University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
RICHARD'S HEIR.

FOR one whole week the windows of Ethelyn's
room were darkened as dark as Mrs. Markham's
heavy shawl and a patchwork quilt could make
them. The doctor rode to and from the farm-house, looking
more and more concerned each time he came from the
sick-room. Mrs. Jones was over almost every hour, or if
she did not come Tim was sent to inquire, his voice very
low and subdued as he asked, “How is she now?” while
James' voice was lower and sadder still as he answered,
“There is no change.” Up and down the stairs Mrs. Markham
went softly, wishing that she had never harbored an unkind
thought against the pale-faced girl lying so unconscious
of all they were doing for her. In the kitchen below, with
a scared look upon her face, Eunice washed and wiped
her dishes, and wondered if Richard would get home in
time for the funeral, and if he would order from Camden
a metallic coffin such as Minnie Dayton had been buried
in; and Eunice's tears fell like rain as she thought how
terrible it was to die so young, and unprepared, too, as
she heard Mrs. Markham say to the Methodist clergyman
when he came over to offer consolation.

Yes, Ethelyn was unprepared for the fearful change
which seemed so near, and of all the household none felt
this more keenly than Andy, whose tears soaked through
and through the leaf of the Prayer-Book where was
printed the petition for the sick, and who improvised many

a touching prayer himself, kneeling by the wooden chair
where God had so often met and blessed him.

“Don't let Ethie die, Good Father, don't let her die; at
least not till she is ready, and Dick is here to see her,—
poor old Dick, who loves her so much. Please spare
her for him and take me in her place. I'm good for
nothing, only I do hope I'm ready, and Ethie ain't; so spare
her and take me in her place.”

This was one of Andy's prayers,—generous, unselfish
Andy,—who would have died for Ethelyn, and who had
been in such exquisite distress since the night when Eunice
first found Ethelyn moaning in her room, with her
letter to Richard lying unfinished before her. No one had
read that letter,—the Markhams were too honorable for
that,—and it had been put away in the portfolio, while undivided
attention was given to Ethelyn. She had been unconscious
nearly all the time, saying once when Mrs. Markham
asked “Shall we send for Richard?” “Send for
Aunt Barbara; please send for Aunt Barbara.”

That was the third day of Ethelyn's danger, and on the
sixth there came a change. The shawl was pinned back
from the window, admitting light enough for the watchers
by the bedside to see if the sufferer still breathed. Life
was not extinct, and Mrs. Markham's lips moved with a
prayer of thanksgiving when Mrs. Jones pointed to a tiny
drop of moisture beneath the tangled hair. Ethelyn
would live, the doctor said, but down in the parlor on the
sofa where Daisy had lain was a little lifeless form with a
troubled look upon its face, showing that it had fought for
its life. Prone upon the floor beside it sat Andy, whispering
to the little one, and weeping for “poor old Dick,
who would mourn for his lost boy.”

Andy was very sorry, and to one who saw him that day
and, ignorant of the circumstances, asked what was the
matter that he looked so solemn, he answered sadly, “I
have just lost my little uncle that I wanted to stand sponsor
for. He only lived a day,” and Andy's tears flowed afresh
as he thought of all he had lost with the child whose life
numbered scarcely twenty-four hours in all. But that was
enough to warrant its being now among the spirits of the
Redeemed, and heaven seemed fairer, more desirable to
Andy than it had done before. His father was there with
Daisy and his baby uncle, as he persisted in calling Ethelyn's
dead boy until James told him better, and pointed
out the ludicrousness of the mistake. To Ethelyn Andy
was tender as a mother, when at last they let him see her,
and his lips left marks upon her forehead and cheek. She
was perfectly conscious now, and when told they had sent
for Richard, manifested a good deal of interest, and asked
when he would probably be there. They were expecting
him every train; but ere he came the fever, which seemed
for a time to have abated, returned with double force, and
Ethelyn knew nothing of the kisses Richard pressed upon
her lips, or the tears Aunt Barbara shed over her poor
darling.

There were anxious hearts and troubled faces in the
farm-house that day, for death was brooding there again, and
they who watched his shadow darkening around them spoke
only in whispers, as they obeyed the physician's orders.
When Richard first came in Mrs. Markham wound her
arm around his neck, and said, “I am so sorry for you, my
poor boy,” while the three sons, one after another, had
grasped their brother's hand in token of sympathy, and
that was all that had passed between them of greeting

For the rest of the day Richard had sat constantly by
Ethelyn, watching the changes of her face, and listening to
her as she raved in snatches, now of himself, and the time
he saved her from the maddened cow, and now of Frank
and the huckleberries, which she said were ripening on the
Chicopee hills. When she talked of this Richard held his
breath, and once, as he leaned forward so as not to lose a
word, he caught Aunt Barbara regarding him intently, her
cheek flushing as she met his eye and guessed what was in
his mind. If Richard had needed any confirmation of his
suspicions, that look on transparent Aunt Barbara's face
would have confirmed them. There had been something
between Ethelyn and Frank Van Buren more than a
cousinly liking, and Richard's heart throbbed painfully as
he sat by the tossing, restless Ethelyn, moaning on about
the buckleberry hills, and the ledge of rock where the wild
laurels grew. This pain he did not try to analyze; he only
said to himself that he felt no bitterness toward Ethelyn.
She was too near to death's dark tide for that. She was
Ethie,—his darling,—the mother of the child they had
buried from sight before he came. Perhaps she did not
love him, and never would; but he had loved her so much,
and if he lost her he would be wretched indeed. And so,
forgiving all the past of which he knew, and trying to forgive
all he did not know, he sat by her till the sun went
down, and his mother came for the twentieth time, urging
him to eat. He had not tasted food that day, and faint
for the want of it, he followed her to where the table had
been set, and supper prepared with a direct reference to
his particular taste.

He felt better and stronger when supper was over,
and listened eagerly while Andy and Eunice, who had

been the last with Ethelyn before her sudden illness,
recounted every incident as minutely and reverently as
if speaking of the dead. Especially did he hang on what
Andy said with reference to her questioning him about
the breaking of a wicked vow, and when Eunice added
her mite to the effect that, getting up for some camphor
for an aching tooth, she had heard a groan from
Ethelyn's room, and had found her mistress bending over
a half-finished letter, which she “reckoned” was to him,
and had laid away in the portfolio, he waited for no
more, but hurried up-stairs to the little book-case where
Eunice had put the treasure,—for it was a countless treasure,
that unfinished letter, which he read with the great
tears rolling down his cheeks, and his heart growing ten-fold
softer and warmer toward the writer, who confessed to having
wronged him, and wished that she dare tell him all.
What was it she had to tell? Would he ever know? he
asked himself, as he put the letter back where he found it.
Yes, she would surely tell him, if she lived, as live she must.
She was dearer to him now than she had ever been,
and the lips unused to prayer, save as a form, tried to
pray that Ethie might be spared. Then, as there flashed
upon him a sense of the inconsistency there was in
keeping aloof from God all his life, and going to him
only when danger threatened, he bowed his head in
very shame, and the prayer died on his lips. But Andy
always prayed,—at least he had for many years; and
so the wise, strong brother sought the simple, weaker
one, and asked him to do what he himself had not power
to do.

Andy's swollen eyes and haggard face bore testimony
to his sorrow, and his voice was very low and earnest,

as he replied, “Brother Dick, I'm prayin' all the time.
I've said that prayer for the sick until I've wore it threadbare,
and now every breath I draw has in it the petition,
`We beseech thee to hear us, good Lord.' There's nothing
in that about Ethie, it's true; but God knows I mean her,
and will hear me all the same.”

There was a touching simplicity in Andy's faith, which
went to the heart of Richard, making him feel of how little
avail was knowledge, or wisdom, or position, if there was
lacking the one thing needful, which Andy so surely possessed.
That night was a long, wearisome one at the farm-house;
but when the morning broke, hope and joy came
with it, for Ethelyn was better, and in the brown eyes,
which unclosed so languidly, there was a look of consciousness,
which deepened into a look of surprise and joyful recognition
as they rested upon Aunt Barbara.

“Is this Chicopee? Am I home? Oh, Aunt Barbara,
I am so glad! you can't guess how glad, or know how tired
and sorry your poor Ethie has been,” came brokenly from
the pale lips, as Ethelyn moved nearer to Aunt Barbara
and laid her head upon the motherly bosom, where it had
so often lain in the dear old Chicopee days.

She did not notice Richard, or seem to know that she
was elsewhere than Chicopee, back in the old home; and
Richard's pulse throbbed quickly as he saw the flush come
over Ethie's face, and the look of pain creep into her eyes,
when a voice broke the illusion and told her she was still
in Olney, with him and the mother-in-law leaning over the
bed-rail and saying, “Speak to her, Richard.”

“Ethie, don't you know me, too?—I came with Aunt
Barbara.”

That was what he said, as he bent over her, seeking to

take in his own one of the feverish little hands locked so
fast in those of Aunt Barbara. She did know then, and
remember, and her lip quivered in a grieved, disappointed
way as she said, “Yes, Richard, I know now. I am not at
home, I'm here;” and the intonation of the voice as it
uttered the word here, spoke volumes, and told Aunt Barbara
just how homesick and weary and wretched her darling
had been here. She must not talk much, the physician
said; and so with one hand in Richard's and one in Aunt
Barbara's she fell away to sleep again, while the family stole
out to their usual avocations,—Mrs. Markham and Eunice
to their baking, James and John to their work upon the
farm, and Andy to his Bethel in the wood-house chamber,
where he repeated, “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel who
has visited and redeemed his people,” and added at the conclusion
the Gloria Patri, which he thought suitable for the
occasion.