University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
FIRST DAYS IN OLNEY.

THERE were a great many vacant seats in the
Methodist Church the morning following Ethelyn's
arrival, while Mr. Townsend was surprised
at the size of his congregation. It was generally known
that Mrs. Judge Markham was an Episcopalian, and as she
would of course patronize the Village Hall, the young people
of Olney were there en masse, eager to see the bride.
But their curiosity was not gratified. Ethelyn was too
tired to go out, Andy said, when questioned on the subject,
while Eunice Plympton, who was also of Andy's faith, and
an attendant at the Village Hall, added the very valuable

piece of information that “Miss Markham's breakfast had
been taken to her, and that when she (Eunice) came away
she was still in bed, or at all events had not made her appearance
below.” This, together with Eunice's assertion
that she was handsome, and Tim Jones' testimony that she
was “mighty stuck up, but awful neat,” was all the disappointed
Olneyites heard of Mrs. Richard Markham, who, as
Eunice reported, had breakfasted in bed, and was still lying
there when the one bell in Olney rang out its summons for
church. She did not pretend to be sick,—only tired and
languid, and indisposed for any exertion; and then it was
so much nicer taking her breakfast from the little tray covered
with the snowy towel which Richard brought her, than
it was to go down stairs and encounter all “those dreadful
people,” as she mentally styled Richard's family; so she
begged for indulgence this once, and Richard could not refuse
her request, and excused her to his mother, who said
nothing, but whose face wore an expression which Richard
did not like.

Always strong and healthy herself, Mrs. Markham had
but little charity for nervous, delicate people, and she devoutly
hoped that Richard's wife would not prove to be
one of that sort. When the dishes were washed, and the
floor swept, and the broom hung up in its place, and the
sleeves of the brown, dotted calico rolled down, she went
herself to see Ethelyn, her quick eye noticing the elaborate
night-gown, with its dainty tucks and expensive embroidery,
and her thoughts at once leaping forward to ironing-day,
with the wonder who was to do up such finery. “Of
course, though, she'll see to such things herself,” was her
mental conclusion; and then she proceeded to question
Ethelyn as to what was the matter, and where she felt the

worst. A person who did not come down to breakfast
must either be sick or very babyish and notional, and as
Ethelyn did not pretend to much indisposition, the good
woman naturally concluded that she was “hypoey,” and
pitied her boy accordingly.

Ethelyn readily guessed the opinion her mother-in-law
was forming of her, and could hardly steady her voice sufficiently
to answer her questions or repress her tears, which
gushed forth the moment Mrs. Markham had left the room,
and she was alone with Richard. Poor Richard! it was a
novel position in which he found himself,—that of mediator
between his mother and his wife; but he succeeded very well,
soothing and caressing the latter, until when, at three
o'clock in the afternoon, the bountiful dinner was ready, he
had the pleasure of taking her down stairs, looking very
beautiful in her handsome black silk, and the pink coral
ornaments Aunt Barbara had given her. There was nothing
gaudy about her dress; it was in perfect taste, and
very plain too, as she thought, even if it was trimmed with
lace and bugles. But she could not help feeling that it was
out of keeping when James, and John, and Eunice stared
so at her, and Mrs. Markham asked if she hadn't better tie
on an apron for fear she might get something on her.
With ready alacrity Eunice, who fancied her young mistress
looked like a queen, ran for her own clean, white
apron, which she offered to the lady.

But Ethelyn declined it, saying, “My napkin is all that
I shall require.”

Mrs. Markham, and Eunice, and Andy glanced at each
other. Napkins were a luxury in which Mrs. Markham
had never indulged. She knew they were common in almost
every family of her acquaintance; but she did not

see of what use they were, except to make more washing,
and as her standard of things was the standard of thirty
years back, she was not easily convinced; and even Melinda
Jones had failed on the napkin question. Ethelyn
had been too much excited to observe their absence the
previous night, and she now spoke in all sincerity, never
dreaming that there was not such an article in the house.
But there was a small square towel of the finest linen, and
sacred to the memory of Daisy, who had hemmed it herself
and worked her name in the corner. It was lying in the
drawer now, with her white cambric dress, and, at a whispered
word from her mistress, Eunice brought it out and
laid it in Ethelyn's lap, while Richard's face grew crimson
as he began to think that possibly his mother might be a
very little behind the times in her household arrangements.

Ethelyn's appetite had improved since the previous night,
and she did ample justice to the well-cooked dinner; but
her spirits were ruffled again when, on returning to her
room an hour or so after dinner, she found it in the same
disorderly condition in which she had left it. Ethelyn had
never taken charge of her own room, for at Aunt Barbara's
Betty had esteemed it a privilege to wait upon her young
mistress, while Aunt Van Buren would have been horror-stricken
at the idea of any one of her guests making their
own bed. Mrs. Markham, on the contrary, could hardly
conceive of a lady too fine to do that service for herself,
and Eunice was not the least to blame for omitting to do
what she had never been told was her duty. A few words
from Richard, however, and the promise of an extra quarter
per week, made that matter all right; and neither Betty
nor Mrs. Dr. Van Buren's trained chambermaid, Mag, had
ever entered into the clearing-up process with greater zeal

than did Eunice when once she knew that Richard expected
it of her. She was naturally kind-hearted, and though
Ethelyn's lofty ways annoyed her somewhat, her admiration
for the beautiful woman and her elegant wardrobe was
unbounded, and she felt a pride in waiting upon her which
she would once have thought impossible to feel in anything
pertaining to her duties as a servant.

The following morning brought with it the opening of
the box where the family presents were; but Ethelyn did
not feel as much interest in them now as when they
were purchased. She knew how out of place they were,
and fully appreciated the puzzled expression of James'
face when he saw the blue velvet smoking-cap. It did not
harmonize with the common clay-pipe he always smoked
on Sunday, and much less with the coarse, cob thing she
saw him take from the kitchen-mantel that morning just
after he left the breakfast-table, and donned the blue frock
he wore upon the farm. He did not know what the fanciful-tasselled
thing was for; but he reflected that Melinda,
who had been to boarding-school, could enlighten him, and
he thanked his pretty sister with a good deal of gentlemanly
grace. He was more observing than Richard, and
with the same advantages would have polished sooner.
Though a little afraid of Ethelyn, there was something in
her manners very pleasing to him, and his soft eyes looked
down upon her kindly as he took the cap and carried it to
his room, laying it carefully away in the drawer where his
Sunday shirts, and collars, and “dancing pumps,” and
fishing tackle, and paper of chewing tobacco were.

Meanwhile, John, who was even more shy of Ethelyn
than James, had been made the recipient of the elegantly-embroidered
slippers, which presented so marked a contrast

to his heavy cowhides, and were three sizes too small
for his mammoth feet. Ethelyn saw the discrepancy at
once, and the effort it was for John to keep from laughing
outright, as he took the dainty things into which he could
but little more than thrust his toes.

“You did not know what a Goliath I was, nor what stogies
I wore; but I thank you all the same,” John said, and with
burning blushes Ethelyn turned next to her beautiful Schiller,
—the exquisite little bust,—which Andy, in his simplicity,
mistook for a big doll, feeling a little affronted that
Ethelyn should suppose him childish enough to care for
such toys.

But when Richard, who stood looking on, explained to
his weak brother what it was, saying that people of cultivation
prized such things as these, and that some time he
would read to him of the great German poet, Andy felt
better, and accepted his big doll with a very good
grace.

The coiffeur came next, Mrs. Markham saying she was
much obliged, and Eunice asking if it was a half-handkerchief,
to be worn about the neck.

Taken individually and collectively, the presents were a
failure,—all but the pretty collar and ribbon-bow, which, as
an afterthought, Ethelyn gave to Eunice, whose delight
knew no bounds. This was something she could appreciate,
while Ethelyn's gifts to the others had been far beyond
them, and but for the good feeling they manifested might
as well have been withheld. Ethelyn felt this keenly, and
it did not tend to lessen the bitter disappointment which
had been gnawing in her heart ever since she reached her
Western home. Everything was different from what she
had pictured it in her mind,—everything but Daisy's face,

which, from its black-walnut frame above her piano, seemed
to look so lovingly down upon her. It was a sweet, refined
face, and the soft eyes of blue were more beautiful than
anything Ethelyn had ever seen. She did not wonder that
every member of that family looked upon their lost Daisy
as the household angel, lowering their voices when they
spoke of her, and even retarding their footsteps when they
passed near her picture. She did wonder, however, that
they were not more like what Daisy must have been, judging
from the expression of her face and all Richard had
said of her.

Between Mrs. Markham and Ethelyn there was from the
first a mutual feeling of antagonism, and it was in no degree
lessened by Aunt Barbara's letter, which Mrs. Markham
read three times on Sunday, and then on Monday
very foolishly talked it up with Eunice, whom she treated
with a degree of familiarity wholly unaccountable to
Ethelyn.

“What did that Miss Bigalow take her for that she must
ask her to be kind to Ethelyn? Of course she should do
her duty, and she guessed her ways were not so very different
from other people's, either,” and the good woman
gave an extra twist to the table-cloth she was wringing, and
shaking it out rather fiercely, tossed it into the huge
clothes-basket standing near.

The wash was unusually large that day, and as the unpacking
of the box had taken up some time, the clock
was striking two just as the last clothes-pin was fastened in
its place, and the last brown towel hung upon the currant
bushes. It was Mrs. Markham's weakness that her washing
should be fluttering in the wind before that of Mrs.
Jones, which could be plainly seen from her kitchen window.

But to-day Mrs. Jones was ahead, and Melinda's
pink sun-bonnet was visible in the little back yard as early
as eleven, at which time the Markham garments had just
commenced to boil. The bride had brought with her a
great deal of extra work, and what with waiting breakfast
for her until the coffee was cold and the baked potatoes
“soggy,” and then cleaning up the litter of “that box,”
Mrs. Markham was behind with her Monday's work. And
it did not tend to improve her temper to know that the
cause of all her discomposure was “playing lady” in a
handsome cashmere morning-gown, with heavy tassels
knotted at her side, while she was bending over the washtub
in a faded calico pinned about her waist, and disclosing
the quilt patched with many colors, and the black yarn
stockings footed with coarse white. Not that Mrs. Markham
cared especially for the difference between her dress
and Ethelyn's,—neither did she expect Ethelyn to “help”
that day,—but she might at least have offered to wipe the
dinner dishes, she thought. It would have shown her
good will, at all events. But instead of that she had returned
to her room the moment dinner was over, and
Eunice, who went up to hunt for a missing sock of Richard's,
reported that she was lying on the lounge with a
story-book in her hand.

“Shiffless,” was the word Mrs. Markham wanted to use,
but she repressed it, for she would not talk openly against
Richard's wife so soon after her arrival, though she did
make some invidious remarks concerning the handsome
under-clothes, wondering “what folks were thinking of to
put so much work where it was never seen. Puffs, and embroidery,
and lace, and, I vum, if the rufflers ain't tucked,
too,” she continued, in a despairing voice, hoping Ethelyn

knew “how to iron such filagree herself, for the mercy
knew she didn't.”

Now these same puffs, and embroideries, and ruffles, and
tucks had excited Eunice's liveliest admiration, and her fingers
had fairly itched to see how they would look hanging
on the clothes-bars after passing through her hands. That
Ethelyn could touch them she never once dreamed. Her
instincts were truer than Mrs. Markham's, and it struck her
as perfectly proper that one like Ethelyn should sit still
while others served, and to her mistress's remarks as to the
ironing, she hastened to reply, “I'd a heap sight rather do
them up than to iron the boys' coarse shirts and pantaloons.
Don't you mind the summer I was at Camden working for
Miss Avery, who lived next door to Miss Judge Miller, from
New York? She had just such things as these, and I used
to go in sometimes and watch Katy iron 'em, so I b'lieve I
can do it myself. Anyways, I want to try.”

Fears that Eunice might rebel had been uppermost in
Mrs. Markham's mind when she saw the pile of elegant
clothes, for she had a suspicion that Mrs. Ethelyn would
keep as much aloof from the ironing-board as she did from
the dish-washing; but if Eunice was willing and even glad
of the opportunity, why, that made a difference; and the
good woman began to feel so much better that by the time
the last article was on the line, the kitchen floor cleared up,
and the basin of water heating on the stove for her own
ablutions, she was quite amiably disposed toward her grand
daughter-in-law, who had not made her appearance since
dinner. Ethelyn liked staying in her chamber better than
anywhere else, and it was especially pleasant there to-day,
for Eunice had taken great pains to make it so,—sweeping,
and dusting, and putting to rights, and patting the pillows

and cushions just as she had seen Melinda do, and then,
after the collar and ribbon had been given to her, going
down on her hands and knees before the fire to wash the
hearth with milk, which gave to the red bricks a polished,
shining appearance, and added much to the cheerfulness of
the room. Ethelyn had commended her pleasantly, and,
in the seventh heaven of delight, Eunice had returned to
her washing, taking greater pains than ever with the dainty
puffs and frills, and putting in a stitch where one was
needed.

It was very evident that Eunice admired Ethelyn, and
Ethelyn in return began to appreciate Eunice; and when,
after dinner, she went to her room, and, wearied with her
unpacking, lay down upon the lounge, she felt happier than
she had since her first sight of Olney. It was pleasant up
there, and the room looked very pretty with the brackets
and ornaments, and pictures she had hung there instead of
in the parlor, and she decided within herself that she
could be quite comfortable for the few weeks which must
intervene before she went to Washington. She should
spend most of the time in the retirement of her room,
mingling as little as possible with the family, and keeping
at a respectful distance from her mother-in-law, whom
she liked less than any of Richard's relations.

“I trust the Olney people will not think it their duty
to call,” she thought. “I suppose I shall have to endure
the Joneses for Abigail's sake. Melinda certainly has some
taste; possibly I may like her,” and while cogitating upon
Melinda Jones and the expected gayeties in Washington,
she fell asleep; nor did Richard's step arouse her, when,
about three o'clock, he came in from the village in quest
of some law documents he wished to see.

Frank Van Buren would probably have kissed her as she
lay there sleeping so quietly; but Richard was in a great
hurry. He had plunged at once into business. There
were at least forty men waiting to see and consult “the
Squire,” whose reputation for honesty and ability was
very great, and whose simple assertion carried more
weight than the roundest oath of some lawyers, sworn
upon the biggest bible in Olney. Waylaid at every corner,
and plied with numberless questions, he had hardly
found an opportunity to come home to dinner, and now
he had no time to waste in love-making. He saw
Ethelyn, however, and felt that his room had never been
as pleasant as it was with her there in it, albeit her coming
was the cause of his books and papers being disturbed,
and tossed about and moved where he had much
trouble to find them. He felt glad, too, that she was
out of his mother's way; and feeling that all was well, he
found his papers and hurried off to the village again,
while Ethelyn slept on till Eunice Plympton came up to
say that “Miss Jones and Melinda were both in the parlor
and wanted her to come down.”