Ethelyn's mistake :: :: University of Virginia Library

RICHARD: I am going away from you forever,
and when you recall the words you spoke to me
last night, and the deep humiliation you put
upon me, you will readily understand that I go because we
cannot live together any longer as man and wife. You
said things to me, Richard, which women find hard to forgive,
and which they never can forget. I did not deserve
that you should treat me so, for, bad as I may have been
in other respects, I am innocent of the worst thing you
alleged against me, and which seemed to excite you so
much. Until I heard it from you, I did not know Frank
Van Buren was within a thousand miles of Camden. The
note from him which I leave with this letter, and which
you will remember was brought to the door by a servant,

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who said it had been mislaid and forgotten, will prove that
I tell you truly. The other note which you found, and
which must have fallen from the box where I kept it, was
written years ago, when I was almost a little girl, with no
thought that I ever could be the humbled, wretched creature
I am now.

“Let me tell you about it, Richard,—how I happened to
be engaged to Frank, and how wounded, and sore, and
sorry I was when you came the second time to Chicopee,
and asked me to be your wife.”

Then followed the whole story of Ethelyn's first love.
Nothing was concealed, nothing kept back. Even the
dreariness of the day when Aunt Van Buren came up from
Boston and broke poor Ethie's heart, was described and
dwelt upon with that particularity which shows how the
lights, and shadows, and sunshine, and storms which mark
certain events in one's history will impress themselves upon
one's mind, as parts of the great joy or sorrow which can
never be forgotten. Then she spoke of meeting Richard, and
the train of circumstances which finally led to their betrothal.

“I wanted to tell you about Frank that night, on the
shore of the pond, when you told me of Abigail, and twice
I made up my mind to do so, but something rose up to
prevent it, and after that it was very hard to do so.”

She did not tell him how she at first shrank away from
his caresses; but she confessed that she did not love him,
even when taking the marriage vow.

“But I meant to be true to you, Richard. I meant to
be a good wife, and never let you know how I felt. You
were different from Frank; different from most men whom
I had met, and you did annoy me at times. You will tell
me I was foolish to lay so much stress on little things, and

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so, perhaps, I was; but little things, rather than big, make
up the sum of human happiness, and, besides, I was too
young fully to understand how any amount of talent and
brain could atone for absence of all culture of manner.
Then I was disappointed in your home and family. You
know how unlike they are to my own, but you can never
know how terrible it was to me who had formed so different
an estimate of them. I suppose you will say I did not
try to assimilate, and perhaps I did not. How could I,
when to be like them was the thing I dreaded most of all?
I do believe they tried to be kind, especially your brothers,
and I shall ever be grateful to them for their attempt to
please and interest me during that dreadful winter I spent
alone, with you in Washington. You did wrong, Richard,
not to take me with you, when I wanted so much to go.
I know that, after what happened, you and your mother
think you were fully justified in what you did; but, Richard,
you are mistaken. The very means you took to avert
a catastrophe hastened it instead. The cruel disappointment
and terrible homesickness which I endured hastened
our baby's birth, and cost its little life. Had it lived,
Richard, I should have been a better woman than I
am now. It would have been something for me to love,
and my heart did ache so for an object on which to fasten.
I did not love you when I became your wife, but I was
learning to do so. When you came home from Washington,
I was glad to see you, and I used to listen for your step
when you went to Olney and it was time for you to return.
Just in proportion as I was drawn toward you, Frank fell
in my estimation, and I wanted to tell you all about it, and
begin anew. Do you remember that night of our return
from St. Paul's? I found a letter from Aunt Van Buren,

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and asked if you would like to hear it. You seemed so
indifferent, and almost cross about it, that the good angel
left me, and your chance was lost again. There was something
in that letter about Frank and me,—something which
would have called forth questions from you, and I meant
to explain if you would let me. Think, Richard. You
will remember the night. You lay upon the sofa, and I
sat down beside you, and smoothed your hair. I was nearer
to loving you then than I ever was before; but you put me
off, and the impulse did not come again,—that is, the impulse
of confession. A little more consideration on your
part for what you call my airs and high notions would have
won me to you, for I am not insensible to your many sterling
virtues, and I do believe that you did love me once.
But all that is over now. I made a great mistake when I
came to you, and perhaps I am making a greater one in
going from you. But I think not. We are better apart,
especially after the indignities of last night. Where I am
going it does not matter to you. Pursuit will be useless,
inasmuch as I shall have the start of a week. Neither do
I think you will search for me much. You will be happier
without me, and it is better that I should go. You will
give the accompanying note to Andy. Dear Andy, my
heart aches to its very core when I think of him, and know
that his grief for me will be genuine. I leave you Daisy's
ring. I am not worthy to keep that, and so I give it back.
I wish I could make you free from me entirely, if that should
be your wish. Perhaps some time you will be, and then
when I am nothing to you save a sad memory, you will
think better of me than you do now.

“Good-by, Richard. We shall probably never meet
again. Good-by.

Ethie.”

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She did not stop to read what she had written. There
was not time for that, and taking a fresh sheet, she wrote:

“Dear, darling Andy:—If all the world were as good,
and kind, and true as you, I should not be writing this
letter, with my arrangements made for flight. Richard will
tell you why I go. It would take me too long. I have
been very unhappy here, though none of my wretchedness
has been caused by you. Dear Andy, if I could tell you
how much I love you, and how sorry I am to fall in your
opinion, as I surely shall when you hear what has happened.
Do not hate me, Andy, and sometimes when you
pray, remember Ethie, won't you? She needs your prayers
so much, for she cannot pray herself. I do not want to be
wholly bad,—do not want to be lost forever; and I have
faith that God will hear you. The beautiful consistency of
your everyday life and your simple trust have been powerful
sermons to me, convincing me that there is a reality in
the religion you profess. Go on, Andy, as you have begun,
and may the God whom I am not worthy to name, bless
you, and keep you, and give you every possible good. In
fancy I wind my arms around your neck, and kiss your
dear, kind face, as with tears I write you my good-by.

“Farewell, Andy, darling Andy, farewell.”

Ethelyn had not wept before, but now, as Andy rose up
before her with the thought that she should see him no
more, her tears poured like rain, and blotted the sheet on
which she had written to him. It hurt her more, if possible,
to lose his respect than that of any other person, and
for a half instant she wavered in the decision. But it was
too late now. The piano was sold and delivered, and if

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she tarried she had no special excuse to offer for its sale.
She must carry out her plan, even though it proved the
greatest mistake of her life. So the letters were directed,
and put, with Daisy's ring, in the little drawer of the
bureau, where Richard would be sure to find them when
he came back. Perhaps, as Ethie put them there, she
thought how they might be the means of a reconciliation;
that Richard, after reading her note, would move heaven
and earth to find her, and having done so, would thence-forth
be her willing slave; possibly, too, remembering the
harsh things he had so recently said to her, she exulted a
little as she saw him coming back to his deserted home,
and finding his domestic altar laid low in the dust. But if
this were so she gave no sign, and though her face was
deathly pale, her nerves were steady and her voice calm, as
she gave orders concerning her baggage, and then when it
was time, turned the key upon her room, and left it with
the clerk, to whom she said,

“I shall not be back until my husband returns.”

She was going to Olney, of course, the landlady said,
when she heard Mrs. Markham had gone; and so no wonder
was created among the female boarders, except that
Ethelyn had not said good-by to a single one of them.
She was not equal to that. Her great desire was to escape
unseen, and with a veil drawn closely over her face, she
sat in the darkest corner of the ladies' room, waiting impatiently
for the arrival of the train, and glancing furtively
at the people around her. Groups of men were walking
up and down upon the platform without, and among them
Frank Van Buren. On his way to the cars he had called
again at the Stafford House, and learned that Mrs. Markham
was out.

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“I'll see her when I return,” he thought, and so went
his way to the train, which would take him to his next
point of destination.

Never once dreaming how near he was to her, Ethie
entered the car, and drew her veil and furs more closely
around her, and turning her face to the frosty window,
gazed drearily out into the wintry darkness as they sped
swiftly on. She hardly knew where she was going or what
she could do when she was there. She was conscious only
of the fact that she was breaking away from scenes and
associations which had been so distasteful to her,—that
she was leaving a husband who had been abusive to her,
and she verily believed she had just cause for going. The
world might not see it so, perhaps, but she did not care for
the world. She was striking out a path of her own, and
with her heart as sore and full of anger as it then was, she
felt able to cope with any difficulty, so that her freedom
was achieved. They were skirting across the prairie now,
and the lights of Olney were in sight. Perhaps she could
see the farm-house; and rubbing with her warm palm the
moisture from the window-pane, she looked wistfully out
in the direction of Richard's home. Yes, there it was, and a
light was shining from the sitting-room window, as if they
expected her. But Ethie was not going there; and with
a sigh as she thought of Andy so near, yet separated so
widely from her, she turned from the window and rested
her tired head upon her hands while they stayed at Olney.
It was only a moment they stopped, but to Ethie it seemed
an age; and her heart almost stopped its beating when she
heard the voice of terrible Tim just outside the car. He
was not coming in, as she found after a moment of breathless
waiting; he was only speaking to an acquaintance, who

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stepped inside and took a seat by the stove, just as the
train plunged again into the darkness, leaving behind a
fiery track to mark its progress across the level prairie.