University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
THE DESERTED HUSBAND.

RICHARD had been very successful in St. Louis.
The business which took him there had been
more than satisfactorily arranged. He had collected
a thousand-dollar debt he never expected to get,
and had been everywhere treated with the utmost deference
and consideration, as a man whose worth was known
and appreciated. But Richard was ill at ease, and his
face wore a sad, gloomy expression, which many remarked,
wondering what could be the nature of the care so evidently
preying upon him. Do what he might, he could not forget
the white, stony face which had looked at him so strangely
in the gray morning, nor shut out the icy tones in which
Ethie had last spoken to him. Besides this, Richard was
thinking of all he had said to her in the heat of passion,
and wishing he could recall it in part at least. He was very
indignant, very angry still, for he believed her guilty of
planning to meet Frank Van Buren at the party and leave
him at home, while his heart beat with keen throbs of pain
when he remembered that Ethie's first love was not given
to him,—that she would have gone to her grave more
willingly than she went with him to the altar; but he need
not have been so harsh with her,—that was no way to make

her love him. Kindness must win her back should she ever
be won, and impatient to be reconciled, if reconciliation
were now possible, Richard chafed at the necessary delays
which kept him a day longer in St. Louis than he had at first
intended.

Ethie had been gone just a week when he at last found
himself in the train which would take him back to Camden.
First, however, he must stop at Olney; the case was imperative,—and
so he stepped from the train one snowy afternoon
when the February light shone cold and blue upon the
little town and the farm-house beyond. His brothers were
feeding their flocks and herds in the rear yard to the east;
but they came at once to greet him, and ask after his welfare.
The light snow which had fallen that day was lying
upon the front door-steps, undisturbed by any track, so
Richard entered at the side. Mrs. Markham was dipping
candles, and the faint, sickly odor of the hot melted tallow,
which filled Richard's olfactories as he came in, was never
forgotten, but remembered as part and parcel of that terrible
day which would have a place in his memory so long as being
lasted. Every little thing was impressed upon his mind,
and came up afterward with vivid distinctness whenever he
thought of that wretched time. There was a bit of oil-cloth
on the floor near to the dripping candles, and he saw the
spots of tallow which had dropped and dried upon it,—saw,
too, his mother's short gown, and blue woollen stockings,
as she got up to meet him, and smelling the cabbage cooking
on the stove, for they were having a late dinner that day.

Richard had seen his mother dip candles before,—nay,
had sometimes assisted at the dipping. He had seen her
short striped gown and blue woollen stockings, and smelled
the cooking cabbage, but they never struck him with so

great a sense of discomfort as they did to-day when he
stood, hat in hand, wondering why home seemed so cheerless.
It was as if the shadow of the great shock awaiting
him had already fallen upon him, oppressing him with a
weight he could not well shake off. He had no thought
that any harm had come to Ethie, and yet his first question
was for her. Had his mother heard from her while he
was away, or did she know if she was well?

Mrs. Markham's under-jaw dropped, in the way peculiar
to her when at all irritated, but she did not answer at once;
she waited a moment, while she held the rod poised over
the iron kettle, and with her forefinger deliberately separated
any of the six candles which showed a disposition to
stick together; then depositing them upon the frame and
taking up another rod, she said—

“Miss Plympton was down to Camden three or four
days ago, and she said Ann Merrills, the chamber-maid at
the Stafford House, told her Ethelyn had come to Olney
to stay with us while you was away; but she must have
gone somewhere else, as we have not seen her here. Gone
to visit that Miss Amsden, most likely, that lives over the
creek.”

“What makes you think she has gone there?” Richard
asked, with a sudden spasm of fear, for which he could not
account, and which was not in anywise diminished by his
mother's reply: “Ann said she took the six o'clock train
for Olney, and as Miss Amsden lives beyond us, it's likely
she went there, and is home by this time.”

Richard accepted this supposition; but it was far from
reassuring him. The load he had felt when he first came
into the kitchen was pressing more and more heavily, and
he wished that he had gone straight on instead of stopping

at Olney. But now there was nothing to do but to wait
with what patience he could command until the next train
came and carried him to Camden.

It was nine o'clock when he reached there, and a stiff
north-easter was blowing down the streets with gusts of
sleet and rain; but he did not think of it as he hurried on
toward the Stafford House, with that undefined dread growing
stronger and stronger as he drew near. He did not know
what he feared, nor why he feared it. He should find Ethie
there, he said. She surely had returned from her visit by this
time; he should see the light from the windows shining
out upon the park, just as he had seen it many other nights
when hastening back to Ethie. He would take the shortest
route down that dark, narrow alley, and so gain a moment
of time. The alley was traversed at last, also the
square, and he turned the corner of the street on which the
Stafford House stood. Halting for an instant, he strained
his eyes to see if he were mistaken, or was there no light
in the window, no sign that Ethie was there. There were
lights below, and lights above, but the second floor was
dark, the shutters closed, and all about them a look of
silence and desertion which quickened Richard's footsteps
to a run. Up the private staircase he went, and through
the narrow hall, till he reached his door and found it locked.
Ethie was surely gone. She had not expected him so
soon. Mrs. Amsden had urged her to stay, and she had
stayed. This was what Richard said, as he went down to
the office for the key, which the clerk handed him, with the
remark, “Mrs. Markham went to Olney the very day you
left. I thought perhaps you would stop there and bring
her home.”

Richard did not reply, but hurried back to the darkened

room, where everything was in order; even Ethie's work-box
was in its usual place upon the little table, and Ethie's
chair was standing near; but something was missing,—
something besides Ethie,—and its absence made the room
look bare and strange as the gas-light fell upon it. The
piano was gone, or moved. It must be the latter, and
Richard looked for it in every corner, even searching in the
bed-room and opening the closet door, as if so ponderous a
thing could have been hidden there! It was gone, and so
was Ethie's trunk, and some of Ethie's clothes, for he looked
to see, and then mechanically went out into the hall,
just as Mr. Bailey came up stairs and saw him.

“Ho, Judge! is that you? Glad to see you back.
Have been lonesome with you and your wife both away.
Do you know of the trade we made,—she and I,—the very
day you left? She offered me her piano for three hundred
dollars, and I took her up at once. A fine instrument, but
a little too small for her. Answers very well for Angeline.
It's all right, isn't it?” the talkative man continued, as he
saw the blank expression on Richard's face and construed
it into disapprobation of the bargain.

“Yes, all right, of course. It was her piano, not mine,”
Richard said, huskily. Then feeling the necessity of a little
duplicity, he said, “Mrs. Markham went the same day I
did, I believe?”

“Really, now, I don't know whether 'twas that day or
the next,” Mr. Bailey replied, showing that what was so
important to Richard had as yet made but little impression
upon him. “No, I can't say which day it was; but here's
Hal Clifford,—he'll know,” and Mr. Bailey stepped aside
as Harry came up the hall.

He had been to call upon a friend who occupied the floor

above, and seeing Richard, came forward to speak to him, the
look of shame upon his face showing that he had not forgotten
the circumstances under which they had last met
As Harry came in Mr. Bailey disappeared, and so the two
men were alone when Richard asked, “Do you know what
day Mrs. Markham left Camden?”

Richard tried to be natural. But Harry was not deceived.
There was something afloat,—something which had some
connection with his foolish, drunken talk and Ethie's non-appearance
at the masquerade. Blaming himself for what he
remembered to have said, he would not now willingly annoy
Richard, and he answered, indifferently, “She went the
same day that you did; that is, she left here on the six
o'clock train. I know, for I called in the evening and
found her gone.”

“Was she going to Olney?”

Richard's lips asked this rather than his will, and Harry
replied, “I suppose so. Isn't she there?”

It was an impudent question, but prompted purely by
curiosity, and Richard involuntarily answered, “She has
not been there at all.”

For several seconds the two men regarded each other intently;
one longing so much to ask a certain question, and
the other reading that question in the wistful, anxious eyes
bent so earnestly upon him.

“He left in that same train, and took the same route,
too.”

Harry said this, and Richard staggered forward, till he
leaned upon the door-post, while his face was ashy pale.
Harry had disliked Richard Markham, who he knew so
strongly disapproved of his conduct; but he pitied him
now and tried to comfort him.

“It cannot be they went together. I saw no indications
of such an intention on the part of Frank. I hardly think
he saw her, either. He was going to —, he said, and
should be back in a few days. Maybe she is somewhere.”

Yes, maybe she was somewhere, but so long as Richard
did not know where, it was poor comfort for him. One
thing, however, he could do,—he could save her good name
until the matter was further investigated; and pulling
Harry after him into his room, he sat down by the cold,
dark stove, over which he crouched shiveringly, while he
said, “Ethie has gone to visit a friend, most likely,—a Mrs.
Amsden, who lives in the direction of Olney. So please,
for her sake, do not say either now or ever who went on
the train with her.”

“You have my word as a gentleman that I will not,”
Harry replied; “and as no one but myself ever knew that
they were cousins and acquaintances, their names need not
be mentioned together, even if she never returns.”

“But she will,—she will come back, Ethie will. She
has only gone to Mrs. Amsden's,” Richard replied, his
teeth chattering and his voice betraying all the fear and
anguish he tried so hard to hide.

Harry saw how cold he seemed, and with his own hands
built a quick wood-fire, and then asked—

“Shall I leave you alone, or would you prefer me to
stay?”

“Yes, stay. I do not like being here alone, though
Ethie will come back. She's only gone to visit Mrs. Amsden,”
and Richard whispered the words “gone to visit Mrs.
Amsden.”

It is pitiful to see a strong man cut down so suddenly,
and every nerve of Harry's throbbed in sympathy as he

sat watching the deserted husband walking up and down
the room, now holding his cold fingers to the fire, and now
saying to himself, “She has only gone to Mrs. Amsden's.
She will be back to-morrow.”

At last the clock struck eleven, and then Richard roused
from his lethargy and said, “The next train for Olney
passes at twelve. I am going there, Harry,—going after
Ethie. You'll see her coming back to-morrow.”

Richard hardly knew why he was going back to Olney,
unless it were from a wish to be near his own kith and kin
in this his hour of sorrow. He knew that Ethie had gone,
and the Mrs. Amsden ruse was thrown out for the benefit
of Harry, who, frightened at the expression of Richard's
face, did not dare leave him alone until he saw him safely
on board the train which an hour later dropped him upon
the slippery platform in Olney, and then went speeding on
in the same direction Ethie once had gone.

Mrs. Markham's candles were finished, and in straight,
even rows were laid away in the candle-box, the good
woman finding to her great satisfaction that there were just
ten dozen, besides the slim little thing she had burned
during the evening, and which, with a long crisp snuff, like
the steeple of a church, was now standing on the chair by
her bed. The hash was chopped ready for breakfast, the
coffee was prepared, and the kindlings were lying near the
stove, where, too, were hanging to dry Andy's stockings,
which he had that day wet through. They had sat up
later than usual at the farm-house that night, for Melinda
and her mother had been over there, and the boys had
made molasses candy, and “stuck up” every dish and
spoon, as Mrs. Markham said. Tim had come after his

mother and sister, and as he had a good deal to say, the
clock struck eleven before the guests departed, and Andy
buttoned the door of the wood-shed and put the nail over
the window by the sink. Mrs. Markham had no suspicion
of the trial in store for her, but for some cause she felt
restless and nervous, and even scary, as she expressed it to
herself. “Worked too hard, I guess,” she thought, as she
tied on her high-crowned, broad-frilled night-cap, and then
wound the clock before stepping into bed.

It was nearly midnight, and for some little time she lay
awake listening to the wind as it swept past the house, or
screamed through the key-hole of the door. But she did
not hear the night train when it thundered through the
town; nor the gate as it swung back upon its hinges; nor
the swift step coming up the walk; nor the tap upon her
window until it was repeated, and Richard's voice called
faintly, “Mother, mother, let me in!”

Andy, who was as good as a watch-dog, was awake by
this time, and with his window open was looking down at
the supposed burglar, while his hand felt for some missile
to hurl at the trespasser's head. With a start Mrs. Markham
awoke, and springing up listened till the voice said
again, “Mother, mother, it's I; let me in!”

The Japan candle-stick Andy had secured was dropped
in a trice, and adjusting his trowsers as he descended the
stairs, he reached the door simultaneously with his mother,
and pulling Richard into the hall, asked why he was there,
and what had happened. Richard did not know for certain
as anything had happened. “Ethie was most probably
with Mrs. Amsden. She would be home to-morrow,” and
Andy felt how his brother leaned against him, and his
hand pressed upon his shoulder as he went up to the stove,

and crouched down before it just as he had done in Camden.
The candle was lighted, and its dim light fell upon that
strange group gathered there at midnight, and looking into
each other's faces with a wistful questioning as to what it
all portended.

“It is very cold; make more fire,” Richard said, shivering,
as the sleet came driving against the window; and in
an instant all the morning's kindlings were thrust into the
stove, where they roared, and crackled, and hissed, and
diffused a sense of warmth and comfort through the shadowy
room.

“What is it, Richard? What makes you so white and
queer?” his mother asked, trying to pull on her stockings
and in her trepidation jamming her toes into the heel, and
drawing her shoe over the bungle thus made at the bottom
of her foot.

“Ethie was not there, and has not been since the night
I left. She sold her piano, and took the money, and her
trunk, and her clothes, and went to visit Mrs. Amsden.”

This was Richard's explanation, which Andy thought a
mighty funny reason for his brother's coming at midnight,
and frightening them so terribly. But his mother saw
things differently. She knew there was something underlying
all this,—something which would require all her skill
and energy to meet,—and her face was almost as white as
Richard's as she asked, “Why do you think she has gone
to Mrs. Amsden's?”

“You told me so, didn't you?” and Richard looked up at
her in a bewildered, helpless way, which showed that all
he knew upon the Amsden question was what she had said
herself, and that was hardly enough to warrant a conclusion
of any kind.

“Was there any reason why Ethelyn should go away?”
she asked next, and Richard's head dropped, and his eyes
were cast down in shame, as he replied—

“Yes; we—quar—. We differed, I mean, the night
before I went away, and I kept her from the masquerade.
I would not let her go. I locked the door, and now she
has gone—gone to Mrs. Amsden's.”

He persisted in saying that, as if he would make himself
believe it against his better judgment.

“What is it all about? What does it mean?” Andy
asked, in great perplexity; and his mother answered for
Richard—

“It means just this, as far as I can see: Ethelyn has got
mad at Richard for keepin' her in, which he orto have
done long ago, and so, with her awful temper, she has run
away.”

Mrs. Markham had defined it at last,—had put into words
the terrible thing which had happened, the disgrace which
she saw coming upon them; and with this definition of it she,
too, defined her own position with regard to Ethelyn, and
stood bristling all over with anger and resentment, and
ready to do battle for her son against the entire world.

“Mother! mother!” Andy gasped, and his face was
whiter than Richard's. “It is not true. Ethie never went
and done that,—never! Did she, Dick? Tell me! Speak!
Has Ethie run away?”

Andy was down on one knee now, and looking into
Richard's face with a look which would almost have
brought Ethie back could she have seen it. Andy had
faith in her, and Richard clung to him rather than to the
mother denouncing her so bitterly.

“I don't know, Andy,” he said. “I hope not. I think

not. She must have gone to Mrs. Amsden's. We will
wait till morning and see.”

The sound of voices had aroused both James and John,
who, half-dressed, came down to inquire what had happened,
and why Dick was there at that unseemly hour of
the night. James' face was very pale as he listened, and
when his mother spoke of the disgrace which would come
upon them all, his hard fists were clenched for a moment,
while he thought of Melinda, and wondered if
with her it would make any difference. Both James and
John liked Ethelyn, and as the temper about which
their mother talked so much had never been exhibited to
them, they were inclined to take her part, and cautious
John suggested that it might not be so bad as his mother
feared. To be sure he didn't know how hard Dick and
Ethie might have spatted it, or what had gone before; but
any way his advice would be to wait and see if she was not
really at Mrs. Amsden's, or somewhere else. Richard let
them manage it all for him. He was powerless to act, and
stunned and silent he sat shivering by the stove, which
they made red-hot with the blocks of wood they put in,
hoping thus to warm him. There was no more sleep at
the farm-house that night, though James and John went
back to bed, and Andy, too, crept up to his lonely room;
but not to sleep. His heart was too full for that, and
kneeling by his wooden chair, he prayed for Ethie,—that
she had not run away, but might be at Mrs. Amsden's,
where he was going for her himself the moment the morning
broke. He had claimed this privilege, and his mother
had granted it, knowing that many allowances would be
made for whatever Andy might say, and feeling that, on
this account, he would do better than either of his

brothers. Richard, of course, could not go. He scarcely
had strength to move, and did not look up from his stooping
posture by the stove when at day-dawn Andy drew on
his butternut overcoat, and tying a thick comforter about
his neck, started for Mrs. Amsden's.