THE INVESTIGATION
Richard knew she was not there--at least all the probabilities were
against it; and still he clung to the vague hope that Andy would bring
him some good news, and his thoughts went after the brother whose every
breath was a prayer, as he galloped over the snowy ground toward Mrs.
Amsden's. They were early risers there, and notwithstanding the sun was
just coming up the eastern sky, the family were at breakfast when Andy's
horse stopped before their gate, and Andy himself knocked at their door
for admission. Andy's faith was great--so great that, in answer to his
petitions, he fully expected to see Ethie herself at the table, when the
door was opened, and he caught a view of the occupants of the dining
room; but no Ethie was there, nor had been, as they said, in answer to
his eager questionings.
"What made you think she was here? When did she go away? Was she
intending to visit me?" Mrs. Amsden asked.
But Andy, while praying that Ethie might be there, had also asked that
if she were not, "he needn't make a fool of himself, nor let the cat out
of the bag," and he didn't; he merely replied:
"She left home a few days ago. Dick was in St. Louis, and it was
lonesome stayin' alone. I'll find her, most likely, as she is
somewhere else."
Andy was in his saddle now, and his fleet steed fled swiftly along
toward home, where they waited so anxiously for him, Richard tottering
to 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, but
she would know what he meant, and so to her and his three brothers he
told as little as he could and make any kind of a story, and as he
talked his heart hardened toward Ethie, who had done him this wrong. It
seemed a great deal worse when put into words, and the whole expression
of Richard's face was changed when he had finished speaking, while he
was conscious of feeling much as he did that night when he denounced
Ethie so terribly to her face. "Had it been a man, or half a man, or
anybody besides that contemptible puppy, it would not seem so bad; but
to forsake me for him!" Richard said, while the great ridges deepened in
his forehead, and a hard, black look crept into his eyes, and about the
corners of his mouth. He was terrible in his anger, which grew upon him
until even his mother stood appalled at the fearful expression of
his face.
"He would do nothing to call her back," he said, when James suggested
the 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 of
him. He would not put forth a hand to save her and if she came back, he
never could forgive her."
Richard was walking up and down the room, white with rage, as he said
this, and Andy, cowering in a corner, was looking on and listening. He
did not speak until Richard declared his incapacity for forgiving Ethie,
when he started up, and confronting the angry man, said to him
rebukingly:
"Hold there, old Dick! You have gone a leetle too far. If God can
forgive you and me all them things we've done, which he knows about, and
other folks don't, you can, or or'to forgive sister Ethie, let her sin
be 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 as
you feel now; and then, too, Dick, and mother, and all of you, I don't
care who says it, or thinks it, it's a big lie! Ethie never went off
with a man--never! I know she didn't. She wasn't that kind. I'll swear
to 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 his
excitement, Andy began to shove back his wrist-bands from his strong
wrists, as if challenging someone to the fight he had threatened.
Andy was splendid in his defense of Ethie, and both James and John
stepped up beside him, showing their adhesion to the cause he pleaded so
well. Ethie might have ran away, but she had surely gone alone, they
said, and their advice was that Richard should follow her as soon as
possible. But Richard would not listen to such a proposition now, and
quietly aided and abetted by his mother, he declared his intention of
"letting her alone." She had chosen her course, he said, and she must
abide by it. "If she has gone with that villain"--and Richard ground his
teeth together--"she can never again come back to me. If she has not
gone with him, and chooses to return, I do not say the door is shut
against her."
Richard seemed very determined and unrelenting, and, knowing how useless
it was to reason with him when in so stern a mood, his brothers gave up
the contest, Andy thinking within himself how many, many times a day he
should pray for Ethie that she might come back again. Richard would not
return to Camden that day, he said. He could not face his acquaintance
there until the first shock was over and they were a little accustomed
to thinking of the calamity which had fallen upon him. So he remained
with his mother, sitting near the window which looked out upon the
railroad track over which Ethie had gone. What his thoughts were none
could fathom, save as they were expressed by the dark, troubled
expression of his face, which showed how much he suffered. Perhaps he
blamed himself as he went over again the incidents of that fatal night
when he kept Ethelyn from the masquerade; but if he did, no one was the
wiser for it, and so the first long day wore on, and the night fell
again upon the inmates of the farmhouse. The darkness was terrible to
Richard, for it shut out from his view that strip of road which seemed
to him a part of Ethie. She had been there last, and possibly looked up
at the old home--her first home after her marriage; possibly, too, she
had thought of him. She surely did, if, as Andy believed, she was alone
in her flight. If not alone, he wanted no thoughts of hers, and
Richard's hands were clenched as he moved from the darkening window, and
took his seat behind the stove, where he sat the entire evening, like
some statue of despair, brooding over his ruined hopes.
The next day brought the Joneses--Melinda and Tim--the latter of whom
had heard from Mrs. Amsden's son of Andy's strange errand there. There
was something in the wind, and Melinda came to learn what it was. Always
communicative to the Jones family, Mrs. Markham told the story without
reserve, not even omitting the Van Buren part, but asking as a
precaution that Melinda would not spread a story which would bring
disgrace on them. Melinda was shocked, astonished, and confounded, but
she did not believe in Frank Van Buren. Ethie never went with
him--never. She, like Andy, would swear to that, and she said as much to
Richard, taking Ethie's side as strongly as she could, without casting
too much blame on him. And Richard felt better, hearing Ethie upheld and
spoken for, even if it were so much against himself. Melinda was still
his good angel, while Ethie, too, had just cause for thanking the kind
girl who stood by her so bravely, and even made the mother-in-law less
harsh in her expression.
There was a letter for Richard that night, from Harry Clifford, who
wrote as follows:
"I do not know whether you found your wife at Mrs. Amsden's or not, but
I take the liberty of telling you that Frank Van Buren has returned, and
solemnly affirms that if Mrs. Markham was on board the train which left
here on the 17th, he did not know it. Neither did he see her at all when
in Camden. He called on his way to the depot that night, and was told
she 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 forget
it. Yours,
"H. CLIFFORD."
"Thank Heaven for that!" was Richard's exclamation as in the first
revulsion of feeling he sprang from his chair, while every feature of
his face was irradiated with joy.
"What is it, Dick? Is Ethie found? I knew she would be. I've prayed for
it 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 vent
to his joy.
But Andy's faith was to be put to a stronger test, and his countenance
fell a little when Richard explained the nature of the letter. Ethie was
not found; she was only proved innocent of the terrible thing Richard
had feared for her, and in being proven innocent, she was for a moment
almost wholly restored to his favor. She would come back some time. She
could 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 had
been punished in all he had suffered during the last forty-eight hours,
he would, when she came back, call everything even between them, and
begin anew.
This was Richard's reasoning; and that night he slept soundly, dreaming
that 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 and
husband who had been deserted, it was his duty to remain impassive a few
moments, while Ethie atoned fully for her misdeeds: then he would
forgive her, and so he waited an instant, and while he waited he woke to
find only Andy, with whom he was sleeping, kneeling by the bedside, with
the wintry moonlight falling on his upturned face, as he prayed for the
dear 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 poor
old 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 what
that is."
This was Andy's prayer, taken from no book or printed form, but the
outpouring of his simple, honest heart, and Richard heard it, wincing a
little as Andy thus made confession for him of his own sins; but he did
not pray himself, though he was glad of Andy's prayers, and placed great
hopes upon them. God would hear Andy, and if he did not send Ethie back
at once, he would surely keep her from harm.
The next day Richard went back to Camden. Melinda Jones had suggested
that possibly Ethie left a letter, or note, which would explain her
absence, and Richard caught at it eagerly, wondering he had not thought
of it before, and feeling very impatient to be off, even though he
dreaded to meet some of his old friends, and be questioned as to the
whereabouts of his wife. He did not know that the story of his desertion
was already there--Mrs. Amsden having gone to town with her mite, which,
added to the sale of the piano, Ethie's protracted absence, Richard's
return to Olney at midnight, and Harry Clifford's serious and mysterious
manner, were enough to set the town in motion. Various opinions were
expressed, and, what was very strange, so popular were both Richard and
Ethelyn that everybody disliked blaming either, and so but few unkind
remarks had as yet been made, and those by people who had been jealous
or envious of Ethelyn's high position. No one knew a whisper of Frank
Van Buren, for Harry kept his promise well, and no worse motive was
ascribed to Ethie's desertion than want of perfect congeniality with her
husband. Thus they were not foes, but friends, who welcomed Richard back
to Camden, watching him curiously, and wishing so much to ask where Mrs.
Markham was. That she was not with him, was certain, for only Andy
came--Andy, who held his head so high, and looked round so defiantly, as
he kept close to Richard's side on the way to the hotel. It was very
dreary going up the old, familiar staircase into the quiet hall, and
along to the door of the silent room, which seemed drearier than on that
night when he first came back to it and found Ethie gone. There were
ashes now upon the stove-hearth where Hal Clifford had kindled the fire,
and the two chairs they had occupied were standing just where they had
left them. The gas had not been properly turned off, and a dead, sickly
odor filled the room, making Andy heave as he hastened to open the
window, and admit the fresh, pure air.
"Seems as it did the day Daisy died," Andy said, his eyes filling with
tears.
To Richard it was far worse than the day Daisy died, for he had then the
memory of her last loving words in his ear, and the feeling of her
clinging kiss upon his lips, while now the memories of the lost one were
only bitter and sad in the extreme.
"Melinda suggested a letter or something. Where do you suppose she would
put 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; but
here, in the deserted room, where Ethie used to be, and where something
said she would never be again, he was weak as a girl, and leaned wholly
upon Andy, who seemed to feel how much was depending upon him, and so
kept up a cheery aspect while he kindled a fresh fire and cleared the
ashes from the hearth by blowing them off upon the oilcloth; then, as
the warmth began to make itself felt and the cold to diminish, he
answered Richard's query.
"In her draw, most likely; mother mostly puts her traps there." So, to
the "draw" they went--the very one where Daisy's ring was lying; and
Richard 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 not
looking at the ring, but beyond it, to the two letters, his own and
Richard's, both of which he seized with a low cry, for he, too, was sure
of Ethie's flight.
"See, Dick, there's one for you and one for me," he exclaimed, and his
face grew very red as he tore open his own note and began to devour the
contents, whispering the words, and breaking down entirely amid a storm
of sobs and tears as he read:
"DEAR ANDY: I wish I could tell you how much I love you, and how sorry I
am to fall in your good 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?"
He could get no farther than this, and with a great cry he buried his
face in his hands and sobbed: "Yes, Ethie, I will, I will; but oh, what
is it? What made you go? Why did she, Dick?" and he turned to his
brother, who, with lightning rapidity, was reading Ethelyn's long
letter. He did not doubt a word she said, and when the letter was
finished he put it passively in Andy's hand, and then, with a bitter
groan, laid his throbbing head upon the cushion of the lounge where he
was sitting. There were no tears in his eyes--nothing but blood-red
circles floating before them; while the aching balls seemed starting
from their sockets with the pressure of pain. He had had his chance with
Ethie and lost it; and though, as yet, he saw but dimly where he had
been to blame, where he had made a mistake, he endured for the time all
he was capable of enduring, and if revenge had been her object, Ethie
had more than her desire.
Andy was stunned for a moment, and sat staring blankly at the motionless
figure of his brother; then, as the terrible calamity began to impress
itself fully upon him, intense pity for Richard became uppermost in his
mind, and stooping over the crushed man, he laid his arm across his
neck, and, tender as a sorrowing, loving mother, kissed and fondled the
damp brown hair, and dropped great tears upon it, and murmured words of
sympathy, incoherent at first, for the anguish choking his own
utterance, but gradually gathering force and sound as his quivering lips
kept trying to articulate: "Dick, poor old Dick, dear old Dick, don't
keep so still and look so white and stony. She'll come back again, Ethie
will. I feel it, I feel it, I know it, I shall pray for her every hour
until 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 offered
no resistance, Andy laid it gently on his arm, and smoothing back the
hair from the pallid forehead, went on: "Now cry, old boy, cry with all
your might;" and with his hand Andy brushed away the scalding tears
which began to fall like rain from Richard's eyes.
"Better so, a great deal better than the other way. Don't hold up till
you've had it out," he kept repeating, while Richard wept, until the
fountain was dry and the tears refused to flow.
"I've been a brute, Andy," he said, when at last he could speak. "The
fault was all my own. I did not understand her in the least. I ought
never 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. She
didn't or'to marry you feelin' as she did. That was where the
wrong began."
This was the most and the worst Andy ever said against Ethelyn, and he
repented of that the moment the words were out of his mouth. It was mean
to 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 your
dear, kind face." Andy deemed himself a monster of ingratitude when he
recalled these lines and remembered that of her who penned them he had
said, "She was some to blame." He took it all back to himself, and tried
to exonerate Ethie entirely, though it was hard work to do so where he
saw how broken, and stunned, and crushed his brother was, and how little
he realized what was passing around him.
"He don't know much more than I do," was Andy's mental comment, when to
his question, "What shall we do next?" Richard replied, in a maudlin
kind of way, "Yes, that is a very proper course. I leave it entirely
to you."
Andy felt that a great deal was depending upon himself, and he tried to
meet the emergency. Seeing how Richard continued to shiver, and how cold
he was, he persuaded him to lie down upon the bed, and piling the
blankets upon him, made such a fire as he said to himself, "would roast
a common ox"; then, when Hal Clifford came to the door and knocked, he
kept 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 necessity
of having somebody there beside himself; "some of the wimmen folks, who
knew 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 to
come, "though Melinda Jones was the properest of the two. There was snap
to 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 to
me, and one to Dick, and Dick's was too much for him. He lies like a
punk 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 send
to you because there's no nonsense about you, and you are made of the
right 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 and
gossip, which had set in when it began to be known that Ethelyn was
gone, and Richard was lying sick in his room, tended only by Andy, who
would admit no one, not even the doctor, who, when urged by Harry
Clifford, came to offer his services.
"He wasn't goin' to let in a lot of curious critters to hear what Dick
was talkin'," he said to his mother and Melinda, his haggard face
showing how much he had endured in keeping them at bay, and answering
through the key-hole their numerous inquiries.
Richard did not have a fever, as was feared at first; but for several
days he kept his bed, and during that time his mother and Melinda stayed
by him, nursing him most assiduously, but never once speaking to each
other of Ethelyn. Both had read her letter, for Mrs. Markham never
thought of withholding it from Melinda, who, knowing that she ought not
to have seen it, wisely resolved to keep to herself the knowledge of its
contents. So, when she was asked, as she was repeatedly, "Why Mrs.
Markham had gone away," she answered evasively, or not at all, and
finding that nothing could be obtained from her, the people at last left
her in quiet and turned to their own resources, which furnished various
reasons for the desertion. They knew it was a desertion now, and hearing
how sick and broken Richard was, popular opinion was in his favor
mostly, though many a kind and wistful thought went after the fair young
wife, 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 the
winter crept on into spring, and the March winds blew raw and chill
against the windows of the chamber where Richard battled with the
sickness which he finally overcame, so that by the third week of Ethie's
absence he was up again and able to go in quest of her, if so be she
might be found and won to the love she never returned.