University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
CALLS AND VISITING.

MRS. JONES had risen earlier than usual that Monday
morning, and felt not a little elated when she
saw her long line of snowy linen swinging in the
wind before that of her neighbor, whom she excused on

the score of Richard's wife. But when twelve o'clock,
and even one o'clock struck, and still the back yard gave
no sign, she began to wonder “if any of 'em could be
sick;” and never was flag of truce watched for more
anxiously than she watched for something which should tell
that it was all well at Mrs. Markham's.

The sign appeared at last, and with her fears quieted,
Mrs. Jones pursued the even tenor of her way until everything
was done, and her little kitchen was as shining as
soap and sand and scrubbing-brush could make it. Perhaps
it was washing the patchwork quilt which Abigail
had pieced that brought the deceased so strongly to Mrs.
Jones' mind, and made her so curious to see Abigail's
successor. Whatever it was, Mrs. Jones was very anxious
for a sight of Ethelyn; and when her work was done she
donned her alpaca dress, and tying on her black silk apron,
announced her intention of “running into Mrs. Markham's,
just a minute. Would Melinda go along?”

Melinda had been once to no purpose, and she had inwardly
resolved to wait awhile before calling again; but
she felt that she would rather be with her mother at her
first interview with Ethelyn, for she knew she could cover
up some defects by her glibber and more correct manner
of conversing. So she signified her assent, but did not
wear her best bonnet, as she had on Saturday night. This
was only a run in, she said, never dreaming that, “for fear
of what might happen if she was urged to stay to tea,”
her mother had deposited in her capacious pocket the
shirt-sleeve of unbleached cotton she was making for Tim.

And so about four o'clock the twain started for the house
of Mrs. Markham, who welcomed them warmly. She was
always glad to see Mrs. Jones, and she was doubly glad to

day, for it seemed to her that some trouble had come upon
her which made neighborly sympathy and neighborly intercourse
more desirable than ever. Added to this, there
was in her heart an unconfessed pride in Ethelyn and a
desire to show her off. “Miss Jones was not going to stir
home a step till after supper,” she said, as that lady demurred
at laying off her bonnet. “She had got to stay
and see Richard; besides that, they were going to have
waffles and honey, with warm gingerbread.”

Nobody who had once tested them could withstand Mrs.
Markham's waffles and gingerbread,—Mrs. Jones certainly
could not; and when Eunice went up for Ethelyn that
worthy woman was rocking back and forth in a low rocking-chair,
her brass thimble on her finger and Tim's shirt-sleeve
in progress of making; while Melinda, in her pretty
brown merino and white collar, with her black hair shining
like satin, sat in another rocking-chair, working at the bit
of tetting she chanced to have in her pocket. Ethelyn did
not care to go down; it was like stepping into another
sphere,—leaving her own society for that of the Joneses;
but there was no alternative, and with a yawn she started
up and began smoothing her hair.

“This wrapper is well enough,” she said, more to herself
than Eunice, who was still standing by the door looking
at her.

Eunice did not think the wrapper was well enough. It
was pretty, but not as pretty as the dresses she had seen
hanging in Ethelyn's closet when she arranged the room
that morning; so she said, hesitatingly, “I wish you
wouldn't wear that down. You was so handsome yesterday
in the black gown, with them red ear-rings and pin,
and your hair brushed up, so.”

Ethelyn liked to look well, even here in Olney, and so
the wrapper was laid aside, the beautiful brown hair was
wound in heavy coils about the back of the head, and
brushed back from her white forehead after a fashion
which made her look still younger and more girlish than
she was. A pretty plaid silk, with trimmings of blue, was
chosen for to-day, Eunice going nearly wild over the short
jaunty basque, laced at the sides and the back. Eunice
had offered to stay and assist at her young mistress's
toilet, and as Ethelyn was not unaccustomed to the office
of waiting-maid, she accepted Eunice's offer, finding, to her
surprise, that the coarse red fingers, which that day had
washed and starched her linen, were not unhandy even
among the paraphernalia of a Boston lady's toilet.

“You do look beautiful,” Eunice said, standing back to
admire Ethelyn, when at last she was dressed. “I have
thought Melinda Jones handsome, but she can't hold a
candle to you, nor nobody else I ever seen, except Miss
Judge Miller, in Camden. She do act some like you, with
her gown dragglin' behind her half a yard.”

Thus flattered and complimented, Ethelyn went down
stairs to where Mrs. Jones sat working on Timothy's shirt,
and Melinda was crocheting, while Mrs. Markham, senior,
clean and neat, and stiff in her starched, purple calico, sat
putting a patch on a fearfully large hole in the knee of
Andy's pants. As Ethelyn swept into the room there fell
a hush upon the inmates, and Mrs. Jones was almost guilty
of an exclamation of surprise. She had expected something
fine, she said,—something different from the Olney
quality,—but she was not prepared for anything as grand
and queenly as Ethelyn, when she sailed into the room,
with her embroidered handkerchief held so gracefully in

her hands, and in response to Mrs. Markham's introduction,
bowed so very low, and slowly, too, her lips scarcely moving
at all, and her eyes bent on the ground. Mrs. Jones
actually ran the needle she was sewing with under her
thumb in her sudden start, while Melinda's work dropped
into her lap. She, too, was surprised, though not as much
as her mother. She, like Eunice, had seen Mrs. Judge
Miller, from New York, whose bridal trousseau was imported
from Paris, and whose wardrobe was the wonder of Camden.
And Ethelyn was very much like her, only younger and
prettier.

“Very pretty,” Melinda thought, while Mrs. Jones fell
to comparing her, mentally, with the deceased Abigail,—
wondering how Richard, if he had ever loved the one, could
have fancied the other, they were so unlike.

Of course, the mother's heart gave to Abigail the preference
for all that was good and womanly, and worthy of
Richard Markham; but Ethelyn bore off the palm for style,
and beauty too.

“Handsome as a doll, but awfully proud,” Mrs. Jones
decided, during the interval in which she squeezed her
wounded thumb, and got the needle again in motion upon
Timothy's shirt-sleeve.

Ethelyn was not greatly disappointed in Mrs. Jones and
her daughter; the mother especially was much like what she
had imagined her to be, while Melinda was rather prettier,
—rather more like the Chicopee girls than she expected.
There was a look on her face like Susie Granger, and the
kindly expression of her black eyes made Ethelyn excuse
her for wearing a Magenta bow, while her cheeks were something
the same hue. They were very stiff at first, Mrs. Jones
saying nothing at all, and Melinda only venturing upon

commonplace inquiries,—as to how Ethelyn bore her journey,
if she was ever in that part of the country before, and how
she thought she should like the West. This last question
Ethelyn could not answer directly.

“It was very different from New England,” she said,
“but she was prepared for that, and hoped she should not
get very homesick during the few weeks which would
elapse before she went to Washington.”

At this point Mrs. Markham stopped her patching and
looked inquiringly at Ethelyn. It was the first she had
heard about Ethelyn's going to Washington; she had understood
that Richard's wife was to keep her company
during the winter, a prospect which since Ethelyn's arrival
had not looked so pleasing to her as it did before. How
in the world they should get on together without Richard,
she did not know, and if she consulted merely her own
comfort she would have bidden Ethelyn go. But there
were other things to be considered,—there was the great
expense it would be for Richard to have his wife with him.
Heretofore he had saved a good share of his salary, but
with Ethelyn it would be money out of his pocket all the
time; besides that, Ethelyn's best place for the present
was at home.

Thus reasoned Mrs. Markham, and when next her needle
resumed its work on Andy's patch, Ethelyn's fate with regard
to Washington was decided, for as thought the mother
on that point, so eventually would think the son, who deferred
so much to her judgment. He came in after a little,
looking so well and handsome that Ethelyn felt proud of
him; and had he then laid his hand upon her shoulder, or
put his arm around her waist, as he sometimes did when
they were alone, she would not have shaken it off, as was

her usual custom. Indeed, such is the perversity of human
nature, and so many contradictions are there in it, that
Ethelyn rather wished he would pay her some little attention.
She could not forget Abigail, with Abigail's mother
and sister sitting there before her, and she wanted them to
see how fond her husband was of her, hoping thus to prove
how impossible it was that Abigail could ever have been to
him what she was. But Richard was shy in the presence of
others, and would sooner have put his arm around Melinda
than around his wife, for fear he should be thought silly.
He was very proud of her, though, and felt a thrill of satisfaction
in seeing how superior, both in look and manner,
she was to Melinda Jones, whose buxom, healthy face grew
almost coarse and homely from comparison with Ethelyn's.

As Ethelyn's toilet had occupied some time, it was five
when she made her appearance in the parlor, consequently
she had not long to wait ere the announcement of supper
broke up the tediousness she endured from that first call
or visit. The waffles and the gingerbread were all they
had promised to be, and the supper passed off quietly, with
the exception of a mishap of poor, awkward Andy, who
tipped his plate of hot cakes and honey into his lap, and
then, in his sudden spring backward, threw a part of the
plate's contents upon Ethelyn's shining silk. This was the
direst calamity of all, and sent poor Andy from the table
so heart-broken and disconsolate that he did not return
again, and Eunice found him sitting on the wood-house
steps, wiping away with his coat-sleeve the great tears
which rolled down his womanish face.

“Ethelyn never would like him again,” he said, calling
himself “a great blundering fool, who never ought to eat
at the same table with civilized folks.”

But when Ethelyn, who heard from Eunice of Andy's
distress, went out to see him, assuring him that but little
damage had been done, that soft water and magnesia would
make the dress all right again, he brightened up, and was
ready to hold Mr. Harrington's horse when after dark that
gentleman drove over from Olney with his wife and sister
to call on Mrs. Richard. It would almost seem that Ethelyn
held a reception that evening, for more than the Harringtons
knocked at the front door, and were admitted by
the smiling Eunice. It was rather early to call, the Olneyites
knew, but there on the prairie they were not hampered
with many of Mrs. Grundy's rules, and several of the
young people had agreed together between the Sunday
services to call at Mrs. Markham's the following night.
They were well-meaning, kind-hearted people, and would
any one of them have gone far out of their way to serve
either Richard or his wife; but awed by Ethelyn's cold,
frigid manner, they appeared shy and awkward,—all except
Will Parsons, the young M.D. of Onley, who joked, and
talked, and laughed so loudly, that even Richard wondered
he had never before observed how noisy Dr. Parsons was,
while Andy, who was learning to read Ethelyn's face, tried
once or twice, by pulling the doctor's coat-skirts and giving
him a warning glance, to quiet him down a little. But
the doctor took no hints, and kept on with his fun, finding
a splendid coadjutor in the “terrible Tim Jones,” who himself
came over to call on Dick and his woman.

Tim was dressed in his best, with a bright red cravat
tied round his neck, and instead of his muddy boots with
his pants tucked in the tops, he wore coarse shoes tied with
strings, and flirted his yellow silk handkerchief for the entire
evening. It was dreadful to Ethelyn, for she could see

nothing agreeable in Richard's friends; and the proud look
on her face was so apparent that the guests all felt ill at
ease, while Richard was nearer being angry with Ethelyn
than he had ever been. Will Parsons and Tim Jones
seemed exceptions to the rest of the company, especially
the latter, who, if he noticed Ethelyn's evident contempt,
was determined to ignore it, and made himself excessively
familiar.

As yet, the open piano had been untouched, no one
having courage to ask Ethelyn to play; but Tim was fond
of music, and unhesitatingly seating himself upon the stool,
thrust one hand in his pocket, and with the other struck
the keys at random, trying to make out a few bars of “Hail
Columbia.” Then turning to Ethelyn, he said, with a good-humored
nod, “Come, old lady, give us something good.”

Ethelyn's eyes flashed fire, while others of the guests
looked their astonishment at Tim, who knew he had done
something, but could not for the life of him tell what.

“Old lady” was a favorite title with him. He called
his mother so, and Melinda, and Eunice Plympton, and
Maria Morehouse, whose eyes he thought so bright, and
whom he always saw home from meeting on Sunday nights;
and so it never occurred to him that this was his offence.
But Melinda knew, and her red cheeks burned scarlet as
she tried to cover her brother's blunder by modestly urging
Ethelyn to favor them with some music.

Of all the Western people whom she had seen, Ethelyn
liked Melinda the best. She had thought her rather familiar;
and after the Olneyites came in and put her more at
her ease, she had fancied her a little flippant and forward;
but, in all she did or said, there was so much genuine sincerity
and frankness, that Ethelyn could not dislike her as

she had thought she should dislike a sister of Abigail
Jones and the terrible Tim. She had not touched her
piano since her arrival, for fear of the home-sickness which
its familiar tones might awaken; and when she saw Tim's
big red hands fingering the keys, in her resentment at the
desecration she said to herself that she never would touch
it again; but when in a low aside Melinda added to her entreaties,
“Please, Mrs. Markham, don't mind Tim,—he
means well enough, and would not be rude for the world,
if he knew it,” she began to give way, and it scarcely
needed Richard's imperative “Ethelyn” to bring her to
her feet. No one offered to conduct her to the piano,—
not even Richard, who sat just where he was; while Tim,
in his haste to vacate the music-stool, precipitated it to the
floor, and got his leather shoes entangled in Ethelyn's
skirts.

Tim, and Will Parsons, and Andy, all hastened to pick
up the stool, knocking their heads together, and raising a
laugh in which Ethelyn could not join. Thoroughly disgusted
and sick at heart, she felt much as the Jewish maidens
must have felt when required to give a song. Her
harp was indeed upon the willows hung, and her heart was
turning sadly toward her far-off Jerusalem as she sat down
and tried to think what she should play to suit her audience.
Suddenly it occurred to her to suit herself rather than her
hearers, and her snowy fingers,—from which flashed Daisy's
diamond and a superb emerald,—swept the keys with a
masterly grace and skill. Ethelyn was perfectly at home
at the piano, and dashing off into a brilliant and difficult
overture, she held her hearers for a few moments astonished
both at her execution and the sounds she made. Most of
them, however, wanted something familiar,—something

they had heard before; and when the fine performance
was ended terrible Tim electrified her with the characteristic
exclamation, “That is mighty fine, no doubt, for
them that understand such; but now, for land's sake, give
us a tune.”

Ethelyn was horror-stricken. She had cast her pearls
before swine; and with a haughty stare at the offending
Timothy, she left the stool, and, walking back to her former
seat, said—

“I leave the tunes to your sister, who, I believe, plays
sometimes.”

Somewhat crestfallen, but by no means brow-beaten, Tim
insisted that Melinda should give them a jig; and, crimsoning
with shame and confusion, Melinda took the vacant
stool and played her brother a tune,—a rollicking, galloping
tune, which everybody knew, and which set the
feet to keeping time, and finally brought Tim and Andy to
the floor for a dance. But Melinda declined playing for the
cotillon which her brother proposed, and so the dancing
arrangement came to naught, greatly to the delight of
Ethelyn, who could only keep back her tears by looking
up at the sweet face of Daisy smiling down upon her from
the wall. That was the only redeeming point in that whole
assembly, she thought. She would not even except
Richard then, so intense was her disappointment and so
bitter her regret for the mistake she made when she promised
to go where her heart could never be.

It was nine o'clock when the company dispersed, each
of the ladies cordially inviting Ethelyn to call as soon as
convenient, and Mrs. Harrington, whose husband was the
village merchant, saying encouragingly to her, as she held
her hand a moment, “Our Western manners seem strange

to you, I dare say; but we are a well-meaning people, and
you will get accustomed to us by and by.”

She never should,—no never, Ethelyn thought as she
went up to her room, tired and homesick, and disheartened
with this, her first introduction to the Olney people. It
was a very cross wife which slept at Richard's side that
night, and the opinion expressed of the Olneyites was anything
but complimentary to the taste of one who had
known them all his life and liked them so well. But
Richard was getting accustomed to such things. Lectures
did not move him now as they had at first, and, overcome
with fatigue from his day's work and the evening's excitement,
he fell asleep while Ethelyn was enlarging upon the
merits of the terrible Tim who had addressed her as “old
lady” and asked her to “play a tune.”