RICHARD'S HEIR
For one whole week the windows of Ethelyn's room were darkened as dark
as Mrs. Markham's heavy shawl and a patchwork quilt could make them. The
doctor rode to and from the farmhouse, looking more and more concerned
each time he came from the sick-room. Mrs. Jones was over almost every
hour, or if she did not come Tim was sent to inquire, his voice very low
and subdued as he asked, "How is she now?" while James' voice was lower
and sadder still as he answered, "There is no change." Up and down the
stairs Mrs. Markham trod softly, wishing that she had never harbored an
unkind thought against the pale-faced girl lying so unconscious of all
they were doing for her. In the kitchen below, with a scared look upon
her face, Eunice washed and wiped her dishes, and wondered if Richard
would get home in time for the funeral, and if he would order from
Camden a metallic coffin such as Minnie Dayton had been buried in; and
Eunice's tears fell like rain as she thought how terrible it was to die
so young, and unprepared, too, as she heard Mrs. Markham say to the
Methodist 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, whose
tears soaked through and through the leaf of the prayer-book, where was
printed the petition for the sick, and who improvised many a touching
prayer himself, kneeling by the wooden chair where God had so often met
and blessed him.
"Don't let Ethie die, Good Father, don't let her die; at least not till
she is ready, and Dick is here to see her--poor old Dick, who loves her
so much. Please spare her for him, and take me in her place. I'm good
for nothing, only I do hope I'm ready, and Ethie ain't; so spare her and
take me in her place."
This was one of Andy's prayers--generous, unselfish Andy--who would have
died for Ethelyn, and who had been in such exquisite distress since the
night when Eunice first found Ethelyn moaning in her room, with her
letter to Richard lying unfinished before her. No one had read that
letter--the Markhams were too honorable for that--and it had been put
away 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 came
a change. The shawl was pinned back from the window, admitting light
enough for the watchers by the bedside to see if the sufferer still
breathed. Life was not extinct, and Mrs. Markham's lips moved with a
prayer of thanksgiving when Mrs. Jones pointed to a tiny drop of
moisture beneath the tangled hair. Ethelyn would live, the doctor said,
but down in the parlor on the sofa where Daisy had lain was a little
lifeless form with a troubled look upon its face, showing that it had
fought for its life. Prone upon the floor beside it sat Andy, whispering
to the little one and weeping for "poor old Dick, who would mourn for
his lost boy."
Andy was very sorry, and to one who saw him that day, and, ignorant of
the circumstances, asked what was the matter that he looked so solemn,
he answered sadly, "I have just lost my little uncle that I wanted to
stand sponsor for. He only lived a day," and Andy's tears flowed afresh
as he thought of all he had lost with the child whose life numbered
scarcely twenty-four hours in all. But that was enough to warrant its
being now among the spirits of the Redeemed, and heaven seemed fairer,
more desirable to Andy than it had done before. His father was there
with Daisy and his baby uncle, as he persisted in calling Ethelyn's dead
boy until James told him better, and pointed out the ludicrousness of
the mistake. To Ethelyn Andy was tender as a mother, when at last they
let him see her, and his lips left marks upon her forehead and cheek.
She was perfectly conscious now, and when told they had sent for
Richard, manifested a good deal of interest, and asked when he would
probably be there. They were expecting him every train; but ere he came
the fever, which seemed for a time to have abated, returned with double
force and Ethelyn knew nothing of the kisses Richard pressed upon her
lips, 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 shadow
darkening around them spoke only in whispers, as they obeyed the
physician's orders. When Richard first came in Mrs. Markham wound her
arm 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's
hand in token of sympathy, and that was all that had passed between them
of greeting. For the rest of the day, Richard had sat constantly by
Ethelyn, watching the changes of her face, and listening to her as she
raved in snatches, now of himself, and the time he saved her from the
maddened cow, and now of Frank and the huckleberries, which she said
were ripening on the Chicopee hills. When she talked of this Richard
held his breath, and once, as he leaned forward so as not to lose a
word, he caught Aunt Barbara regarding him intently, her wrinkled cheek
flushing as she met his eye and guessed what was in his mind. If Richard
had needed any confirmation of his suspicions, that look on transparent
Aunt Barbara's face would have confirmed them. There had been something
between Ethelyn and Frank Van Buren more than a cousinly liking, and
Richard's heart throbbed powerfully as he sat by the tossing, restless
Ethelyn, moaning on about the huckleberry hills, and the ledge of rocks
where the wild laurels grew. This pain he did not try to analyze; he
only said to himself that he felt no bitterness toward Ethelyn. She was
too near to death's dark tide for that. She was Ethie--his darling--the
mother 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 he
did not know, he sat by her till the sun went down, and his mother came
for the twentieth time, urging him to eat. He had not tasted food that
day, and faint for the want of it he followed her to where the table had
been set, and supper prepared with a direct reference to his
particular taste.
He felt better and stronger when supper was over, and listened eagerly
while Andy and Eunice, who had been the last with Ethelyn before her
sudden illness, recounted every incident as minutely and reverently as
if speaking of the dead. Especially did he hang on what Andy said with
reference to her questioning him about the breaking of a wicked vow, and
when Eunice added her mite to the effect that, getting up for some
camphor for an aching tooth, she had heard a groan from Ethelyn's room,
and had found her mistress bending over a half-finished letter, which
she "reckoned" was to him, and had laid away in the portfolio, he waited
for no more, but hurried upstairs to the little bookcase where Eunice
had put the treasure--for it was a countless treasure, that unfinished
letter, which he read with the great tears rolling down his cheeks, and
his heart growing tenfold softer and warmer toward the writer, who
confessed to having wronged him, and wished so much that she dare tell
him all. What was it she had to tell? Would he ever know? he asked
himself, as he put the letter back where he found it. Yes, she would
surely tell him, if she lived, as live she must. She was dearer to him
now than she had ever been, and the lips unused to prayer, save as a
form, prayed most earnestly that Ethie might be spared. Then, as there
flashed upon him a sense of the inconsistency there was in keeping aloof
from God all his life, and going to him only when danger threatened, he
bowed his head in very shame, and the prayer died on his lips. But Andy
always prayed--at least he had for many years; and so the wise strong
brother sought the simple weaker one, and asked him to do what he had
not power to do.
Andy's swollen eyes and haggard face bore testimony to his sorrow, and
his voice was very low and earnest, as he replied: "Brother Dick, I'm
prayin' all the time. I've said that prayer for the sick until I've worn
it threadbare, and now every breath I draw has in it the petition, 'We
beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord.' There's nothing in that about
Ethie, it's true; but God knows I mean her, and will hear me all
the same."
There was a touching simplicity in Andy's faith, which went to the heart
of Richard, making him feel of how little avail was knowledge or wisdom
or position if there was lacking the one thing needful, which Andy so
surely possessed. That night was a long, wearisome one at the farmhouse;
but when the morning broke hope and joy came with it, for Ethelyn was
better, and in the brown eyes, which unclosed so languidly, there was a
look of consciousness, which deepened into a look of surprise and joyful
recognition as they rested upon Aunt Barbara.
"Is this Chicopee? Am I home? Oh, Aunt Barbara, I am so glad! you can't
guess how glad, or know how tired and sorry your poor Ethie has been,"
came brokenly from the pale lips, as Ethelyn moved nearer to Aunt
Barbara and laid her head upon the motherly bosom, where it had so often
lain in the dear old Chicopee days.
She did not notice Richard, or seem to know that she was elsewhere than
in Chicopee, back in the old home, and Richard's pulse throbbed quickly
as he saw the flush come over Ethie's face, and the look of pain creep
into her eyes, when a voice broke the illusion and told her she was
still in Olney, with him and the mother-in-law leaning over the bed-rail
saying, "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 own
one of the feverish little hands locked so fast in those of Aunt
Barbara. She did know then, and remember, and her lip quivered in a
grieved, disappointed way as she said, "Yes, Richard, I know now. I am
not at home, I'm here;" and the intonation of the voice as it uttered
the word "here," spoke volumes, and told Aunt Barbara just how homesick
and weary and wretched her darling had been here. She must not talk
much, the physician said, and so with one hand in Richard's and one in
Aunt Barbara's she fell away to sleep again, while the family stole out
to their usual avocations, Mrs. Markham and Eunice to their baking,
James and John to their work upon the farm, and Andy to his Bethel in
the wood-house chamber, where he repeated: "Blessed be the Lord God of
Israel who has visited and redeemed his people," and added at the
conclusion the Gloria Patri, which he thought suitable for the occasion.