AT HOME
Mrs. James Markham had spent a few weeks with a party of Davenport
friends in St. Paul and vicinity, but she was now at home in Olney with
her mother, whom she helped with the ironing that morning, showing a
quickness and dexterity in the doing up of Tim's shirts and best table
linen which proved that, although a "mighty fine lady," as some of the
Olneyites termed her, she had neither forgotten nor was above working in
the kitchen when the occasion required. The day's ironing was over now,
and refreshed with a bath and a half-hour's sleep after it, she sat
under the shadow of the tall trees, arrayed in her white marseilles,
which, being gored, made her look, as unsophisticated Andy thought, most
too slim and flat. Andy himself was over at the Joneses that afternoon,
and, down upon all fours, was playing bear with baby Ethelyn, who
shouted and screamed with delight at the antics of her childish uncle.
Mrs. James was not contemplating a return to Davenport for three or four
weeks; indeed, ever since the letter received from Clifton with regard
to Richard's sickness, she had been seriously meditating a flying visit
to the invalid, who she knew would be glad to see her. It must be very
desolate for him there alone, she said; and then her thoughts went after
the wanderer whom they had long since ceased to talk about, much less
than to expect back again. Melinda was sadly thinking of her, and
speculating as to what her fate had been, when down the road from the
village came the little messenger boy, who always made one's heart beat
so fast when he handed out his missive. He had one now, and he brought
it to Melinda, who, thinking of her husband, gone to Denver City, felt
a thrill of fear lest something had befallen him. But no; the dispatch
came from Davenport, from Mrs. Dobson herself, and read that a strange
woman lay very sick in the house.
"A strange woman," that was all, but it made Melinda's heart leap up
into her throat at the bare possibility as to who the strange woman
might be. Andy was standing by her now reading the message, and Melinda
knew by the flush upon his face, and the drops of perspiration which
started out so suddenly around his mouth, that he, too, shared her
suspicions. But not a word was spoken by either upon the subject
agitating them so powerfully. Melinda only said, "I must go home at
once--in the next train if possible," while Andy rejoined, "I am going
with you."
Melinda knew why he was going, and when at last they were on the way,
the sight of his honest-speaking face, glowing all over with eagerness
and joyful anticipations, kept her own spirits up, and made what she so
greatly hoped for seem absolutely certain. It was morning when they
arrived, and were driven rapidly through the streets toward home. The
house seemed very quiet; every window and shutter, so far as they could
see, was closed, and both experienced a terrible fear lest "the strange
woman" was gone. They could not wait for Hannah to open the door, and so
they went round to the basement, surprising Mrs. Dobson as she bent over
the fire, stirring the basin of gruel she was preparing for her patient.
"The strange woman" was not gone. She was raving mad, Mrs. Dobson said,
and talked the queerest things. "I've had the doctor, just as I knew you
would have done, had you been here," she said, "and he pronounced it
brain fever, brought on by fatigue, and some great excitement or
worriment. 'Pears like she thought she was divorced, or somebody was
divorced, for she was talking about it, and showing the ring on her
fourth finger. I hope Governor Markham won't mind it. 'Twas none of my
doings. She went there herself, and I first found her in the bed in that
room where nobody ever slept--the bride's room, I call it, you know."
"Is she there?" Melinda asked, in amazement, while Andy, who had been
standing near the door which led up to the next floor, disappeared up
the stairs, leaving the women alone.
He knew the way to the room designated, and went hurrying on until he
reached the door, and there he paused, his flesh creeping with the
intensity of his excitement, and his whole being pervaded with a
crushing sense of eager expectancy. He had not put into words what or
whom he expected to find on the other side of the door he hardly dared
to open. He only knew he should be terribly disappointed if his
conjectures proved wrong, and a smothered prayer rose to his lips, "God
grant it may be the she I mean."
The she he meant was sleeping now. The brown head which rolled so
restlessly all night was lying quietly upon the pillows, the burning
cheek resting upon one hand, and the mass of long, bright hair tucked
back under one of Mrs. Dobson's own nightcaps, that lady having sought
in vain for such an article among her mistress' wardrobe. She did not
hear Andy as he stepped softly across the floor to the bedside. Bending
cautiously above her, he hesitated a moment, while a great throb of
disappointment ran through his veins. Surely that was not Ethie, with
the hollow cheeks and the disfiguring frill around her face, giving her
more the look of the new and stylish nurse Melinda had got from
Chicago--the woman who wore a cap in place of a bonnet, and jabbered
half the time in some foreign tongue, which Melinda said was French. The
room was very dark, and Andy pushed back a blind, letting in such a
flood of light that the sleeper started, and moaned, and turned herself
upon the pillow, while with a gasping, sobbing cry, Andy fell upon his
knees, and with clasped hands and streaming eyes, exclaimed:
"I thank Thee, Father of mercies, more than I can tell, for it is
Ethie--it is Ethie--it is Ethie, our own darling Ethie, come back to us
again; and now, dear Lord, bring old Dick home at once, and let us have
a time of it."
Ethie's eyes were opened and fixed inquiringly upon Andy. Something in
his voice and manner must have penetrated through the mists of delirium
clouding her brain, for the glimmer of a smile played round her lips,
and her hands moved slowly toward him; then they went back again to her
throat and tugged at the nightcap strings which good Mrs. Dobson had
tied in a hard knot by way of keeping the cap upon the refractory head.
Ethie did not fancy the cap any more than Andy, who, guessing her
wishes, lent his own assistance to the untying of the strings.
"You don't like the pesky thing on your head, making you look so like a
scarecrow, do you?" he said gently, as with a jerk he broke the strings
and then threw the discarded cap upon the floor.
Ethie seemed to know him for a moment, and, "Kiss me, Andy," came feebly
from her lips. Winding his arms about her, Andy did kiss her many times,
while his tears dropped upon her face and moistened the long hair,
which, relieved from its confinement, fell in dark masses about her
face, making her look more like the Ethelyn of old than she had
at first.
"Was there a divorce?" she whispered, and Andy, in great perplexity, was
wondering what she meant, when Melinda's step came along the hall, and
Melinda entered the room together with Mrs. Dobson.
"It's she--herself! It's our own Ethie!" Andy exclaimed, standing back a
little from the bed, but still holding the feverish hand which had
grasped his so firmly, as if in that touch alone was rest and security.
"I thought so," and with a satisfied nod Mrs. Dobson put down her bowl
of gruel and went down to communicate the startling news to Hannah, who
nearly lost her senses in the first moment of surprise.
"Do you know me, Ethie?" Melinda asked, but in the bright, rolling eyes
there was no ray of reason; only the lip quivered slightly, and Ethie
said so sadly, so beseechingly, "Don't send me away, when I am so tired
and sorry."
She seemed to have a vague idea where she was and who was with her,
clinging closer to Andy, as if surest of him, and once when he bent
over her, she suddenly wound her arms around his neck and whispered,
"Don't leave me--it's nice to know you are with me; and don't let them
put that dreadful thing on my head again. Aunt Van Buren said I was a
fright. Will Richard think so, too?"
This was the only time she mentioned her husband, though she talked of
Clifton and Mrs. Pry, and the story of the divorce, and the dear little
chapel where she said God always came, bidding Andy kneel down and pray
just as they were doing there when the summer day drew to a close.
"We must send for Dick," Andy said; "but don't let's tell the whole;
let's leave something to his imagination;" and so the telegram which
went to Governor Markham read simply: "Come home immediately. Don't wait
for a single train."
Richard had heard of Miss Bigelow's sudden departure, and had been
surprised to find how much he missed the light footsteps and the
rustling sound which had come from No. 101. He was a good deal
interested in Miss Bigelow, and when Mary told him of her leaving so
unexpectedly and appearing so excited, there had for a moment flashed
over him the wild thought, "Could it be?" No, it could not, he said; but
he questioned Mary as to the appearance of the lady in No. 101. "Was she
very handsome, with full, rosy cheeks, and eyes of chestnut brown?"
"She was rather pretty," Mary said; "but her face was thin and pale, and
her eyes, she guessed, were black."
It was not Ethie, then--Richard had never believed it was--but he felt
sorry that she was gone, whoever she might be, and Clifton was not so
pleasant to him now as it had been at first. He was much better, and had
been once to the chapel, when up the three flights of stairs Perry came
and along the hall till he stopped at Room No. 102. There was a telegram
for Richard, who took it with trembling hands and read it with a blur
before his eyes and something at his heart like a blow, but which was
born of a sudden hope that, after many days and months and years of
waiting, God had deigned to be merciful. But only for a brief moment did
this hope buoy him up. It could not be, he said; and yet, as he made his
hasty preparations for his journey, he found the possibility constantly
recurring to his mind, while the nearer he came to Davenport the more
probable it seemed, and the more impatient he grew at every little
delay. There were several upon the road, and once, only fifty miles from
home, there was a detention of four hours. But the long train moved at
last, and just as the sun was setting the cars stopped in the Davenport
depot, and as the passengers alighted the loungers whispered to each
other, "Governor Markham has come home."