see him no more, her tears poured like rain, and blotted the sheet on which she had written to him. It hurt her more, if possible, to lose his respect than that of any other person, and fora half-instant she wavered in the decision. But it was too late now. Thepiano was sold and delivered, and if she tarried she had no specialexcuse to offer for its sale. She must carry out her plan, even thoughit proved the greatest mistake of her life. So the letters were directedand put, with Daisy's ring, in the little drawer of the bureau, whereRichard would be sure to find them when he came back. Perhaps, as Ethieput them there, she thought how they might be the means of areconciliation; that Richard, after reading her note, would move heavenand earth to find her, and having done so, would thenceforth be herwilling slave; possibly, too, remembering the harsh things he had sorecently said to her, she exulted a little as she saw him coming back tohis deserted home, and finding his domestic altar laid low in the dust. But if this was so she gave no sign, and though her face was deathlypale, her nerves were steady and her voice calm, as she gave ordersconcerning her baggage, and then when it was time, turned the key uponher room, and left it with the clerk, to whom she said:

"I shall not be back until my husband returns. "

She was going to Olney, of course--going to see his folks, the landladysaid, when she heard Mrs. Markham had gone; and so no wonder was createdamong the female boarders, except that Ethelyn had not said good-by to asingle one of them. She was not equal to that. Her great desire was toescape unseen, and with a veil drawn closely over her face, she sat inthe darkest corner of the ladies' room, waiting impatiently for thearrival of the train, and glancing furtively at the people around her. Groups of men were walking up and down upon the platform without, andamong them Frank Van Buren. On his way to the cars he had called againat the Stafford House, and learned that Mrs. Markham was out. 

"I'll see her when I return, " he thought, and so went his way to thetrain, which would take him to his next point of destination. 

Never once dreaming how near he was to her, Ethie drew her veil and fursmore closely around her, and turning her face to the frosty window, gazed drearily out into the wintry darkness as they sped swiftly on. Shehardly knew where she was going or what she could do when she was there. She was conscious only of the fact that she was breaking away fromscenes and associations which had been so distasteful to her--that shewas leaving a husband who had been abusive to her, and she verilybelieved she had just cause for going. The world might not see it so, perhaps, but she did not care for the world. She was striking out a pathof her own, and with her heart as sore and full of anger as it then was, she felt able to cope with any difficulty, so that her freedom wasachieved. They were skirting across the prairie now; and the lights ofOlney were in sight. Perhaps she could see the farmhouse, and rubbing, with her warm palm, the moisture from the window-pane, she lookedwistfully out in the direction of Richard's home. Yes, there it was, anda light shining from the sitting-room window, as if they expected her. But Ethie was not going there, and with something like a sigh as shethought of Andy so near, yet separated so widely from her, she turnedfrom the window and rested her tired head upon her hands while theystayed at Olney. It was only a moment they stopped, but to Ethie itseemed an age, and her heart almost stopped its beating when she heardthe voice of Terrible Tim just outside the car. He was not coming in, asshe found after a moment of breathless waiting; he was only speaking toan acquaintance, who stepped inside and took a seat by the stove, justas the train plunged again into the darkness, leaving behind a fierytrack to mark its progress across the level prairie. 

CHAPTER XXIII

THE DESERTED HUSBAND

Richard had been very successful in St. Louis. The business which tookhim there had been more than satisfactorily arranged. He had collected athousand-dollar debt he never expected to get, and had been everywheretreated with the utmost deference and consideration, as a man whoseworth was known and appreciated. But Richard was ill at ease, and hisface wore a sad, gloomy expression, which many remarked, wondering whatcould be the nature of the care so evidently preying upon him. Do whathe might, he could not forget the white, stony face which had looked athim so strangely in the gray morning, nor shut out the icy tones inwhich Ethie had last spoken to him. Besides this, Richard was thinkingof all he had said to her in the heat of passion, and wishing he couldrecall it in part at least. He was very indignant, very angry still, forhe believed her guilty of planning to meet Frank Van Buren at the partyand leave him at home, while his heart beat with keen throbs of painwhen he remembered that Ethie's first love was not given to him--thatshe would have gone to her grave more willingly than she went with himto the altar; but he need not have been so harsh with her--that was noway to make her love him. Kindness must win her back should she ever bewon, and impatient to be reconciled, if reconciliation were nowpossible, Richard chafed at the necessary delays which kept him a daylonger in St. Louis than he had at first intended. 

Ethie had been gone just a week when he at last found himself in thetrain which would take him back to Camden. First, however, he must stopat Olney; the case was imperative--and so he stepped from the train onesnowy afternoon when the February light shone cold and blue upon thelittle town and the farmhouse beyond. His brothers were feeding theirflocks and herds in the rear yard to the east; but they came at once togreet him, and ask after his welfare. The light snow which had fallenthat day was lying upon the front door-steps undisturbed by any track, so Richard entered at the side. Mrs. Markham was dipping candles, andthe faint, sickly odor of the hot melted tallow, which filled Richard'solfactories as he came in, was never forgotten, but remembered as partand parcel of that terrible day which would have a place in his memoryso long as being lasted. Every little thing was impressed upon his mind, and came up afterward with vivid distinctness whenever he thought ofthat wretched time. There was a bit of oilcloth on the floor near to thedripping candles, and he saw the spots of tallow which had dropped anddried upon it--saw, too, his mother's short red gown and blue woolenstockings, as she got up to meet him, and smelled the cabbage cooking onthe stove, for they were having a late dinner that day--the boys'favorite, and what Mrs. Markham designated as a "dish of biled vittles. "

Richard had seen his mother dip candles before--nay, had sometimesassisted at the dipping. He had seen her short striped gown and bluewoolen stockings, and smelled the cooking cabbage, but they never struckhim with so great a sense of discomfort as they did to-day when hestood, hat in hand, wondering why home seemed so cheerless. It was as ifthe shadow of the great shock awaiting him had already fallen upon him, oppressing him with a weight he could not well shake off. He had nothought that any harm had come to Ethie, and yet his first question wasfor her. Had his mother heard from her while he was away, or did sheknow if she was well?

Mrs. Markham's under jaw dropped, in the way peculiar to her when at allirritated, but she did not answer at once; she waited a moment, whileshe held the rod poised over the iron kettle, and with her forefingerdeliberately separated any of the eight candles which showed adisposition to stick together; then depositing them upon the frame andtaking up another rod, she said:

"Miss Plympton was down to Camden three or four days ago, and she saidAnn Merrills, the chambermaid at the Stafford House, told her Ethelynhad come to Olney to stay with us while you was away; but she must havegone somewhere else, as we have not seen her here. Gone to visit thatMiss Amsden, most likely, that lives over the creek. "

"What makes you think she has gone there?" Richard asked, with a suddenspasm of fear, for which he could not account, and which was not in anywise diminished by his mother's reply: "Ann said she took the sixo'clock train for Olney, and as Miss Amsden lives beyond us, it's likelyshe went there, and is home by this time. "

Richard accepted this supposition, but it was far from reassuring him. The load he had felt when he first came into the kitchen was pressingmore and more heavily, and he wished that he had gone straight oninstead of stopping at Olney. But now there was nothing to do but towait with what patience he could command until the next train came andcarried him to Camden. 

It was nine o'clock when he reached there, and a stiff northeaster wasblowing down the streets with gusts of sleet and rain, but he did notthink of it as he hurried on toward the Stafford House, with thatundefined dread growing stronger and stronger as he drew near. He didnot know what he feared, nor why he feared it. He should find Ethiethere, he said. She surely had returned from her visit by this time; heshould see the lights from the windows shining out upon the park, justas he had seen them many other nights when hastening back to Ethie. Hewould take the shortest route down that dark, narrow alley, and so gaina moment of time. The alley was traversed at last, also the square, andhe turned the corner of the street where stood the Stafford House. Halting for an instant, he strained his eyes to see if he were mistaken, or was there no light in the window, no sign that Ethie was there. Therewere lights below, and lights above, but the second floor was dark, theshutters closed, and all about them a look of silence and desertion, which quickened Richard's footsteps to a run. Up the private staircasehe went, and through the narrow hall, till he reached his door and foundit locked. Ethie was surely gone. She had not expected him so soon. Mrs. Amsden had urged her to stay, and she had stayed. This was whatRichard said, as he went down to the office for the key, which the clerkhanded him, with the remark: "Mrs. Markham went to Olney the very dayyou left. I thought perhaps you would stop there and bring her home. "

Richard did not reply, but hurried back to the darkened room, whereeverything was in order; even Ethie's work-box was in its usual placeupon the little table, and Ethie's chair was standing near; butsomething was missing--something besides Ethie--and its absence made theroom look bare and strange as the gas-light fell upon it. The piano wasgone or moved. It must be the latter, and Richard looked for it in everycorner, even searching in the bedroom and opening the closet door, as ifso ponderous a thing could have been hidden there! It was gone, and sowas Ethie's trunk, and some of Ethie's clothes, for he looked to see, and then mechanically went out into the hall, just as Mr. Bailey cameupstairs and saw him. 

"Ho, Judge! is that you? Glad to see you back. Have been lonesome withyou and your wife both away. Do you know of the trade we made--she andI--the very day you left? She offered me her piano for three hundreddollars, and I took her up at once. A fine instrument, that, but alittle too small for her. Answers very well for Angeline. It's allright, isn't it?" the talkative man continued, as he saw the blankexpression on Richard's face and construed it into disapprobation ofthe bargain. 

"Yes, all right, of course. It was her piano, not mine, " Richard saidhuskily. Then feeling the necessity of a little duplicity, he said, "Mrs. Markham went the same day I did, I believe?"

"Really, now, I don't know whether 'twas that day or the next, " Mr. Bailey replied, showing that what was so important to Richard had as yetmade but little impression upon him. "No, I can't say which day it was;but here's Hal Clifford--he'll know, " and Mr. Bailey stepped aside asHarry came up the hall. 

He had been to call upon a friend who occupied the floor above, andseeing Richard came forward to speak to him, the look of shame upon hisface showing that he had not forgotten the circumstances under whichthey had last met. As Harry came in Mr. Bailey disappeared, and so thetwo men were alone when Richard asked, "Do you know what day Mrs. Markham left Camden?"

Richard tried to be natural. But Harry was not deceived. There wassomething afloat--something which had some connection with his foolish, drunken talk and Ethie's non-appearance at the masquerade. Blaminghimself for what he remembered to have said, he would not now willinglyannoy Richard, and he answered, indifferently: "She went the same dayyou did; that is, she left here on the six o'clock train. I know, for Icalled in the evening and found her gone. "

"Was she going to Olney?"

Richard's lips asked this rather than his will, and Harry replied, "Isuppose so. Isn't she there?"

It was an impudent question, but prompted purely by curiosity, andRichard involuntarily answered, "She has not been there at all. "

For several seconds the two men regarded each other intently, onelonging so much to ask a certain question, and the other reading thatquestion in the wistful, anxious eyes bent so earnestly upon him. 

"He left in that same train, and took the same route, too. "

Harry said this, and Richard staggered forward, till he leaned upon thedoor-post while his face was ashy pale. Harry had disliked RichardMarkham, whom he knew so strongly disapproved of his conduct; but hepitied him now and tried to comfort him. 

"It cannot be they went together. I saw no indications of such anintention on the part of Frank. I hardly think he saw her, either. Hewas going to--, he said, and should be back in a few days. Maybe she issomewhere. "

Yes, maybe she was somewhere, but so long as Richard did not know where, it was poor comfort for him. One thing, however, he could do--he couldsave her good name until the matter was further investigated; andpulling Harry after him into his room, he sat down by the cold, darkstove, over which he crouched shiveringly, while he said, "Ethie hasgone to visit a friend, most likely--a Mrs. Amsden, who lives in thedirection of Olney. So please, for her sake, do not say either now orever who went on the train with her. "

"You have my word as a gentleman that I will not, " Harry replied; "andas no one but myself ever knew that they were cousins and acquaintances, their names need not be mentioned together, even if she never returns. "

"But she will--she will come back, Ethie will. She has only gone to Mrs. Amsden's, " Richard replied, his teeth chattering and his voice betrayingall the fear and anguish he tried so hard to hide. 

Harry saw how cold he seemed, and with his own hands built a quick woodfire, and then asked:

"Shall I leave you alone, or would you prefer me to stay?"

"Yes, stay. I do not like being here alone, though Ethie will come back. She's only gone to visit Mrs. Amsden, " and Richard whispered the words, "gone to visit Mrs. Amsden. "

It is pitiful to see a strong man cut down so suddenly, and every nerveof Harry's throbbed in sympathy as he sat watching the deserted husbandwalking up and down the room, now holding his cold fingers to the fireand now saying to himself: "She has only gone to Mrs. Amsden's. She willbe back to-morrow. "

At last the clock struck eleven, and then Richard roused from hislethargy and said: "The next train for Olney passes at twelve. I amgoing there, Harry--going after Ethie. You'll see her coming backto-morrow. "

Richard hardly knew why he was going back to Olney, unless it were froma wish to be near his own kith and kin in this hour of sorrow. He knewthat Ethie had gone, and the Mrs. Amsden ruse was thrown out for thebenefit of Harry, who, frightened at the expression of Richard's face, did not dare to leave him alone until he saw him safely on board thetrain, which an hour later dropped him upon the slippery platform inOlney, and then went speeding on in the same direction Ethie oncehad gone. 

 * * * * *

Mrs. Markham's candles were finished, and in straight even rows werelaid away in the candle-box, the good woman finding to her greatsatisfaction that there were just ten dozen besides the slim littlething she had burned during the evening, and which, with a long, crispsnuff, like the steeple of a church, was now standing on the chair byher bed. The hash was chopped ready for breakfast, the coffee wasprepared, and the kindlings were lying near the stove, where, too, werehanging to dry Andy's stockings, which he had that day wet through. Theyhad sat up later than usual at the farmhouse that night, for Melinda andher mother had been over there, and the boys had made molasses candy, and "stuck up" every dish and spoon, as Mrs. Markham said. Tim had comeafter his mother and sister, and as he had a good deal to say, the clockstruck eleven before the guests departed, and Andy buttoned the door ofthe woodshed and put the nail over the window by the sink. Mrs. Markhamhad no suspicion of the trial in store for her, but for some cause shefelt restless and nervous, and even scary, as she expressed it herself. "Worked too hard, I guess, " she thought, as she tied on herhigh-crowned, broad-frilled nightcap, and then as a last chore, woundthe clock before stepping into bed. 

It was nearly midnight, and for some little time she lay awake listeningto the wind as it swept past the house, or screamed through the key-holeof the door. But she did not hear the night train when it thunderedthrough the town; nor the gate as it swung back upon its hinges; nor theswift step coming up the walk; nor the tap upon her window until it wasrepeated, and Richard's voice called faintly, "Mother, mother, letme in!"

Andy, who was as good as a watch-dog, was awake by this time, and withhis window open was looking down at the supposed burglar, while his handfelt for some missile to hurl at the trespasser's head. With a start, Mr. Markham awoke, and, springing up, listened till the voice saidagain, "Mother, mother, it's I; let me in!"

The Japan candlestick Andy had secured was dropped in a trice, andadjusting his trousers as he descended the stairs, he reached the doorsimultaneously with his mother, and pulling Richard into the hall, askedwhy he was there, and what had happened. Richard did not know forcertain that anything had happened. "Ethie was most probably with Mrs. Amsden. She would be home to-morrow, " and Andy felt how his brotherleaned against him and his hand pressed upon his shoulders as he went tothe stove, and crouched down before it just as he had done in Camden. The candle was lighted, and its dim light fell upon that strange groupgathered there at midnight, and looking into each other's faces with awistful questioning as to what it all portended. 

"It is very cold; make more fire, " Richard said, shivering, as the sleetcame driving against the window; and in an instant all the morningkindlings were thrust into the stove, which roared and crackled, andhissed, and diffused a sense of warmth and comfort through theshadowy room. 

"What is it, Richard? What makes you so white and queer?" his motherasked, trying to pull on her stockings, and in her trepidation jammingher toes into the heel, and drawing her shoe over the bungle thus madeat the bottom of her foot. 

"Ethie was not there, and has not been since the night I left. She soldher piano, and took the money, and her trunk, and her clothes, and wentto visit Mrs. Amsden. "

This was Richard's explanation, which Andy thought a mighty funny reasonfor his brother's coming at midnight, and frightening them so terribly. But his mother saw things differently. She knew there was somethingunderlying all this--something which would require all her skill andenergy to meet--and her face was almost as white as Richard's as sheasked, "Why do you think she has gone to Mrs. Amsden's?"

"You told me so, didn't you?" and Richard looked up at her in abewildered, helpless way, which showed that all he knew upon the Amsdenquestion was what she had said herself, and that was hardly enough towarrant a conclusion of any kind. 

"Was there any reason why Ethelyn should go away?" she asked next, andRichard's head dropped, and his eyes were cast down in shame, ashe replied:

"Yes; we--quar--. We differed, I mean, the night before I went away, andI kept her from the masquerade, I would not let her go. I locked thedoor, and now she has gone--gone to Mrs. Amsden's. "

He persisted in saying that, as if he would fain make himself believe itagainst his better judgment. 

"What is it all about? What does it mean?" Andy asked in greatperplexity; and his mother answered for Richard:

"It means just this, as far as I can see: Ethelyn has got mad at Richardfor keepin' her in, which he or'to have done long ago, and so, with herawful temper she has run away. "

Mrs. Markham had defined it at last--had put into words the terriblething which had happened, the disgrace which she saw coming upon them;and with this definition of it she, too, defined her own position withregard to Ethelyn, and stood bristling all over with anger andresentment, and ready to do battle for her son against the entire world. 

"Mother! mother!" Andy gasped, and his face was whiter than Richard's. "It is not true. Ethie never went and done that--never! Did she, Dick?Tell me! Speak! Has Ethie run away?"

Andy was down on one knee now, and looking into Richard's face with alook which would almost have brought Ethie back could she have seen it. Andy had faith in her, and Richard clung to him rather than to themother in denouncing her so bitterly. 

"I don't know, Andy, " he said, "I hope not. I think not. She must havegone to Mrs. Amsden's. We will wait till morning and see. "

The sound of voices had aroused both James and John, who, half-dressed, came down to inquire what had happened, and why Dick was there at thatunseemly hour of the night. James' face was very pale as he listened, and when his mother spoke of the disgrace which would come upon themall, his hard fists were clenched for a moment, while he thought ofMelinda, and wondered if with her it would make any difference. BothJames and John had liked Ethelyn, and as the temper about which theirmother talked so much had never been exhibited to them, they wereinclined even now to take her part, and cautious John suggested that itmight not be so bad as his mother feared. To be sure, he didn't know howhard Dick and Ethie might have spatted it, or what had gone before; butanyway his advice would be to wait and see if she was not really at Mrs. Amsden's, or somewhere else. Richard let them manage it for him. He waspowerless to act then, and stunned and silent he sat shivering by thestove, which they made red-hot with the blocks of wood they put in, hoping thus to warm him. There was no more sleep at the farmhouse thatnight, though James and John went back to bed, and Andy, too, crept upto his lonely room; but not to sleep. His heart was too full for that, and kneeling by his wooden chair, he prayed for Ethie--that she had notrun away, but might be at Mrs. Amsden's, where he was going for herhimself the moment the morning broke. He had claimed this privilege, andhis mother had granted it, knowing that many allowances would be madefor whatever Andy might say, and feeling that, on this account, he woulddo better than either of his brothers. Richard, of course, could not go. He scarcely had strength to move, and did not look up from his stoopingposture by the stove, when, at day-dawn, Andy drew on his butternutovercoat, and tying a thick comforter about his neck, started forMrs. Amsden's. 

CHAPTER XXIV

THE INVESTIGATION

Richard knew she was not there--at least all the probabilities wereagainst it; and still he clung to the vague hope that Andy would bringhim some good news, and his thoughts went after the brother whose everybreath was a prayer, as he galloped over the snowy ground toward Mrs. Amsden's. They were early risers there, and notwithstanding the sun wasjust coming up the eastern sky, the family were at breakfast when Andy'shorse stopped before their gate, and Andy himself knocked at their doorfor admission. Andy's faith was great--so great that, in answer to hispetitions, he fully expected to see Ethie herself at the table, when thedoor was opened, and he caught a view of the occupants of the diningroom; but no Ethie was there, nor had been, as they said, in answer tohis eager questionings. 

"What made you think she was here? When did she go away? Was sheintending to visit me?" Mrs. Amsden asked. 

But Andy, while praying that Ethie might be there, had also asked thatif she were not, "he needn't make a fool of himself, nor let the cat outof the bag, " and he didn't; he merely replied:

"She left home a few days ago. Dick was in St. Louis, and it waslonesome stayin' alone. I'll find her, most likely, as she issomewhere else. "

Andy was in his saddle now, and his fleet steed fled swiftly alongtoward home, where they waited so anxiously for him, Richard totteringto the window so as to read his fate in Andy's tell-tale face. 

"She is not there. I knew she was not. She has gone with that villain. "

Richard did not mean to say that last. It dropped from him mechanically, and in an instant his mother seized upon it, demanding what he meant, and who was the villain referred to. Richard tried to put her off, butshe would know what he meant, and so to her and his three brothers hetold as little as he could and make any kind of a story, and as hetalked his heart hardened toward Ethie, who had done him this wrong. Itseemed a great deal worse when put into words, and the whole expressionof Richard's face was changed when he had finished speaking, while hewas conscious of feeling much as he did that night when he denouncedEthie so terribly to her face. "Had it been a man, or half a man, oranybody besides that contemptible puppy, it would not seem so bad; butto forsake me for him!" Richard said, while the great ridges deepened inhis forehead, and a hard, black look crept into his eyes, and about thecorners of his mouth. He was terrible in his anger, which grew upon himuntil even his mother stood appalled at the fearful expression ofhis face. 

"He would do nothing to call her back, " he said, when James suggestedthe propriety of trying in a quiet way to ascertain where she had gone. "She had chosen her own path to ruin, and she might tread it for all ofhim. He would not put forth a hand to save her and if she came back, henever could forgive her. "

Richard was walking up and down the room, white with rage, as he saidthis, and Andy, cowering in a corner, was looking on and listening. Hedid not speak until Richard declared his incapacity for forgiving Ethie, when he started up, and confronting the angry man, said to himrebukingly:

"Hold there, old Dick! You have gone a leetle too far. If God canforgive you and me all them things we've done, which he knows about, andother folks don't, you can, or or'to forgive sister Ethie, let her sinbe what it may. Ethie was young, Dick, and childlike, and so pretty, too, and I 'most know you aggravated her some, if you talked to her asyou feel now; and then, too, Dick, and mother, and all of you, I don'tcare who says it, or thinks it, it's a big lie! Ethie never went offwith a man--never! I know she didn't. She wasn't that kind. I'll swearto it in the court. I won't hear anybody say that about her. I'll fight'em, first, even if 'twas my own kin who did it!" And in hisexcitement, Andy began to shove back his wrist-bands from his strongwrists, as if challenging someone to the fight he had threatened. 

Andy was splendid in his defense of Ethie, and both James and Johnstepped up beside him, showing their adhesion to the cause he pleaded sowell. Ethie might have ran away, but she had surely gone alone, theysaid, and their advice was that Richard should follow her as soon aspossible. But Richard would not listen to such a proposition now, andquietly aided and abetted by his mother, he declared his intention of"letting her alone. " She had chosen her course, he said, and she mustabide by it. "If she has gone with that villain"--and Richard ground histeeth together--"she can never again come back to me. If she has notgone with him, and chooses to return, I do not say the door is shutagainst her. "

Richard seemed very determined and unrelenting, and, knowing how uselessit was to reason with him when in so stern a mood, his brothers gave upthe contest, Andy thinking within himself how many, many times a day heshould pray for Ethie that she might come back again. Richard would notreturn to Camden that day, he said. He could not face his acquaintancethere until the first shock was over and they were a little accustomedto thinking of the calamity which had fallen upon him. So he remainedwith his mother, sitting near the window which looked out upon therailroad track over which Ethie had gone. What his thoughts were nonecould fathom, save as they were expressed by the dark, troubledexpression of his face, which showed how much he suffered. Perhaps heblamed himself as he went over again the incidents of that fatal nightwhen he kept Ethelyn from the masquerade; but if he did, no one was thewiser for it, and so the first long day wore on, and the night fellagain upon the inmates of the farmhouse. The darkness was terrible toRichard, for it shut out from his view that strip of road which seemedto him a part of Ethie. She had been there last, and possibly looked upat the old home--her first home after her marriage; possibly, too, shehad thought of him. She surely did, if, as Andy believed, she was alonein her flight. If not alone, he wanted no thoughts of hers, andRichard's hands were clenched as he moved from the darkening window, andtook his seat behind the stove, where he sat the entire evening, likesome statue of despair, brooding over his ruined hopes. 

The next day brought the Joneses--Melinda and Tim--the latter of whomhad heard from Mrs. Amsden's son of Andy's strange errand there. Therewas something in the wind, and Melinda came to learn what it was. Alwayscommunicative to the Jones family, Mrs. Markham told the story withoutreserve, not even omitting the Van Buren part, but asking as aprecaution that Melinda would not spread a story which would bringdisgrace on them. Melinda was shocked, astonished, and confounded, butshe did not believe in Frank Van Buren. Ethie never went withhim--never. She, like Andy, would swear to that, and she said as much toRichard, taking Ethie's side as strongly as she could, without castingtoo much blame on him. And Richard felt better, hearing Ethie upheld andspoken for, even if it were so much against himself. Melinda was stillhis good angel, while Ethie, too, had just cause for thanking the kindgirl who stood by her so bravely, and even made the mother-in-law lessharsh in her expression. 

There was a letter for Richard that night, from Harry Clifford, whowrote as follows:

"I do not know whether you found your wife at Mrs. Amsden's or not, butI take the liberty of telling you that Frank Van Buren has returned, andsolemnly affirms that if Mrs. Markham was on board the train which lefthere on the 17th, he did not know it. Neither did he see her at all whenin Camden. He called on his way to the depot that night, and was toldshe was out. Excuse my writing you this. If your wife has not come back, it will remove a painful doubt, and if she has, please burn and forgetit. Yours, "H. CLIFFORD. "

"Thank Heaven for that!" was Richard's exclamation as in the firstrevulsion of feeling he sprang from his chair, while every feature ofhis face was irradiated with joy. 

"What is it, Dick? Is Ethie found? I knew she would be. I've prayed forit fifty times to-day, and I had faith that God would hear, " Andy said, the great tears rolling down his smooth, round face as he gave ventto his joy. 

But Andy's faith was to be put to a stronger test, and his countenancefell a little when Richard explained the nature of the letter. Ethie wasnot found; she was only proved innocent of the terrible thing Richardhad feared for her, and in being proven innocent, she was for a momentalmost wholly restored to his favor. She would come back some time. Shecould not mean to leave him forever. She was only doing it for a scare, and to punish him for what he did that night. He deserved punishment, too, he thought, for he was pretty hard on her, and as he surely hadbeen punished in all he had suffered during the last forty-eight hours, he would, when she came back, call everything even between them, andbegin anew. 

This was Richard's reasoning; and that night he slept soundly, dreamingthat Ethie had returned, and on her knees was suing for his forgiveness, while her voice was broken with tears and choking sobs. As a man andhusband who had been deserted, it was his duty to remain impassive a fewmoments, while Ethie atoned fully for her misdeeds: then he wouldforgive her, and so he waited an instant, and while he waited he woke tofind only Andy, with whom he was sleeping, kneeling by the bedside, withthe wintry moonlight falling on his upturned face, as he prayed for thedear sister Ethie, whose steps had "mewandered" so far away. 

"Don't let any harm come to her; don't let anybody look at her for bad, but keep her--keep her--keep her in safety, and send her back to poorold Dick and me, and make Dick use her better than I 'most know he has, for he's got the Markham temper in him, and everybody knows whatthat is. "

This was Andy's prayer, taken from no book or printed form, but theoutpouring of his simple, honest heart, and Richard heard it, wincing alittle as Andy thus made confession for him of his own sins; but he didnot pray himself, though he was glad of Andy's prayers, and placed greathopes upon them. God would hear Andy, and if he did not send Ethie backat once, he would surely keep her from harm. 

The next day Richard went back to Camden. Melinda Jones had suggestedthat possibly Ethie left a letter, or note, which would explain herabsence, and Richard caught at it eagerly, wondering he had not thoughtof it before, and feeling very impatient to be off, even though hedreaded to meet some of his old friends, and be questioned as to thewhereabouts of his wife. He did not know that the story of his desertionwas already there--Mrs. Amsden having gone to town with her mite, which, added to the sale of the piano, Ethie's protracted absence, Richard'sreturn to Olney at midnight, and Harry Clifford's serious and mysteriousmanner, were enough to set the town in motion. Various opinions wereexpressed, and, what was very strange, so popular were both Richard andEthelyn that everybody disliked blaming either, and so but few unkindremarks had as yet been made, and those by people who had been jealousor envious of Ethelyn's high position. No one knew a whisper of FrankVan Buren, for Harry kept his promise well, and no worse motive wasascribed to Ethie's desertion than want of perfect congeniality with herhusband. Thus they were not foes, but friends, who welcomed Richard backto Camden, watching him curiously, and wishing so much to ask where Mrs. Markham was. That she was not with him, was certain, for only Andycame--Andy, who held his head so high, and looked round so defiantly, ashe kept close to Richard's side on the way to the hotel. It was verydreary going up the old, familiar staircase into the quiet hall, andalong to the door of the silent room, which seemed drearier than on thatnight when he first came back to it and found Ethie gone. There wereashes now upon the stove-hearth where Hal Clifford had kindled the fire, and the two chairs they had occupied were standing just where they hadleft them. The gas had not been properly turned off, and a dead, sicklyodor filled the room, making Andy heave as he hastened to open thewindow, and admit the fresh, pure air. 

"Seems as it did the day Daisy died, " Andy said, his eyes filling withtears. 

To Richard it was far worse than the day Daisy died, for he had then thememory of her last loving words in his ear, and the feeling of herclinging kiss upon his lips, while now the memories of the lost one wereonly bitter and sad in the extreme. 

"Melinda suggested a letter or something. Where do you suppose she wouldput it if there were one?" Richard asked in a helpless, appealing way, as he sank into a chair and looked wistfully around the room. 

He had been very bold and strong in the cars and in the street; buthere, in the deserted room, where Ethie used to be, and where somethingsaid she would never be again, he was weak as a girl, and leaned whollyupon Andy, who seemed to feel how much was depending upon him, and sokept up a cheery aspect while he kindled a fresh fire and cleared theashes from the hearth by blowing them off upon the oilcloth; then, asthe warmth began to make itself felt and the cold to diminish, heanswered Richard's query. 

"In her draw, most likely; mother mostly puts her traps there. " So, tothe "draw" they went--the very one where Daisy's ring was lying; andRichard saw that first, knowing now for sure that Ethelyn had fled. 

He knew so before, but this made it more certain--more dreadful, too, for it showed a determination never to return. 

"It was Daisy's, you know, " he said to Andy, who, at his side, was notlooking at the ring, but beyond it, to the two letters, his own andRichard's, both of which he seized with a low cry, for he, too, was sureof Ethie's flight. 

"See, Dick, there's one for you and one for me, " he exclaimed, and hisface grew very red as he tore open his own note and began to devour thecontents, whispering the words, and breaking down entirely amid a stormof sobs and tears as he read:

"DEAR ANDY: I wish I could tell you how much I love you, and how sorry Iam to fall in your good opinion, as I surely shall when you hear whathas happened. Do not hate me, Andy; and sometimes, when you pray, remember Ethie, won't you?"

He could get no farther than this, and with a great cry he buried hisface in his hands and sobbed: "Yes, Ethie, I will, I will; but oh, whatis it? What made you go? Why did she, Dick?" and he turned to hisbrother, who, with lightning rapidity, was reading Ethelyn's longletter. He did not doubt a word she said, and when the letter wasfinished he put it passively in Andy's hand, and then, with a bittergroan, laid his throbbing head upon the cushion of the lounge where hewas sitting. There were no tears in his eyes--nothing but blood-redcircles floating before them; while the aching balls seemed startingfrom their sockets with the pressure of pain. He had had his chance withEthie and lost it; and though, as yet, he saw but dimly where he hadbeen to blame, where he had made a mistake, he endured for the time allhe was capable of enduring, and if revenge had been her object, Ethiehad more than her desire. 

Andy was stunned for a moment, and sat staring blankly at the motionlessfigure of his brother; then, as the terrible calamity began to impressitself fully upon him, intense pity for Richard became uppermost in hismind, and stooping over the crushed man, he laid his arm across hisneck, and, tender as a sorrowing, loving mother, kissed and fondled thedamp brown hair, and dropped great tears upon it, and murmured words ofsympathy, incoherent at first, for the anguish choking his ownutterance, but gradually gathering force and sound as his quivering lipskept trying to articulate: "Dick, poor old Dick, dear old Dick, don'tkeep so still and look so white and stony. She'll come back again, Ethiewill. I feel it, I feel it, I know it, I shall pray for her every houruntil she comes. Prayer will reach her where nothing else can find her. Poor Dick, I am so sorry. Don't look at me so; you scare me. Try to cry;try to make a fuss; try to do anything rather than that dreadful look. Lay your head on me, so, " and lifting up the bowed head, which offeredno resistance, Andy laid it gently on his arm, and smoothing back thehair from the pallid forehead, went on: "Now cry, old boy, cry with allyour might;" and with his hand Andy brushed away the scalding tearswhich began to fall like rain from Richard's eyes. 

"Better so, a great deal better than the other way. Don't hold up tillyou've had it out, " he kept repeating, while Richard wept, until thefountain was dry and the tears refused to flow. 

"I've been a brute, Andy, " he said, when at last he could speak. "Thefault was all my own. I did not understand her in the least. I oughtnever to have married her. She was not of my make at all. "

Andy would hear nothing derogatory of Richard any more than of Ethelyn, and he answered promptly: "But, Dick, Ethie was some to blame. Shedidn't or'to marry you feelin' as she did. That was where thewrong began. "

This was the most and the worst Andy ever said against Ethelyn, and herepented of that the moment the words were out of his mouth. It was meanto speak ill of the absent, especially when the absent one was Ethie, who had written, "In fancy I put my arms around your neck and kiss yourdear, kind face. " Andy deemed himself a monster of ingratitude when herecalled these lines and remembered that of her who penned them he hadsaid, "She was some to blame. " He took it all back to himself, and triedto exonerate Ethie entirely, though it was hard work to do so where hesaw how broken, and stunned, and crushed his brother was, and how littlehe realized what was passing around him. 

"He don't know much more than I do, " was Andy's mental comment, when tohis question, "What shall we do next?" Richard replied, in a maudlinkind of way, "Yes, that is a very proper course. I leave it entirelyto you. "

Andy felt that a great deal was depending upon himself, and he tried tomeet the emergency. Seeing how Richard continued to shiver, and how coldhe was, he persuaded him to lie down upon the bed, and piling theblankets upon him, made such a fire as he said to himself, "would roasta common ox"; then, when Hal Clifford came to the door and knocked, hekept him out, with that "Dick had been broke of his rest, and was tryin'to make it up. "

But this state of things could not last long. Richard was growing ill, and talking so strangely withal, that Andy began to feel the necessityof having somebody there beside himself; "some of the wimmen folks, whoknew what to do, for I'm no better than a settin' hen, " he said. 

Very naturally his thoughts turned to his mother as the proper person tocome, "though Melinda Jones was the properest of the two. There was snapto her, and she would not go to pitchin' in to Ethie. "

Accordingly, the next mail carried to Melinda Jones a note from Andy, which was as follows:

"MISS MELINDA JONES: Dear Madam--We found the letters Ethie writ, one tome, and one to Dick, and Dick's was too much for him. He lies like apunk of wood, makin' a moanin' noise, and talkin' such queer things, that I guess you or somebody or'to come and see to him a little. I sendto you because there's no nonsense about you, and you are made of theright kind of stuff. 

"Yours to command, "ANDERSON MARKHAM, ESQ. "

This note Melinda carried straight to Mrs. Markham, and as the result, four hours later both the mother and Melinda were on the road to Camden, where Melinda's services were needed to stem the tide of wonder andgossip, which had set in when it began to be known that Ethelyn wasgone, and Richard was lying sick in his room, tended only by Andy, whowould admit no one, not even the doctor, who, when urged by HarryClifford, came to offer his services. 

"He wasn't goin' to let in a lot of curious critters to hear what Dickwas talkin', " he said to his mother and Melinda, his haggard faceshowing how much he had endured in keeping them at bay, and answeringthrough the key-hole their numerous inquiries. 

Richard did not have a fever, as was feared at first; but for severaldays he kept his bed, and during that time his mother and Melinda stayedby him, nursing him most assiduously, but never once speaking to eachother of Ethelyn. Both had read her letter, for Mrs. Markham neverthought of withholding it from Melinda, who, knowing that she ought notto have seen it, wisely resolved to keep to herself the knowledge of itscontents. So, when she was asked, as she was repeatedly, "Why Mrs. Markham had gone away, " she answered evasively, or not at all, andfinding that nothing could be obtained from her, the people at last lefther in quiet and turned to their own resources, which furnished variousreasons for the desertion. They knew it was a desertion now, and hearinghow sick and broken Richard was, popular opinion was in his favormostly, though many a kind and wistful thought went after the fair youngwife, who had been a belle in their midst, and a general favorite, too. Where was she now, and what was she doing, these many days, while thewinter crept on into spring, and the March winds blew raw and chillagainst the windows of the chamber where Richard battled with thesickness which he finally overcame, so that by the third week of Ethie'sabsence he was up again and able to go in quest of her, if so be shemight be found and won to the love she never returned. 

CHAPTER XXV

IN CHICOPEE

They were having a late dinner at Aunt Barbara's, a four o'clock dinnerof roast fowls with onions and tomatoes, and the little round table wasnicely arranged with the silver and china and damask for two, while inthe grate the fire was blazing brightly and on the hearth, the tabby catwas purring out her appreciation of the comfort and good cheer. But AuntBarbara's heart was far too sorry and sad to care for her surroundings, or think how pleasant and cozy that little dining room looked to one whodid not know of the grim skeleton which had walked in there that veryday along with Mrs. Dr. Van Buren, of Boston. That lady had come up onthe morning train and in her rustling black silk with velvet trimmings, and lace barb hanging from her head, she sat before the fire with a lookof deep dejection and thoughtfulness upon her face, as if she too reckedlittle of the creature comforts around her. Aunt Barbara knew nothing ofher coming, and was taken by surprise when the village hack stopped atthe door, and Sister Sophia's sable furs and beaver cloak alighted. Thatsomething was the matter she suspected from her sister's face the momentthat lady removed her veil and gave the usual dignified kiss ofgreeting. Things had gone wrong again with Frank and Nettie, mostlikely, she thought, for she was not ignorant, of the misunderstandingsand misery arising from that unfortunate marriage, and she had aboutmade up her mind to tell her sister just where the fault lay. She wouldnot spare Frank any longer, but would give him his just deserts. Shenever dreamed that the trouble this time concerned Ethie, her owndarling, the child whom she had loved so well, and pitied, and thoughtof so much since the time she left her out West with "thosePhilistines, " as she designated Richard's family. She had not heard fromher for some time, but, in the last letter received, Ethie had writtenin a very cheerful strain, and told how gay and pleasant it was inCamden that winter. Surely nothing had befallen her, and the good womanstood aghast when Mrs. Dr. Van Buren abruptly asked if Ethelyn was notthere, or had been there lately, or heard from either. What did itportend? Had harm come upon Ethie? And a shadow broke the placid surfaceof the sweet old face as Aunt Barbara put these questions, first toherself, and then to Mrs. Van Buren, who rapidly explained that Ethelynhad left her husband, and gone, no one knew whither. 

"I hoped she might be here, and came up to see, " Mrs. Van Burenconcluded; while Aunt Barbara steadied herself against the greatbookcase in the corner, and wondered if she was going out of her senses, or had she heard aright, and was it her sister Van Buren sitting therebefore her, and saying such dreadful things. 

She could not tell if it were real until Tabby sprang with a purring, caressing sound, upon her shoulder, and rubbed her soft sides againsther cap. That made it real, and brought the color back to her wrinkledface, but brought, also, a look of horror into her blue eyes, whichsought Mrs. Van Buren's with an eager, and yet terribly anxious glance. Mrs. Dr. Van Buren understood the look. Its semblance had been on herown face for an instant when she first heard the news, and now shehastened to dispossess her sister's mind of any such suspicion. 

"No, Barbara; Frank did not go with her, or even see her when in Camden. He is not quite so bad as that, I hope. "

The mother nature was in the ascendant, and for a moment resented thesuspicion against her son, even though that suspicion had been in herown mind when Frank returned from Camden with the news of Ethie'sflight. That he had had something to do with it was her first fear, until convinced to the contrary; and now she blamed Aunt Barbara forharboring the same thought. As soon as possible she told all she hadheard from Frank, and then went on with her invectives against theMarkhams generally, and Richard in particular, and her endless surmisesas to where Ethelyn had gone, and what was the final cause of her going. 

For a time Aunt Barbara turned a deaf ear to what she was saying, thinking only of Ethie, gone; Ethie, driven to such strait, that shemust either run away or die; Ethie, the little brown-eyed, rosy-cheeked, willful, imperious girl, whom she loved so much for the very willfulimperiousness which always went hand in hand with such pretty fits ofpenitence, and sorrow, and remorse for the misdeed, that not to love herwas impossible. Where was she now, and why had she not come at once tothe dear old home, where she would have been so welcome until such timeas matters could be adjusted on a more amicable basis?

For Aunt Barbara, though in taking Ethie's side altogether, had nothought that the separation should be final. She had chosen a life ofcelibacy because she preferred it, and found it a very smooth andpleasant one, especially after Ethie came and brought the sunshine ofjoyous childhood to her quiet home; but "those whom God had joinedtogether" were bound to continue so, she firmly believed; and had Ethiecome to her with her tale of sorrow, she would have listened kindly toit, poured in the balm of sympathy and love, and then, if possible, restored her to her husband. Of all this she thought during the fewminutes Mrs. Dr. Van Buren talked, and she sat passive in her chair, where she had dropped, with her dumpy little hands lying so helplesslyin her lap, and her cap all awry, as Tabby had made it when purring andrubbing against it. 

"Then, you have not seen her, or heard a word?" Mrs. Van Buren asked;and in a kind of uncertain way, as if she wondered what they weretalking about, Aunt Barbara replied:

"No, I have not seen her, and I don't know, I am sure, what made thechild go off without letting us know. "

"She was driven to it by the pack of heathens around her, " Mrs. Dr. VanBuren retorted, feeling a good deal guilty herself for having beeninstrumental in bringing about this unhappy match, and in proportion asshe felt guilty, seizing with avidity any other offered cause forEthie's wretchedness. "I've heard even more about them than you toldme, " she went on to say. "There was Mrs. Ellis, whose cousin lives inOlney--she says the mother is the most peculiar and old-fashioned womanimaginable; actually wears blue yarn stockings, footed with black, makesher own candles, and sleeps in the kitchen. "

With regard to the candles Aunt Barbara did not know; the sleeping inthe kitchen she denied, and the footed stockings she admitted; saying, however, those she saw were black, rather than blue. Black or blue, itwas all the same to Mrs. Dr. Van Buren, whose feet seldom came incontact with anything heavier than silk or the softest of lamb's wool;and, had there been wanting other evidence of Mrs. Markham's vulgarity, the stocking question would have settled the matter with her. 

"Poor Ethie!" she sighed, as she drew her seat to the fire, and askedwhat they ought to do. 

Aunt Barbara did not know. She was too much bewildered to think ofanything just then, and after ordering the four o'clock dinner, which, she knew, would suit her sister's habits better than an earlier one, she, too, sat quietly down by the fire with her knitting lying idly inher lap, and her eyes looking dreamily through the frosty panes off uponthe snowy hills where Ethelyn used to play. Occasionally, in reply tosome question of her sister's, she would tell what she herself saw inthat prairie home, and then look up amazed at the exasperating effect itseemed to have upon Mrs. Dr. Van Buren. That lady was terrible incensedagainst the whole Markham race, for through them she had been touched ona tender point. Ethie's desertion of her husband would not be whollyexcused by the world; there was odium attaching to such a step, howevergreat the provocation, and the disgrace was what Mrs. Van Buren wouldfeel most keenly. That a Bigelow should do so was very humiliating; and, by way of fortifying herself with reasons for the step, she slanderedand abused the Markhams until they would hardly have recognized theremotest relationship between themselves and the "terrible creatures"whom the great lady from Boston dissected so mercilessly that afternoonin Chicopee. 

It was nearly four o'clock now, and the dinner was almost ready. AuntBarbara had dropped her knitting upon the floor, where the ball was atonce claimed as the lawful prey of Tabby, who rolled, and kicked, andtangled the yarn in a perfect abandon of feline delight. Mrs. Van Burenhaving exhausted herself, if not her topic, sat rocking quietly, andoccasionally giving little sniffs of inquiry as to whether the tomatoeswere really burned or not. If they were, there were still thesilver-skinned onions left; and, as Mrs. Van Buren was one who thought agreat deal of what she ate, she was anticipating her dinner with a keenrelish, and wishing Barbara and Betty would hurry, when a buggy stoppedbefore the door, and, with a start of disagreeable surprise, sherecognized Richard Markham coming through the gate, and up the walk tothe front door. He was looking very pale and worn, for to the effects ofhis recent illness were added traces of his rapid, fatiguing journey, and he almost staggered as he came into the room. It was not in kindAunt Barbara's nature to feel resentment toward him then, and she wentto him at once, as she would have gone to Ethie, and, taking his hand inhers, said softly:

"My poor boy! We have heard of your trouble. Have you found her yet? Doyou know where she is?"

There was a look of anguish and disappointment in Richard's eyes as hereplied:

"I thought--I hoped I might find her here. "

"And that is the reason of your waiting so long before coming?" Mrs. Dr. Van Buren put in sharply. 

It was three weeks now since Ethie's flight, and her husband had shownhimself in no hurry to seek her, she reasoned; but Richard's reply, "Iwas away a week before I knew it, and I have been very sick since then, "mollified her somewhat, though she sat back in her chair very stiff andvery straight, eyeing him askance, and longing to pounce upon him andtell him what she thought. First, however, she must have her dinner. Thetea would be spoiled if they waited longer; and when Aunt Barbara beganto question Richard, she suggested that they wait till after dinner, when they would all be fresher and stronger. So dinner was brought in, and Richard, as he took his seat at the nicely-laid table, whereeverything was served with so much care, did think of the differencebetween Ethie's early surroundings and those to which he had introducedher when he took her to his mother's house. He was beginning to think ofthose things now; Ethie's letter had opened his eyes somewhat, and Mrs. Dr. Van Buren would open them more before she let him go. She wasgreatly refreshed with her dinner. The tomatoes had not been burned; thefowls were roasted to a most delicate brown; the currant jelly was justthe right consistency; the pickled peaches were delicious, and the teacould not have been better. On the whole, Mrs. Van Buren was satisfied, and able to cope with a dozen men as crushed, and sore, and despondentas Richard seemed. She had scanned him very closely, deciding that sofar as dress was concerned, he had improved since she saw him last. Itis true, his collar was not all the style, and his necktie was too wide, and his coat sleeves too small, and his boots too rusty, and his vesttoo much soiled; but she made allowance for the circumstances, and hishasty journey, and so excused his tout ensemble. She had resumed herseat by the fire, sitting where she could look the culprit directly inthe face; while good Aunt Barbara occupied the middle position, and, with her fat, soft hands shaking terribly, tried to pick up the stitchesTabby had pulled out. That personage, too, had had her chicken wing outin the woodshed, and, knowing nothing of Ethie's grievances, had mountedinto Richard's lap, where she lay, slowly blinking and occasionallypurring a little, as Richard now and then passed his hand over hersoft fur. 

"Now tell us: Why did Ethelyn go away?--that is, what reason did shegive?"

It was Mrs. Dr. Van Buren who asked this question, her voice betokeningthat nothing which Richard could offer as an excuse would be received. They must have Ethie's reason or none. Richard would far rather Mrs. Dr. Van Buren had been in Boston, or Paris, or Guinea, than there inChicopee, staring so coolly at him; but as her being there was somethinghe could not help, he accepted it as a part of the train of calamitiesclosing so fast about him, and answered, respectfully:

"It was no one thing which made her go, but the culmination of many. There was a mistake on my part. I thought her guilty when she was not, and charged her with it in a passion, saying things I would give much torecall. This was one night, and she went the next, before her temper hadtime to cool. You know she was a little hasty herself at times. "

"Perhaps so, though her temper never troubled me any. On the whole, Ithink her temper amiable and mild in disposition as people generallyare, " Mrs. Van Buren replied, forgetting, or choosing to forget, themany occasions on which even she had shrunk from the fire which blazedin Ethie's eyes when that young lady was fully roused. 

But Aunt Barbara had either more conscience or a better memory, and in amanner half apologetic for her interference, she said: "Yes, Sophia, Richard is right. Ethie had a temper--at least she was very decided. Don't you remember when she broke the cut glass fruit dish, because shecould not have any more pineapple?"

"Barbara!" Mrs. Dr. Van Buren exclaimed, her voice indicating hersurprise that her sister should so far forget herself as to reveal anysecrets of the family, and especially any which could be brought to bearupon Ethelyn. 

Aunt Barbara felt the implied rebuke, and while her sweet, old facecrimsoned with mortification, she said: "Truth is truth, Sophia. Ethieis as dear to me as to you, but she was high-tempered, and did break thebig fruit bowl, and then denied herself sweetmeats of all kinds, andeven went without sugar in her coffee and butter on her bread until shehad saved enough to buy another in its place. Ethie was generous andnoble after it was all over, if she was a little hot at times. That'swhat I was going to say when you stopped me so sudden. "

Aunt Barbara looked a little aggrieved at being caught up so quickly byher sister, who continued: "She was a Bigelow, and everybody knows whatkind of blood that is. She was too sensitive, and had too nice aperception of what was proper to be thrown among"--heathen, she wasgoing to add, but something in Aunt Barbara's blue eyes kept her incheck, and so she abruptly turned to Richard and asked, "Did she leaveno message, no reason why she went?"

Richard could have boasted his Markham blood had he chosen, and thewhite heats to which that was capable of being roused; but he was tooutterly broken to feel more than a passing flash of resentment foranything which had yet been said, and after a moment's thought, duringwhich he was considering the propriety of showing Mrs. Van Buren whatEthie had written of Frank, he held the letter to her, saying, "She leftthis. Read it if you like. It's a part of my punishment, I suppose, thather friends should know all. "

With a stately bow Mrs. Van Buren took the letter and hastily read itthrough, her lip quivering a little and her eyelids growing moist asEthie described the dreariness of that dreadful day when "Aunt Van Burencame up from Boston and broke her heart. " And as she read how much poorEthie had loved Frank, the cold, proud woman would have given all shehad if the past could be undone and Ethie restored to her just as shewas that summer nine years ago, when she came from the huckleberry hillsand stood beneath the maples. With a strange obtuseness peculiar to somepeople who have seen their dearest plans come to naught, she failed toascribe the trouble to herself, but charged it all to Richard. He wasthe one in fault; and by the time the letter was finished the Bigelowblood was at a boiling pitch, and for a polished lady, Mrs. Dr. VanBuren, of Boston, raised her voice pretty high as she asked: "Did youpresume, sir, to think that my son--mine--a married man--would make anappointment with Ethie, a married woman? You must have a strangemisconception of the manner in which he was brought up! But it is all ofa piece with the rest of your abominable treatment of Ethelyn. I wonderthe poor girl stayed with you as long as she did. Think of it, Barbara!Accused her of going to meet Frank by appointment, and then locked herup to keep her at home, and she a Bigelow!"

This was the first inkling Aunt Barbara had of what was in the letter. She was, however, certain that Frank was in some way involved in thematter, and anxious to know the worst, she said, beseechingly:

"Tell me something, do. I can't read it, for my eyes are dim-liketo-night. "

They were full of unshed tears--the kind old eyes, which did not growone whit sterner or colder as Mrs. Van Buren explained, to some extent, what was in the letter; reading a little, telling a little, and skippinga little where Frank was especially concerned, until Aunt Barbara had apretty correct idea of the whole. Matters had been worse than shesupposed, Ethie more unhappy, and knowing her as she did, she was notsurprised that at the last she ran away; but she did not say so--shemerely sat grieved and helpless, while her sister took up the cudgels inEthelyn's defense, and, attacking Richard at every point, left him noquarter at all. She did not pretend that Ethie was faultless or perfect, she said, but surely, if mortal ever had just provocation for leavingher husband, she had. 

"Her marriage was a great mistake, " she said; "and I must say, Mr. Markham, that you did very wrong to take her where you did without aword of preparation. You ought to have told her what she was to expect;then, if she chose to go, very well. But neither she nor I had any ideaof the reality; and the change must have been terrible to her. For mypart, I can conceive of nothing worse than to be obliged to live withpeople whom even sister Barbara called 'Hottentots, ' when she came homefrom Iowa. "

"Not Hottentots, " mildly interposed Aunt Barbara. "Philistines was whatI called them, Sophia; and in doing so; I did not mean all of them, you know. "

"Well, Philistines, then, if that's a better word than Hottentots, which I doubt, " Mrs. Van Buren retorted sharply. 

Aunt Barbara's evident wish to smooth matters irritated her to say morethan she might otherwise have done, and she went on:

"I know you made exceptions, but if my memory serves me right, youropinion of Ethie's mother-in-law was not very complimentary to thatlady. A man has no business to take his wife to live with his motherwhen he knows how different they are. "

"But I did not know, " Richard said; "that is, I had never thought muchof the things which tried Ethie. Mother was always a good mother to me, and I did not suppose she was so very different from other women. "

"You certainly must be very obtuse, then, " Mrs. Van Buren replied: "for, if all accounts which I hear are true, your mother is not the person tomake a daughter-in-law happy. Neither, it seems, did you do what youcould to please her. You annoyed her terribly with your codger-likeways, if I may be allowed that term. You made but little effort toimprove, thinking, no doubt, that it was all nonsense and foolishness;that it was just as well to wear your hat in church, and sit with yourboots on top of the stove, as any other way. "

"I never wore my hat in church!" Richard exclaimed, with more warmththan he had before evinced. 

"I don't suppose you did do that particular thing, but you were guiltyof other low-bred habits which grated just as harshly as that. Youthought because you were a judge and an M. C. , and had the reputation ofpossessing brains, that it did not matter how you demeaned yourself; andthere you were mistaken. The manners of a gentleman would sit ten timesmore gracefully upon you because you had brains. No one likes a boor, and no man of your ability has any business to be a clown. Even if youwere not taught it at home, you could learn from observation, and it wasyour duty to do so. Instead of that, you took it for granted you wereright because no one had ever suggested that you were wrong, while yourmother had petted you to death. I have not the honor of heracquaintance, but I must say I consider her a very remarkable person, even for a Western woman. "

"My mother was born East, " Richard suggested, and Mrs. Van Burencontinued:

"Certainly; but that does not help the matter. It rather makes it worse, for of all disagreeable people, a Western Yankee is, I think, the mostdisagreeable. Such an one never improves, but adheres strictly to thecustoms of their native place, no matter how many years have passedsince they lived there, or how great the march of improvement may havebeen. In these days of railroads and telegraphs there is no reason whyyour mother should not be up to the times. Her neighbors are, it seems, and I have met quite as cultivated people from beyond the RockyMountains as I have even seen in Boston. "

This was a great admission for Mrs. Van Buren, who verily believed therewas nothing worth her consideration out of Boston unless it were a fewfamilies in the immediate vicinity of Fifth Avenue and Madison Square. She was bent upon making Richard uncomfortable, and could at the momentthink of no better way of doing it than contrasting his mother's "way"with those of her neighbors. Occasionally Aunt Barbara put her feebleoar into the surging tide, hoping to check, even if she could not subduethe angry waters; but she might as well have kept silent save thatRichard understood and appreciated her efforts to spare him as much aspossible. Mrs. Van Buren was not to be stopped, and at last, when shehad pretty fully set before Richard his own and his mother'sdelinquencies, she turned fiercely on her sister, demanding if she hadnot said "so and so" with regard to Ethie's home in the West. Thusstraitened, Aunt Barbara replied:

"Things did strike me a little odd at Ethie's, and I don't well see howshe could be very happy there. Mrs. Markham is queer--the queerestwoman, if I must say it, that I ever saw, though I guess there's a goodmany like her up in Vermont, where she was raised, and if the truth wasknown, right here in Chicopee, too; and I wouldn't wonder if there weresome queer ones in Boston. The place don't make the difference; it's theway the folks act. "

This she said in defense of the West generally. There were quite as nicepeople there as anywhere, and she believed Mrs. Markham meant to be kindto Ethie; surely Richard did, only he did not understand her. It wasvery wrong to lock her up, and then it was wrong in Ethie to marry him, feeling as she did. "It was all wrong every way, but the heaviestpunishment for the wrong had fallen on poor Ethie, gone, nobodyknew where. "

It was not in nature for Aunt Barbara to say so much without crying, andher tears were dropping fast into her motherly lap, where Tabby was nowlying. Mrs. Van Buren was greatly irritated that her sister did notrender her more assistance, and as a failure in that quarter called forgreater exertions on her own part, she returned again to the charge, andwound up with sweeping denunciations against the whole Markham family. 

"The idea of taking a young girl there, and trying to bend her to yourways of thinking--to debar her from all the refinements to which she hadbeen accustomed, and give her for associates an ignorant mother-in-lawand a half-witted brother. "

Richard had borne a great deal from Mrs. Van Buren, and borne itpatiently, too, as something which he deserved. He had seen himself tornto atoms, until he would never have recognized any one of the dissectedmembers as parts of the Honorable Judge he once thought himself to be. He had heard his mother and her "ways" denounced as utterly repugnant toany person of decency, while James and John, under the head of "othervulgar appendages to the husband, " had had a share in the generalsifting down, and through it all he had kept quiet, with only anoccasional demur or explanation; but when it came to Andy, the great, honest, true-hearted Andy, he could bear it no longer, and the Bigelowblood succumbed to the fiery gleam in Richard's eyes as he started tohis feet, exclaiming:

"Mrs. Van Buren, you must stop, for were you a hundred times a woman, Iwould not listen to one word of abuse against my brother Andy. So longas it was myself and my mother, I did not mind; but every hair of Andy'shead is sacred to us who know him, and I would take his part against theworld, were it only for the sake of Ethie, who loved him so much, andwhom he idolized. He would die for Ethie this very night, if needbe--aye, die for you too, perhaps, if you were suffering and his lifecould bring relief. You don't know Andy, or you would know why we heldhim as dear as we do the memory of our darling Daisy; and when you tauntme with my half-witted brother, you hurt me as much as you would to tearmy dead sister from her grave, and expose her dear face to the gaze ofbrutal men. No, Mrs. Van Buren, say what you like of me, but never againsneer at my brother Andy. "

Richard paused, panting for breath, while Mrs. Van Buren looked at himwith entirely new sensations from what she had before experienced. Therewas some delicacy of feeling in his nature, after all--something whichrecoiled from her unwomanly attack upon his weak-minded brother--and sherespected him at that moment, if she had never done so before. Somethinglike shame, too, she felt for her cruel taunt, which had both roused andwounded him, and she would gladly have recalled all she said of Andy ifshe could, for she remembered now what Aunt Barbara had told her of hiskindness and the strong attachment there was between the simple man andEthie. Mrs. Van Buren could be generous if she tried; and as this seemeda time for the trial, she did attempt to apologize, saying her zeal forEthie had carried her too far; that she hoped Richard would excuse whatshe had said of Andy--she had no intention of wounding him onthat point. 

And Richard accepted the apology, but his face did not again assume thecowed, broken expression it had worn at first. There was a compressionabout the mouth, a firm shutting together of the teeth, and a dark lookin the bloodshot eyes, which warned Mrs. Van Buren not to repeat much ofwhat she had said. It would not now be received as it was at first. Richard would do much to bring Ethie back--he would submit to anyhumiliation, and bear anything for himself, but he would never againlisten quietly while his mother and family were so thoroughly abused. Mrs. Van Buren felt this intuitively, and knowing that what she said hadmade an impression, and would after a time be acted upon, perhaps, shechanged her tactics, and became quite as conciliating as Aunt Barbaraherself, talking and consulting with Richard as to the best course to bepursued with regard to finding Ethie, and succeeding, in part, inremoving from his face the expression it had put on when Andy was thesubject of her maledictions. 

Richard had a great dread of meeting his uncle, the old colonel, in hispresent trouble, and he was not quite sure whether he should go there ornot. At least, he should not to-night; and when the clock struck eleven, he arose to retire. 

"The room at the head of the stairs. I had a fire made for you inthere, " Aunt Barbara said, as she handed him the lamp. 

Richard hesitated a moment, and then asked, "Does anyone occupy Ethie'sold room? Seems to me I would rather go there. It would be somehow bringher nearer to me. "

So to Ethie's old room he went, Aunt Barbara lamenting that he wouldfind it so cold and comfortless, but feeling an increased kindlinesstoward him for this proof of love for her darling. 

"There's a great deal of good about that man, after all, " she said toher sister, when, after he was gone to his room, they sat togetheraround their hearth and talked the matter over afresh; and then, as shetook off and carefully smoothed her little round puffs of false hair, and adjusted her nightcap in its place, she said, timidly, "You wererather hard on him, Sophia, at times. "

It needed but this for Mrs. Van Buren to explode again and charge hersister with saying too little rather than too much. "One would think youblamed Ethie entirely, or at least that you were indifferent to herhappiness, " she said, removing her lace barb, and unfastening the heavyswitch bound about her head. "I was surprised at you, Barbara, I mustsay. After all your pretended affection for Ethelyn, I did expect youwould be willing to do as much as to speak for her, at least. "

This was too much for poor Aunt Barbara, and without any attempt atjustification, except that her sister in her attack upon Richard hadleft her nothing to say, she cried quietly and sorrowfully, as shefolded up her white apron and made other necessary preparations for thenight. That she should be accused of not caring for Ethie, of notspeaking for her, wounded her in a tender point; and long after Mrs. VanBuren had gone to the front chamber, where she always slept, AuntBarbara was on her knees by the rocking chair, praying earnestly forEthie, and then still kneeling there, with her face on the cushion, sobbing softly, "God knows how much I love her. There's nothing ofpersonal comfort I would not sacrifice to bring her back; but when a manwas feeling as bad as he could, what was the use of making himfeel worse?"

CHAPTER XXVI

WATCHING AND WAITING

The pink and white blossoms of the apple trees by the pump in AuntBarbara's back yard were dropping their snowy petals upon the clean, bright grass, and the frogs in the meadows were croaking their sadmusic, when Richard Markham came again to Chicopee. He had started forhome the morning after his memorable interview with Mrs. Dr. Van Buren, and to Aunt Barbara had fallen the task of telling her troubles to thecolonel's family, asking that the affair be kept as quiet as possible, inasmuch as Ethie might soon be found, and matters between her andRichard be made right. Every day, after the mail came from the West, thecolonel rang at Aunt Barbara's door and asked solemnly, "if there wasany news"--good news, he meant--and Aunt Barbara always shook her head, while her face grew thinner, and her round, straight figure began to geta stoop and a look of greater age than the family Bible would warrant. 

Ethelyn had not been heard from, and search as he would, Richard couldfind no trace of her whatever. She had effectually covered her tracks, so that not even a clew to her whereabouts was found. No one had seenher, or any person like her, and the suspense and anxiety of thosethree--Richard, Aunt Barbara, and Andy--who loved her so well, wasgetting to be terrible, when there came to Andy a letter--a letter inthe dear, familiar handwriting. A few lines only, and they read:

"NEW YORK, May--. 

"MY DARLING ANDY: I know you have not forgotten me, and I amsuperstitious enough to fancy that you are with me in spirit constantly. I do not know why I am writing this to you, but something impels me todo it, and tell you that I am well. I cannot say happy yet, for thesundering of every earthly relation made too deep a wound for me not tofeel the pain for months and may be for years. I have employment, though--constant employment--that helps me to bear, and keeps me fromdwelling too much upon the past. 

"Andy, I want you to tell Richard that in thinking over my married lifeI see many places where I did very wrong and tried him terribly. I amsorry for that, and hope he will forgive me. I wish I had never crossedhis path and left so dark a shadow on his life. 

"Tell your mother that I know now I did not try to make her like me. Perhaps I could not if I had; but I might at least have tried. I amsorry I troubled her so much. 

"Tell Melinda Jones, and James and John, that I remember all theirkindness, and thank them so much. And Eunice, too. She was good to me, always. And oh! Andy, please get word somehow to dear Aunt Barbara thather lost Ethie is well, and so sorry to give her pain, as I know I do. Iwould write to her myself, but I am afraid she blames me for going awayand bringing a kind of disgrace upon her and Aunt Van Buren. I cannotsay yet I am sorry for the step I took, and, until I am sorry I cannotwrite to Aunt Barbara. But you must tell her for me how much I love her, and how every night of my life I dream I am back in the dear old homeunder the maples, and see upon the hills the swelling buds and leaves ofspring. Tell her not to forget me, and be sure that wherever I am orwhatever may befall me, she will be remembered as the dearest, mostprecious memory of my life. Next to her Andy, you come; my darling Andy, who was always so kind to me when my heart was aching so hard. 

"Good-by, Andy, good-by. "

This was the letter which Andy read with streaming eyes, while aroundhim, on tiptoe, to look over his and each other's shoulders, stood theentire family, all anxious and eager to know what the runaway hadwritten. It was a very conciliatory letter, and it left a sadly pleasantimpression on those who read it, making even the mother wipe her eyeswith the corner of her apron as she washed her supper dishes in the sinkand whispered to herself, "She didn't trouble me so very much more thanI did her. I might have done different, too. "

Richard made no comment whatever, but, like Andy, he conned the letterover and over until he knew it by heart, especially the part referringto himself. She had cast a shadow upon his life, but she was very dearto him for all that, and he would gladly have taken back the substance, had that been possible. This letter Richard carried to Aunt Barbara, whom he found sitting in her pleasant porch, with the May moonlightfalling upon her face, and her eyes wearing the look of one who isconstantly expecting something which never comes. And Aunt Barbara wasexpecting Ethie. It could not be that a young girl like her would stayaway for long. She might return at any time, and every morning the goodwoman said to herself, "She will be here to-day;" every night, "She willcome home to-morrow. " The letter, however, did not warrant such aconclusion There was no talk of coming back, but the postmark, "NewYork, " told where she was, and that was something gained. They couldsurely find her now, Aunt Barbara said, and she and Richard talked longtogether about what he was going to do, for he was on his way then tothe great city. 

"Bring her to me at once. It is my privilege to have her first, " AuntBarbara said, next morning, as she bade Richard good-by, and then beganto watch and wait for tidings which never came. 

Richard could not find Ethelyn, or any trace of her, and after aprotracted search of six long weeks, he went back to his Iowa home, sick, worn out, and discouraged. Aunt Barbara roused herself for action. "Men were good for nothing to hunt. They could not find a thing if itwas right before their face and eyes. It took a woman; and she was goingto see what she could do, " she said to Mrs. Van Buren, who was up at thehomestead for a few days, and who looked aghast at her sister'sproposition, that she should accompany her, and help her hunt up Ethie. 

"Was Barbara crazy, that she thought of going to New York in this hotweather, when the smallpox, and the dysentery, and the plague, and mercyknew what was there? Besides that, how did Barbara intend to manage?What was she going to do?"

Barbara hardly knew herself how she should manage, or what she shoulddo. "Providence would direct, " she said, though to be sure she had anidea. Ethie had written that she had found employment, and what was moreprobable than to suppose that the employment was giving music lessons, for which she was well qualified, or teaching in some gentleman'sfamily. Taking this as her basis, Aunt Barbara intended to inquire forevery governess and teacher in the city, besides watching every housewhere such an appendage would be likely to be found. Still her greathope was in the street and the Park. She should surely meet Ethie theresome day--at least she would try the effect of her plan; and she wentquietly on with her preparations, while Mrs. Van Buren tried to dissuadeher from a scheme which seemed so foolish and utterly impracticable. 

"Suppose Ethie was a governess, the family most likely would be out oftown at that season; and what good would it do for Aunt Barbara to riskher life and health in the crowded city?"

This view of the matter was rather dampening to Aunt Barbara's zeal; buttrusting that Providence would interfere in her behalf, she stillinsisted that she should go, and again expressed a wish that Sophiawould go with her. "It would not be so lonesome, and would look better, too, " she said, "while you know more of city ways than I do, and wouldnot get imposed upon. "

Mrs. Van Buren could go far beyond her sister in abusing Richard, butwhen it came to a sacrifice of her own comfort and pleasure, she heldback. Nothing could induce her to go to New York. She preferred the coolseaside, where she was to join a party of Boston élite. Her dresses weremade, her room engaged, and she must go, she said, urging that Nettie'shealth required the change--Nettie, who had given to her husband asickly, puny child, which lived just long enough to warrant a grandfuneral, and then was laid to rest under the shadow of the Van Burenmonument, out in pleasant Mount Auburn. 

So Mrs. Van Buren went back to Boston, while Aunt Barbara gave allneedful directions to Betty with regard to the management of the house, and the garden, and plants, and cellar door, which must be shut nights, and the spot on the roof which sometimes leaked when it rained, and theburdocks and dandelions which must be dug up, and the grass which UncleBilly Thompson must cut once in two weeks, and the old cat, Tabby, andthe young cat, Jim, who had come to the door in a storm, and was now thepet of the house, and the canary bird, and the yeast, and look in thevinegar barrel to see that all was right, and be sure and scald themilk-pans, and turn them up in the sun for an hour, and keep the doorslocked, and the silver up in the scuttle-hole; and if she heard the ratwhich baffled and tormented them so long, get some poison and kill it, but not on any account let it get in the cistern; and keep thedoor-steps clean, and the stoop, and once in a while sweep the low roofat the back of the house, and not sit up late nights, or sleep very longin the morning; and inasmuch as there would be so little to do, shemight as well finish up all her new sewing, and make the pile of sheetsand pillow-cases which had been cut out since March. These were AuntBarbara's directions, which Betty, nothing appalled, promised to heed, telling her mistress not to worry an atom, as things should be attendedto, even better than if she were at home to see to them herself. 

Aunt Barbara knew she could trust old Betty, and so, after gettingherself vaccinated in both arms, as a precaution against the smallpox, and procuring various disinfecting agents, and having underpockets putin all her dresses, by way of eluding pickpockets, the good womanstarted one hot July morning on her mission in search of Ethie. But, alas, finding Ethie, or anyone, in New York, was like "hunting for aneedle in a hay mow, " as Aunt Barbara began to think after she had beenfor four weeks or more an inmate of an uptown boarding house, recommended as first-class, but terrible to Aunt Barbara, from thecontrast it presented to her own clean, roomy home beneath the mapletrees, which came up to her so vividly, with all its delicious coolnessand fragrance, and blossoming shrubs, and newly cut grass, with the dewsparkling like diamonds upon it. 

Aunt Barbara was terribly homesick from the first, but she would notgive up; so day after day she traversed one street after another, looking wistfully in every face she met for the one she sought, questioning children playing in the parks and squares as to whether theyknew any teacher by the name of Markham or Grant, ringing the door-bellsof every pretentious-looking house and putting the same question to theservants, until the bombazine dress and black Stella shawl, and brownNeapolitan hat, and old-fashioned lace veil, and large sun umbrellabecame pretty well known in various parts of New York, while the ownerthereof grew to be a suspicious character, whom servants watched fromthe basement and ladies from the parlor windows, and children shunned onthe sidewalk, while even the police were cautioned with regard to thestrange woman who went up and down day after day, sometimes in stages, sometimes in cars, but oftener on foot, staring at everyone she met, especially if they chanced to be young or pretty, and had any childrennear them. Once down near Washington Square, as she was hurrying towarda group of children, in the center of which stood a figure much likeEthie's, a tall man in the blue uniform accosted her, inquiring into herreasons for wandering about so constantly. 

Aunt Barbara's honest face, which she turned full toward the officer, was a sufficient voucher for her with the simple, straightforwardexplanation which she made to the effect that her niece had left homesome time ago--run away, in fact--and she was hunting for her here inNew York, where her letter was dated. "But it's wearisome work for anold woman like me, walking all over New York, as I have, " Aunt Barbarasaid, and her lip began to quiver as she sat down upon one of the seatsin the square, and looked helplessly up at the policeman. She was notafraid of him, nor of the five others of the craft who knew her bysight, and stopped to hear what she had to say. She never dreamed thatthey could suspect her of wrong, and they did not when they heard herstory, and saw the truthful, motherly face. Perhaps they could help her, they said, and they asked the name of the runaway. 

At first Aunt Barbara refused to give it, wishing to spare Ethie thisnotoriety; but she finally yielded so far as to say, "She might callherself either Markham or Grant, " and that was all they could get fromher; but after that day the bombazine dress, and black Stella shawl, andlarge sun umbrella were safe from the surveillance of the police, saveas each had a kindly care for the owner, and an interest in the objectof her search. 

The light-fingered gentry, however, were not as chary of her. The sweet, motherly face, and wistful, pleading, timid eyes, did not deter them inthe least. On the contrary, they saw in the bombazine and Stella shawl afine field for their operations; and twice, on returning to her boardinghouse, the good soul was horrified to find her purse was missing, notwithstanding that she had kept her hand upon her pocket everyinstant, except once, when the man who looked like a minister had kindlyopened the car window for her, and she had gathered up her dress to makemore room for him at her side, and once when she got entangled in acrowd, and had to hold on to her shawl to keep it on her shoulders. Tendollars was the entire sum purloined, so the villains did not make muchout of her, Aunt Barbara reflected with a good deal of complacency; butwhen they stole her gold-bowed glasses from her pocket, and adroitlysnatched from her hand the parcel containing the dress she had boughtfor Betty at Stewart's, she began to look upon herself as speciallymarked by a gang of thieves for one on whom to commit theirdepredations; and when at last a fire broke out in the very block whereshe was boarding, and she, with others was driven from her bed atmidnight, with her bombazine only half on, and her hoops left behind, she made up her mind that the fates were against her, and wrote to Bettythat she was coming home, following her letter in the next train so thatboth reached Chicopee the same day, the very last day of summer. 

It was sooner than Betty expected her, but the clean, cool house, peeping out from the dense shadows of the maples, looked like a paradiseto the tired, dusty woman, who rode down the street in the village hackand surprised Betty sitting in the back door cutting off corn to dry andtalking to Uncle Billy, whose scythe lay on the grass while he drankfrom the gourd swimming on top of the water-pail. 

Betty was glad to see her mistress, and lamented that she did not knowof her coming, so as to have a nice hot cup of tea ready, with adelicate morsel of something. Aunt Barbara was satisfied to be home onany terms, though her nose did go up a little, and something whichsounded like "P-shew!" dropped from her lips as she entered the darksitting room, where the odor was not the best in the world. 

"It's the rat, ma'am, I think, " Betty said, opening both blinds andwindows. "I put the pizen for him as you said, and all I could do hewould die in the wall. It ain't as bad as it has been, and I've got somestuff here to kill it, though I think it smells worse than the rathimself, " and Betty held her nose as she pointed out to her mistress thesaucer of chloride of lime which, at Mrs. Col. Markham's suggestion, shehad put in the sitting room. 

Aside from the rat in the wall, things were mostly as Aunt Barbara couldwish them to be. The vinegar had made beautifully. There was freshyeast, brewed the day before, in the jug. The milk-pans were bright andsweet; the cellar door was fastened; the garden was looking its best;the silver was all up the scuttle-hole, Betty climbing up and riskingher neck every morning to see if it were safe; the stoop and steps werescrubbed, the roof was swept, and both the cats, Tabby and Jim, were sofat that they could scarcely walk as they came up to greet theirmistress. Only two mishaps Betty had to relate. Jim had eaten up thecanary bird, and she had broken the kitchen tongs. She had also failedto accomplish as much sewing as she had hoped to do, and the pile ofwork was not greatly diminished. 

"There is so many steps to take when a body is alone, and with you goneI was more particular, " she said, by way of apology, as she confessed tothe rat, and the canary bird, and the kitchen tongs, and the smallamount of sewing she had done. 

These were all the points wherein she had been remiss, and Aunt Barbarawas content, and even happy, as she laid aside her Stella shawl andbrown Neapolitan, and out in her pleasant dining room sat down to thehasty meal which Betty improvised, of bread and butter, Dutch cheese, baked apples, and huckleberry pie, with a cup of delicious tea, such asAunt Barbara did not believe the people of New York had ever tasted. Most certainly those who were fortunate enough to board at first-classboarding-houses had not; and as she sipped her favorite beverage withTabby on her dress and the criminal Tim in her lap, his headoccasionally peering over the table, she felt comforted and rested, andthankful for her cozy home, albeit it lay like a heavy weight upon herthat her trouble had been for nothing, and no tidings of Ethie hadbeen obtained. 

She wrote to Richard the next day, of her unsuccessful search, and askedwhat they should do next. 

"We can do nothing but wait and hope, " Richard wrote in reply, but AuntBarbara added to it, "we can pray;" and so all through the autumn, whenthe soft, hazy days which Ethie had loved so well kept the lost oneforever in mind, Aunt Barbara waited and hoped, and prayed and watchedfor Ethie's coming home, feeling always a sensation of expectancy whenthe Western whistle sounded and the Western train went thunderingthrough the town; and when the hack came up from the depot and did notstop at her door, she said to herself, "She would walk up, maybe, " andthen waiting again she would watch from her window and look far up thequiet street, where the leaves of crimson and gold were lying upon thewalk. No Ethie was to be seen. Then as the days grew shorter and thenights fell earlier upon the Chicopee hills, and the bleak winds blewacross the meadow, and the waters of the river looked blue and dark andcold in the November light, she said: "She will be here sure byChristmas. She always liked that day best, " and her fingers were busywith the lamb's wool stockings she was knitting for her darling. 

"It won't be much, " she said to Betty, "but it will show she is notforgotten;" and so the stocking grew, and was shaped from a half-wornpair which Ethelyn used to wear, and on which Aunt Barbara's tearsdropped as she thought of the dear little feet, now wandered so faraway, which the stockings used to cover. 

Christmas came, and Susie Granger sang of Bethlehem in the old stonechurch, and other fingers than Ethie's swept the organ keys, and theChristmas tree was set up, and the presents were hung upon the boughs, and the names were called, and Aunt Barbara was there, but thelamb's-wool stockings were at home in the bureau drawer; there was noone to wear them, no one to take them from the tree, if they had beenput there; Ethie had not come. 

CHAPTER XXVII

AFFAIRS AT OLNEY

Richard could not stay in Camden, where everything reminded him so muchof Ethelyn, and at his mother's earnest solicitations he went back toOlney, taking with him all the better articles of furniture which Ethiehad herself selected, and which converted the plain farmhouse into quitea palace, as both Andy and his mother thought. The latter did not objectto them in the least, and was even conscious of a feeling of pride andsatisfaction when her neighbors came in to admire, and some of them toenvy her the handsome surroundings. Mrs. Dr. Van Buren's lesson, thougha very bitter one, was doing Richard good, especially as it was adroitlyfollowed up by Melinda Jones, who, on the strength of her now being hissister-elect, took the liberty of saying to him some pretty plain thingswith regard to his former intercourse with Ethie. 

James had finally nerved himself to the point of asking Melinda if shecould be happy with such a homespun fellow as himself, and Melinda hadanswered that she thought she could, hinting that it was possible forhim to overcome much which was homespun about him. 

"I do not expect you to leave off your heavy boots or your coarse frockwhen your work requires you to wear them, " she said, stealing her handinto his in a caressing kind of way; "but a man can be a gentleman inany dress. "

James promised to do his best, and with Melinda Jones for a teacher, hadno fear of his success. And so, some time in August, when the summerwork at the Jones' was nearly done, Melinda came to the farmhouse andwas duly installed as mistress of the chamber which James and John hadoccupied--the latter removing his Sunday clothes, and rifle, and fishinglines, and tobacco, and the slippers Ethie had given him, into Andy'sroom, which he shared with his brother. Mrs. Markham, senior, got onbetter with Melinda than she had with Ethelyn; Melinda knew exactly howto manage her, and, indeed, how to manage the entire household, fromRichard down to Andy, who, though extremely kind and attentive to her, never loved her as he did Ethelyn. 

"She was a nice, good girl, " he said, "but couldn't hold a candle toEthie. She was too dark complected, and had altogether too thumpin' feetand ankles, besides wearin' wrinkly stockings. "

That was Andy's criticism, confided to his brother John, around whosegrave mouth there was a faint glimmer of a smile, as he gave a hitch tohis suspender and replied, "I guess her stockin's do wrinkle some. "

A few of Melinda's ways Mrs. Markham designated as high-flown, but oneby one her prejudices gave way as Melinda gained upon her step by step, until at last Ethelyn would hardly have recognized the well-orderedhousehold, so different from what she had known it. 

"The boys" no longer came to the table in their shirt-sleeves, forMelinda always had their coats in sight, just where it was handy to putthem on, and the trousers were slipped down over the boots while theboys ate, and the soft brown Markham hair always looked smooth andshining, and Mrs. Markham tidied herself a little before coming to thetable, no matter how heavy her work, and never but once was she guiltyof sitting down to her dinner in her pasteboard sun-bonnet, giving as anexcuse that her "hair was at sixes and sevens. " She remembered seeingher mother do this fifty years before, and she had clung to the habit asone which must be right because they used to do so in Vermont. Gradually, too, there came to be napkins for tea, and James' Christmaspresent to his wife was a set of silver forks, while John contributed adozen individual salts, and Andy bought a silver bell, to call he didnot know whom, only it looked pretty on the table, and he wanted itthere every meal, ringing it himself sometimes when anything was needed, and himself answering the call. On the whole, the Markhams were gettingto be "dreadfully stuck up, " Eunice Plympton's mother said, while Eunicedoubted if she should like living there now as well as in the days ofEthelyn. She had been a born lady, and Eunice conceded everything toher; but, "to see the airs that Melinda Jones put on" was a little toomuch for Eunice's democratic blood, and she and her mother made manyinvidious remarks concerning "Mrs. Jim Markham, " who wore such heavysilk to church, and sported such handsome furs. One hundred and fiftydollars the cape alone had cost, it was rumored, and when, to thisRichard added a dark, rich muff to match, others than Eunice lookedenviously at Mrs. James, who to all intents and purposes, was the samefrank, outspoken person that she was when she wore a plain scarf aroundher neck, and rode to church in her father's lumber wagon instead of thehandsome turn-out James had bought since his marriage. Nothing couldspoil Melinda, and though she became quite the fashion in Olney, and wasfrequently invited to Camden to meet the élite of the town, she was upjust as early on Monday mornings as when she lived at home, and heryoung, strong arms saved Mrs. Markham more work than Eunice's had done. She would not dip candles, she said, nor burn them, either, except as amatter of convenience to carry around the house; and so the tallows gaveway to kerosene, and as Melinda liked a great deal of light, the housewas sometimes illuminated so brilliantly that poor Mrs. Markham hadeither to shade her eyes with her hands, or turn her back to the lamp. She never thought of opposing Melinda; that would have done no good; andshe succumbed with the rest to the will which was ruling them soeffectually and so well. 

Some very plain talks Melinda had with Richard with regard to Ethelyn;and Richard, when he saw how anxious James was to please his wife, evenin little things which he had once thought of no consequence, regrettedso much that his own course had not been different with Ethelyn. "Poor, dear Ethie, " he called her to himself, as he sat alone at night in theroom where she used to be. At first he had freely talked of her with hisfamily. That was when, like Aunt Barbara, they were expecting her back, or rather expecting constantly to hear from her through Aunt Barbara. She would go to Chicopee first, they felt assured, and then Aunt Barbarawould write, and Richard would start at once. How many castles he builtto that second bringing her home, where Melinda made everything sopleasant, and where she could be happy for a little time, when theywould go where she liked--it did not matter where. Richard was willingfor anything, only he did want her to stay a little time at thefarmhouse, just to see how they had improved, and to learn that hismother could be kind if she tried. She meant to be so if Ethelyn evercame back, for she had said as much to him on the receipt of Ethie'smessage, sent in Andy's letter, and her tears had fallen fast as sheconfessed to not always having felt or acted right toward the younggirl. With Melinda the ruling spirit they would have made it verypleasant for Ethelyn, and they waited for her so anxiously all throughthe autumnal days till early winter snow covered the prairies, and thefrost was on the window panes, and the wind howled dismally past thedoor, just as it did one year ago, when Ethelyn went away. But, alas noEthie came, or tidings of her either, and Richard ceased to speak of herat last, and his face wore so sad a look whenever she was mentioned thatthe family stopped talking of her; or, if they spoke her name, it was asthey spoke of Daisy, or of one that was dead. 

For a time Richard kept up a correspondence with Aunt Barbara; but that, too, gradually ceased, and as his uncle, the old colonel, died in thespring, and the widow went to her friends in Philadelphia, he seemed tobe cut off from any connections with Chicopee, and but for the sad, harassing memory of what had been, he was to all intents and purposesthe same grave, silent bachelor as of yore, following the bent of hisown inclinations, coming and going as he liked, sought after by thosewho wished for an honest man to transact their business, and growinggradually more and more popular with the people of his own and theadjoining counties. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE GOVERNOR

They were to elect a new one in Iowa, and there were rumors afloat thatRichard Markham would be the man chosen by his party. There had beensimilar rumors once before, but Mrs. Markham had regarded them asmythical, never dreaming that such an honor could be in store for herboy. Now, however, matters began to look a little serious. Crowds of mencame frequently to the farmhouse and were closeted with Richard. TimJones rode up and down the country, electioneering for "Dick. " HalClifford, in Camden, contributed his influence, though he belonged tothe other party. Others, too, of Harry's way of thinking, cast asidepolitical differences and "went in, " as they said, for the best man--onewhom they knew to be honest and upright, like Judge Markham. Each intheir own way--James and John, and Andy and Melinda--worked for Richard, who was frequently absent from home for several days, sometimes takingthe stump himself, but oftener remaining quiet while others presentedhis cause. Search as they might, his opponents could find nothingagainst him, except that sad affair with his wife, who, one paper said, "had been put out of the way when she became troublesome, " hinting atevery possible atrocity on the husband's part, and dilating mostpathetically upon the injured, innocent, and beautiful young wife. Thenwith a face as pale as ashes, Richard made his "great speech" in Camdencourt-house, asking that the whole matter be dropped at once, and sayingthat he would far rather live a life of obloquy than have the name, moredear to him than the names of our loved dead, bandied about from lip tolip and made the subject for newspaper paragraphs. They knew Richard inCamden, and they knew Ethelyn, too, liking both so well, that the resultof that speech was to increase Richard's popularity tenfold, and tocarry in his favor the entire town. 

The day of election was a most exciting one, especially in Olney, whereRichard had lived from boyhood. It was something for a little town likethis to furnish the governor, the Olneyites thought, and though, forparty's sake, there were some opponents, the majority went for Richard, and Tim Jones showed his zeal by drinking with so many that at night hestopped at the farmhouse, insisting that he had reached home, and shouldstay there, "for all of Melind, " and hurrahing so loud for"Richud--Mark-um--Square, " that he woke up the little blue-eyed boywhich for six weeks had been the pride and pet and darling of thehousehold. 

Andy's tactics were different. He had voted in the morning, and prayedthe rest of the day, that if it were right, "old Dick might lick thewhole of 'em, " adding the petition that "he need not be stuck up if hewas governor, " and that Ethie might come back to share his greatness. Others than Andy were thinking of Ethelyn that day, for not the faintestecho of a huzza reached Richard's ears that did not bring with itregretful thoughts of her. And when at last success was certain, and, flushed with triumph, he stood receiving the congratulations of hisfriends, and the Olney bell was ringing in honor of the new governor, and bonfires were lighted in the streets, the same little boys who hadscreamed themselves hoarse for the other candidates, stealing barrelsand dry-goods boxes to feed the flames with quite as much alacrity astheir opponents, there was not a throb of his heart which did not go outafter the lost one, with a yearning desire to bring her back, and, bygiving her the highest position in the State, atone in part for allwhich had been wrong. But Ethie was very, very far away--further than hedreamed--and strain ear and eye as she might, she could not see thelurid blaze which lit up the prairie till the tall grass grew red inthe ruddy glow, or hear the deafening shouts which rent the sky for thenew Governor Markham, elected by an overwhelming majority. Oh, howlonely Richard felt even in the first moments of his success! And how helonged to get away from all the noise and din which greeted him at everystep, and be alone again, as since Ethie went away he had chosen to beso much of his time. Melinda guessed at his feelings in part, and whenhe came home at last, looking so pale and tired, she pitied him, andshowed her pity by letting him alone; and when supper was ready, sendinghis tea to his room, whither he had gone as soon as his mother hadunwound her arms from his neck, and told him how glad she was. 

These were also days of triumph for Melinda, for it was soon known thatshe was to be the lady of the governor's mansion, and the knowledge gaveher a fresh accession of dignity among her friends. It was human thatMelinda should feel her good fortune a little, and perhaps she did. Andythought so, and prayed silently against the pomps and vanities of theworld, especially after her new purple silk was sent home, with thehandsome velvet cloak and crimson morning gown. These had been made inCamden, a thing which gave mortal offense to Miss Henry, the Olneydressmaker, who wondered "what Melinda Jones was that she should put onsuch airs, and try to imitate Mrs. Richard Markham. " They had expectedsuch things from Ethelyn, and thought it perfectly right. She was bornto it, they said; but for Melinda, whom all remembered as wearing a redwoolen gown when a little girl, "for her to set up so steep was anothermatter. " But when Melinda ordered a blue merino, and a flannel wrapper, and a blue silk, and a white cloak for baby, made at Miss Henry's, andtold that functionary just how her purple was trimmed, and even offeredto show it to her, the lady changed her mind, and quoted "Mrs. JamesMarkham's" wardrobe for months afterward. 

Richard, and James, and Melinda, and baby, and Eunice Plympton as baby'snurse, all went to Des Moines, and left the house so lonely that Andylay flat upon the floor and cried, and his mother's face wore the lookof one who had just returned from burying their dead. It was something, however, to be the mother and brother of a governor, and a comfort toget letters from the absent ones, to hear of Richard's immensepopularity, and the very graceful manner in which Melinda discharged herduties. But to see their names in print, to find something aboutGovernor Markham in almost every paper--that was best of all, and Andyspent half his time in cutting out and saving every little scrappertaining to the "governor's family, " and what they did at Des Moines. Andy was laid up with rheumatism toward spring; but Tim Jones used tobring him the papers, rolling his quid of tobacco rapidly from side toside as he pointed to the paragraphs so interesting to both. Tim hardlyknew whether himself, or Richard, or Melinda, was the governor. On thewhole, he gave the preference to "Melind, " after the governor's levee, at which she had appeared in "royal purple, with ostrich feathers in herhair, " and was described in the Camden _Leader_ as the "elegant andaccomplished Mrs. James Markham, who had received the guests with somuch dignity and grace. "

"Ain't Melind a brick? and only to think how she used to milk the cows, and I once chased her with a garter snake, " Tim said, reading thearticle aloud to Andy, who, while assenting that she was a brick, andaccording all due credit to her for what she was, and what she did, never for a moment forgot Ethelyn. 

She would have done so much better, and looked so much neater, especially her shoes! Andy could not quite forgive Melinda's big feetand ankles, especially as his contempt for such appendages wasconstantly kept in mind by the sight of the little half-worn slipperswhich Ethie had left in her closet when she moved to Camden, and which, now that she was gone, he kept as something almost as sacred as Daisy'shair, admiring the dainty rosettes and small high heels more than headmired the whole of Melinda's wardrobe when spread upon the bed, andtables, and chairs, preparatory to packing it for Des Moines. Richard, too, remembered Ethelyn, and never did Melinda stand at his side in anygay saloon that he did not see in her place a brown-eyed, brown-hairedwoman who would have moved a very queen among the people. Ethelyn wasnever forgotten, whether in the capitol, or the street, or at home, orawake, or asleep. Ethie's face and Ethie's form were everywhere, and ifearnest, longing thoughts could have availed to bring her back, shewould have come, whether across the rolling sea, or afar from thetrackless desert. But they could not reach her, Ethie did not come, andthe term of Richard's governorship glided away, and he declined are-election, and went back to Olney, looking ten years older than whenhe left it, with an habitual expression of sadness on his face, whicheven strangers noticed, wondering what was the heart trouble which wasaging him so fast, and turning his brown hair gray. 

For a time the stillness and quiet of Olney were very acceptable to him, and then he began to long for more excitement--something to divert hismind from the harrowing fear, daily growing more and more certain, thatEthie would never come back. It was four years since she went away, andnothing had been heard from her since the letter sent to Andy from NewYork. "Dead, " he said to himself many a time, and but for the dread ofthe hereafter, he, too, would gladly have lain down in the graveyardwhere Daisy was sleeping so quietly. With Andy it was different. Ethiewas not dead--he knew she was not--and some time she would surely comeback, There was comfort in Andy's strong assurance, and Richard alwaysfelt better after a talk with his hopeful brother. Perhaps she wouldcome back, and if so he must have a place worthy of her, he said, oneday, to Melinda, who seized the opportunity to unfold a plan she hadlong been cogitating. During the two years spent in Des Moines, Jameshad devoted himself to the study of law, preferring it to his farming, and now he was looking out for a good locality where to settle andpractice his profession. 

"Let's go together somewhere and build a house, " Melinda said. "You knowEthie's taste. You can fashion it as you think she would like it, andmeantime we will live with you and see to you a little. You need somelooking after, " and Melinda laid her hand half pityingly upon the bowedhead of her brother-in-law, who, but for her strong, upholdinginfluence, and Andy's cheering faith, would have sunk ere this intohopeless despondency. 

Melinda was a fine specimen of true womanhood. She had met many highlycultivated people at Des Moines and other towns, where, as thegovernor's sister-in-law, she had spent more or less of the last twoyears, and as nothing ever escaped her notice, she had improvedwonderfully, until even Mrs. Van Buren, of Boston, would have been proudof her acquaintance. She had known sorrow, too; for in the cemetery atDes Moines she had left her little blue-eyed baby boy when only sixmonths old, and her mother's heart had ached to its very core, untilthere came another child, a little girl, this time, whom they hadchristened "Ethelyn Grant, " and who, on this account, was quite as dearto Richard as to either of its parents. Richard was happier with thatlittle brown-haired girl than with anyone else, and when Melindasuggested they should go together somewhere, he assented readily, mentioning Davenport as a place where Ethelyn had many times said shewould like to live. Now, as ever, Melinda's was the active, rulingvoice, and almost before Richard knew it, he was in Davenport andbargaining for a vacant lot which overlooked the river and much of thecountry beyond. Davenport suited them all, and by September, Melinda, who had spent the summer with her mother, was located at a hotel andmaking herself very useful to Richard with her suggestions with regardto the palatial mansion he was building. 

There was nothing in Davenport like the "governor's house, " and thepeople watched it curiously as it went rapidly up. There was a suite ofrooms which they called Ethelyn's, and to the arrangement and adorningof these Richard gave his whole attention, sparing nothing which couldmake them beautiful and attractive, and lavishing so much expense uponthem that strangers came to inspect and comment upon them, wondering whyhe took so much pains, and guessing, as people will, that he wascontemplating a second marriage as soon as a divorce could be obtainedfrom his runaway wife. 

The house was finished at last, and Richard took possession, installingMelinda as housekeeper, and feeling how happy he should be if only Ethiewere there. Somehow he expected her now. Andy's prayers would certainlybe answered even if his own were not, for he, too, had begun to pray, feeling, at times, that God was slow to hear, as weeks and weeks went byand still Ethie did not come. "Hope deferred maketh the heart sick, " andthe weary waiting told upon his bodily health, which began to fail sorapidly that people said "Governor Markham was going into a decline, "and the physicians urged a change of air, and Mr. Townsend, who came inMay for a day at Davenport, recommended him strongly to try what CliftonSprings, in Western New York, could do for him--the Clifton, whosehealing waters and wonderful power to cure were famed from the shores ofthe Atlantic to the Californian hills. 

CHAPTER XXIX

AFTER YEARS OF WAITING

The weather in Chicopee that spring was as capricious as the smiles ofthe most spoiled coquette could ever be. The first days of April werewarm, and balmy, and placid, without a cloud upon the sky or a token ofstorm in the air. The crocuses and daffodils showed their heads in thelittle borders by Aunt Barbara's door, and Uncle Billy Thompson sowedthe good woman a bed of lettuce, and peas, and onions, which came upapace, and were the envy of the neighbors. Taking advantage of thewarmth and the sunshine, and Uncle Billy's being there to whip hercarpets, Aunt Barbara even began her house cleaning, commencing at thechambers first--the rooms which since the last "reign of terror, " hadonly been used when a clergyman spent Sunday there, and when Mrs. Dr. Van Buren was up for a few days from Boston, with Nettie and the newgirl baby, which, like Melinda's, bore the name of Ethelyn. Still theymust be renovated, and cleaned, and scrubbed, lest some luckless mothwere hiding there, or some fly-speck perchance had fallen upon theglossy paint. Aunt Barbara was not an untidy house-cleaner--one whotosses the whole house into chaos, and simultaneous with the china fromthe closet, brings up a basket of bottles from the cellar to be washedand rinsed. She took one room at a time, settling as she went along, sothat her house never was in that state of dire confusion which so manyhouses present every fall and spring. Her house was not hard to clean, and the chambers were soon done, except Ethie's own room, where AuntBarbara lingered longest, turning the pretty ingrain carpet thebrightest side up, rubbing the furniture with polish, putting a bit ofpaint upon the window sills where it was getting worn, and oncerevolving the propriety of hanging new paper upon the wall. But that, she reasoned, would be needless expense. Since the night Richard spentthere, five years ago, no one had slept there, and no one should sleepthere, either, till Ethie came back again. 

"Till Ethie comes again. " Aunt Barbara rarely said that now, for witheach fleeting year the chance for Ethie's coming grew less and less, until now she seldom spoke of it to Betty, the only person to whom sheever talked of Ethie. Even with her she was usually very reticent, unless something brought the wanderer to mind more vividly than usual. Cleaning her room was such an occasion, and sitting down upon the floor, while she darned a hole in the carpet which the turning had brought toview, Aunt Barbara spoke of her darling, and the time when, a littletoddling thing of two years old, she first came to the homestead, andwas laid in that very room, and "on that very pillow, " Aunt Barbarasaid, seeing again the round hollow left by the little brown head whenthe child awoke and stretched its fat arms toward her. 

"Julia, her mother, died in that bed, " Aunt Barbara went on, "and Ethiealways slept there after that. Well put on the sheets marked with hername, Betty, and the ruffled pillow-cases. I want it to seem as if shewere here, " and Aunt Barbara's chin quivered, and her eyes grew moist, as her fat, creasy hands smoothed and patted the plump pillows, andtucked in the white spread, and picked up a feather, and moved a chair, and shut the blinds, and dropped the curtains, and then she went softlyout and shut the door behind her. 

Two weeks from that day, the soft, bland air was full of sleet, andsnow, and rain, which beat down the poor daffies on the borders, andpelted the onions, and lettuce, and peas which Uncle Billy had planted, and dashed against the closed windows of Ethie's room, and came in underthe door of the kitchen, and through the bit of leaky roof in the diningroom, while the heavy northeaster which swept over the Chicopee hillsscreamed fiercely at Betty peering curiously out to see if it was goingto be any kind of drying for the clothes she had put out early in theday, and then, as if bent on a mischievous frolic took from the line andcarried far down the street, Aunt Barbara's short night-gown with thepatch upon the sleeve. On the whole it was a bleak, raw, stormy day, andwhen the night shut down, the snow lay several inches deep upon thehalf-frozen ground, making the walking execrable, and giving to thewhole village that dirty, comfortless appearance which a storm in Aprilalways does. It was pleasant, though, in Aunt Barbara's sitting room. Itwas always pleasant there, and it seemed doubly so to-night from thecontrast presented to the world without by the white-washed ceiling, thenewly whipped carpet, the clean, white curtains, and the fire blazing onthe hearth, where two huge red apples were roasting. This was a favoritecustom of Aunt Barbara's, roasting apples in the evening. She used to doit when Ethie was at home, for Ethie enjoyed it quite as much as shedid, and when the red cheeks burst, and the white frothy pulp cameoozing out, she used, as a little girl, to clap her hands and cry, "Theapples begin to bleed, auntie! the apples begin to bleed!"

Aunt Barbara never roasted them now that she did not remember herdarling, and many times she put one down for Ethie, feeing that the"make believe" was better than nothing at all. There was one forto-night, and Aunt Barbara sat watching it as it simmered and sputtered, and finally burst with the heat, "bleeding, " just as her heart wasbleeding for the runaway whose feet had wandered so long. It was afternine, and Betty had gone to bed, so that Aunt Barbara was there alone, with the big Bible in her lap. She had been reading the parable of theProdigal, and though she would not liken Ethie to him, she sighedsoftly, "If she would only come, we would kill the fatted calf. " Then, thoughtfully, she turned the leaves of the Good Book one by one, tillshe found the "Births, " and read in a low whisper, "Ethelyn Adelaide, Born, " and so forth. Then her eye moved on to where the marriage ofEthelyn Adelaide with Richard Markham, of Iowa, had been recorded; andthen she turned to the last of "Deaths, " wondering if, unseen by her, Ethie's name had been added to the list. The last name visible to mortaleye was that of Julia, wife of William Grant, who had died at the age oftwenty-five. 

"Just as old as Ethie is, if living, " Aunt Barbara whispered, and thetears which blotted the name of Julia Grant were given to Ethie ratherthan the young half-sister who had been so much of a stranger. 

Suddenly, as Aunt Barbara sat there, with her Bible in her lap, therewas heard the distant rumbling of the New York express, as it camerolling across the plains from West Chicopee. Then as the roar becamemore muffled as it moved under the hill, a shrill whistle echoed on thenight air, and half the people of Chicopee who were awake said to eachother, "The train is stopping. Somebody has come from New York. " It wasnot often that the New York express stopped at Chicopee, and when itdid, it was made a matter of comment. To-night, however, it was toodark, and stormy, and late for anyone to see who had come; and guessingit was some of the Lewises, who now lived in Col. Markham's old house, the people, one by one, went to their beds, until nearly every light inChicopee was extinguished save the one shining out into the darknessfrom the room where Aunt Barbara sat, with thoughts of Ethie in herheart. And up the steep hill, from the station, through the snow, agirlish figure toiled--the white, thin face looking wistfully down themaple-lined street when the corner by the common was turned, and thepallid lips whispering softly, "I wonder if she will know me?"

There were flecks of snow upon the face and on the smooth brown hair andtravel-soiled dress; clogs of snow, too, upon the tired feet--the littlefeet Andy had admired so much; but the traveler kept on bravely, tillthe friendly light shone out beneath the maples, and then she paused, and leaning for a moment against the fence, sobbed aloud, but not sadlyor bitterly. She was too near home for that--too near the darling AuntBarbara, who did not hear gate or door unclose, or the step in the darkhall. But when the knob of the sitting room door moved, she heard it, and, without turning her head, called out, "What is it, Betty? I thoughtyou in bed an hour ago. "

The supposed Betty did not reply, but stood a brief instant taking inevery feature in the room, from the two apples roasting on the hearth tothe little woman sitting with her fingers on the page where possiblyEthie's death ought to be recorded. Aunt Barbara was waiting for Bettyto answer, and she turned her head at last, just as a low, rapid stepglided across the floor, and a voice, which thrilled every vain, firstwith a sudden fear, and then with a joy unspeakable, said, "AuntBarbara, it's I. It's Ethie, come back to you again. Is shewelcome here?"

Was she welcome? Answer, the low cry, and gasping sob, and outstretchedarms, which held the wanderer in so loving an embrace, while a rain oftears fell upon the dear head from which the bonnet had fallen back asEthelyn sank upon her knees before Aunt Barbara. Neither could talk muchfor a few moments. Certainly not Aunt Barbara, who sat bewildered andstupefied while Ethelyn, more composed, removed her hat, and cloak, andovershoes, and shook out the folds of her damp dress; and then drawing alittle covered stool to Aunt Barbara's side, sat down upon it, andleaning her elbows on Aunt Barbara's lap, looked up in her face, withthe old, mischievous, winning smile, and said, "Auntie, have youforgiven your Ethie for running away?"

Then it began to seem real again--began to seem as if the last six yearswere blotted out, and things restored to what they were when Ethie waswont to sit at her aunt's feet as she was sitting now. There was thisdifference, however; the bright, round, rosy face, which used to look soflushed, and eager, and radiant, and assured, was changed, and the oneconfronting Aunt Barbara now was pale, and thin, and worn, and therewere lines across the brow, and the eyes were heavy and tired, and alittle uncertain and anxious in their expression as they scanned thesweet old face above them. Aunt Barbara saw it all, and this, if nothingelse, would have brought entire pardon even had she been inclined towithhold it, which she was not. Ethie was back again, and that wasenough for her. She would not chide or blame her ever so little, and herwarm, loving hands took the thin white face and held it while she kissedthe parted lips, the blue-veined forehead, and the hollow cheeks, whispering: "My own darling. I am so glad to have you back. I have beenso sad without you, and mourned for you so much, fearing you were dead. Where has my darling been that none of us could find you?"

"Did you hunt, Aunt Barbara? Did you really hunt for me?"

And something of Ethie's old self leaped into her eyes and flushed intoher cheeks as she asked the question. 

"Yes, darling. All the spring and all the summer long, and on into thefall, and then I gave it up. "

"Were you alone, auntie? That is, did nobody help you hunt?" wasEthelyn's next query; and Richard would have read much hope for him inthe eagerness of the eyes, which waited for Aunt Barbara's answer, andwhich dropped so shyly upon the carpet when Aunt Barbara said, "Alone, child? No; he did all he could--Richard did--but we could get no clew. "

Ethelyn could not tell her story until she had been made easy on severalimportant points, and smoothing the folds of Aunt Barbara's dress, andstill looking beseechingly into her face, she said, "and Richardhunted, too. Was he sorry, auntie? Did he care because I went away?"

"Care? Of course he did. It almost broke his heart, and wasted him to askeleton. You did wrong, Ethie, to go and stay so long. Richard did notdeserve it. "

It was the first word of censure Aunt Barbara had uttered, and Ethelynfelt it keenly, as was evinced by her quivering lip and trembling voice, as she said: "Don't auntie, don't you scold me, please. I can bear itbetter from anyone else. I want you to stand by me. I know I was hastyand did very wrong. I've said so a thousand times; but I was so unhappyand wretched at first, and at the last he made me so angry with hisunjust accusations. "

"Yes; he told me all, and showed me the letter you left. I know thewhole, " Aunt Barbara said, while Ethelyn continued:

"Where is he now? How long since you heard from him?"

"It is two years or more. He wrote the last letter. I'm a badcorrespondent, you know, and as I had no good news to write, I did notthink it worth while to bother him. I don't know where he is since hequit being governor. "

There was a sudden lifting of Ethie's head, a quick arching of hereyebrows, which told that the governor part was news to her. Then sheasked, quietly, "Has he been governor?"

"Yes, Governor of Iowa; and James' wife lived with him. She was MelindaJones. "

"Yes, yes, " and Ethie's foot beat the carpet thoughtfully, while hereyes were cast-down, and the great tears gathered slowly in thelong-fringed lids, then they fell in perfect showers, and laying herhead in Aunt Barbara's lap she sobbed piteously. 

Perhaps she was thinking of all she had thrown away, and weeping thatanother had taken the post she would have been so proud to fill. AuntBarbara did not know, and she kept smoothing the bowed head until it waslifted up again, and the tears were dried in Ethie's eyes, where therewas not the same hopeful expression there had been at first when sheheard of Richard's hunting for her. Some doubt or fear had crossed hermind, and her hands were folded together in a hopeless kind of way as, at Aunt Barbara's urgent request, she began the story of her wanderings. 

CHAPTER XXX

ETHIE'S STORY

"You say you read my letter, auntie; and if you did, you know nearly allthat made me go away. I do not remember now just what was in it, but Iknow it was very concise, and plain, and literal; for I was angry when Iwrote it, and would not spare Richard a bit. But, oh! I had been sotired and so wretched. You can't guess half how wretched I was at thefarmhouse first, where they were all so different, and where one of thegreatest terrors was lest I should get used to it and so be more likethem. I mean Richard's mother, auntie. I liked the others--they werekind and good; especially Andy. Oh, Andy! dear old Andy! I have thoughtof him so much during the last five years, and bad as I am I have prayedevery night that he would not forget me. 

"Aunt Barbara, I did not love Richard, and that was my great mistake. Iought not to have married him, but I was so sore and unhappy then thatany change was a relief. I do not see now how I ever could have lovedFrank; but I did, or thought I did, and was constantly contrastingRichard with him and making myself more miserable. If I had lovedRichard things would have been so much easier to bear. I was beginningto love him, and life was so much pleasanter, when he got so angry aboutFrank and charged me with those dreadful things, driving me frantic andmaking me feel as if I hated him and could do much to worry him. Don'tlook so shocked. I know how wicked it was, and sometimes I fear Godnever can forgive me; but I did not think of him then. I forgoteverything but myself and my trouble, and so I went away, going first to----, so as to mislead Richard, and then turning straight back toNew York. 

"Do you remember Abby Jackson, who was at school in Boston, and who oncespent a week with me here? She married, and lives in New York, andbelieves in women's rights and wears the Bloomer dress. She would takemy part, I said, and I went at once to her house and told her all I haddone, and asked if I could stay until I found employment. Aunt Barbara, this is a queer world, and there are queer people in it. I thought I wassure of Abby, she used to protest so strongly against the tyranny ofmen, and say she should like nothing better than protecting females whowere asserting their own rights. I was asserting mine, and I went to herfor sympathy. She was glad to see me at first, and petted and fondled mejust as she used to do at school. She was five years older than I, andso I looked up to her. But when I told my story her manner changed, andit really seemed as if she looked upon me as a suspicious person who haddone something terrible. She advocated women's rights as strongly asever, but could not advise me to continue in my present course. It wouldbring odium upon me, sure. A woman separated from her husband was alwayspointed at, no matter what cause she had for the separation. It was allwrong, she urged, that public opinion should be thus, and ere long shetrusted there would be a change. Till then I would do well to return toIowa and make it up with Richard. That was what she said, and it made mevery angry, so that I was resolved to leave her the next day; but I wassick in the morning, and sick some weeks following, so that I could notleave her house. 

"She nursed me carefully and tried to be kind, but I could see that mybeing there was a great annoyance to her. Her husband had an aunt--arich, eccentric old lady--who came sometimes to see me, and seemedinterested in me. Forgive me, auntie, if it was wrong. I dropped thename of Markham and took yours, asking Abby to call me simply MissBigelow to her friends. Her husband knew my real name, but to all othersI was Adelaide Bigelow. Old Mrs. Plum did not know I was married, forAbby was as anxious to keep the secret as I was myself. She was goingabroad, the rich aunt, and being a nervous invalid, she wanted someyoung, handy person as traveling companion. So when I was better Abbyasked if I was still resolved not to go home, and on learning that Iwas, she spoke of Mrs. Plum, and asked if I would go. I caught at iteagerly, and in May I was sailing over the sea to France. I wrote a fewlines to Andy before I went, and I wanted to write to you, but I fanciedyou must be vexed and mortified, and I would not trouble you. 

"Mrs. Plum was very nervous, and capricious, and exacting, and my lifewith her was not altogether an easy one. At first, before we wereaccustomed to each other, it was terrible. I suppose I have a hightemper. She thought so, and yet she could not do without me, for she waslame in her arms, and unable to help herself readily; besides that, Ispoke the French language well enough to make myself understood, and sowas necessary to her. There were many excellent traits of characterabout her, and after a time I liked her very much, while she seemed tothink of me as a willful but rather 'nicish' kind of a daughter. Shetook me everywhere, even into Russia and Palestine; but the last twoyears of our stay abroad were spent in Southern France, where the dayswere one long bright summer dream, and I should have been so happy ifthe past had been forgotten. "

"And did you hear nothing from us in all that time?" Aunt Barbara asked, and Ethelyn replied: "Nothing from Richard, no; and nothing direct fromyou. I requested as a favor that Mrs. Plum should order the Boston_Traveller_ and Springfield _Republican_ to be sent to her address inParis, which we made our headquarters. I knew you took both thesepapers, and if anything happened to you, it would appear in theircolumns. I saw the death of Col. Markham, and after that I used to growso faint and cold, for fear I might find yours. I came across a New Yorkpaper, too, and saw that Aunt Van Buren had arrived at the Fifth AvenueHotel, knowing then that she was just as gay as ever. Richard's name Inever saw; neither did Abby know anything about him.. I called at herhouse yesterday. She has seven children now--five born since I wentaway--and her women's rights have given place to theories with regard tosoothing syrups and baby-jumpers, and the best means of keeping onechild quiet while she dresses the other. Mrs. Plum died six weeksago--died in Paris; and, auntie, I was kind to her in her last sickness, bearing everything, and finding my reward in her deep gratitude, expressed not only in words, but in a most tangible form. She made herwill, and left me ten thousand dollars. So you see I am not poor nordependent. I told her my story, too--told her the whole as it was; andshe made me promise to come back, to you at least, if not to Richard. Going to him would depend upon whether he wanted me, I said. Do youthink he has forgotten me?"

Again the eager, anxious expression crept into Ethie's eyes, which grewvery soft, and even dewy, as Aunt Barbara replied, "Forgotten you? No. Inever saw a man feel as he did when he first came here, and Sophiatalked to him so, as he sat there in that very willow chair. "

Involuntarily Ethie's hand rested itself on the chair where Richard hadsat, and Ethie's face crimsoned where Aunt Barbara asked:

"Do you love Richard now?"

"I cannot tell. I only know that I have dreamed of him so many, manytimes, and thought it would be such perfect rest to put my tired head inhis lap, as I never did put it. When I was on the ocean, coming home, there was a fearful storm, and I prayed so earnestly to live till Icould hear him say that he forgave me for all the trouble I have causedhim. I might not love him if I were to see him again just as he used tobe. Sometimes I think I should not, but I would try. Write to him, auntie, please, and tell him I am here, but nothing more. Don't say Iwant to see him, or that I am changed from the willful, high-temperedEthie who made him so unhappy, for perhaps I am not. "

A while then they talked of Aunt Van Buren, and Frank, and Nettie, andSusie Granger, who was married to a missionary and gone to heathenlands; and the clock was striking one before Aunt Barbara lighted herdarling up to the old room, and kissing her good-night, went back toweep glad tears of joy in the rocking-chair by the hearth, and to thankher Heavenly Father for sending home her long lost Ethelyn. 

CHAPTER XXXI

MRS. DR. VAN BUREN

She was always tossing up just when she was not wanted, Ethie used tosay in the olden days, when she saw the great lady alighting at the gatein time to interfere with and spoil some favorite project arranged forthe day, and she certainly felt it, if she did not say it, when, on themorning following her arrival in Chicopee she heard Betty exclaim, "Ifthere ain't Miss Van Buren! I wonder what sent her here!"

Ethie wondered so, too, and drawing the blanket closer around hershoulders (for she had taken advantage of her fatigue and languor to lievery late in bed) she wished her aunt had stayed in Boston, for a littletime at least. 

It had been very delightful, waking up in the dear old room and seeingBetty's kind face bending over her--Betty, who had heard of her youngmistress' return with a gush of glad tears, and then at once bethoughtherself as to what there was nice for the wanderer to eat. Just as sheused to do when Ethie was a young lady at home, Betty had carried herpan of coals and kindlings into the chamber where Ethie was lying, andkneeling on the hearth had made the cheerfulest of fires, while Ethie, with half-closed eyes, watched her dreamily, thinking how nice it was tobe cared for again, and conscious only of a vague feeling of deliciousrest and quiet, which grew almost into positive happiness as she countedthe days it would take for Aunt Barbara's letter to go to Iowa and forRichard to answer it in person, as he surely would if all which AuntBarbara had said was true. 

Ethie did not quite know if she loved him. She had thought of him somuch during the last two years, and now, when he seemed so near, shelonged to see him again--to hear his voice and look into his eyes. Theywere handsome eyes as she remembered them; kindly and pleasant, too--atleast they had been so to her, save on that dreadful night, the memoryof which always made her shiver and grow faint. It seemed a dream now--afar-off, unhappy dream--which she would fain forget just as she wantedRichard to forget her foibles and give her another chance. She hadbidden Aunt Barbara write to say she was there, and so after thetempting breakfast, which had been served in her room, and which she hadeaten sitting up in bed, because Betty insisted that it should beso--and she was glad to be petted and humored and made into acomfortable invalid--Aunt Barbara brought her writing materials into theroom, and bidding Ethie lie still and rest herself, began the letterto Richard. 

But only the date and name were written, when Betty, coming in with afew geranium leaves and a white fuchsia which she had purloined from hermistress' house plants, announced Mrs. Van Buren's arrival, and thepleasant morning was at an end. Mrs. Dr. Van Buren had come up fromBoston to borrow money from her sister for the liquidation of certaindebts contracted by her son, and which she had not the ready means tomeet. Aunt Barbara had accommodated her once or twice before, saying toher as she signed the check, "That money in the bank was put there forEthie, but no one knows if she will ever need it, so it may as well dosomebody some good. "

It had done good by relieving Mrs. Van Buren of a load of harassingcare, for money was not as plenty with her as formerly, and now shewanted more. She was looking rather old and worn, and her cloak was lastyear's fashion, but good enough for Chicopee, she reflected, as shehurried into the house and stamped the muddy, melting snow fromher feet. 

Utter amazement seemed the prevailing sensation in her mind when shelearned that Ethelyn had returned, and then her selfishness began tosuggest that possibly Barbara's funds, saved for Ethie, might not now beas accessible for Frank. She was glad, though, to see her niece, butprofessed herself shocked at her altered appearance. 

"Upon my word, I would not have recognized you, " she said, sitting downupon the bed and looking Ethie fully in the face. 

Aunt Barbara, thinking her sister might like to have Ethie alone for alittle, had purposely left the room, and so Mrs. Van Buren was free tosay what she pleased. She had felt a good deal of irritation towardEthie for some time past. In fact, ever since Richard became governor, she had blamed her niece for running away from the honor which mighthave been hers. As aunt to the governor's lady, she, too, would havecome in for a share of the éclat; and so, as she smoothed out the foldsof her stone-colored merino, she felt as if she had been sorelyaggrieved by that thin, white-faced woman, who really did not greatlyresemble the rosy, bright-faced Ethelyn to whom Frank Van Buren had oncetalked love among the Chicopee hills. 

"No, I don't believe I should have known you, " Mrs. Van Buren continued. "What have you been about to fade you so?"

Few women like to hear that they have faded, even if they know it to betrue, and Ethie's cheek flushed a little as she asked, with a smile, "AmI really such a fright?"

"Why, no, not a fright! No one with the Bigelow features can ever bethat. But you are changed; and so I am sure Richard would think. Heliked beautiful girls. You know he has been governor?"

Ethie nodded, and Mrs. Van Buren continued: "You lost a great deal, Ethelyn, when you went away; and I must say that, though, of course, youhad great provocation, you did a very foolish thing leaving your husbandas you did, and involving us all, to a certain extent, in disgrace. "

It was the first direct intimation Ethie had received that her familyhad suffered from mortification on her account. She had felt that theymust, and knew that she deserved some censure; but as kind Aunt Barbarahad withheld it, she was not quite willing to hear it from Mrs. VanBuren, and for an instant her eyes flashed, and a hot reply trembled onher lips; but she restrained herself and merely said: "I am sorry if Idisgraced you, Aunt Sophia. I was very unhappy at the time, "

"Certainly; I understand that, but the world does not; and if it did, itforgot all when your husband became governor. He was greatly honored andesteemed, I hear from a friend who spent a few weeks at Des Moines, andeverybody was so sorry for him. "

"Did they talk of me?" Ethie asked, repenting the next minute that shehad been at all curious in the matter. 

Mrs. Van Buren, bent upon annoying her, replied, "Some, yes; and knowingthe governor as they did, it is natural they should blame you more thanhim. There was a rumor of his getting a divorce, but my friends did notbelieve it and neither do I, though divorces are easy to get out West. Have you written to him? Are you not 'most afraid he will think you cameback because he has been governor?"

"Aunt Sophia!" and Ethie looked very much like her former self, as shestarted from her pillow and confronted her interlocutor. "He cannotthink so. I never knew he had been governor until I heard it from AuntBarbara last night. I came back for no honors, no object. My work wastaken from me; I had nothing more to do, and I was so tired, and sick, and weary, and longed so much for home. Don't begrudge it to me, AuntSophia, that I came to see Aunt Barbara once more. I won't stay long inanybody's way; and if--if he likes, Richard--can--get--that--divorce--assoon as he pleases. "

The last came gaspingly, and showed the real state of Ethie's feelings. In all the five long years of her absence the possibility that Richardwould seek to separate himself from her had never crossed her mind. Shehad looked upon his love for her as something too strong to beshaken--as the great rock in whose shadow she could rest whenever sheso desired. At first, when the tide of angry passion was raging at herheart, she had said she never should desire it, that her strength wassufficient to stand alone against the world; but as the weary weeks andmonths crept on, and her anger had had time to cool, and she had learnedbetter to know the meaning of "standing alone in the world, " andthoughts of Richard's many acts of love and kindness kept recurring toher mind, she had come gradually to see that the one object in thefuture to which she was looking forward was a return to Aunt Barbara anda possible reconciliation with her husband. The first she had achieved, and the second seemed so close within her grasp, a thing so easy ofsuccess, that in her secret heart she had exulted that, after all, shewas not to be more sorely punished than she had been--that she could nothave been so very much in fault, or Providence would have placed greaterobstacles in the way of restoration to all that now seemed desirable. But Ethie's path back to peace and quiet was not to be free from thorns, and for a few minutes she writhed in pain, as she thought how possible, and even probable, it was that Richard should seek to be free from onewho had troubled him so much. Life looked very dreary to Ethelyn thatmoment--drearier than it ever had before--but she was far too proud tobetray her real feelings to her aunt, who, touched by the look ofanguish on her niece's face, began to change her tactics, and say howglad she was to have her darling back under any circumstances, and soshe presumed Richard would be. She knew he would, in fact; and if shewere Ethie, she should write to him at once, apprising him of herreturn, but not making too many concessions. --Men could not bear them, and it was better always to hold a stiff rein, or there was danger of acollision. She might as well have talked to the winds, for all thatEthie heard or cared. She was thinking of Richard, and the possibilitythat she might not be welcome to him now. If so, nothing could tempt herto intrude herself upon him. At all events, she would not make the firstadvances. She would let Richard find out that she was there through someother source than Aunt Barbara, who should not now write the letter. Itwould look too much like begging him to take her back. This was Ethie'sdecision, from which she could not be moved; and when, next day, Mrs. Van Buren went back to Boston with the check for $1, 000 which AuntBarbara had given her, she was pledged not to communicate with RichardMarkham in any way, while Aunt Barbara was held to the same promise. 

"He will find it out somehow. I prefer that he should act unbiased byanything we can do, " Ethelyn said to Aunt Barbara. "He might feelobliged to come if you wrote to him that I was here, and if he came, thesight of me so changed might shock him as it did Aunt Van Buren. Sheverily thought me a fright, " and Ethie tried to smile as she recalledher Aunt Sophia's evident surprise at her looks. 

The change troubled Ethie more than she cared to confess. Nor did thevillagers' remarks, when they came in to see her, tend to soothe herruffled feelings. Pale, and thin, and languid, she moved about the houseand yard like a mere shadow of her former self, having, or seeming tohave, no object in life, and worrying Aunt Barbara so greatly that thegood woman began at last seriously to inquire what was best to do. Suddenly, like an inspiration, there came to her a thought of Clifton, the famous water-cure in Western New York, where health, both of bodyand soul, had been found by so many thousands. And Ethie caught eagerlyat the proposition, accepting it on one condition--she would not gothere as Mrs. Markham, where the name might be recognized. She had beenMiss Bigelow abroad, she would be Miss Bigelow again; and so AuntBarbara yielded, mentally asking pardon for the deception to which shefelt she was a party, and when, two weeks after, the clerk at Cliftonwater-cure looked over his list to see what rooms were engaged, and towhom, he found "Miss Adelaide Bigelow, of Massachusetts, " put down forNo. 101, while "Governor Markham of Iowa, " was down for No. 102. 

CHAPTER XXXII

CLIFTON

They were very full at Clifton that summer, for the new building was notcompleted, and every available point was taken, from narrow, contractedNo. 94 in the upper hall down to more spacious No. 8 on the lower floor, where the dampness, and noise, and mold, and smell of coal and cooking, and lower bathrooms were. "A very, very quiet place, with only a fewinvalids too weak and languid, and too much absorbed in themselves andtheir 'complaints' to note or care for their neighbors; a place whereone lives almost as much excluded from the world as if immured withinconvent walls; a place where dress and fashion and distinction wereunknown, save as something existing afar off, where the turmoil andexcitement of life were going on. " This was Ethelyn's idea of Clifton;and when, at four o'clock, on a bright June afternoon, the heavily ladentrain stopped before the little brown station, and "Clifton" was shoutedin her ears, she looked out with a bewildered kind of feeling upon thecrowd of gayly dressed people congregated upon the platform. Heads wereuncovered, and hair frizzled, and curled, and braided, and puffed, andarranged in every conceivable shape, showing that even to that "quiettown" the hairdresser's craft had penetrated. Expanded crinoline, withlight, fleecy robes, and ribbons, and laces, and flowers, was thereassembled, with bright, eager, healthful faces, and snowy hands waftingkisses to some departed friend, and then turning to greet some newarrival. There were no traces of sickness, no token of disease among thesmiling crowd, and Ethelyn almost feared she had made a mistake andalighted at the wrong place, as she gave her checks to John, and thentaking her seat in the omnibus, sat waiting and listening to the livelysallies and playful remarks around her. Nobody spoke to her, nobodystared at her, nobody seemed to think of her; and for that she wasthankful, as she sat with her veil drawn closely over her face, lookingout upon the not very pretentious dwellings they were passing. Thescenery around Clifton is charming, and to the worn, weary invalidescaping from the noise and heat and bustle of the busy city, thereseems to come a rest and a quiet, from the sunlight which falls upon thehills, to the cool, moist meadow lands where the ferns and mosses grow, and where the rippling of the sulphur brook gives out constantly asoothing, pleasant kind of music. But for the architecture of the townnot very much can be said; and Ethie, who had longed to get away fromChicopee, where everybody knew her story, and all looked curiously ather, confessed to a feeling of homesickness as her eyes fell upon theblacksmith shop, the dressmaker's sign, the grocery on the corner, wherewere sold various articles of food forbidden by doctor and nurse; theschoolhouse to the right, where a group of noisy children played, andthe little church further on, where the Methodist people worshiped. Shedid not see the "Cottage" then, with its flowers and vines, and nicelyshaven lawn, for her back was to it; nor the handsome grounds, where theshadows from the tall trees fall so softly upon the velvet grass; andthe winding graveled walks, which intersect each other and give animpression of greater space than a closer investigation will warrant. 

"I can't stay here, " was Ethie's thought, as it had been the thought ofmany others, when, like her, they first step into the matted hall andmeet the wet, damp odor, as of sheets just washed, which seems to beinseparable from that part of the building. 

But that was the first day, and before she had met the kindness andsympathy of those whose business it is to care for the patients, or feltthe influences for good, the tendency to all the better impulses of ournature, which seems to pervade the very atmosphere of Clifton. Ethiefelt this influence very soon, and her second letter to Aunt Barbara wasfilled with praise of Clifton, where she had made so many friends, inspite of her evident desire to avoid society and stay by herself. Shehad passed through the usual ordeal attending the advent of every newface, especially if that face be a little out of the common order offaces. She had been inspected in the dining room, and bathroom, andchapel, both when she went in and when she went out. She had been talkedup and criticised from the way she wore her hair to the hang of herskirts, which here, as well as in Olney, trailed the floor with a sweepunmistakably aristocratic and stamped her as somebody. The sacque andhat brought from Paris had been copied by three or four, and pronounceddistingué, but ugly by as many more, while Mrs. Peter Pry, of whom thereare always one or two at every watering-place, had set herselfindustriously at work to pry into her antecedents to find out just whoand what Miss Bigelow was. As the result of this research, it had beenascertained that the young lady was remotely connected with the Bigelowsof Boston, and had something of her own--that she had spent severalyears abroad, and could speak both French and German with perfect ease;that she had been at the top of Mont Blanc, and passed part of a winterat St. Petersburg, and seen a crocodile in the river Nile, and a Moslemburying-ground in Constantinople, and had the cholera at Milan, thevarioloid at Rome, and was marked between the eyes and on the chin, andwas twenty-five years old, and did not wear false hair, nor use Laird'sLiquid Pearl, as was at first suspected from the clearness of hercomplexion, and did wear crimping pins at night, and pay Annie, thebath-girl, extra for bringing up the morning bath, and was moreinterested in the chapel exercises when the great Head Center was there, and bought cream every morning of Mrs. King, and sat up at night longafter the gas was turned off, and was there at Clifton for spine in theback and head difficulties generally. These few items, together with thesurmise that she had had some great trouble--a disappointment, mostlikely, which affected her health--were all Mrs. Pry could learn, andshe detailed them to anyone who would listen, until Ethelyn's history, from the Pry point of view, was pretty generally known and the most madeof every good quality and virtue. 

The Mrs. Pry of this summer was not ill-natured; she was simplycurious; and as she generally said more good than evil of people, shewas generally liked and tolerated by all. She was not a fashionablewoman, nor an educated woman, though very popular with her neighbors athome, and she was there for numbness and swollen knees; and, having knitsocks for four years for the soldiers, she now knit stockings for thesoldiers' orphans, and took a dash every morning and screamed loudenough to be heard at the depot when she took it, and had a pack everyafternoon, and corked her right ear with cotton, which she always tookout when in a pack, so as to hear whatever might be said in the hall, her open ventilator being the medium of sound. This was Mrs. Peter Pry, drawn from no one in particular, but a fair exponent of characters foundin other places than Clifton Springs. Rooming on the same floor withEthelyn, whom she greatly admired, the good woman persisted until sheovercame the stranger's shyness, and succeeded in establishing, first, abowing, then a speaking, and finally, a calling acquaintance betweenthem--the calls, however, being mostly upon one side, and that theprying one. 

Ethie had been at Clifton for three or four weeks, and the dimensions ofNo. 101 did not seem half so circumscribed, as at first. On the whole, she was contented, especially after the man who snored, and the womanwho wore squeaky boots, and talked in her sleep, vacated No. 102, thelarge, airy, pleasant room adjoining her own. There was no one in it nowbut Mary, the chambermaid, who said it was soon to be occupied by a sickgentleman, adding that she believed he had the consumption, and hopedhis cough would not fret Miss Bigelow. Ethie hoped so too. Nervousness, and, indeed, diseases of all kinds, seemed to develop rapidly atClifton, where one has nothing to do but to watch each new symptom, andreport to physician or nurse, and Ethie was not an exception. She wasvery nervous, and she found herself dreading the arrival of the sickman, wondering if his coughing would keep her awake nights, and if thelight from her candle shining out into the darkened hall would annoyand worry him, as it had worried the woman opposite, who complained thatshe could not rest with that glimmer on the wall, showing that somebodywas up, who, might at any moment make a noise. That he was a person ofconsequence she readily guessed, for an extra pair of pillows was takenin, and the rocking-chair possessed of two whole arms, and No. 109, alsovacant just then, was rifled of its round stand and footstool, and Mrs. Pry reported that Dr. F---- himself had been up to see that all wascomfortable, and Miss Clark had ordered a better set of springs, with anew hair mattress, and somebody had put a bouquet of flowers in the roomand hung a muslin curtain at the window. 

"A big-bug, most likely, " Mrs. Peter Pry said, when, after her pack, shebrought her knitting for a few moments into Ethelyn's room and wonderedwho the man could be. 

Ethelyn did not care particularly who he was, provided he did not coughnights and keep her awake, in which case she should feel constrained tochange her room, an alternative she did not care to contemplate, as shehad become more attached to No. 101 than she had at first supposedpossible. Ethelyn was very anxious that day, and, had she believed inpresentiments, she would have thought that something was about to befallher, so heavy was the gloom weighing upon her spirits, and so dark thefuture seemed. She was going to have a headache, she feared, and as ameans of throwing it off, she started, after ten, for a walk to RockyRun, a distance of a mile or more. It was a cool, hazy July afternoon, such as always carried Ethie back to Chicopee and the days of her happygirlhood, when her heart was not so heavy and sad as it was now. Withthoughts of Chicopee came also thoughts of Richard, and Ethie's eyeswere moist with tears as she looked wistfully toward the setting sun andwondered if he ever thought of her now or had forgotten her, and was thestory true of his seeking for a divorce. That rumor had troubled Ethiegreatly, and was the reason why she did not improve as the physicianhoped she would when she first came to Clifton. Sitting down upon thebridge across the creek, she bowed her head in her hands and went overagain all the dreadful past, blaming herself now more than she didRichard, and wishing that much could be undone of all that hadtranspired to make her what she was, and while she sat there the Westerntrain appeared in view, and, mechanically rising to her feet, Ethieturned her steps back toward the Cure, standing aside to let the longtrain go by, and feeling, when it passed her, a strange, sudden throb, as if it were fraught with more than ordinary interest to her. Usually, that Western train, the distant roll of whose wheels and the echo ofwhose scream quickened so many hearts waiting for news from home, had nospecial interest for her. It never brought her a letter. Her name wasnever called in the exciting distribution which took place in the parloror on the long piazza after the eight-o'clock mail had arrived, and soshe seldom heeded it; but to-night there was a difference, and shewatched the long line curiously until it passed the corner by the oldbrown farmhouse and disappeared from view. It had left the station longere she reached the Cure, for she had walked slowly, and lights wereshining from the different rooms, and there was a sound of singing inthe parlor, and the party of croquet players had come up from the lawn, and ladies were hurrying toward the bathroom, when she came in andclimbed the three flights of stairs which led to the fourth floor. Therewas a light shining through the ventilator of No. 102, the door waspartly ajar, and the doctor was there, asking some questions of the tallfigure, whose outline Ethelyn dimly descried as she went into her room. There was more talking after a little--more going in and out, while MaryAnn brought up some supper on a tray, and John brought up a travelingtrunk much larger than himself, and then, without Mrs. Pry's assurance, Ethie knew that the occupant of No. 102 had arrived. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE OCCUPANT OF NO. 102

He did not cough, but he seemed to be a restless spirit, for Ethie heardhim pacing up and down his room long after the gas was turned off andher own candle was extinguished. Once, too, she heard a long-drawn sigh, or groan, which made her start suddenly, for something in the tonecarried her to Olney and the house on the prairie. It was late thatnight ere she slept, and when next morning she awoke, the nervousheadache, which had threatened her the previous night, was upon her infull force, and kept her for nearly the entire day confined to her bed. Mrs. Pry was spending the day in Phelps, and with this source ofinformation cut off, Ethelyn heard nothing of No. 102, further than thechambermaid's casual remark that "the gentleman was quite an invalid, and for the present was to take his meals and baths in his room to avoidso much going up and down stairs. "

Who he was Ethelyn did not know or care, though twice she awoke from afeverish sleep with the impression that she had heard Richard speakingto her; but it was only Jim, the bath man, talking in the next room, andshe laid her throbbing head again upon her pillow, while her newneighbor dreamed in turn of her and woke with the strange fancy that shewas near him. Ethie's head was better that night; so much better thatshe dressed herself and went down to the parlor in time to hear thecalling of the letters as the Western mail was distributed. Usually shefelt but little interest in the affair further than watching the eager, anxious faces bending near the boy, and the looks of joy ordisappointment which followed failure and success. To-night, however, itwas different. She was not expecting a letter herself. Nobody wrote toher but Aunt Barbara, whose letters came in the morning, but she wasconscious of a strange feeling of expectancy, and taking a step towardthe table around which the excited group were congregated, she stoodleaning against the column while name after name was called. First theletters, a score or two, and then the papers, matters of less account, but still snatched eagerly by those who could get nothing better. Therewas a paper for Mrs. More-house, and Mrs. Stone, and Mrs. Wilson, andMrs. Turner, while Mr. Danforth had half a dozen or less, and then Perrypaused a moment over a new name--one which had never before been calledin the parlor at Clifton:

"Richard Markham, Esq. "

The name rang out loud and clear, and Ethie grasped the pillar tightlyto keep herself from falling. She did not hear Mr. Danforth explainingthat it was "Governor Markham from Iowa, who came the night before. " Shedid not know, either, how she left the parlor, for the next thing ofwhich she was perfectly conscious was the fact that she was hurrying upthe stairs and through the unfinished halls toward her own room, castingfrightened glances around, and almost shrieking with excitement whenthrough the open door of No. 102 she heard Dr. Hayes speaking tosomeone, and in the voice which answered recognized her husband. 

He was there, then, next to her, separated by only a thin partition--thehusband whom she had not seen for five long years, whom she hadvoluntarily left, resolving never to go back to him again, was there, where, just by crossing a single threshold, she could fall at his feetand sue for the forgiveness she had made up her mind to crave should sheever see him again. Dr. Hayes' next call was upon her, and he found herfainting upon the floor, where she had fallen in the excitement of theshock she had experienced. 

"It was a headache, " she said, when questioned as to the cause of thesudden attack; but her eyes had in them a frightened, startled look, forwhich the doctor could not account. 

There was something about her case which puzzled and perplexed him. "Sheneeded perfect quiet, but must not be left alone, " he said, and so allthat night Richard, who was very wakeful, watched the light shining outinto the hall from the room next to his own, and heard occasionally amurmur of low voices as the nurse put some question to Ethie, whoanswered always in whispers, while her eyes turned furtively toward No. 102, as if fearful that its occupant would hear and know how near shewas. For three whole days her door was locked against all intruders, forthe headache and nervous excitement did not abate one whit. How couldthey, when every sound from No. 102, every footfall on the floor, everytone of Richard's voice speaking to servant or physician, quickened therapid beats and sent the hot blood throbbing fiercely through the templeveins and down along the neck? At Clifton they are accustomed to everyphase of nervousness, from spasms at the creaking of a board to thestumbling upstairs of the fireman in the early winter morning, and oncewhen Ethie shuddered and turned her head aside at the sound of Richard'sstep, the attendant said to the physician:

"It's the gentleman's boots, I think, which make her nervous. "

There was a deprecating gesture on Ethie's part, but it passedunnoticed, and when next the doctor went to visit Richard he said, in ahalf-apologetic way, that the young lady in the next room was sufferingfrom a violent headache, which was aggravated by every sound, even thesqueak of a boot--would Governor Markham greatly object to wearingslippers for a while? Dr. Hayes was sorry to trouble him, but "if theywould effect a cure they must keep their patients quiet, and guardagainst everything tending to increase nervous irritation. "

Governor Markham would do anything in his power for the young lady, andhe asked some questions concerning her. Had he annoyed her much? Was shevery ill? And what was her name?

"Bigelow, " he repeated after Dr. Hayes, thinking of Aunt Barbara inChicopee, and thinking of Ethelyn, too, but never dreaming how near shewas to him. 

He had come to Clifton at the earnest solicitation of some of hisfriends, who had for themselves tested the healing properties of thewater, but he had little faith that anything could cure so long as thepain was so heavy at his heart. It had not lessened one jot with thelapse of years. On the contrary, it seemed harder and harder to bear, asthe months went by and brought no news of Ethie. Oh, how he wanted herback again, even if she came as willful and imperious as she used to beat times, when the high spirit was roused to its utmost, and even if shehad no love for him, as she had once averred. He could make her love himnow, he said: he knew just where he had erred; and many a time in dreamshe had strained the wayward Ethie to his bosom in the fond caress whichfrom its very force should impart to her some faint sensation of joy. Hehad stroked her beautiful brown hair, and caressed her smooth roundcheek, and pressed her little hands, and made her listen to him till thedark eyes flashed into his own with something of the tenderness he feltfor her. Then, with a start, he had awakened to find it all a dream, andonly darkness around him. Ethie was not there. The arms which had heldher so lovingly were empty. The pillow where her dear head had lain wasuntouched, and he was alone as of old. Even that handsome house he hadbuilt for her had ceased to interest him, for Ethie did not come back toenjoy it. She would never come now, he said, and he built many fanciesas to what her end had been, and where her grave could be. Here atClifton he had thought of her continually, but not that she was alive. Andy's faith in her return was as strong as ever, but Richard's had alldied out. Ethie was dead, and when asked by Dr. Hayes if he had a wife, he answered sadly:

"I had one, but I lost her. "

He had no thought of deception, or how soon the story would circulatethrough the house that he was a widower, and so he, as ex-governor ofIowa, and a man just in his prime, became an object of speculativeinterest to every marriageable woman there. He had no thought, no carefor the ladies, though for the Miss Bigelow, whom his boots annoyed, hedid feel a passing interest, and Ethie, whose ears seemed doubly sharp, heard him in his closet adjusting the thin-soled slippers, which made nosound upon the carpet. She heard him, too, as he moved his waterpitcher, and knew he was doing it so quietly for her. The idea of beingcared for by him, even if he did not know who she was, was very soothingand pleasant, and she fell into a quiet sleep, which lasted severalhours, while Richard, on the other side of the wall, scarcely moved, sofearful was he of worrying the young lady. 

Ethie's headache spent itself at last, and she awoke at the close of thethird day, free from pain, but very weak and languid, and wholly unequalto the task of entertaining Mrs. Peter Pry, who had been so distressedon her account, and was so delighted with a chance to see and talk withher again. Ethie knew she meant to be kind, and believed she was sincerein her professions of friendship. At another time she might have beenglad to see her; but now, when she guessed what the theme ofconversation would be, she felt a thrill of terror as the good womancame in, knitting in hand, and announced her intention of sittingthrough the chapel exercises. She was not going to prayer meeting thatnight, she said, for Dr. Foster was absent, and they were always stupidwhen he was away. She could not understand all Mr. ---- said, his wordswere so learned, while the man who talked so long, and never came to thepoint, was insufferable in hot weather, so she remained away, and cameto see her friend, who, she supposed, knew that she had a governor fornext-door neighbor--Governor Markham from Iowa--and a widower, too, asDr. Hayes had said, when she asked why his wife was not there with him. 

"A widower!" and Ethie looked up so inquiringly that Mrs. Pry, mistakingthe nature of her sudden interest, went on more flippantly. "Yes, and asplendid looking man, too, if he wasn't sick. I saw him in the chapelthis morning--the only time he has been there--and sat where I had agood view of his face. They say he is very rich, and has one of thehandsomest places in Davenport. "

"Does he live in Davenport?" Ethie asked, in some surprise, and Mrs. Pryreplied:

"Yes; and that Miss Owens, from New York, is setting her cap for himalready. She met him in Washington, a few years ago, and the minutechapel exercises were over, she and her mother made up to him at once. I'm glad there's somebody good enough for them to notice. If there's aperson I dislike it's that Susan Owens and her mother. I do hope she'llfind a husband. It's what she's here for, everybody says. "

Mrs. Peter had dropped a stitch while animadverting against Miss SusanOwens, from New York, and stopped a moment while she picked it up. Itwould be difficult to describe Ethelyn's emotions as she heard her ownhusband talked of as something marketable, which others than Susan Owensmight covet. He was evidently the lion of the season. It was somethingto have a governor of Richard's reputation in the house, and the guestsmade the most of it, wishing he would join them in the parlor or on thepiazza, and regretting that he stayed so constantly in his room. Manyattempts were made to draw him out, Mrs. And Miss Owens, on the strengthof their acquaintance in Washington, venturing to call upon him, andadvising him to take more exercise. Miss Owens' voice was loud andclear, and Ethie heard it distinctly as the young lady talked andlaughed with Richard, the hot blood coursing rapidly through her veins, and the first genuine pangs of jealousy she had ever felt creeping intoher heart as she guessed what might possibly be in Miss Owens' mind. Many times she resolved to make herself known to him; but uncertainty asto how she might be received, and the remembrance of what Mrs. Van Burenhad said with regard to the divorce, held her back; and so, with only athin partition between them, and within sound of each other's footsteps, the husband and wife, so long estranged from each other, lived on, dayafter day, Richard spending most of his time in his room, and Ethelynmanaging so adroitly when she came in and went out, that she never sawso much as his shadow upon the floor, and knew not whether he wasgreatly changed or not. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

IN RICHARD'S ROOM

Richard had been sick for a week or more. As is frequently the case, thebaths did not agree with him at first, and Mrs. Pry reported to Ethelynthat the governor was confined to his bed, and saw no one but the doctorand nurses, not even "that bold Miss Owens, who had actually sent toGeneva for a bouquet, which she sent to his room with her compliments. "This Mrs. Pry knew to be a fact, and the highly scandalized womanrepeated the story to Ethelyn, who scarcely heard what she was sayingfor the many turbulent emotions swelling at her heart. That Richardshould be sick so near to her, his wife--that other hands than hersshould tend his pillow and minister to his wants--seemed not as itshould be; and when she recalled the love and tender care which had beenso manifest that time when he came home from Washington and found her sovery ill, the wish grew strong within her to do something for him. Butwhat to do--that was the perplexing question. She dared not go openly tohim, until assured that she was wanted; and so there was nothing leftbut to imitate Miss Owens and adorn his room with flowers. Surely shehad a right to do so much, and still her cheek crimsoned like some younggirl's as she gathered together the choicest flowers the little townafforded, and arranging them into a most tasteful bouquet, sent them into Richard, vaguely hoping that at least in the cluster of double pinks, which had been Richard's favorite, there might be hidden some mesmericpower or psychological influence which should speak to the sick man ofthe wayward Ethie who had troubled him so much. 

Richard was sitting up in bed when Mary brought the bouquet, saying, Miss Bigelow sent it, thinking it might cheer him a bit. Should she putit in the tumbler near Miss Owens'?

Miss Owens had sent a pretty vase with hers, but Ethie's was simply tiedwith a bit of ribbon she had worn about her neck. And Richard took itin his hand, an exclamation escaping him as he saw and smelled thefragrant pinks, whose perfume carried him first to Olney and Andy'sweedy beds in the front yard, and then to Chicopee, where in AuntBarbara's pretty garden, a large plant of them had been growing when hewent after his bride. A high wind had blown them down upon the walk, andhe had come upon Ethie one day trying to tie them up. He had plucked afew, he remembered, telling Ethie they were his favorites for perfume, while the red peony was his favorite for beauty. There had been acomical gleam in her brown eyes which he now knew was born of contemptfor his taste with regard to flowers. Red peonies were not the rarest ofblossoms--Melinda had taught him that when he suggested having them inhis conservatory; but surely no one could object to these waxen, feathery pinks, whose odor was so delicious. Miss Bigelow liked them, else she had never sent them to him. And he kept the bouquet in hishand, admiring its arrangement, inhaling the sweet perfume of thedelicate pinks and heliotrope, and speculating upon the kind of personMiss Bigelow must be to have thought so much of him. He could accountfor Miss Owens' gift--the hot-house blossoms, which had not moved himone-half so much as did this bunch of pinks. She had known himbefore--had met him in Washington; he had been polite to her on one ortwo occasions, and it was natural that she should wish to be civil, atleast while he was sick. But the lady in No. 101--the Miss Bigelow forwhom he had discarded his boots and trodden on tiptoe half the timesince his arrival--why she should care for him he could not guess; andfinally deciding that it was a part of Clifton, where everybody was sokind, he put the bouquet in the tumbler Mary had brought and placed iton the stand beside him. He was very restless that night, and Ethieheard the watchman at his door twice asking if he wanted anything. 

"Nothing, " was the reply, and the voice, heard distinctly in thestillness of the night, was so faint and sad that Ethie hid her face inher pillow and sobbed bitterly, while the intense longing to see himgrew so strong within her that by morning the resolution was taken torisk everything for the sake of looking upon him again. 

He did not require an attendant at night--he preferred being alone, shehad ascertained; and she knew that his door was constantly left open forthe admission of fresh air. The watchman only came into the hall once anhour or thereabouts, and while Richard slept it would be comparativelyeasy for her to steal into his room. Fortune seemed to favor her, forwhen at nine the doctor, as usual, came up to pay his round visits, sheheard him say, "I will leave you something which never fails to make onesleep, " and after two hours had passed she knew by the regular breathingwhich, standing on the threshold of her room, she could distinctly hear, that Richard was sleeping soundly. The watchman had just made the tourof that hall, and the faint glimmer of his lantern was disappearing downthe stairs. It would be an hour before he came back again, and now, ifever, was her time. There was a great throb of fear at her heart, atrembling of every joint, a choking sensation in her throat, a shrinkingback from what might probably be the result of that midnight visit; andthen, nerving herself for the effort, she stepped out into the hall andlistened. Everything was quiet, and every room was darkened, save by themoon, which, at its full, was pouring a flood of light through thesouthern window at the end of the hall and seemed to beckon her on. Shewas standing now at Richard's door, opened wide enough to admit her, andso she made no noise as she stepped cautiously across the threshold andstood within the chamber. The window faced the east, and the insideblinds were opened wide, making Ethelyn remember how annoyed she used tobe at that propensity of Richard's to roll up every curtain and openevery shutter so as to make the room light and airy. It was light nowalmost as day, for the moonlight lay upon the floor in a great sheet ofsilver, and showed her plainly the form and features of the sick manupon the bed. She knew he was asleep, and with a beating heart she drewnear to him, and stood for a moment looking down upon the face she hadnot seen since that wintry morning five years before, when in the dimtwilight, it had bent wistfully over her, as if the lips would fain haveasked forgiveness for the angry words and deeds of the previous night. That face was pale now, and thin, and the soft brown hair was streakedwith gray, making Richard look older than he was. He had suffered, andthe suffering had left its marks upon him so indisputably that Ethiecould have cried out with pain to see how changed he was. 

"Poor Richard, " she whispered softly, and kneeling by the bedside shelaid her hot cheek as near as she dared to the white, wasted handresting outside the counterpane. 

She did not think what the result of waking him might be. She did notespecially care. She was his wife, let what would happen--his erring butrepentant Ethie. She had a right to be there with him, and so at lastshe took his thin hand between her own, and caressed it tenderly. ThenRichard moved, and moaning in his deep sleep seemed to have a vagueconsciousness that someone was with him. Perhaps it was the nurse whohad been with him at night on one or two occasions; but the slumber intowhich he had fallen was too deep to be easily broken. Something hemurmured about the medicine, and Ethie's hand held it to his lips, andEthie's arm was passed beneath his pillow as she lifted up his headwhile he swallowed it. Then, without unclosing his eyes, he lay backupon his pillow again, while Ethie stood over him until the glimmer ofthe watchman's lamp passed down the hall a second time, and disappearedaround the corner. The watchman had stopped at Richard's door to listen, and then Ethie had experienced a spasm of terror at the possibility ofbeing discovered; but with the receding footsteps her fears left her, and she waited a half-hour longer, while Richard in his dreams talked ofbygone days--speaking of Olney, and then of Daisy and herself. Dead, both of them, he seemed to think; and Ethie's pulse throbbed with astrange feeling of joy as she heard herself called his poor darling, whom he wanted back again. She was satisfied now. He had not forgottenher, or even thought to separate himself from her, as Aunt Van Burenhinted. He was true to her yet, and she had acted foolishly in keepingaloof from him so long. But she would be foolish no longer. To-morrow heshould know everything. If he would only awaken she would tell him now, and take the consequences. But Richard did not waken, and at last, witha noiseless step, she glided back to her own chamber. She would write toRichard, she decided. She could talk to him better on paper, and, then, if he did not care to receive her, they would both be spared muchembarrassment. 

Ethie's door was locked all the next morning, for she was writing to herhusband a long, humble letter, in which all the blame was taken uponherself, inasmuch as she had made the great mistake of marrying withoutlove. "But I do love you now, Richard, " she said; "love you truly, too, else I should never be writing this to you, and asking you to take meback and try if I cannot make you happy. "

It was a good deal for Ethie to confess that she had been so much infault; but she did it honestly, and when the letter was finished shefelt as if all that had been wrong and bitter in the past was sweptaway, and a new era in her life had begun. She would wait till night, she said--wait till all was again quiet in the hall and in thesick-room, and then when the boy came around with the mail, as he wassure to do, she would hand her letter to him, and bid him leave it inGovernor Markham's room. The rest she could not picture to herself; butshe waited impatiently for the long August day to draw to its close, joining the guests in the parlor by way of passing the time, andappearing so bright and gay that those who had thought her proud andcold, and reticent, wondered at the brightness of her face and the glad, eager expression of her eyes. She was pretty, after all, they thought, and even Miss Owens, from New York, tried to be very gracious, speakingto her of Governor Markham, whose room adjoined hers, and asking if shehad seen him. About him Ethie did not care to talk, and, making someexcuse to get away, left the room without hearing a whisper of thestory which was going the rounds of the Cure, and which Miss Owens wasrather desirous of communicating to someone who, like herself, would belikely to believe it a falsehood. 

CHAPTER XXXV

MRS. PETER PRY TAKES A PACK

Mrs. Pry was in a pack, a whole pack, too, which left nothing free buther head, and even that was bandaged in a wet napkin, so that the goodwoman was in a condition of great helplessness, and nervously countedthe moments which must elapse ere Annie, the bath girl, would come toher relief. Now, as was always the case when in a pack, her ears wereuncorked and turned toward the door, which she had purposely left ajar, so as not to lose a word, in case any of the ladies came down to thatend of the hall and stood by the window while they talked together. Theywere there now, some half a dozen or more, and they were talking eagerlyof the last fresh piece of news brought by Mrs. Carter and daughter, whohad arrived from Iowa the day before, and for lack of accommodations atthe Cure had gone to the hotel. Both were old patients, and well knownin Clifton and so they had spent most of the day at the Cure, hunting upold acquaintances and making new ones. Being something of lion-seekers, they had asked at the office who was there worth knowing, the younglady's face wearing a very important air as she glanced round upon theguests, and remarked, "How different they seemed from those charmingpeople from Boston and New York whom we met here last summer!"

It did not appear as if there was a single lion there this season, whether moneyed, literary, or notorious; and Miss Annie Carter thoughtit very doubtful whether they should remain or go on to Saratoga, as allthe while she had wished to do. In great distress good Mrs. Leigh rackedher brain to think who the notables were, and finally bethought herselfof Governor Markham, whose name acted like magic upon the newcomers. 

"Governor Markham here? Strange, I never thought of Clifton when I heardthat he was going East for his health. How is he? Does he improve? It isquite desirable that he should do so, if all reports are true;" and Mrs. Carter looked very wise and knowing upon the group which gathered aroundher, anxious to hear all she had to tell of Governor Markham. 

She did not pretend that she knew him herself, as she lived somedistance from Davenport; but she had heard a great deal about him andhis handsome house; and Annie, her daughter, who was visiting inDavenport, had been all over it after it was finished. Such a beautifulsuite of rooms as he had fitted up for his bride; they were the envy andwonder of both Davenport and Rock Island, too. 

"His bride! We did not know he had one. He passes for a widower here, "several voices echoed in chorus, and then Mrs. Carter began the storywhich had come to her through a dozen mediums, and which circulatedrapidly through the house, but had not reached Mrs. Pry up to the timewhen, with her blanket and patchwork quilt she had brought from NewHampshire, she lay reposing in her pack, with her ears turned toward thedoor and ventilator, ready to catch the faintest breath of gossip. 

She heard a great deal that afternoon, for the ladies at the end of thehall did not speak very low, and when at last she was released from herbandages and had made her afternoon toilet, she hastened round to MissBigelow's to report what she had heard. Tired with her vigils of theprevious night, Ethie was lying down, but she bade Mrs. Pry come in, andthen kept very quiet while the good woman proceeded to ask if she hadheard the news. Ethie had not, but her heart stood still while hervisitor, speaking in a whisper, asked if she was sure Governor Markhamcould not hear. That the news concerned herself Ethelyn was sure, andshe was glad that her face was in a measure concealed from view as shelistened to the story. 

Governor Markham's wife was not dead, as they had supposed. She was ashameless creature, who eight or ten years before eloped with a man agreat deal younger than herself. She was very beautiful, people said, and very fascinating, and the governor worshiped the ground she trodupon. He took her going off very hard at first, and for years scarcelyheld up his head. But lately he had seemed different, and had been morefavorable to a divorce, as advised by his friends. This, however, wasafter he met Miss Sallie Morton, whose father was a millionaire inChicago, and whose pretty face had captivated the grave governor. To getthe divorce was a very easy matter there in the West, and the governorwas now free to marry again. As Miss Morton preferred Davenport to anyother place in Iowa, he had built him a magnificent house upon a bluff, finishing it elegantly, and taking untold pains with the suite of roomsintended for his bride. As Miss Sallie objected to marrying him while hewas so much of an invalid, he had come to Clifton, hoping to reestablishhis health so as to bring home his wife in the autumn, for which eventgreat preparations were making in the family of Miss Sallie. 

This was the story as told by Mrs. Pry, and considering that it had onlycome to her through eight or ten different persons, she repeated thesubstance of it pretty accurately, and then stopped for Ethie's comment. But Ethie had nothing to say, and when, surprised at her silence, Mrs. Pry asked if she believed it at all, there was still no reply, forEthelyn had fainted. The reaction was too great from the brightanticipations of the hour before, to the crushing blow which had fallenso suddenly upon her hopes. That a patient at Clifton should faint wasnot an uncommon thing. Mrs. Pry had often felt like it herself when justout of a pack, or a hot sulphur bath, and so Ethie's faint excited nosuspicion in her mind. She was fearful, though, that Miss Bigelow hadnot heard all the story, but Ethie assured her that she had, and thenadded that if left to herself she might possibly sleep, as that was whatshe needed. So Mrs. Pry departed, and Ethie was alone with the terriblecalamity which had come upon her. She had been at the Water Cure longenough to know that not more than half of what she heard was true, andthis story she knew was false in the parts pertaining to herself and herdesertion of her husband. She had never heard before that she wassuspected of having had an associate in the flight, and her cheekscrimsoned at the idea, while she wondered if Richard had ever thoughtthat of her. Not at first, she knew, else he had never sought for her sozealously as Aunt Barbara had intimated; but latterly, as he had heardno tidings from her, he might have surmised something of the kind, andthat was the secret of the divorce. 

"Oh, Richard! Richard!" she murmured, with her hands pressed tightlyover her lips, so as to smother all sound, "I felt so sure of your love. You were so different from me. I am punished more than I can bear. "

If she had never known before, Ethie knew now, how much she really lovedher husband, and how the hope of eventually returning to him had beenthe day-star of her life. Had she heard that he was lying dead in thenext room, she would have gone to him at once, and claiming him as hers, would have found some comfort in weeping sadly over him, and kissing hiscold lips, but now it did indeed seem more than she could bear. She didnot doubt the story of the divorce, or greatly disbelieve in the otherwife. It was natural that many should seek to win his love now that hehad risen so high, and she supposed it was natural that he should wishfor another companion. Perhaps he believed her dead, and Ethie's heartgave one great throb of joy as she thought of going in to him, and byher bodily presence contradict that belief, and possibly win him fromhis purpose. But Ethie was too proud for that, and her next feeling wasone of exultation that she had not permitted Aunt Barbara to write, orherself taken any measures for communicating with him. He should neverknow how near she had been to him, or guess ever so remotely of theanguish she was enduring, as, only a few feet removed from him, shesuffered, in part, all the pain and sorrow she had brought upon him. Then, as she remembered the new house fitted for the bride, she said:

"I must see that house. I must know just what is in store for my rival. No one knows me in Davenport. Richard is not at home, and there is nochance for my being recognized. "

With this decision came a vague feeling akin to hope that possibly thestory was false--that after all there was no rival, no divorce. At allevents, she should know for a certainty by going to Davenport; and withevery nerve stretched to its utmost tension, Ethie arose from her bedand packed her trunk quietly and quickly, and then going to the office, surprised the clerk with the announcement that she wished to leave onthe ten-o'clock train. She had received news which made her going sosuddenly imperative, she said to him, and to the physician, whom shecalled upon next, and whose strong arguments against her leaving thatnight almost overcame her. But Ethie's will conquered at last, and whenthe train from the East came in she stood upon the platform at thestation, her white face closely veiled, and her heart throbbing with thevague doubts which began to assail her as to whether she were reallydoing a wise and prudent thing in going out alone and unprotected to thehome she had no right to enter, and where she was not wanted. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

IN DAVENPORT

Hot, and dusty, and tired, and sick, and utterly hopeless and wretched, Ethie looked drearily out from the windows of her room at the hotel, whither she had gone on her first arrival in Davenport. Her head seemedbursting as she stood tying her bonnet before the mirror, and drawing onher gloves, she glanced wistfully at the inviting-looking bed, feelingstrongly tempted to lie down there among the pillows and wait till shewas rested before she went out in that broiling August sun upon herstrange errand. But a haunting presentiment of what the dizziness andpain in her head and temples portended urged her to do quickly what shehad to do; so with another gulp of the ice water she had ordered, andwhich only for a moment cooled her feverish heat, she went from her roominto the hall, where the boy was waiting to show her the way to "thegovernor's house. " He knew just where it was. Everybody knew inDavenport, and the chambermaid to whom Ethie had put some questions, hadvolunteered the information that the governor had gone East for hishealth, and the house, she believed, was shut up--not shut so that shecould not effect an entrance to it. She would find her way through everyobstacle, Ethie thought, wondering vaguely at the strength which kepther up and made her feel equal to most anything as she followed herconductor through street after street, onward and onward, up the hill, where the long windows and turrets of a most elegant mansion werevisible. When asked at the hotel if she would not have a carriage, shehad replied that she preferred to walk, feeling that in this way sheshould expend some of the fierce excitement consuming her like an inwardfire. It had not abated one whit when at last the house was reached, anddismissing her guide she stood a moment upon the steps, leaning herthrobbing head against the door post, and summoning courage to ring thebell. Never before had she felt so much like an intruder, or so widelyseparated from her husband, as during the moment she stood at thethreshold of her home, hesitating whether to ring or go away and givethe matter up. She could not go away now that she had come so far, shefinally decided. She must go in and see the place where Richard lived, and so, at last, she gave the silver knob a pull, which reverberatedthrough the entire house, and brought Hannah, the housemaid, in a triceto see who was there. 

"Is Governor Markham at home?" Ethie asked, as the girl waited for herto say something. 

Governor Markham was East, and the folks all gone, the girl replied, staring a little suspiciously at the stranger who without invitation, had advanced into the hall, and even showed a disposition to makeherself further at home by walking into the drawing room, the door ofwhich was slightly ajar. 

"My name is Markham. I am a relative of the governor. I am from theEast, " Ethelyn volunteered, as she saw the girl expected someexplanation. 

Had Hannah known more of Ethelyn, she might have suspected something;but she had not been long in the family, and coming, as she did, fromSt. Louis, the story of her master's wife was rather mythical to herthan otherwise. That there was once a Mrs. Markham, who, for beauty, andstyle, and grandeur, was far superior to Mrs. James, the presentmistress of the establishment, she had heard vague rumors; while onlythat morning when dusting and airing Richard's room, she had stopped herwork a moment to admire the handsome picture which Richard had hadpainted, from a photograph of Ethie, taken when she was only seventeen. It was a beautiful, girlish face, and the brown eyes were bright andsoft, and full of eagerness and joy; while the rounded cheeks andpouting lips were not much like the pale thin woman who now stood in themarbled hall, claiming to be a relative of the family. Hannah neverdreamed who it was; but, accustomed to treat with respect everythingpertaining to the governor, she opened the door of the littlereception-room, and asked the lady to go in. 

"I'll send you Mrs. Dobson the housekeeper, " she said; and Ethie heardher shuffling tread as she disappeared through the hall and down thestairs to the regions where Mrs. Dobson reigned. 

Ethelyn was a little afraid of that dignitary; something in theatmosphere of the house made her afraid of everything, inspiring her asit did with the feeling that she had no business there--that she was atrespasser, a spy, whom Mrs. Dobson would be justified in turning fromthe door. But Mrs. Dobson meditated no such act. She was a quiet, inoffensive, unsuspicious, personage, believing wholly in GovernorMarkham and everything pertaining to him. She was canning fruit whenHannah came with the message that some of the governor's kin had comefrom the East, and remembering to have heard that Richard once had anuncle somewhere in Massachusetts, she had no doubt that this was adaughter of the old gentleman and a cousin of Richard's, especially asHannah described the stranger as youngish and tolerably good-looking. She had no thought that it was the runaway wife, of whom she knew morethan Hannah, else she would surely have dropped the Spencer jar she wasfilling and burned her fingers worse than she did, trying to crowd inthe refractory cover, which persisted in tipping up sideways and allways but the right way. 

"Some of his kin. Pity they are gone. What shall we do with her?" shesaid, as she finally pushed the cover to its place and blew the thumbshe had burned badly. 

"Maybe she don't mean to stay long; she didn't bring no baggage, " Hannahsaid, and thus reassured, Mrs. Dobson rolled down her sleeves and tyingon a clean apron, started for the reception-room, where Ethie sat likeone stupefied, or one who walks in a dream from which he tries invain to waken. 

This house, as far as she could judge, was not like that home on theprairie where her first married days were spent. Everything here wasluxurious and grand and in such perfect taste. It seemed a princelyhome, and Ethie experienced more than one bitter pang of regret that byher own act she had in all probability cut herself off from any part orlot in this earthly paradise. 

"I deserve it, but it is very hard to bear, " she thought, just as Mrs. Dobson appeared and bowing respectfully, began:

"Hannah tells me you are kin to the governor's folks, --his cousin, Ireckon--and I am so sorry they are all, gone, and will be yet for someweeks. The governor is at a water cure down East--strange you didn'thear of it--and t'other Mr. Markham has gone with his wife to Olney, and St. Paul, and dear knows where. Too bad, ain't it? But maybe you'llstay a day or two and rest? We'll make you as comfortable as we can. Youlook about beat out, " and Mrs. Dobson came nearer to Ethelyn, whose faceand lips were white as ashes, and whose eyes looked almost black withher excitement. 

She was very tired. The rapid journey, made without rest or foodeither, save the cup of tea and cracker she tried to swallow, wasbeginning to tell upon her, and while Mrs. Dobson was speaking she feltstealing over her the giddiness which she knew was a precursorto fainting. 

"I am tired and heated, " she gasped. "I could not sleep at the hotel oreat, either. I will stay a day and rest, if you please. Rich--GovernorMarkham will not care; I was traveling this way, and thought I wouldcall. I have heard so much about his house. "

She felt constrained to say this by way of explanation, and Mrs. Dobsonaccepted it all, warming up at once on the subject of the house--thatwas her weak point; while to show strangers through the handsome roomswas her delight. No opportunity to do this had for some time beenpresented, and the good woman's face glowed with the pleasure sheanticipated from showing the governor's cousin his house and grounds. But first the lady must have some dinner, and bidding her lay aside herbonnet and shawl and make herself at home, she hurried back to thekitchen and dispatched Hannah for the tender lamb-chop she was going tobroil, as that was something easily cooked, and the poor girl seemed sotired and feeble. 

"She looks like the Markhams, or like somebody I've seen, " she said, never dreaming of finding the familiar resemblance to "somebody she hadseen" in the picture hanging in Richard's room. 

What she would have done had she known who the stranger was is doubtful. Fortunately she did not know; but being hospitably inclined, and feelinganxious to show the governor's Eastern relatives how grand and nice theywere, she broiled the tender lamb, and made the fragrant coffee, andlaid the table in the cozy breakfast-room, and put on the little silverset, and then conducted her visitor out to dinner, helping her herself, and leaving the room with the injunction to ring if she wanted anything, as Hannah was within hearing. Terribly bewildered and puzzled withregard to her own identity, Ethie sat down to Richard's table, inRichard's house, and partook of Richard's food, with a strange feelingof quiet, and a constantly increasing sensation of numbness andbewilderment. Access to the house had been easier than she fancied; butshe could not help feeling that she had no right to be there, no claimon Richard's hospitality. Certainly she had none, if what she had heardat Clifton were true. But was it? There was some doubt creeping into hermind, though why Richard should wish to build so large and so fine ahouse just for himself alone she could not understand. She never guessedhow every part of that dwelling had been planned with a direct referenceto her and her tastes; that not a curtain, or a carpet, or a picture hadbeen purchased without Melinda's having said she believed Ethie wouldapprove it. Every stone, and plank and tack, and nail had in it athought of the Ethie whose coming back had been speculated upon andplanned in so many different ways, but never in this way--never just asit had finally occurred, with Richard gone, and no one there to welcomeher, save the servants in the kitchen, who, while she ate her solitarydinner, feeling more desolate and wretched than she had ever before feltin her life, wondered who she was, and how far they ought to go withtheir attentions and civilities. They were not suspicious, but took herfor what she professed to be--a Markham, and a near connection of thegovernor; and as that stamped her somebody, they were inclined to bevery civil, feeling sure that Mrs. James would heartily approve theircourse. She had rung no bell for Hannah; but they knew her dinner wasover, for they heard her as she went back into the reception-room, whereMrs. Dobson ere long joined her, and asked if she would like to seethe house. 

"It's the only thing we can amuse you with, unless you are fond ofmusic. Maybe you are, " and Mrs. Dobson led the way to a littlemusic-room, where, in the recess of a bow window a closed pianowas standing. 

At first Ethelyn did not observe it closely; but when the housekeeperopened it, and pushing back the heavy drapery, disclosed it fully toview, Ethie started forward with a sudden cry of wonder and surprise, while her face was deathly pale, and the fingers which came down with acrash upon the keys shook violently, for she knew it was her oldinstrument standing there before her--the one she had sold to procuremoney for her flight. Richard must have bought it back; for her sake, too, or rather for the sake of what she once was to him, not whatshe was now. 

"Play, won't you?" Mrs. Dobson said. But Ethie could not then havetouched a note. The faintest tone of that instrument would have maddenedher and she turned away from it with a shudder, while the rathertalkative Mrs. Dobson continued: "It's an old piano, I believe, thatbelonged to the first Mrs. Markham. There's to be a new one bought forthe other Mrs. Markham, I heard them say. "

Ethie's hands were tightly locked together now, and her teeth shut sotightly over her lips that the thin skin was broken, and a drop of bloodshowed upon the pale surface; but in so doing she kept back a cry ofanguish which leaped up from her heart at Mrs. Dobson's words. The"first Mrs. Markham, " that was herself, while the "other Mrs. Markham"meant, of course, her rival--the bride about whom she had heard atClifton. She did not think of Melinda as being a part of that household, "and the other Mrs. Markham, " for whom the new piano was to bepurchased--she thought of nothing but herself, and her ownblighted hopes. 

"Does the governor know for certain that his first wife is dead?" sheasked, at last, and Mrs. Dobson replied:

"He believes so, yes. It's five years since he heard a word. Of courseshe's dead. She must have been a pretty creature. Her picture is in thegovernor's room. Come, I will show it to you. "

Mrs. Dobson had left her glasses in the kitchen, so she did not noticethe white, stony face, so startling in its expression, as her visitorfollowed her on up the broad staircase into the spacious hall above, andon still further, till they came to the door of Richard's room, whichHannah had left open. Then for a moment Ethelyn hesitated. It seemedalmost like a sacrilege for her feet to tread the floor of that privateroom, for her breath to taint the atmosphere of a spot where the newwife would come. But Mrs. Dobson led her on until she stood in thecenter of Richard's room, surrounded by the unmistakable paraphernaliaof a man, with so many things around her to remind her of the past. Surely, this was her own furniture; the very articles he had chosen forthe room in Camden. It was kind in Richard to keep and bring them here, where everything was so much more elegant--kind, too, in him to redeemher piano. It showed that for a time, at least, he had remembered her;but alas! he had forgotten her now, when she wanted his love so much. There were great blurring tears in her eyes, and she could notdistinctly see the picture on the walk which Mrs. Dobson said was thefirst Mrs. Markham, asking if she was not a beauty. 

"Rather pretty, yes, " Ethie said, making a great effort to speaknaturally, and adding after a moment: "I suppose it will be taken downwhen the other Mrs. Markham comes. "

In Mrs. Dobson's mind the other Mrs. Markham only meant Melinda, and shereplied:

"Why should it? She knows it is here. She knew the other lady and likedher, too. "

"She knew me? Who can it be?" Ethie asked herself, remembering that thename she had heard at Clifton was a strange one to her. 

"This, now, is the very handsomest part of the whole house, " Mrs. Dobsonsaid, throwing open a door which led from Richard's room into a suite ofapartments which, to Ethie's bewildered gaze, seemed more like fairylandthan anything real she had ever seen. "This the governor fitted upexpressly for his wife and I'm told he spent more money here than in allthe upper rooms. Did you ever see handsomer lace? He sent to New Yorkfor them, " she said, lifting up one of the exquisitely wrought curtainsfestooned across the arch which divided the boudoir from the largesleeping room beyond. "This I call the bridal chamber, " she continued, stepping into the room where everything was so pure and white. "But, bless me, I forgot that I put on a lot of bottles to heat: I'll venturethey are every one of them shivered to atoms. Hannah is so careless. Excuse me, will you, and entertain yourself a while. I reckon you canfind your way back to the parlor. "

Ethelyn wanted nothing so much as to be left alone and free to indulgein the emotions which were fast getting the mastery of her. Covering herface with her hands, as the door closed after Mrs. Dobson, she sat for amoment bereft of the power to think or feel. Then, as things became morereal, as great throbs of heat and pain went tearing through her temples, she remembered that she was in Richard's house, up in the room whichMrs. Dobson had termed the bridal chamber, the apartments which had beenfitted up for Richard's bride, whoever she might be. 

"I never counted on this, " she whispered, as she paced up and down therange of rooms, from the little parlor or boudoir to the dressing roombeyond the bedroom, and the little conservatory at the side, where thechoicest of plants were in blossom, and where the dampness was so coolto her burning brow. 

It did not strike her as strange that Richard should have thought of allthis, nor did she wonder whose taste had aided him in making such ahome. She did not wonder at anything except at herself, who had missedso much and fallen into such depths of woe. 

"Oh, Richard!" she sighed, as she went back to the bridal chamber. "Youwould pity me now, and forgive me, too, if you knew what I am sufferinghere in your home, which can never, never be mine!"

She was standing now near the low window, taking in the effect of hersurroundings, from the white ground carpet covered with brilliantbouquets, to the unrumpled, snowy bed which looked so deliciously cooland inviting and seemed beckoning the poor, tired woman to its embrace. And Ethie yielded at last to the silent invitation, forgettingeverything save how tired, and sorry, and fever-smitten she was, and howheavy her swollen eyelids were with tears unshed, and the many nightsshe had not slept. Ethie's cheeks were turning crimson, and her pulsethrobbing rapidly as, loosing her long, beautiful hair, which of all hergirlish beauty remained unimpaired, and putting off her little gaiters, she lay down upon the snowy bed, and pressing her aching head upon thepillows, whispered softly to her other self--the Ethelyn Grant she usedto know in Chicopee, when a little twelve-year-old girl she fled fromthe maddened cow and met the tall young man from the West. 

"Governor Markham they call him now, " she said, "and I am Mrs. Governor, " and a wild laugh broke the stillness of the rooms kept sosacred until now. 

In the hall below Hannah overheard the laugh, and mounting the stairscast one frightened glance into the chamber where a tossing, moaningfigure lay upon the bed, with masses of brown hair falling about theface and floating over the pillows. 

Good Mrs. Dobson dropped one of the jars she was filling when Hannahcame with her strange tale, and leaving the scalding mass of pulp andjuice upon the floor, she hastened up the stairs, and with as stern avoice as it was possible for her to assume, demanded of Ethelyn what shewas doing there. But Ethie only whispered on to herself of divorces, andgovernors' wives-elect, and bridal chambers where she could rest sonicely. Mrs. Dobson and Mrs. Dobson's ire were nothing to her, and thegood woman's wrath changed to pity as she met the bright, restless eyes, and felt the burning hands which she held for a moment in her own. Itwas a pretty little hand--soft and white and small almost as a child's. There was a ring upon the left hand, too; a marriage ring, Mrs. Dobsonguessed, wondering now more than ever who the stranger was that had thusboldly taker possession of a room where none but the family ever came. 

"She is married, it would seem, " she said to Hannah, and then, asRichard's name dropped from Ethelyn's lips, she looked curiously at theflushed face so ghastly white, save where spots of crimson colored thecheeks, and at the mass of hair which Ethie had pushed up and off fromthe forehead it seemed to oppress with its weight. 

"Go, bring me some ice-water from the cellar, " Mrs. Dobson said toHannah, who hurried away on the errand, while the housekeeper, left toherself, bent nearer to Ethelyn and closely scrutinized her face; thenstepping to Richard's room, she examined the picture on the wall, wherethe hair was brushed back and the lips were parted like the lips andhair in that other room where the stranger was. 

Mrs. Dobson was a good deal alarmed--"set back, " as she afterwardexpressed it when telling the story to Melinda--and her knees fairlyknocked together as she returned to the sick-room, and bending againover the stranger asked, "Is your name Ethelyn?"

For an instant there was a look of consciousness in the brown eyes, andEthie whispered faintly:

"Don't tell him. Don't send me away. Let me stay here and die; it won'tbe long, and this pillow is so nice. "

She was wandering again, and satisfied that her surmises were correct, Mrs. Dobson lifted her gently up, and to the great surprise of Hannah, who had returned with the ice, began removing the heavy dress and theskirts so much in the way. 

"Bring some of Mrs. Markham's night-clothes, and ask me no questions, "she said to the astonished girl, who silently obeyed her, and thenassisted while Ethelyn was arrayed in Melinda's night-gown and made morecomfortable and easy than she could be in her own tight-fitting dress. 

"Take this to the telegraph office, " was Mrs. Dobson's next order, aftershe had been a few moments in the library, and Hannah obeyed, readingas she ran:

 "DAVENPORT, August--. "To MRS. JAMES MARKHAM, Olney:

 "There's a strange woman sick here. Please come home. "ELINOR DOBSON. "

The way was open for the dispatch, and in less than half an hour theoperator at Olney was writing out the message which would take Melindaback to Davenport as fast as steam could carry her. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

AT HOME

Mrs. James Markham had spent a few weeks with a party of Davenportfriends in St. Paul and vicinity, but she was now at home in Olney withher mother, whom she helped with the ironing that morning, showing aquickness and dexterity in the doing up of Tim's shirts and best tablelinen which proved that, although a "mighty fine lady, " as some of theOlneyites termed her, she had neither forgotten nor was above working inthe kitchen when the occasion required. The day's ironing was over now, and refreshed with a bath and a half-hour's sleep after it, she satunder the shadow of the tall trees, arrayed in her white marseilles, which, being gored, made her look, as unsophisticated Andy thought, mosttoo slim and flat. Andy himself was over at the Joneses that afternoon, and, down upon all fours, was playing bear with baby Ethelyn, whoshouted and screamed with delight at the antics of her childish uncle. Mrs. James was not contemplating a return to Davenport for three or fourweeks; indeed, ever since the letter received from Clifton with regardto Richard's sickness, she had been seriously meditating a flying visitto the invalid, who she knew would be glad to see her. It must be verydesolate for him there alone, she said; and then her thoughts went afterthe wanderer whom they had long since ceased to talk about, much lessthan to expect back again. Melinda was sadly thinking of her, andspeculating as to what her fate had been, when down the road from thevillage came the little messenger boy, who always made one's heart beatso fast when he handed out his missive. He had one now, and he broughtit to Melinda, who, thinking of her husband, gone to Denver City, felta thrill of fear lest something had befallen him. But no; the dispatchcame from Davenport, from Mrs. Dobson herself, and read that a strangewoman lay very sick in the house. 

"A strange woman, " that was all, but it made Melinda's heart leap upinto her throat at the bare possibility as to who the strange womanmight be. Andy was standing by her now reading the message, and Melindaknew by the flush upon his face, and the drops of perspiration whichstarted out so suddenly around his mouth, that he, too, shared hersuspicions. But not a word was spoken by either upon the subjectagitating them so powerfully. Melinda only said, "I must go home atonce--in the next train if possible, " while Andy rejoined, "I am goingwith you. "

Melinda knew why he was going, and when at last they were on the way, the sight of his honest-speaking face, glowing all over with eagernessand joyful anticipations, kept her own spirits up, and made what she sogreatly hoped for seem absolutely certain. It was morning when theyarrived, and were driven rapidly through the streets toward home. Thehouse seemed very quiet; every window and shutter, so far as they couldsee, was closed, and both experienced a terrible fear lest "the strangewoman" was gone. They could not wait for Hannah to open the door, and sothey went round to the basement, surprising Mrs. Dobson as she bent overthe fire, stirring the basin of gruel she was preparing for her patient. "The strange woman" was not gone. She was raving mad, Mrs. Dobson said, and talked the queerest things. "I've had the doctor, just as I knew youwould have done, had you been here, " she said, "and he pronounced itbrain fever, brought on by fatigue, and some great excitement orworriment. 'Pears like she thought she was divorced, or somebody wasdivorced, for she was talking about it, and showing the ring on herfourth finger. I hope Governor Markham won't mind it. 'Twas none of mydoings. She went there herself, and I first found her in the bed in thatroom where nobody ever slept--the bride's room, I call it, you know. "

"Is she there?" Melinda asked, in amazement, while Andy, who had beenstanding near the door which led up to the next floor, disappeared upthe stairs, leaving the women alone. 

He knew the way to the room designated, and went hurrying on until hereached the door, and there he paused, his flesh creeping with theintensity of his excitement, and his whole being pervaded with acrushing sense of eager expectancy. He had not put into words what orwhom he expected to find on the other side of the door he hardly daredto open. He only knew he should be terribly disappointed if hisconjectures proved wrong, and a smothered prayer rose to his lips, "Godgrant it may be the she I mean. "

The she he meant was sleeping now. The brown head which rolled sorestlessly all night was lying quietly upon the pillows, the burningcheek resting upon one hand, and the mass of long, bright hair tuckedback under one of Mrs. Dobson's own nightcaps, that lady having soughtin vain for such an article among her mistress' wardrobe. She did nothear Andy as he stepped softly across the floor to the bedside. Bendingcautiously above her, he hesitated a moment, while a great throb ofdisappointment ran through his veins. Surely that was not Ethie, withthe hollow cheeks and the disfiguring frill around her face, giving hermore the look of the new and stylish nurse Melinda had got fromChicago--the woman who wore a cap in place of a bonnet, and jabberedhalf the time in some foreign tongue, which Melinda said was French. Theroom was very dark, and Andy pushed back a blind, letting in such aflood of light that the sleeper started, and moaned, and turned herselfupon the pillow, while with a gasping, sobbing cry, Andy fell upon hisknees, and with clasped hands and streaming eyes, exclaimed:

"I thank Thee, Father of mercies, more than I can tell, for it isEthie--it is Ethie--it is Ethie, our own darling Ethie, come back to usagain; and now, dear Lord, bring old Dick home at once, and let us havea time of it. "

Ethie's eyes were opened and fixed inquiringly upon Andy. Something inhis voice and manner must have penetrated through the mists of deliriumclouding her brain, for the glimmer of a smile played round her lips, and her hands moved slowly toward him; then they went back again to herthroat and tugged at the nightcap strings which good Mrs. Dobson hadtied in a hard knot by way of keeping the cap upon the refractory head. Ethie did not fancy the cap any more than Andy, who, guessing herwishes, lent his own assistance to the untying of the strings. 

"You don't like the pesky thing on your head, making you look so like ascarecrow, do you?" he said gently, as with a jerk he broke the stringsand then threw the discarded cap upon the floor. 

Ethie seemed to know him for a moment, and, "Kiss me, Andy, " came feeblyfrom her lips. Winding his arms about her, Andy did kiss her many times, while his tears dropped upon her face and moistened the long hair, which, relieved from its confinement, fell in dark masses about herface, making her look more like the Ethelyn of old than she hadat first. 

"Was there a divorce?" she whispered, and Andy, in great perplexity, waswondering what she meant, when Melinda's step came along the hall, andMelinda entered the room together with Mrs. Dobson. 

"It's she--herself! It's our own Ethie!" Andy exclaimed, standing back alittle from the bed, but still holding the feverish hand which hadgrasped his so firmly, as if in that touch alone was rest and security. 

"I thought so, " and with a satisfied nod Mrs. Dobson put down her bowlof gruel and went down to communicate the startling news to Hannah, whonearly lost her senses in the first moment of surprise. 

"Do you know me, Ethie?" Melinda asked, but in the bright, rolling eyesthere was no ray of reason; only the lip quivered slightly, and Ethiesaid so sadly, so beseechingly, "Don't send me away, when I am so tiredand sorry. "

She seemed to have a vague idea where she was and who was with her, clinging closer to Andy, as if surest of him, and once when he bentover her, she suddenly wound her arms around his neck and whispered, "Don't leave me--it's nice to know you are with me; and don't let themput that dreadful thing on my head again. Aunt Van Buren said I was afright. Will Richard think so, too?"

This was the only time she mentioned her husband, though she talked ofClifton and Mrs. Pry, and the story of the divorce, and the dear littlechapel where she said God always came, bidding Andy kneel down and prayjust as they were doing there when the summer day drew to a close. 

"We must send for Dick, " Andy said; "but don't let's tell the whole;let's leave something to his imagination;" and so the telegram whichwent to Governor Markham read simply: "Come home immediately. Don't waitfor a single train. "

Richard had heard of Miss Bigelow's sudden departure, and had beensurprised to find how much he missed the light footsteps and therustling sound which had come from No. 101. He was a good dealinterested in Miss Bigelow, and when Mary told him of her leaving sounexpectedly and appearing so excited, there had for a moment flashedover him the wild thought, "Could it be?" No, it could not, he said; buthe questioned Mary as to the appearance of the lady in No. 101. "Was shevery handsome, with full, rosy cheeks, and eyes of chestnut brown?"

"She was rather pretty, " Mary said; "but her face was thin and pale, andher eyes, she guessed, were black. "

It was not Ethie, then--Richard had never believed it was--but he feltsorry that she was gone, whoever she might be, and Clifton was not sopleasant to him now as it had been at first. He was much better, and hadbeen once to the chapel, when up the three flights of stairs Perry cameand along the hall till he stopped at Room No. 102. There was a telegramfor Richard, who took it with trembling hands and read it with a blurbefore his eyes and something at his heart like a blow, but which wasborn of a sudden hope that, after many days and months and years ofwaiting, God had deigned to be merciful. But only for a brief moment didthis hope buoy him up. It could not be, he said; and yet, as he made hishasty preparations for his journey, he found the possibility constantlyrecurring to his mind, while the nearer he came to Davenport the moreprobable it seemed, and the more impatient he grew at every littledelay. There were several upon the road, and once, only fifty miles fromhome, there was a detention of four hours. But the long train moved atlast, and just as the sun was setting the cars stopped in the Davenportdepot, and as the passengers alighted the loungers whispered to eachother, "Governor Markham has come home. "

CHAPTER XXXVIII

RICHARD AND ETHELYN

Arrived at Davenport, and so near his home that he could discern itsroofs and chimneys, the hope which had kept Richard up all through hisrapid journey began to give way, and he hardly knew what or whom heexpected to find, as he went up the steps to his house and rang the doorbell. Certainly not Andy--he had not thought of him--and his pulsequickened with a feeling of eagerness and hope renewed when he caughtsight of his brother's beaming face and felt the pressure of his broadhand. In his delight Andy kissed his brother two or three times duringthe interval it took to get him through the hall into the receptionroom, where they were alone. Arrived there, Andy fell to capering acrossthe floor, while Richard looked on, puzzled to decide whether his weakbrother had gone wholly daft or not. Recollecting himself at last, andassuming a more sober attitude, Andy came close to him and whispered:

"Dick, you ought to be thankful, so thankful and glad that God has beenkind at last and heard our prayers, just as I always told you he would. Guess who is upstairs, ravin' crazy by spells, and quiet as a Maltesekitten the rest of the time? I'll bet, though, you'll never guess, itis so strange? Try, now--who do you think it is?"

"Ethelyn, " came in a whisper from Richard's lips, and rathercrestfallen, the simple Andy said, "Somebody told you, I know; but youare right. Ethie is here--came when we all was gone--said she was aconnection of yourn, and so Miss Dobson let her in, and treated her up, and showed her the house, and left her in them rooms you fixed a purposefor her. You see Miss Dobson had some truck she was canning, and shestayed downstairs so long that when she went back she found Ethie hadtaken possession of that bed where nobody ever slept, and was burnin' upwith fever and talkin' the queerest kind of talk about divorces, and allthat, and there was something in her face made Miss Dobson mistrust whoshe was, and she telegraphed for Melinda and me--or rather forMelinda--and I came out with her, for I knew in a minit who the strangewoman was. But she won't know you, Dick. She don't know me, though shelays her head on my arm and snugs up to me awful neat. Will you go nowto see her?"

The question was superfluous, for Richard was halfway up the stairs, followed close by Andy, who went with him to the door of Ethie's room, and then stood back, thinking it best for Richard to go in alone. 

Ethelyn was asleep, and Melinda sat watching her. She knew it wasRichard who came in, for she had heard his voice in the hall, andgreeting him quickly, arose and left the room, whispering: "If shewakes, don't startle her. Probably she will not know you. "

Then she went out, and Richard was alone with the wife he had not seenfor more than five weary years. It was very dark in the room, and ittook him a moment to accustom himself to the light enough to discoverthe figure lying so still before him, the pale eyelids closed, and thelong eyelashes resting upon the crimson cheek. The lips and foreheadwere very white, but the rest of the face was purple with fever, and asthat gave the cheeks a fuller, rounder look, she did not at first seemgreatly changed, but looked much as she did the time he came fromWashington and found her so low. The long hair which Andy would not haveconfined in a cap was pushed back from her brow, and lay in tangledmasses upon the pillow, while her hands were folded one within the otherand rested outside the covering. And Richard touched her handsfirst--the little, soft, white hands he used to think so pretty, andwhich he now kissed so softly as he knelt by the bedside and tried tolook closely into Ethie's face. 

"My poor, sick darling, God knows how glad I am to have you back, " hemurmured, and his tears dropped like rain upon the hands he pressed sogently. Then softly caressing the pale forehead, his fingers threadedthe mass of tangled hair, and his lips touched the hot, burning oneswhich quivered for a moment, and then said, brokenly:

"A dream--all a dream. I've had it so many times. "

She was waking, and Richard drew back a step or two, while the bright, restless eyes moved round the room as if in quest of someone. 

"It's very dark, " she said, and turning one of the shutters Richard cameback and stood just where the light would fall upon his face as itdid on hers. 

He saw now how changed she was; but she was none the less dear to himfor that, and he spoke to her very tenderly:

"Ethie, darling, don't you know me? I am Richard, your husband, and I amso glad to get you back. "

There did seem to be a moment's consciousness, for there crept into theeyes a startled, anxious look as they scanned Richard's face; then thelip quivered again, and Ethie said pleadingly:

"Don't send me away. I am so tired, and the road was so long. I thoughtI would never get here. Let me stay. I shall not be bad any more. "

Then, unmindful of consequences, Richard gathered her in his arms, andheld her there an instant in a passionate embrace, which left her paleand panting, but seemed to reassure her, for when he would have laid herback upon the pillow, she said to him, "No, not there--on your arm--so. Yes, that's nice, " and an expression of intense satisfaction stole intoher face as she nestled her head close to Richard's bosom, and, closingher eyes, seemed to sleep again. And Richard held her thus, forgettinghis own fatigue, and refusing to give up his post either to Andy orMelinda, both of whom ventured in at last, and tried to make him takesome refreshment and rest. 

"I am not hungry, " he said, "and it is rest enough to be with Ethelyn. "

Much he wondered where she had come from, and Melinda repeated allEthelyn had said which would throw any light upon the subject. 

"She has talked of the Nile, and St. Petersburg, and the Hellespont, andthe ship which was bringing her to Richard, and of Chicopee, but it wasdifficult telling how much was real, " Melinda said, adding, "She talkedof Clifton, too; and were it possible, I should say she came direct fromthere, but that could not be. You would have known if she had beenthere. What was the number of your room?"

"102, " Richard replied, a new revelation dawning upon him, while Melindarejoined:

"That is the number she talks about--that and 101. Can it be that shewas there?"

Richard was certain of it. The Miss Bigelow who had interested him somuch lay there in his arms, his own wife, who was, if possible, tenfolddearer to him now than when he first held her as his bride. He knew shewas very sick, but she would not die, he said to himself. God had notrestored her to him just to take her away again, and make his desolationmore desolate. Ethie would live. And surely if love, and nursing, andtender care were of any avail to save the life which at times seemedfluttering on the very verge of the grave, Ethelyn would live. Nothingwas spared which could avail to save her, and even the physician, whohad all along done what he could, seemed to redouble his efforts when heascertained who his patient was. 

Great was the surprise, and numerous the remarks and surmises of thecitizens, when it was whispered abroad that the strange woman lying sosick in the governor's house was no other than the governor's wife, about whom the people had speculated so much. Nor was it long ere thenews went to Camden, stirring up the people there, and bringing Mrs. Miller at once to Davenport, where she stayed at a hotel until such timeas she could be admitted to Ethelyn's presence. 

Mrs. Markham, senior, was washing windows when Tim Jones brought her theletter bearing the Davenport postmark. Melinda had purposely abstainedfrom writing home until Richard came; and so the letter was in hishandwriting, which his mother recognized at once. 

"Why, it's from Richard!" she exclaimed. "I thought he wouldn't staylong at Clifton. I never did believe in swashin' all the time. A bath inthe tin washbasin does me very well, " and the good woman wiped herwindow leisurely, and even put it back and fastened the side-slat in itsplace before she sat down to see what Richard had written. 

Tim knew what he had written, for in his hat was another letter fromMelinda, for his mother, which he had opened, his feet going off into akind of double shuffle as he read that Ethelyn had returned. She hadbeen very cold and proud to him; but he had admired her greatly, andremembered her with none but kindly feelings. He was a little anxious toknow what Mrs. Markham would say, but as she was in no hurry to open herletter, and he was in a hurry to tell his mother the good news, he badeher good-morning, and mounting his horse, galloped away toward home. 

"I hope he's told who the critter was that was took sick in the house, "Mrs. Markham said, as she adjusted her glasses and broke the seal. 

Mrs. Markham had never fainted in her life, but she came very near itthat morning, feeling some as she would if the Daisy, dead, so long, hadsuddenly walked into the room and taken a seat beside her. 

"I am glad for Dick, " she said. "I never saw a man change as he has, pinin' for her. I mean to be good to her, if I can, " and Mrs. Markham'ssun-bonnet was bent low over Richard's letter, on which there weretraces of tears when the head was lifted up again. "I must let Johnknow, I never can stand it till dinner time, " she said, and a shrillblast from the tin horn, used to bring her sons to dinner, went echoingacross the prairie to the lot where John was working. 

It was not a single blast, but peal upon peal, a loud, prolonged sound, which startled John greatly, especially as he knew by the sun that itcould not be twelve o'clock. 

"Blows as if somebody was in a fit, " he said, as he took long and rapidstrides toward the farmhouse. 

His mother met him in the lane, letter in hand, and her face white withexcitement as she said below her breath:

"John, John, oh! John, she's come. She's there at Richard's--sick withthe fever, and crazy; and Richard is so glad. Read what he says. "

She did not say who had come, but John knew, and his eyes were dim withtears as he took the letter from his mother's hand, and read it, walkingbeside her to the house. 

"I presume they doctor her that silly fashion, with little pills thesize of a small pin head. Melinda is so set in her way. She ought tohave some good French brandy if they want to save her. I'd better gomyself and see to it, " Mrs. Markham said, after they had reached thehouse, and John, at her request, had read the letter aloud. 

John did not quite fancy his mother's going, particularly as Richard hadsaid nothing about it, but Mrs. Markham was determined. 

"It was a good way to make it up with Ethelyn, to be there when she cometo, " she thought, and so, leaving her house-cleaning to itself, and Johnto his bread and milk, of which he never tired, she packed a littletraveling bag, and taking with her a bottle of brandy, started on thenext train for Davenport, where she had never been. 

Aunt Barbara was not cleaning house. She was cutting dried caraway seedin the garden, and thinking of Ethie, wondering why she did not write, and hoping that when she did she would say that she had talked withRichard, and made the matter up. Ever since hearing that he was atClifton, in the next room to Ethie, Aunt Barbara had counted upon aspeedy reconciliation, and done many things with a direct reference tothat reconciliation. The best chamber was kept constantly aired, withbouquets of flowers in it, in case the happy pair, "as good as justmarried, " should come suddenly upon her. Ethie's favorite loaf cake wasconstantly kept on hand, and when Betty suggested that they should letUncle Billy cut down that caraway seed, "and heave it away, " the goodsoul objected, thinking there was no telling what would happen, and itwas well enough to save such things as anise and caraway. So, in her bigcape bonnet, she was cutting her branches of herbs, when Charlie Howardlooked over the garden gate with "Got a letter for you. "

"It ain't from her. It's from--why, it's from Richard, and he is inDavenport, " Aunt Barbara exclaimed, as she sat down in a garden chair toread the letter which was not from Ethie. 

Richard did not say directly to her that she must come, but Aunt Barbarafelt an innate conviction that her presence would not be disagreeable, even if Ethie lived, while "if she died, " and Aunt Barbara's heart gavea great throb as she thought it, "if Ethie died she must be there, " andso her trunk was packed for the third time in Ethie's behalf, and thenext day's train from Boston carried the good woman on her way toDavenport. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

RECONCILIATION

There had been a succession of rainy days in Davenport--dark, rainydays, which added to the gloom hanging over that house where theywatched so intently by Ethie's side, trembling lest the life they prayedfor so earnestly might go out at any moment, so high the fever ran, andso wild and restless the patient grew. The friends were all therenow--James, and John, and Andy, and Aunt Barbara, with Mrs. Markham, senior, who, at first, felt a little worried, lest her son should beeaten out of house and home, especially as Melinda manifested nodisposition to stint the table of any of their accustomed luxuries. Ashousekeeper, Mrs. Dobson was a little inclined at first to stand in aweof the governor's mother, and so offered no remonstrance when the teagrounds from supper were carefully saved to be boiled up for breakfast, as both Melinda and Aunt Barbara preferred tea to coffee, but when itcame to a mackerel and a half for seven people, and four of them men, Mrs. Dobson demurred, and Melinda's opinion in requisition, the resultwas that three fishes, instead of one and a half smoked upon thebreakfast table next morning, together with toast and mutton-chops. After that Mrs. Markham gave up the contest with a groan, saying, "theymight go to destruction their own way, for all of her. "

Where Ethelyn was concerned, however, she showed no stint. Nothing wastoo good for her, no expense too great, and next to Richard and Andy, she seemed more anxious, more interested than anyone for the sick girlwho lay so insensible of all that was passing around her, save at briefintervals when she seemed for an instant to realize where she was, forher eyes would flash about the room with a frightened, startled look, and then seek Richard's face with a wistful, pleading expression, as ifasking not to cast her off, not to send her back into the dreary worldwhere she had wandered so long alone. The sight of so many seemed toworry her, for she often talked of the crowd at the Clifton depot, saying they took her breath away; and once, drawing Andy's face down toher, she whispered to him, "Send them back to the Cure, all but hisroyal highness"--pointing to Richard--"and Anna, the prophetess, shecan stay. "

This was Aunt Barbara, to whom Ethelyn clung as a child to its mother, missing her the moment she left the room, and growing quiet as soon asshe returned. It was the same with Richard. She seemed to know when hequitted her side, and her eyes watched the door eagerly till he cameback to her again. At the doctor's suggestion, all were at last banishedfrom the sick-room except Aunt Barbara, and Richard, and Nick Bottom, asshe persisted in calling poor Andy, who was terribly perplexed to knowwhether he was complimented or not, and who eventually took to studyingShakspere to find out who Bottom was. Those were trying days to Richard, who rarely left Ethie's bedside, except when it was absolutelynecessary. She was more quiet with him, and would sometimes sleep forhours upon his arm, with one hand clasped in Aunt Barbara's, and theother held by Andy. At other times, when the fever was on, no armavailed to hold her as she tossed from side to side, talking of thingsat which a stranger would have marveled, and which made Richard's heartache to its very core. At times she was a girl in Chicopee, and all thepast as connected with Frank Van Buren was lived over again; then shewould talk of Richard, and shudder as she recalled the dreary, dreadfulday when the honeysuckles were in blossom, and he came to make herhis wife. 

"It was wrong, all wrong. I did not love him then, " she said, "norafterward, on the prairie, nor anywhere, until I went away, and foundwhat it was to live without him. "

"And do you love him now?" Richard asked her once when he sat alone withher. 

There was no hesitancy on her part, no waiting to make up an answer. Itwas ready on her lips, "Yes, oh, yes!" and the weak arms liftedthemselves up and were wound around his neck with a pressure almoststifling. How much of this was real Richard could not tell, but heaccepted it as such, and waited impatiently for the day when the fulllight of reason should return and Ethie be restored to him. There wasbut little of her past life which he did not learn from her ravings, andso there was less for her to tell him when at last the fever abated, andhis eyes met hers with a knowing, rational expression. Andy was alonewith her when the change first came. The rain, which had fallen sosteadily, was over, and out upon the river the sunlight was softlyfalling. At Andy's earnest entreaty, Richard had gone for a littleexercise in the open air, and was walking slowly up and down the broadpiazza, while Aunt Barbara slept, and Andy kept his vigils by Ethelyn. She, too, was sleeping quietly, and Andy saw the great drops ofperspiration standing upon her brow and beneath her hair. He knew it wasa good omen, and on his knees by the bedside, with his face in hishands, he prayed aloud, thanking God for restoring Ethelyn to them, andasking that they might all be taught just how to make her happy. A faintsound between a moan and a sob roused him and, looking up, he saw thegreat tears rolling down Ethie's cheeks, while her lips moved as if theywould speak to him. 

"Andy, dear old Andy! is it you, and are you glad to have me back?" shesaid, and then all Andy's pent-up feelings found vent in a storm oftears and passionate protestations of love and tenderness for hisdarling sister. 

She remembered how she came there, and seemed to understand why Andy wasthere, too; but the rest was a little confused. Was Aunt Barbara there, or had she only dreamed it?

"Aunt Barbara is here, " Andy said, and then, with the same frightened, anxious look her face had so often worn during her illness, Ethie said:"Somebody else has sat by me and held my head and hands, and kissed me!Andy, tell me--was that Richard?--and did he kiss me, and is he gladto find me?"

She was gazing fixedly at Andy, who replied: "Yes, Dick is here. He'sglad to have you back. He's kissed you more than forty times. He don'tremember nothing. ''

"And the divorce, Andy--is the story true, and am I not his wife?"

"I never heard of no divorce, only what you said about one in yourtantrums. Dick would as soon have cut off his head as got such a thing, "Andy replied. 

Ethelyn knew she could rely on what Andy said, and a heartfelt "ThankGod! It is more than I deserve!" fell from her lips, just as a step washeard in the hall. 

"That's Dick, --he's coming, " Andy whispered, and hastily withdrawing heleft the two alone together. 

It was more than an hour before even Aunt Barbara ventured into theroom, and when she did she knew by the joy written on Richard's face andthe deep peace shining in Ethie's eyes that the reconciliation had beencomplete and perfect. Every error had been confessed, every faultforgiven, and the husband and wife stood ready now to begin the worldanew, with perfect love for and confidence in each other. Ethie hadacknowledged all her faults, the greatest of which was the giving herhand to one from whom she withheld her heart. 

"But you have that now, " she said. "I can truly say that I love you farbetten than ever frank Van Buren was loved, and I know you to be worthy, too. I have been so wicked, Richard, --so wilful and impatient, --that Iwonder you have not learned to hate my very name. I may be wilful still. My old hot temper is not all subdued, though I hope I am a better womanthan I used to be when I cared for nothing but myself. God has been sogood to me who have forgotten Him so long; but we will serve Himtogether now. "

As Ethie talked she had nestled closer and closer to her husband, whosearms encircled her form and whose face bent itself down to hers, while arain of tears fell upon her hair and forehead as the strong man, --thegrave Judge and the honored Governor, --confessed where he, too, had beenin fault, and craving his young wife's pardon, ascribed also to God thepraise for bringing them both to feel their dependence on Him, as wellas to see this day, the happiest of their lives. 

Gradually, as she could bear it, the family came in one by one to seeher, Mrs. Markham, Sen. , waiting till the very last, and refusing to gountil Ethelyn had expressed a wish to see her. 

"I was pretty hard on her, I s'pose, and it would not be strange if shelaid it up against me, " she said to Melinda; but Ethie had nothingagainst her now. 

The deep waters through which she had passed had obliterated all tracesof bitterness toward anyone, and when her mother-in-law came in shefeebly extended her hand and whispered: "I'm too tired, mother, to talkmuch, but kiss me once for the sake of what we are going to be toeach other. "

Mrs. Markham was not naturally a bad or a hard woman, either. She wasonly unfortunate that her ideas had run in one rut so long without anyjolt to throw them out. Circumstances had greatly softened her, andEthie's words touched her deeply. 

"I was mighty mean to you sometimes, Ethelyn, and I've been sorry forit, " she said, as she stooped to kiss her daughter-in-law, and thenhurried from the room, "Only to think, she called me mother, " she saidto Melinda, to whom she reported the particulars of her interview withEthelyn--"me, who had been meaner than dirt to her--called me mother, when I used to mistrust her she didn't think any more of me than if I'dbeen an old squaw. I shan't forget it right away. "

Perhaps the sweetest, most joyful tears Ethelyn shed that day were thosewhich came to her eyes when they brought her Ethelyn, her namesake, thelittle three-year-old, who pushed her brown curls back from her babyface with such a womanly air, and said:

"I'se glad to see Aunt Ethie. I prays for her ever' night. Uncle Andytold me so. I loves you, Aunt Ethie. "

She was a beautiful little creature, and her innocent prattle andengaging manners did much toward bringing the color back to Ethie'scheeks and the brightness to her eyes. Those days of convalescence wereblissful ones, for now there was no shadow of a cloud resting on thedomestic horizon. Between husband and wife there was perfect love, andin his newly born happiness, Richard forgot the ailments which had senthim an invalid to Clifton, while Ethie, surrounded by every luxury whichlove could devise or money procure, and made each hour to feel how dearshe was to those from whom she had been so long estranged, grew fresh, and young, and pretty again; so that when, early in December, Mrs. Dr. Van Buren came to Davenport to see her niece, she found her morebeautiful far than she had been in her early girlhood, when the boyishFrank had paid his court to her. Poor little Nettie was dead. Her lifehad literally been worried out of her; and during those September days, when Ethelyn was watched and tended so carefully, she had turned herselfwearily upon her pillow, and just as the clock was striking the hour ofmidnight, asked of the attendant:

"Has Frank come yet?"

"Not yet. Do you want anything?"

"No, nothing. Is mother here?"

"She was tired out, and has gone to her room to rest. Shall I call her?"

"No, no matter. Is Ethie in her crib? Please bring her here. Never mindif you do wake her. 'Tis the last time. "

And so the little sleeping child was brought to the dying mother, whowould fain feel that something she had loved was near her in the lasthour of loneliness and anguish she would ever know. Sorrow, disappointment, and cruel neglect had been her lot ever since she becamea wife, but at the last these had purified and made her better, and ledher to the Saviour's feet, where she laid the little child she held soclosely to her bosom, dropping her tears upon its face and pressing herfarewell kiss upon its lips. Then she put it from her, and bidding theservant remove the light, which made her eyes ache so, turned again uponher pillow, and folding her little, white, wasted hands upon her bosom, said softly the prayer the Saviour taught, and then glided as softlydown the river whose tide is never backward toward the shores of time. 

 * * * * *

About one Frank came home from the young men's association which heattended so often, his head fuller of champagne and brandy than it wasof sense, and every good feeling blunted with dissipation. But theNettie whose pale face had been to him so constant a reproach was goneforever, and only the lifeless form was left of what he once called hiswife. She was buried in Mount Auburn, and they made her a granderfuneral than they had given to her first-born, and then the householdwant on the same as ever until Mrs. Van Buren conceived the idea ofvisiting her niece, Mrs. Gov. Markham, and taking her grandchild withher. For the sake of the name she was sure the little girl would bewelcome, as well as for the sake of the dead mother. And she waswelcome, more so even than the stately aunt, whose deep mourning robesseemed to throw a kind of shadowy gloom over the house which she foundso handsome, and elegant, and perfectly kept that she would willinglyhave spent the entire winter there. She was not invited to do this, andsome time in January she went back to her home, looking out on BostonCommon, but not until she had eaten a Christmas dinner with Mrs. Markham, senior, at whose house the whole family were assembled onthat occasion. 

There was much good cheer and merriment there, and Ethie, in her richcrimson silk which Richard had surprised her with, was the queen of all, her wishes deferred to, and her tastes consulted with a delicacy anddeference which no one could fail to observe. And Eunice Plympton wasthere, too, waiting upon the table with Andy, who insisted upon standingat the back of Ethie's chair, just as he had seen the waiters do inCamden, and would have his mother ring the silver bell when anything waswanted. It was a happy family reunion, and a meet harbinger of thepeaceful days in store for our heroine--days which came and went sofast, until winter melted into spring, and the spring budded intoblushing summer, and the summer faded into the golden autumn, and theautumn floated with feathery snowflakes into the chilly winter andDecember came again, bringing another meeting of the Markhams. But thistime it was at the governor's house in Davenport, and another was addedto the number--a pretty little waxen thing, which all through theelaborate dinner slept quietly in its crib, and then in the evening, when the gas was lighted in the parlors, and Mr. Townsend was there inhis gown, behaved most admirably, and lay very still in its fatherRichard's arms, until it was transferred from his to those of theclergyman, who in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghostbaptized it "Daisy Adelaide Grant. "