University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
ANDY TRIES TO FIND THE ROOT OF THE MATTER.

ETHELYN was very sick with a nervous headache,
and so Andy did not go in with his kindlings
that night, but put the basket near the door,
where Eunice would find it in the morning. It was a part
of Richard's bargain with Eunice that Ethie should always
have a bright warm fire to dress by, and the first thing
Ethelyn heard as she unclosed her eyes was the sound of
Eunice blowing the coals and kindlings into a blaze as she
knelt upon the hearth, with her cheeks and eyes distended
to their utmost capacity. It was a very dreary awaking,
and Ethelyn sighed as she looked from her window out
upon the far-stretching prairie, where the first snows of the
season were falling. There were but few objects to break
up the monotonons level, and the mottled November sky
frowned gloomily and coldly upon her. Out in the back
yard James and John were feeding the cattle; and the bleating
of the sheep and the lowing of the cows came to her ear
as she turned with a shiver from the window. How could
she stay there all that long, dreary winter,—there where
there was not an individual who had a thought or taste in
common with her own. She could not stay, she decided;
and then as the question arose “where will you go?” the
utter hopelessness and helplessness of her position rushed
over her with so much force that she sank down upon the
lounge which Eunice had drawn to the fire, and when the
latter came up with breakfast she found her young mistress

crying in a heart-broken, despairing kind of way, which
touched her heart at once.

Eunice knew but little of the trouble with regard to
Washington. Mrs. Markham had been discreet enough to
keep that from her; and so she naturally ascribed Ethie's
tears to grief at parting with her husband, and tried in her
homely way to comfort her. Three months were not very
long; they would pass very quickly, she said, adding that
she heard Jim say the night before that as soon as he got
his gray colts broken he was going to take his sister all
over the country and cheer her up a little.

Ethie's heart was too full to permit her to reply, and
Eunice soon left her alone, reporting below stairs how white
and sick she was looking. To Mrs. Markham's credit we
record that, with a view to please her daughter-in-law, a fire
was that afternoon made in the parlor and Ethelyn solicited
to come down, Mrs. Markham, who carried the invitation,
urging that a change would do her good, as it was not well
to stay always in one place. But Ethelyn preferred the
solitude of her own chamber, and though she thanked her
mother-in-law for her thoughtfulness, she declined going
down, and Mrs. Markham had made her fire for nothing.
Not even Melinda came to enjoy it, for she was in Camden,
visiting a schoolmate; and so the day passed drearily enough
with them all, and the autumnal night shut down again
darker, gloomier than ever, as it seemed to Ethelyn. She had
seen no one but Mrs. Markham and Eunice since Richard
went away, and she was wondering what had become of
Andy, when she heard his shuffling tread upon the stairs,
and a moment after, his round, shining face appeared, asking
if he might come in. Andy wore his best clothes on
this occasion, for an idea had been lodged in his brain that

Ethelyn liked a person well dressed, and he was much
pleased with himself in his short coat and shorter pants,
and the buff and white cotton cravat tied in a hard knot
around his sharp standing-collar, which almost cut the bottom
of his ears.

“I wished to see you,” he said, taking a chair directly
in front of Ethelyn and tipping back against the wall. “I
wanted to come before, but was afraid you didn't care to
have me. I've got somethin' for you now, though,—somethin'
good for sore eyes. Guess what 'tis?”

And Andy began fumbling in his pocket for the something
which was to cheer Ethelyn, as he hoped.

“Look a-here. A letter from old Dick, writ the very
first day. That's what I call real courtin' like,” and Andy
gave to Ethelyn the letter which John had brought from
the office, and which a detention of the train at Stafford for
four hours had afforded Richard an opportunity to write.

It was only a few lines, meant for her alone, but Ethelyn's
cheek did not redden as she read them, or her eyes
brighten one whit. Richard was well, she said, explaining
to Andy the reason for his writing, and then she put the
letter away, while Andy sat looking at her, and wondering
what he should say next. He had come up to comfort her,
but found it hard to begin. Ethie was very pale, and there
were dark rings around her eyes, showing that she suffered,
even if Mrs. Markham did assert there was nothing ailed
her but spleen.

At last Andy blurted out, “I am so sorry for you, Ethelyn,
for I know it must be bad to have your man go off and
leave you alone, when you wanted to go with him. Jim
and John and me talked it up to-day when we was out to
work, and we think you orto have gone with Dick. It

must be lonesome staying here, and you only six months
married. I wish, and the boys wishes, we could do something
to chirk you up.”

With the exception of what Eunice had said these were
the first words of sympathy Ethelyn had heard, and her
tears flowed at once, while her slight form shook with such
a tempest of sobs that Andy was alarmed, and getting down
on his knees beside her, begged of her to tell him what was
the matter. Had he hurt her feelings? he was such a
blunderin' critter he never knew the right thing to say, and
if she liked he'd go straight off down stairs.

“No, Anderson,” Ethelyn said, “you have not hurt my
feelings, and I do not wish you to go, but, oh, I am so
wretched and so disappointed too!”

“About goin' to Washington, you mean?” Andy asked,
resuming his chair, and his attitude of earnest inquiry,
while Ethelyn, forgetting all her reserve, replied, “Yes, I
mean that and everything else. It has been nothing but
disappointment ever since I left Chicopee, and I sometimes
wish I had died before I promised to go away from dear
Aunt Barbara's, where I was so happy.”

“What made you promise, then? I suppose, though,
it was because you loved Dick so much,” simple-minded
Andy said, trying to remember if there was not a passage
somewhere which read, “For this cause shall a man leave
father and mother and cleave unto his wife, and they twain
shall be one flesh.”

Ethelyn would not wound Andy by telling him how little
love had had to do with her unhappy marriage, and she remained
silent for a moment, while Andy continued, “Be
you disappointed here,—with us, I mean, and the fixins?”

Yes, Anderson, terribly disappointed. Nothing is as

I supposed. Richard never told me what I was to expect,”
Ethelyn replied, without stopping to consider what she was
saying.

For a moment Andy looked intently at her, as if trying
to make out her meaning. Then, as it in part dawned upon
him, he said, sorrowfully, “Sister Ethie, if it's me you
mean, I was more to blame than Dick, for I asked him not
to tell you I was—a—a—wall, I once heard Miss Captain
Simmons say I was Widder Markham's fool,” and Andy's
chin quivered as he went on: “I ain't a fool exactly, for I
don't drool or slobber, like Tom Brown, the idiot, but I
have a soft spot in my head, and I didn't want you to know
it, for fear you wouldn't like me. Daisy liked me, though,
and Daisy knew what I was and called me `dear Andy,'
and kissed me when she died.”

Andy was crying softly now, and Ethelyn was crying
with him. The hard feeling at her heart was giving way,
and she could have put her arms around this childish man,
who after a moment continued, “Dick said he wouldn't
tell you, so you must forgive him for that. You've found
me out, I s'pose. You know I ain't like Jim, nor John,
and I can't hold a candle to old Dick, but sometimes I've
hoped you liked me a little, even if you do keep callin' me
Anderson. I wish you wouldn't; seems as if folks thinks
more of me when they say `Andy' to me.”

“Oh, Andy, dear Andy,” Ethelyn exclaimed, “I do like
you so much,—like you best of all! I did not mean you
when I said I was disappointed.”

“Who, then?” Andy asked, in his straightforward way.
“Is it mother? She is odd, I guess, though I never
thought on't till you came here. Yes, mother is some
queer, but she is good; and oncet when I had the tythoid

and lay like a log, I heard her pray for `her poor dear boy
Andy;' that's what she called me, as lovin' like as if I
wasn't a fool or somethin' nigh it.”

Ethelyn did not wish to leave upon his mind the impression
that his mother had everything to do with her wretchedness,
and so as cautiously as she could she tried to explain
to him the difference between the habits and customs
of Chicopee and Olney. Warming up with her theme
as she progressed, she said more than she intended, and
succeeded in driving into Andy's brain a vague idea that his
family were not up to her standard, but were in fact a long
way behind the times. Andy was in a dilemma; he wanted
to help Ethelyn and he did not know how. Suddenly,
however, his face brightened and he asked, “Do you belong
to the church?”

“Yes,” was Ethelyn's reply.

“You do!” Andy repeated in some surprise, and Ethelyn
replied, “Not the way you mean, perhaps; but when I was
a baby I was baptized in the church and thus became a
member.”

“So you never had the Bishop's hands upon your head,
and done what the Saviour told us to do to remember
him by?”

Ethelyn shook her head, and Andy went on: “Oh, what
a pity, when he is such a good Saviour, and would know
just how to help you, now you are so sorry-like, and
homesick, and disappointed. If you had him, you could
tell him all about it and he would comfort you. He helped
me, you don't know how much, and I was dreadful bad
once. I used to git drunk, Ethie,—drunker'n a fool, and
come hiccuppin' home with my clothes all tore and my
hat smashed into nothin'.”

Andy's face was scarlet as he confessed his past misdeeds,
but without the least hesitation he went on: “Mr.
Townsend found me one day in the ditch, and helped me
up and got me into his room and prayed over me and talked
to me, and never let me off from that time till the Saviour
took me up, and now it's better than three years since I
tasted a drop. I don't taste it even at the Sacrament, for
fear what the taste might do, and I used to hold my nose
to keep shut of the smell. Mr. Townsend knows I don't
touch it, and God knows, too, and thinks I'm right, I'm
sure, and gives me to drink of his precious blood just the
same, for I feel light as air when I come from the altar. If
religion could make me, a fool and a drunkard, happy, it
would do sights for you who know so much. Try it, Ethie,
won't you?”

Andy was getting in earnest now, and Ethelyn could not
meet the glance of his honest, pleading eyes.

“I can't be good, Andy,” she said; “I shouldn't know
how to begin or what to do.”

“Seems to me I could tell you a few things,” Andy
said. “God didn't want you to go to Washington for
some wise purpose or other, and so he put it into
Dick's heart to leave you at home. Now, instead of
crying about that I'd make the best of it and be as happy
as I could here. I know we ain't starched-up folks
like them in Boston, but we like you, all of us,—leastwise
Jim and John and me do,—and I don't mean to come
to the table in my shirt-sleeves any more, if that will
suit you, and I won't blow my tea in my sasser, nor sop my
bread in the platter; though if you are all done and
there's a lot of nice gravy left, you won't mind it, will
you, Ethelyn?—for I do love gravy.”

Ethelyn had been more particular than she meant to
be with her reasons for her disappointment, and in enumerating
the bad habits of the family she had included
the points upon which Andy had seized so readily. He
had never been told before that his manners were entirely
what they ought not to be; he could hardly see
it so now, but if it would please Ethie he would try
to refrain, he said, asking that when she saw him doing
anything very outlandish, she would remind him of it and
tell him what was right.

“I think folks is always happier,” he continued, “when
they forgit to please themselves and try to suit others,
even if they can't see any sense in it.”

Andy did not exactly mean this as a rebuke, but
it had the effect of one and set Ethelyn to thinking.
Such genuine simplicity and frankness could not be lost
upon her; and long after Andy had left her and gone
to his room, where he sought in his Prayer-Book for
something just suited to her case, she sat pondering upon
all he had said, and upon the faith which could make
even simple Andy so lovable and good.

“He has improved his one talent far more than I
have my five or ten,” she said, while regrets for her
own past misdeeds began to fill her bosom, with a wish
that she might in some degree atone for them.

Perhaps it was the resolution formed that night, and
perhaps it was the answer to Andy's prayer that God
would have mercy upon Ethie and incline her and his
mother to pull together better, which sent Ethelyn down
to breakfast the next morning and kept her below stairs
a good portion of the day, and made her accept James'
invitation to ride with him in the afternoon. Then when

it was night again, and she saw Eunice carrying through
the hall a smoking firebrand, which she knew was designed
for the parlor fire, she changed her mind about staying alone
up-stairs with the books she had commenced to read,
but brought instead the white, fleecy cloud she was
knitting, and sat with the family, who had never seen
her more gracious or amiable, and wondered what had
happened. Andy thought he knew; he had prayed for
Ethie, not only the previous night, but that morning before
he left his room, and also during the day,—once in the
barn upon a rick of hay and once behind the smoke-house.

Andy always looked for direct answers to his prayers,
and believing he had received one his face was radiant with
content and satisfaction when after supper he brushed and
wet his hair and plastered it down upon his forehead, and
changed his heavy boots for a lighter pair of Richard's, and
then sat down before the parlor fire with the yarn sock he
was knitting for himself. Ethelyn had never seen him engaged
in this feminine employment before, and she felt a
strong disposition to laugh, but fearing to wound him, repressed
her smiles and seemed not to look at him as he
worked industriously on the heel, turning and shaping it
better than she could have done. It was not often that
Ethelyn had favored the family with music, but she did so
that night, playing and singing pieces which she knew
were familiar to them, and only feeling a momentary pang
of resentment when at the close of Yankee Doodle, with
variations, quiet John remarked that Melinda herself could
not go ahead of that! Melinda's style of music was evidently
preferable to her own, but she swallowed the insult
and sang “Lily Dale,” at the request of Andy, who, thinking
the while of dear little Daisy, wiped his eyes with the

leg of his sock, while a tear trickled down his mother's
cheek and dropped into her lap.

“I thought Melinda Jones wanted to practise on the
pianner,” Eunice said, after Ethelyn was done playing; “I
heard her saying so one day and wondering if Miss Markham
would be willin'.”

Ethelyn was in a mood then to assent to anything, and
she expressed her entire approbation, saying even that she
would gladly give Melinda any assistance in her power.
Ethelyn had been hard and cold and proud so long that
she scarcely knew herself in this new phase of character,
and the family did not know her either. But they appreciated
it fully, and James' eyes were very bright and sparkling,
when in imitation of Andy he bade his sister good-night,
thinking, as she left the room, how beautiful she was
and how pleased Melinda would be, and hoped she would
find it convenient to practise there evenings, as that would
render an escort home absolutely necessary, unless her
brother came for her.

Ethelyn had not changed her mind when Melinda came
home next day, and as a matter of course called at the
Markhams in the evening. But Ethelyn's offer had come
a little too late,—Melinda was going to Washington to
spend the winter! A bachelor brother of her mother's,
living among the mountains of Vermont, had been elected
Member of Congress in the place of the regular member,
who had resigned; and as the uncle was wealthy and generous,
and had certain pleasant reminiscences of a visit to
Iowa when a little black-eyed girl had been so agreeable to
him, he had written for her to join him in Washington,
promising to defray all expenses, and sending on a draft for
two hundred dollars, with which she was to procure whatever

she deemed necessary for her winter's outfit. Melinda's
star was in the ascendant, and Ethelyn felt a pang of
something like envy as she thought how differently Melinda's
winter would pass from her own, while James
trembled for the effect Washington might have upon the
girl who walked so slowly with him along the beaten path
between his house and her father's, and whose eyes, as she
bade him good-night, were scarcely less bright than the
stars shining down upon her. Would she come back like
Ethelyn? He hoped not, for there would then be an end
to all the fond dreams he had been dreaming. She would
despise his homely ways and look for somebody higher
than plain Jim Markham in his cowhide boots. James was
sorry to have Melinda go, and Ethelyn was sorry too. It
seemed as if she was to be left alone, for two days after
Melinda's return Marcia Fenton and Ella Backus came out
from Camden to call, and communicated the news that
they, too, were going on to Washington, together with
Mrs. Judge Miller, whose father was a U. S. Senator. It
was terrible to be thus left behind, and Ethelyn's heart
grew harder against her husband for dooming her to such a
fate. Every week James, or John, or Andy brought from
the post a letter in Richard's handwriting, directed to Mrs.
Richard Markham, and once in two weeks Andy carried a
letter to the post directed in Ethelyn's handwriting to
“Richard Markham, M.C.,”—but Andy never suspected that
the dainty little envelope, with a Boston mark upon it, enclosed
only a blank sheet of paper! Ethelyn had affirmed
so solemnly that she would not write to her husband that
she half feared to break her vow; and besides that, she
could not forgive him for having left her behind, while
Marcia, Ella, and Melinda were enjoying themselves so
much. She knew she was doing wrong, and not a night of
her life did she go to her lonely bed that there did not
creep over her a sensation of fear as she thought, “What
if I should die while I am so bad?”

At home, in Chicopee, she used always to go through
with a form of prayer, but she could not do that now for
the something which rose up between her and heaven,
smothering the words upon her lips; and so in this condition
she lived on day after day, growing more and more
desolate and lonely, and wondering sadly if life would always
be as dreary and aimless as it was now. And while
she pondered thus, Andy prayed on and practised his lessons
in good manners, provoking the mirth of the whole
family by his ludicrous attempts to be polite, and feeling
sometimes tempted to give the matter up. Andy was
everything to Ethelyn, and once when her conscience was
smiting her more than usual with regard to the blanks, she
said to him, abruptly, “If you had made a wicked vow,
which would you do,—keep it or break it, and so tell a
falsehood?”

Andy was not much of a lawyer, he said, but “he thought
he knew some scripter right to the p'int,” and taking his
well-worn bible he found and read the parable of the two
sons commanded to work in their father's vineyard.

“If the Saviour commended the one who said he
wouldn't and then went and did it, I think there can be
no harm in your breaking a wicked vow; leastways I
should do it.”

This was Andy's advice; and that night, long after the
family were in bed, a light was shining in Ethelyn's chamber,
where she sat writing to her husband, and as if Andy's
spirit were pervading hers, she softened as she wrote and

asked forgiveness for the past which she had made so
wretched. She was going to do better, she said, and when
her husband came home she would try to make him
happy.

“But, oh! Richard,” she wrote, “please take me away
from here,—to Camden, or Olney, or anywhere,—so I can
begin anew to be the wife I ought to be. I was never
worthy of you, Richard. I deceived you from the first, and
if I could summon the courage I would tell you about it.”

This letter, which would have done so much good, was
never finished, for when the morning came there were
troubled faces at the prairie farm-house,—Mrs. Markham
looking very anxious and Eunice very scared, James going
for the doctor and Andy for Mrs. Jones, while up in
Ethie's room, where the curtains were drawn so closely
before the windows, life and death were struggling for the
mastery, and each in a measure coming off triumphant.