THE DESERTED HUSBAND
Richard had been very successful in St. Louis. The business which took
him there had been more than satisfactorily arranged. He had collected a
thousand-dollar debt he never expected to get, and had been everywhere
treated with the utmost deference and consideration, as a man whose
worth was known and appreciated. But Richard was ill at ease, and his
face wore a sad, gloomy expression, which many remarked, wondering what
could be the nature of the care so evidently preying upon him. Do what
he might, he could not forget the white, stony face which had looked at
him so strangely in the gray morning, nor shut out the icy tones in
which Ethie had last spoken to him. Besides this, Richard was thinking
of all he had said to her in the heat of passion, and wishing he could
recall it in part at least. He was very indignant, very angry still, for
he believed her guilty of planning to meet Frank Van Buren at the party
and leave him at home, while his heart beat with keen throbs of pain
when he remembered that Ethie's first love was not given to him--that
she would have gone to her grave more willingly than she went with him
to the altar; but he need not have been so harsh with her--that was no
way to make her love him. Kindness must win her back should she ever be
won, and impatient to be reconciled, if reconciliation were now
possible, Richard chafed at the necessary delays which kept him a day
longer in St. Louis than he had at first intended.
Ethie had been gone just a week when he at last found himself in the
train which would take him back to Camden. First, however, he must stop
at Olney; the case was imperative--and so he stepped from the train one
snowy afternoon when the February light shone cold and blue upon the
little town and the farmhouse beyond. His brothers were feeding their
flocks and herds in the rear yard to the east; but they came at once to
greet him, and ask after his welfare. The light snow which had fallen
that day was lying upon the front door-steps undisturbed by any track,
so Richard entered at the side. Mrs. Markham was dipping candles, and
the faint, sickly odor of the hot melted tallow, which filled Richard's
olfactories as he came in, was never forgotten, but remembered as part
and parcel of that terrible day which would have a place in his memory
so long as being lasted. Every little thing was impressed upon his mind,
and came up afterward with vivid distinctness whenever he thought of
that wretched time. There was a bit of oilcloth on the floor near to the
dripping candles, and he saw the spots of tallow which had dropped and
dried upon it--saw, too, his mother's short red gown and blue woolen
stockings, as she got up to meet him, and smelled the cabbage cooking on
the 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 sometimes
assisted at the dipping. He had seen her short striped gown and blue
woolen stockings, and smelled the cooking cabbage, but they never struck
him with so great a sense of discomfort as they did to-day when he
stood, hat in hand, wondering why home seemed so cheerless. It was as if
the 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 no
thought that any harm had come to Ethie, and yet his first question was
for her. Had his mother heard from her while he was away, or did she
know if she was well?
Mrs. Markham's under jaw dropped, in the way peculiar to her when at all
irritated, but she did not answer at once; she waited a moment, while
she held the rod poised over the iron kettle, and with her forefinger
deliberately separated any of the eight candles which showed a
disposition to stick together; then depositing them upon the frame and
taking up another rod, she said:
"Miss Plympton was down to Camden three or four days ago, and she said
Ann Merrills, the chambermaid at the Stafford House, told her Ethelyn
had come to Olney to stay with us while you was away; but she must have
gone somewhere else, as we have not seen her here. Gone to visit that
Miss Amsden, most likely, that lives over the creek."
"What makes you think she has gone there?" Richard asked, with a sudden
spasm of fear, for which he could not account, and which was not in any
wise diminished by his mother's reply: "Ann said she took the six
o'clock train for Olney, and as Miss Amsden lives beyond us, it's likely
she 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 pressing
more and more heavily, and he wished that he had gone straight on
instead of stopping at Olney. But now there was nothing to do but to
wait with what patience he could command until the next train came and
carried him to Camden.
It was nine o'clock when he reached there, and a stiff northeaster was
blowing down the streets with gusts of sleet and rain, but he did not
think of it as he hurried on toward the Stafford House, with that
undefined dread growing stronger and stronger as he drew near. He did
not know what he feared, nor why he feared it. He should find Ethie
there, he said. She surely had returned from her visit by this time; he
should see the lights from the windows shining out upon the park, just
as he had seen them many other nights when hastening back to Ethie. He
would take the shortest route down that dark, narrow alley, and so gain
a moment of time. The alley was traversed at last, also the square, and
he 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. There
were lights below, and lights above, but the second floor was dark, the
shutters closed, and all about them a look of silence and desertion,
which quickened Richard's footsteps to a run. Up the private staircase
he went, and through the narrow hall, till he reached his door and found
it 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 what
Richard said, as he went down to the office for the key, which the clerk
handed him, with the remark: "Mrs. Markham went to Olney the very day
you left. I thought perhaps you would stop there and bring her home."
Richard did not reply, but hurried back to the darkened room, where
everything was in order; even Ethie's work-box was in its usual place
upon the little table, and Ethie's chair was standing near; but
something was missing--something besides Ethie--and its absence made the
room look bare and strange as the gas-light fell upon it. The piano was
gone or moved. It must be the latter, and Richard looked for it in every
corner, even searching in the bedroom and opening the closet door, as if
so ponderous a thing could have been hidden there! It was gone, and so
was 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 came
upstairs and saw him.
"Ho, Judge! is that you? Glad to see you back. Have been lonesome with
you and your wife both away. Do you know of the trade we made--she and
I--the very day you left? She offered me her piano for three hundred
dollars, and I took her up at once. A fine instrument, that, but a
little too small for her. Answers very well for Angeline. It's all
right, isn't it?" the talkative man continued, as he saw the blank
expression on Richard's face and construed it into disapprobation of
the bargain.
"Yes, all right, of course. It was her piano, not mine," Richard said
huskily. 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 yet
made 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 as
Harry came up the hall.
He had been to call upon a friend who occupied the floor above, and
seeing Richard came forward to speak to him, the look of shame upon his
face showing that he had not forgotten the circumstances under which
they had last met. As Harry came in Mr. Bailey disappeared, and so the
two 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 was
something afloat--something which had some connection with his foolish,
drunken talk and Ethie's non-appearance at the masquerade. Blaming
himself for what he remembered to have said, he would not now willingly
annoy Richard, and he answered, indifferently: "She went the same day
you did; that is, she left here on the six o'clock train. I know, for I
called in the evening and found her gone."
"Was she going to Olney?"
Richard's lips asked this rather than his will, and Harry replied, "I
suppose so. Isn't she there?"
It was an impudent question, but prompted purely by curiosity, and
Richard involuntarily answered, "She has not been there at all."
For several seconds the two men regarded each other intently, one
longing so much to ask a certain question, and the other reading that
question 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 the
door-post while his face was ashy pale. Harry had disliked Richard
Markham, whom he knew so strongly disapproved of his conduct; but he
pitied him now and tried to comfort him.
"It cannot be they went together. I saw no indications of such an
intention on the part of Frank. I hardly think he saw her, either. He
was going to--, he said, and should be back in a few days. Maybe she is
somewhere."
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 could
save her good name until the matter was further investigated; and
pulling Harry after him into his room, he sat down by the cold, dark
stove, over which he crouched shiveringly, while he said, "Ethie has
gone to visit a friend, most likely--a Mrs. Amsden, who lives in the
direction of Olney. So please, for her sake, do not say either now or
ever who went on the train with her."
"You have my word as a gentleman that I will not," Harry replied; "and
as 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 betraying
all the fear and anguish he tried so hard to hide.
Harry saw how cold he seemed, and with his own hands built a quick wood
fire, 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 nerve
of Harry's throbbed in sympathy as he sat watching the deserted husband
walking up and down the room, now holding his cold fingers to the fire
and now saying to himself: "She has only gone to Mrs. Amsden's. She will
be back to-morrow."
At last the clock struck eleven, and then Richard roused from his
lethargy and said: "The next train for Olney passes at twelve. I am
going there, Harry--going after Ethie. You'll see her coming back
to-morrow."
Richard hardly knew why he was going back to Olney, unless it were from
a wish to be near his own kith and kin in this hour of sorrow. He knew
that Ethie had gone, and the Mrs. Amsden ruse was thrown out for the
benefit 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 the
train, which an hour later dropped him upon the slippery platform in
Olney, and then went speeding on in the same direction Ethie once
had gone.
* * * * *
Mrs. Markham's candles were finished, and in straight even rows were
laid away in the candle-box, the good woman finding to her great
satisfaction that there were just ten dozen besides the slim little
thing she had burned during the evening, and which, with a long, crisp
snuff, like the steeple of a church, was now standing on the chair by
her bed. The hash was chopped ready for breakfast, the coffee was
prepared, and the kindlings were lying near the stove, where, too, were
hanging to dry Andy's stockings, which he had that day wet through. They
had sat up later than usual at the farmhouse that night, for Melinda and
her 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 come
after his mother and sister, and as he had a good deal to say, the clock
struck eleven before the guests departed, and Andy buttoned the door of
the woodshed and put the nail over the window by the sink. Mrs. Markham
had no suspicion of the trial in store for her, but for some cause she
felt restless and nervous, and even scary, as she expressed it herself.
"Worked too hard, I guess," she thought, as she tied on her
high-crowned, broad-frilled nightcap, and then as a last chore, wound
the clock before stepping into bed.
It was nearly midnight, and for some little time she lay awake listening
to the wind as it swept past the house, or screamed through the key-hole
of the door. But she did not hear the night train when it thundered
through the town; nor the gate as it swung back upon its hinges; nor the
swift step coming up the walk; nor the tap upon her window until it was
repeated, and Richard's voice called faintly, "Mother, mother, let
me in!"
Andy, who was as good as a watch-dog, was awake by this time, and with
his window open was looking down at the supposed burglar, while his hand
felt for some missile to hurl at the trespasser's head. With a start,
Mr. Markham awoke, and, springing up, listened till the voice said
again, "Mother, mother, it's I; let me in!"
The Japan candlestick Andy had secured was dropped in a trice, and
adjusting his trousers as he descended the stairs, he reached the door
simultaneously with his mother, and pulling Richard into the hall, asked
why he was there, and what had happened. Richard did not know for
certain that anything had happened. "Ethie was most probably with Mrs.
Amsden. She would be home to-morrow," and Andy felt how his brother
leaned against him and his hand pressed upon his shoulders as he went to
the 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 group
gathered there at midnight, and looking into each other's faces with a
wistful questioning as to what it all portended.
"It is very cold; make more fire," Richard said, shivering, as the sleet
came driving against the window; and in an instant all the morning
kindlings were thrust into the stove, which roared and crackled, and
hissed, and diffused a sense of warmth and comfort through the
shadowy room.
"What is it, Richard? What makes you so white and queer?" his mother
asked, trying to pull on her stockings, and in her trepidation jamming
her toes into the heel, and drawing her shoe over the bungle thus made
at the bottom of her foot.
"Ethie was not there, and has not been since the night I left. She sold
her piano, and took the money, and her trunk, and her clothes, and went
to visit Mrs. Amsden."
This was Richard's explanation, which Andy thought a mighty funny reason
for his brother's coming at midnight, and frightening them so terribly.
But his mother saw things differently. She knew there was something
underlying all this--something which would require all her skill and
energy to meet--and her face was almost as white as Richard's as she
asked, "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 a
bewildered, helpless way, which showed that all he knew upon the Amsden
question was what she had said herself, and that was hardly enough to
warrant a conclusion of any kind.
"Was there any reason why Ethelyn should go away?" she asked next, and
Richard's head dropped, and his eyes were cast down in shame, as
he replied:
"Yes; we--quar--. We differed, I mean, the night before I went away, and
I kept her from the masquerade, I would not let her go. I locked the
door, and now she has gone--gone to Mrs. Amsden's."
He persisted in saying that, as if he would fain make himself believe it
against his better judgment.
"What is it all about? What does it mean?" Andy asked in great
perplexity; and his mother answered for Richard:
"It means just this, as far as I can see: Ethelyn has got mad at Richard
for keepin' her in, which he or'to have done long ago, and so, with her
awful temper she has run away."
Mrs. Markham had defined it at last--had put into words the terrible
thing which had happened, the disgrace which she saw coming upon them;
and with this definition of it she, too, defined her own position with
regard to Ethelyn, and stood bristling all over with anger and
resentment, 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 a
look 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 the
mother in denouncing her so bitterly.
"I don't know, Andy," he said, "I hope not. I think not. She must have
gone 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 that
unseemly hour of the night. James' face was very pale as he listened,
and when his mother spoke of the disgrace which would come upon them
all, his hard fists were clenched for a moment, while he thought of
Melinda, and wondered if with her it would make any difference. Both
James and John had liked Ethelyn, and as the temper about which their
mother talked so much had never been exhibited to them, they were
inclined even now to take her part, and cautious John suggested that it
might not be so bad as his mother feared. To be sure, he didn't know how
hard Dick and Ethie might have spatted it, or what had gone before; but
anyway 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 was
powerless to act then, and stunned and silent he sat shivering by the
stove, 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 that
night, though James and John went back to bed, and Andy, too, crept up
to 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 not
run away, but might be at Mrs. Amsden's, where he was going for her
himself the moment the morning broke. He had claimed this privilege, and
his mother had granted it, knowing that many allowances would be made
for whatever Andy might say, and feeling that, on this account, he would
do 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 stooping
posture by the stove, when, at day-dawn, Andy drew on his butternut
overcoat, and tying a thick comforter about his neck, started for
Mrs. Amsden's.