ETHIE'S LETTERS
"Stafford House, Feb.--,
"Five o'clock in the afternoon.
"RICHARD: I am going away from you forever, and When you recall the
words you spoke to me last night, and the deep humiliation you put upon
me, you will readily understand that I go because we cannot live
together 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 did
not deserve that you should treat me so, for, bad as I may have been in
other 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 did
not know Frank Van Buren was within a thousand miles of Camden. The note
from him which I leave with this letter, and which you will remember was
brought to the door by a servant, who said it had been mislaid and
forgotten, will prove that I tell you truly. The other note which you
found, and which must have fallen from the box where I kept it, was
written years ago, when I was almost a little girl, with no thought that
I ever could be the humbled, wretched creature I am now.
"Let me tell you all about it, Richard--how I happened to be engaged to
Frank, and how wounded and sore and sorry I was when you came the second
time to Chicopee, and asked me to be your wife."
Then followed the whole story of Ethelyn's first love. Nothing was
concealed, nothing kept back. Even the dreariness of the day when Aunt
Van Buren came up from Boston and broke poor Ethie's heart, was
described and dwelt upon with that particularity which shows how the
lights, and shadows, and sunshine, and storms which mark certain events
in one's history will impress themselves upon one's mind, as parts of
the great joy or sorrow which can never be forgotten. Then she spoke of
meeting Richard, and the train of circumstances which finally led to
their 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, but
something rose up to prevent it, and after that it was very hard to
do so."
She did not tell him how she at first shrank away from his caresses with
a loathing which made her flesh creep, but she confessed that she did
not love him, even when taking the marriage vow.
"But I meant to be true to you, Richard. I meant to be a good wife, and
never let you know how I felt. You were different from Frank; different
from most men whom I had met, and you did annoy me so at times. You will
tell 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 of
human happiness, and, besides, I was too young to fully understand how
any amount of talent and brain could atone for absence of culture of
manner. Then, too, I was so disappointed in your home and family. You
know how unlike they are to my own, but you can never know how terrible
it was to me who had formed so different an estimate of them. I suppose
you will say I did not try to assimilate, and perhaps I did not. How
could I, when to be like them was the thing I dreaded most of all? I do
believe they tried to be kind, especially your brothers, and I shall
ever be grateful to them for their attempt to please and interest me
during that dreadful winter I spent alone, with you in Washington. You
did wrong, Richard, not to take me with you, when I wanted so much to
go. I know that, after what happened, you and your mother think you were
fully justified in what you did; but, Richard, you are mistaken. The
very means you took to avert a catastrophe hastened it instead. The
cruel disappointment and terrible homesickness which I endured hastened
our baby's birth, and cost its little life. Had it lived, Richard, I
should have been a better woman from what I am now. It would have been
something for me to love, and oh, my heart did ache so for an object on
which to fasten. I did not love you when I became your wife, but I was
learning to do so. When you came home from Washington I was so glad to
see you, and I used to listen for your step when you went to Olney and
it was time for you to return. Just in proportion as I was drawn toward
you, 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 night
I was taken so ill, and two or three times afterwards I thought I would
do it. Do you remember that night of our return from St. Paul? I found a
letter from Aunt Van Buren, and asked if you would like to hear it. You
seemed so indifferent and amost cross about it, that the good angel left
me, and your chance was lost again. There was something in that letter
about Frank and me--something which would have called forth questions
from 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 down
beside you, and smoothed your hair. I was nearer to loving you then than
I ever was before; but you put me off, and the impulse did not come
again--that is, the impulse of confession. A little more consideration
on your part for what you call my airs and high notions would have won
me to you, for I am not insensible to your many sterling virtues, and I
do believe that you did love me once. But all that is over now. I made a
great mistake when I came to you, and perhaps I am making a greater one
in going from you. But I think not. We are better apart, especially
after the indignities of last night. Where I am going it does not
matter to you. Pursuit will be useless, inasmuch as I shall have the
start of a week. Neither do I think you will search for me much. You
will he happier without me, and it is better that I should go. You will
give the accompanying note to Andy. Dear Andy, my heart aches to its
very core when I think of him, and know that his grief for me will be
genuine. I leave you Daisy's ring. I am not worthy to keep that, so I
give it back. I wish I could make you free from me entirely, if that
should be your wish. Perhaps some time you will be, and then when I am
nothing to you save a sad memory, you will think better of me than
you 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 for
that, and taking a fresh sheet, she wrote:
"DEAR, DARLING ANDY: If all the world were as good, and kind, and true
as you, I should not be writing this letter, with my arrangements made
for flight. Richard will tell you why I go. It would take me too long. I
have been very unhappy here, though none of my wretchedness has been
caused by you. Dear Andy, if I could tell you how much I love you, and
how sorry I am to fall in your opinion, as I surely shall when you hear
what has happened. Do not hate me, Andy, and sometimes when you pray,
remember Ethie, won't you? She needs your prayers so much, for she
cannot pray herself. I do not want to be wholly bad--do not want to be
lost forever; and I have faith that God will hear you. The beautiful
consistency of your everyday life and simple trust, have been powerful
sermons to me, convincing me that there is a reality in the religion you
profess. Go on, Andy, as you have begun, and may the God whom I am not
worthy to name, bless you, and keep you, and give you every possible
good. In fancy I wind my arms around your neck, and kiss your dear, kind
face, 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 with
the 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 for
a half-instant she wavered in the decision. But it was too late now. The
piano was sold and delivered, and if she tarried she had no special
excuse to offer for its sale. She must carry out her plan, even though
it proved the greatest mistake of her life. So the letters were directed
and put, with Daisy's ring, in the little drawer of the bureau, where
Richard would be sure to find them when he came back. Perhaps, as Ethie
put them there, she thought how they might be the means of a
reconciliation; that Richard, after reading her note, would move heaven
and earth to find her, and having done so, would thenceforth be her
willing slave; possibly, too, remembering the harsh things he had so
recently said to her, she exulted a little as she saw him coming back to
his 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 deathly
pale, her nerves were steady and her voice calm, as she gave orders
concerning her baggage, and then when it was time, turned the key upon
her 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 landlady
said, when she heard Mrs. Markham had gone; and so no wonder was created
among the female boarders, except that Ethelyn had not said good-by to a
single one of them. She was not equal to that. Her great desire was to
escape unseen, and with a veil drawn closely over her face, she sat in
the darkest corner of the ladies' room, waiting impatiently for the
arrival of the train, and glancing furtively at the people around her.
Groups of men were walking up and down upon the platform without, and
among them Frank Van Buren. On his way to the cars he had called again
at 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 the
train, which would take him to his next point of destination.
Never once dreaming how near he was to her, Ethie drew her veil and furs
more closely around her, and turning her face to the frosty window,
gazed drearily out into the wintry darkness as they sped swiftly on. She
hardly 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 from
scenes and associations which had been so distasteful to her--that she
was leaving a husband who had been abusive to her, and she verily
believed 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 path
of 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 was
achieved. They were skirting across the prairie now; and the lights of
Olney were in sight. Perhaps she could see the farmhouse, and rubbing,
with her warm palm, the moisture from the window-pane, she looked
wistfully out in the direction of Richard's home. Yes, there it was, and
a 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 she
thought of Andy so near, yet separated so widely from her, she turned
from the window and rested her tired head upon her hands while they
stayed at Olney. It was only a moment they stopped, but to Ethie it
seemed an age, and her heart almost stopped its beating when she heard
the voice of Terrible Tim just outside the car. He was not coming in, as
she found after a moment of breathless waiting; he was only speaking to
an acquaintance, who stepped inside and took a seat by the stove, just
as the train plunged again into the darkness, leaving behind a fiery
track to mark its progress across the level prairie.