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 morning
when Andy stood outside the door of her room, wringing his hands in
great distress at the tone of Richard's voice, and Ethelyn stayed in bed
all day with the headache, and was nursed by Eunice and Melinda, Ethelyn
did better, and was at least polite to those who called. She had said
she would not see them, and Richard had said she should; and as he
usually made people do as he liked, Ethelyn was forced to submit, but
cried herself sick. It was very desolate and lonely upstairs that day,
for Richard was busy in town, and the wind swept against the windows
with a mournful, moaning sound, which made Ethelyn think of dear old
Chicopee, and the lofty elms through whose swaying branches the same
October wind was probably sighing on this autumnal day. But, oh! how
vast the difference, she thought; for what would have been music if
heard at home among the New England hills, was agony here upon the
Western prairie.
Ethelyn was very wretched and hailed with delight the presence of
Melinda Jones, who came in the afternoon, bringing a basket of delicious
apples and a lemon tart she had made herself. Melinda was very sorry for
Ethelyn, and her face said as much as she stood by her side and laid her
hand softly upon the throbbing temples, pitying her so much, for she
guessed just how homesick she was there with Mrs. Markham, whose ways
had 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 Melinda
made a mistake; for though Ethelyn respected her husband, and had
learned to miss him when he was gone, and the day whose close was not to
bring him back would have been very long, she did not love him as a
husband should be loved; and so there was nothing to fall back upon when
other props gave way.
Wholly unsuspicious, Melinda sat down beside her, offering to brush her
hair, and while she brushed and combed, and braided, and admired the
glossy brown locks, she talked on the subject she thought most
acceptable to the young wife's ear--of Richard, and the great popularity
he had achieved, not only in his own county, but in neighboring ones,
where he stood head and shoulders above his fellows. There was talk once
of 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 that
the next election would take him to the gubernatorial mansion.
"Tim would work like a hero for Richard," she said. "He almost idolizes
him, and when he was up for Judge Tim's exertions alone procured for him
a hundred extra votes. Tim is a rough, half-savage fellow, but he has
the kindest of hearts, and is very popular with a certain class of men
who 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 the
governorship, hinting that Ethelyn could do much toward securing that
office for her husband. A little attention, which cost nothing, would go
a great ways, she said; and it was sometimes worth one's while to make
an effort, even if they did not feel like it. More than one rumor had
reached Melinda's ear touching the pride of Dick Markham's wife--a pride
which the Olney people felt keenly, and it the more keenly knowing that
they had helped to give her husband a name; they had made him Judge, and
sent him to Congress, and would like to make him governor, knowing well
that that no office, however high, would change him from the plain,
unpretending man, who, even in the Senate Chamber, would shake drunken
Ike Plympton's hand, and slap Tim Jones on the back if need be. They
liked their Dick, who had been a boy among them, and they thought it
only fair that his wife should unbend a little, and not freeze them so
with her lofty ways.
"She'll kick the whole thing over if she goes on so," Tim had said to
his father, in Melinda's hearing, and so, like a true friend to Richard,
Melinda determined to try and prevent the proud little feet from doing
so much mischief.
Nor was she unsuccessful. Ethelyn saw the drift of the conversation, and
though for an instant her cheek crimsoned with resentment that she
should be talked at by Melinda Jones, she was the better for the
talking, and the Olney people, when next they come in contact with her,
changed their minds with regard to her being so very proud. She was
homesick at first, and that was the cause of her coldness, they said,
excusing her in their kind hearts, and admiring her as something far
superior to themselves. Even Tim Jones got now and then a pleasant word,
for Ethelyn had not forgotten the hundred extra votes. She would have
repelled the insinuation that she was courting favor or that hopes of
the future governorship for Richard had anything to do with her changed
demeanor. She despised such things in others; but Ethelyn was human, and
it is just possible that had there been nothing in expectancy she would
not have submitted with so good a grace to the familiarities with which
she so constantly came in contact. At home she was cold and proud as
ever, for between her mother-in-law and herself there was no affinity,
and they kept as far apart as possible, Ethelyn staying mostly in her
room, and Mrs. Markham, senior, staying in the kitchen, where Eunice
Plympton still remained.
Mrs. Markham had fully expected that Eunice would go home within a few
days after Ethelyn's arrival; but when the days passed on, Ethelyn
showed no inclination for a nearer acquaintance with the kitchen--"never
even offering to wipe the teacups on washing days," as Mrs. Markham
complained to James, and John, and Andy--the good woman began to
manifest some anxiety on the subject, and finally went to Richard to
know if "he expected to keep a hired girl all winter or was Ethelyn
going to do some light chores."
Richard really did not know; but after a visit to his room, where Ethie
sat reading in her handsome crimson wrapper, with the velvet trimmings,
he decided that she could "not do chores," and Eunice must remain. It
was on this occasion that Washington was broached, Mrs. Markham
repeating what she heard Ethelyn saying to Melinda, and asking Richard
if he contemplated such a piece of extravagance as taking his wife to
Washington would be. In Richard's estimation there were other and
weightier reasons why Ethelyn should remain quietly at home that winter.
He did not especially mind the expense she might be to him, and he owned
to a weak desire to see her queen it over all the reigning belles, as he
was certain she would. Unbiased by his mother, and urged by Ethelyn, he
would probably have yielded in her favor; but the mother was first in
the field, and so she won the day, and Ethie's disappointment was a
settled thing. But Ethie did not know it, as Richard wisely refrained
from being the first to speak of the matter. That she was going to
Washington Ethelyn had no doubt, and this made her intercourse with the
Olneyites far more endurable. Some of them she found pleasant,
cultivated people--especially Mr. Townsend, the clergyman, who, after
the Sunday on which she appeared at the Village Hall in her blue silk
and elegant basquine, came to see her, and seemed so much like an old
friend when she found that he had met at Clifton, in New York, some of
her acquaintances. It was easy to be polite to him, and to the people
from Camden, who hearing much of Judge Markham's pretty bride, came to
call upon her--Judge Miller and his wife, with Marcia Fenton and Miss
Ella Backus, both belles and blondes, and both some-bodies, according to
Ethelyn's definition of that word. She liked these people, and Richard
found no trouble in getting her to return their calls. She would gladly
have stayed in Camden altogether, and once laughingly pointed out to
Richard a large, vacant lot, adjoining Mr. Fenton's, where she would
like to have her new house built.
There was a decided improvement in Ethelyn; nor did her old perversity
of temper manifest itself very strongly until one morning, three weeks
after her arrival in Olney, when Richard suggested to her the propriety
of his mother's giving them a party, or infair, as he called it. The
people expected it, he said; they would be disappointed without it, and,
indeed, he felt it was something he owed them for all their kindness to
him. Then Ethelyn rebelled--stoutly, stubbornly rebelled--but Richard
carried the point, and two days after the farmhouse was in a state of
dire confusion, wholly unlike the quiet which reigned there usually.
Melinda Jones was there all the time, while Mrs. Jones was back and
forth, and a few of the Olney ladies dropped in with suggestions and
offers of assistance. It was to be a grand affair--so far, at least, as
numbers were concerned--for everybody was invited, from Mr. Townsend and
the other clergy, down to Cecy Doane, who did dressmaking and tailoring
from house to house. The Markhams were very democratic in their
feelings, and it showed itself in the guests bidden to the party. They
were invited from Camden as well--Mr. and Mrs. Miller, with Marcia
Fenton and Ella Backus; and after the two young ladies had come over to
ascertain 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 the
benefit of her own experience in such matters. But having a party in
Mrs. Dr. Van Buren's handsome house, where the servants were all so well
trained, and everything necessary was so easy of access, or even having
a party at Aunt Barbara's, was a very different thing from having one
here under the supervision of Mrs. Markham, whose ideas were so many
years back, and who objected to nearly everything which Ethelyn
suggested. But by dint of perseverance on Melinda's part her scruples
were finally overcome; so that when the night of the party arrived the
house presented a very respectable appearance, with its lamps of
kerosene, 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 the
carpet taken from the floor, for they were going to dance, and Eunice's
mother had been working hard all day to keep her liege lord away from
the Cross Roads tavern so that he might be presentable at night, and
capable of performing his part, together with his eldest son, who played
the flute. She was out in the kitchen now, very large and important with
the office of head waiter, her hoops in everybody's way, and her face
radiant with satisfaction, as she talked to Mrs. Markham about what we
better do. The table was laid in the kitchen and loaded with all the
substantials, besides many delicacies which Melinda and Ethelyn had
concocted; for the latter had even put her hands to the work, and
manufactured two large dishes of Charlotte Russe, with pretty molds of
blanc-mange, which Eunice persisted in calling "corn-starch puddin',
with the yallers of eggs left out," There were trifles, and tarts, and
jellies, and sweetmeats, with raised biscuits by the hundred, and loaves
on loaves of frosted cake; while out in the woodshed, wedged in a tub of
ice, was a huge tin pail, over which James, and John, and Andy, and even
Richard had sat, by turns, stirring the freezing mass. Mrs. Jones'
little colored boy, who knew better how to wait on company than any
person there, came over in his clean jacket, and out on the doorstep was
eating chestnuts and whistling Dixie, as he looked down the road to see
if anybody was coming. Melinda Jones had gone home to dress, feeling
more like going to bed than making merry at a party, as she looped up
her black braids of hair and donned her white muslin dress with the
scarlet ribbons. Melinda was very tired, for a good share of the work
had fallen upon her--or rather she had assumed it--and her cheeks and
hands were redder than usual when, about seven o'clock, Tim drove her
over to Mrs. Markham's, and then went to the village after the dozen or
more of girls whom he had promised "to see to the doin's."
But Melinda looked very pretty--at least James Markham thought so--when
she stood up on tiptoe to tie his cravat in a better-looking bow than
he had done. Since the night when Richard first told her of Ethelyn, it
had more than once occurred to Melinda that possibly she might yet bear
the 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's
mind was not yet made up, and as she was too honest to encourage hopes
which might never be fulfilled, she would not even look up into the
handsome eyes resting so admiringly upon her as she tied the bow of the
cravat and felt James' breath upon her burning cheeks. She did, however,
promise to dance the first set with him, and then she ran upstairs to
see if Ethelyn needed her. But Eunice had been before her, and Ethelyn's
toilet was made.
Had this party been at Mrs. Dr. Van Buren's, in Boston, Ethelyn would
have worn her beautiful white satin with the fleecy lace; but here it
would be out of place, she thought, and so she left it pinned up in
towels at the bottom of her trunk, and chose a delicate lavender,
trimmed with white appliqué. Lavender was not the most becoming color
Ethelyn could wear, but she looked very handsome in it, with the soft
pearls upon her neck and arms. Richard thought her dress too low, while
modest Andy averted his eyes, lest he should do wrong in looking upon
the beautiful round neck and shoulders which so greatly shocked his
mother. "It was ridiculous and disgraceful for respectable wimmen folks
to dress like that," she said to Melinda Jones, who spoke up for
Ethelyn, saying the dress was like that of all fashionable ladies, and
in fact was not as low as Mrs. Judge Miller wore to a reception when
Melinda 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 sharp
point running down her back, and her skirts moppin' the floor for half a
yard behind."
Any superfluity of length in Ethelyn's skirts was more than
counterbalanced by Mrs. Markham's, who this night wore the heavy black
silk which her sister-in-law had matched in Boston ten years before. Of
course it was too narrow and too short, and too flat in front, Andy
said, admiring Ethelyn far more than he did his mother, even though the
latter wore the coiffure which Aunt Barbara had sent her, and a big
collar made from the thread lace which Mrs. Captain Markham, of
Chicopee, 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 be
perfectly 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 had
lectured him again on etiquette, and Richard did not bear lecturing here
as well as at Saratoga. There it was comparatively easy to make him
believe 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 his
word was law and gospel, and he was Judge Markham, the potentate of the
town, Ethelyn's criticisms were not palatable, and he hinted that he was
old 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 his
arm around her and kissed it away, if she had not kept him back, telling
him he would muss her dress. Still he was not insensible to her pretty
looks, and felt very proud of her, as she stood at his side and shook
the hands of the arriving guests.
By eight o'clock the Olneyites had assembled in full force; but it was
not until the train came in and brought the élite from Camden that the
party was fairly commenced. There was a hush when the three ladies with
veils on their heads went up the stairs, and a greater hush when they
came down again--Mrs. Judge Miller, splendid in green moire-antique,
with diamonds in her ears, while Marcia Fenton and Ella Backus figured
in white tarletan, one with trimmings of blue, the other with trimmings
of 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's
dress, and the style of hair worn by Marcia and Ella, whose heads had
been under a hairdresser's hands, and were curiosities to some of the
Olneyites. But all stiffness vanished with the sound of Jerry Plympton's
fiddle, and the girls on the west side of the room began to look at the
boys on the opposite side, who were straightening their collars and
glancing at their "pumps."
Ethelyn did not intend to dance, but when Judge Miller politely offered
to lead her to the floor, saying, as he guessed her thoughts, "Remember
the old adage, 'among the Romans, and so forth,'" she involuntarily
assented, and even found herself leading the first cotillion to the
sound of Jerry Plympton's fiddle. Mrs. Miller was dancing, too, as were
both Marcia and Ella, and that in a measure reconciled her to what she
was doing. They knew something of the lancers there on the prairie, and
terrible Tim Jones offered to call off "if Miss Markham would dance with
him and kind of keep him goin' straight."
Tim had laid a wager with a companion as rough as himself, that he would
dance with the proud beauty, and this was the way he took to win the
bet. The ruse succeeded, too, Richard's eyes and low-toned "Ethelyn!"
availing more than aught else to drive Ethelyn to the floor with the
dreadful Tim, who interlarded his directions with little asides of his
own, such as "Go it, Jim," "Cut her down there, Tom," "Hurry up
your cakes."
Ethelyn could have screamed out with disgust, and the moment the set was
over she said to Richard, "I shall not dance again to-night."
And she kept her word, until toward the close of the party when poor
Andy, who had been so unfortunate as to find everybody engaged or too
tired, 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 wants
to, and I hain't been in a figger to-night."
Ethelyn could not resist Andy, whose face was perfectly radiant as he
led 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 cracked
jokes and threw his feet about in the most astounding fashion. And
Ethelyn bore it all, feeling that by being there with such people she
had fallen from the pedestal on which Ethelyn Grant once stood. Her
lavender dress was stepped upon, and her point appliqué caught and torn
by the big pin Andy had upon his coat cuff. Taken as a whole, that party
was the most dreadful of anything Ethelyn had endured and she could have
cried for joy when the last guest had said good-night, and she was at
liberty to lay her aching head upon her pillow.
Four days after there was a large and fashionable party at Mrs. Judge
Miller's, in Camden, and Ethelyn went over in the cars, taking Eunice
with her as dressing-maid, and stopping at the Stafford House. That
night she wore her bridal robes, receiving so much attention that her
head was nearly turned with flattery. She could dance with the young men
of Camden, and flirt with them, too--especially with Harry Clifford,
who, she found, had been in college with Frank Van Buren. Harry Clifford
was a fast young man, but pleasant to talk with for a while and Ethelyn
found him very agreeable, saving that his mention of Frank made her
heart throb unpleasantly; for she fancied he might know something of
that page of her past life which she had concealed from Richard. Nor
were her fears without foundation, for once when they were standing
together near her husband, Harry said:
"It seems so strange that you are the Ethie about whom Frank used to
talk so much, and a lock of whose hair he kept so sacred. I remember I
tried 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 we
used to say, that he actually sold, or rather pawned, half of the
shining tress for the sum of five dollars. As the pawn was never
redeemed, I have the hair now, but never expected to meet with its fair
owner, who needs not to be told that the tress is tenfold more valuable
since I have met her, and know her to be the wife of our esteemed
Member," and young Clifford bowed toward Richard, whose face wore a
perplexed, dissatisfied expression.
He did not fancy Harry Clifford much, and he certainly did not care to
hear that he had in his possession a lock of Ethelyn's hair, while the
allusions to Frank Van Buren were anything but agreeable to him. Neither
did he like Ethelyn's painful blushes, and her evident desire for Harry
to stop. It looked as if the hair business meant more than he would like
to suppose. Naturally bright and quick, young Clifford detected
Richard's thoughts, and directly began to wonder if there were not
something somewhere which Judge Markham did not understand.
"I mean to find out," he thought, and watching an opportunity, when
Ethelyn was comparatively alone, he crossed to her side and said in a
low tone, "Excuse me, Mrs. Markham. If in my illusions to Frank Van
Buren I touched a subject which has never been discussed between
yourself 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 so
Harry Clifford held the secret which she had kept so carefully from
Richard, and that party in Camden was made the stepping-stone to much of
the wretchedness that afterward came to our heroine.