University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
THE INVESTIGATION.

RICHARD knew she was not there,—at least all the
probabilities were against it; and still he clung
to the vague hope that Andy would bring him
some good news, and his thoughts went after the brother
whose every breath was a prayer, as he galloped over the
snowy ground toward Mrs. Amsden's. They were early
risers there, and notwithstanding the sun was just coming
up the eastern sky, the family were at breakfast,
when Andy's horse stopped before their gate, and Andy
himself knocked at their door for admission. Andy's
faith was great,—so great that, in answer to his petitions,
he fully expected to see Ethie herself at the table when
the door was opened, and he caught a view of the occupants
of the dining-room; but no Ethie was there, nor had
been, as they said, in answer to his eager questionings.

“What made you think she was here? When did she
go away? Was she intending to visit me?” Mrs. Amsden
asked.

But Andy, while praying that Ethie might be there,
had also asked that if she were not, “he didn't make a

fool of himself, nor let the cat out of the bag;” and he
didn't; he merely replied—

“She left home a few days ago. Dick was in St. Louis,
and it was lonesome stayin' alone. I'll find her, most
likely, as she is somewhere else.”

Andy was in his saddle now, and his fleet steed flew
swiftly along toward home, where they waited so anxiously
for him, Richard tottering to the window so as to read his
fate in Andy's face.

“She is not there. I knew she was not. She has gone
with that villain.”

Richard did not mean to say that last. It dropped from
him mechanically, and in an instant his mother seized upon
it, demanding what he meant, and who was the villain referred
to. Richard tried to put her off, but she would
know what he meant, and so to her and his three brothers
he told as little as he could and make any kind of a story,
and as he talked his heart hardened toward Ethie, who had
done him this wrong. It seemed a great deal worse when
put into words, and the whole expression of Richard's face
was changed when he had finished speaking, while he was
conscious of feeling much as he had felt that night when he
denounced Ethie so terribly to her face. “Had it been a
man, or half a man, or anybody besides that contemptible
puppy, it would not seem so bad; but to forsake me for
him!” Richard said, while the great ridges deepened in
his forehead, and a hard, black look crept into his eyes, and
about the corners of his mouth. He was terrible in his
anger, which grew upon him until even his mother stood
appalled at the expression of his face.

“He would do nothing to call her back,” he said, when
James suggested the propriety of trying in a quiet way to

ascertain where she had gone. “She had chosen her own
path to ruin, and she might tread it for all of him. He
would not put forth a hand to save her, and if she came
back, he never could forgive her.”

Richard was walking up and down the room, white with
rage, as he said this, and Andy, cowering in a corner, was
looking on and listening. He did not speak until Richard
declared his incapacity for forgiving Ethie, when he started
up, and confronting the angry man, said to him, rebukingly:

“Hold there, old Dick! You have gone a leetle too far.
If God can forgive you and me all them things we've done,
which He knows about, and other folks don't, you can, or
or'to, forgive sister Ethie, let her sin be what it may.
Ethie was young, Dick, and child-like, and so pretty, too,
and I know you aggravated her some, if you talked to her
as you feel now; and then, too, Dick, and mother, and all
of you, I don't care who says it, or thinks it, it's a big lie!
Ethie never went off with a man,—never! I know she
didn't. She wa'n't that kind. I'll swear to it in the court.
I won't hear nobody say that about her. I'll fight 'em
first, even if 'twas my own kin who did it!” And in his
excitement, Andy began to shove back his wrist-bands from
his strong wrists, as if challenging some one to the fight he
had threatened.

Andy was splendid in his defence of Ethie, and both
James and John stepped up beside him, showing their adhesion
to the cause he pleaded so well. Ethie might have
ran away, but she had surely gone alone, they said, and
their advice was that Richard should follow her as soon as
possible. But Richard would not listen to such a proposition
now, and, quietly aided and abetted by his mother, he
still declared his intention of “letting her alone.” She had

chosen her course, he said, and she must abide by it. “If
she has gone with that villain,”—and Richard ground his
teeth together,—“she can never come back again to me. If
she has not gone with him, and chooses to return, I do not
say the door is shut against her.”

Richard seemed very determined and unrelenting, and,
knowing how useless it was to reason with him when in
so stern a mood, his brothers gave up the contest, Andy
thinking within himself how many, many times a day
he should pray for Ethie that she might come back
again. Richard would not return to Camden that day,
he said. He could not face his acquaintance there until
the first shock was over, and they were a little accustomed
to thinking of the calamity which had fallen upon
him. So he remained with his mother, sitting near
the window which looked out upon the railroad-track
over which Ethie had gone. What his thoughts were
none could fathom, save as they were expressed by the
dark, troubled expression of his face, which showed how
much he suffered. Perhaps he blamed himself as he went
over again the incidents of that fatal night when he kept
Ethelyn from the masquerade; but if he did, no one was
the wiser for it, and so the first long day wore on, and the
night fell again upon the inmates of the farm-house. The
darkness was terrible to Richard, for it shut out from his
view that strip of road which seemed to him a part of
Ethie. She had been there last, and possibly looked up at
the old home,—her first home after her marriage; possibly,
too, she had thought of him. She surely did, if, as
Andy believed, she was alone in her flight. If not alone,
he wanted no thought of hers; and Richard's hands were
clenched as he moved from the darkening window, and

took his seat behind the stove, where he sat the entire
evening, like some statue of despair, brooding over his
ruined hopes.

The next day brought the Joneses,—Melinda and Tim,—
the latter of whom had heard from Mrs. Amsden's son of
Andy's strange errand there. There was something in the
wind, and Melinda came to learn what it was. Always
communicative to the Jones family, Mrs. Markham told the
story without reserve, not even omitting the Van Buren
part, but asking as a precaution that Melinda would not
spread a story which would bring disgrace on them. Melinda
was shocked, astonished, and confounded, but she did
not believe in Frank Van Buren. Ethie never went with
him,—never. She, like Andy, would swear to that, and she
said as much to Richard, taking Ethie's side as strongly as
she could, without casting too much blame on him. And
Richard felt better, hearing Ethie upheld and spoken for,
even if it were against himself. Melinda was still his good
angel, while Ethie, too, had just cause for thanking the kind
girl who stood by her so bravely, and even made the mother-in-law
less harsh in her expressions.

There was a letter for Richard that night, from Harry
Clifford, who wrote as follows:—

“Thank Heaven for that!” was Richard's exclamation,
as in the first revulsion of feeling he sprang from his chair,
while every feature of his face was irradiated with joy.

“What is it, Dick? Is Ethie found? I knew she
would be. I've prayed for it fifty different times to-day,
and I had faith that God would hear,” Andy said, the
great tears rolling down his smooth, round face, as he gave
vent to his joy.

But Andy's faith was to be put to a stronger test, and his
countenance fell a little when Richard explained the nature
of the letter. Ethie was not found; she was only proved
innocent of the terrible thing Richard had feared for
her, and in being proved innocent, she was for a moment
almost wholly restored to his favor. She would come back
some time. She could not mean to leave him forever.
She was only doing it for a scare, and to punish him for
what he did that night. He deserved some punishment,
too, he thought, for he was pretty hard on her; and as he
surely had been punished in all he had suffered during the
last forty-eight hours, he would, when she came back, call
everything even between them, and begin anew.

This was Richard's reasoning; and that night he slept
soundly, dreaming that Ethie had returned, and on her knees
was suing for his forgiveness, while her voice was broken
with tears and choking sobs. As a man and husband who
had been deserted, it was his duty to remain impassive a
few moments, while Ethie atoned fully for her misdeeds;
then he would forgive her; and so he waited an instant,
and while he waited he woke to find only Andy, with

whom he was sleeping, kneeling by the bedside, with the
wintry moonlight falling on his upturned face, as he prayed
for the dear sister Ethie, whose steps had “mewandered”
so far away.

“Don't let any harm come to her; don't let anybody
look at her for bad, but keep her,—keep her,—keep her
in safety, and send her back to poor old Dick and me, and
make Dick use her better than I most know he has, for
he's got the Markham temper in him, and everybody knows
what that is.”

This was Andy's prayer, the outpouring of his simple,
honest heart, and Richard heard it, wincing a little as
Andy thus made confession for him of his own sins; but
he did not pray himself, though he was glad of Andy's
prayers, and placed great hopes upon them. God would
hear Andy, and if he did not send Ethie back at once, he
would surely keep her from harm.

The next day Richard went back to Camden. Melinda
Jones had suggested that possibly Ethie left a letter, or
note, which would explain her absence, and Richard caught
at it eagerly, wondering he had not thought of it before,
and feeling very impatient to be off, even though he dreaded
to meet his old friends, and be questioned as to the whereabouts
of his wife. He did not know that the story of
his desertion was already there,—Mrs. Amsden having gone
to town with her mite, which, added to the sale of the
piano, Ethie's protracted absence, Richard's return to Olney
at midnight, and Harry Clifford's serious and mysterious
manner, was enough to set the town in motion. Various
opinions were expressed, and, what was very strange, so
popular were both Richard and Ethelyn that everybody
disliked blaming either, and so but few unkind remarks

had as yet been made, and those by people who had been
jealous or envious of Ethelyn's high position. No one
knew a whisper of Frank Van Buren, for Harry kept his
promise, and no worse motive was ascribed to Ethie's desertion
than want of perfect congeniality with her husband.
Thus they were not foes, but friends, who welcomed Richard
back to Camden, watching him curiously, and wishing
so much to ask where Mrs. Markham was. That she was
not with him, was certain, for only Andy came,—Andy, who
held his head so high, and looked round so definatly, as he
kept close to Richard's side on the way to the hotel. It
was very dreary going up the old, familiar stair-case into
the quiet hall, and along to the door of the silent room,
which seemed drearier than on that night when he first
came back to it, and found Ethie gone. There were ashes
now upon the stove-hearth where Hal Clifford had kindled
the fire, and the two chairs they had occupied were standing
just where they had left them. The gas had not been
properly turned off, and a dead, sickly odor filled the room,
making Andy heave as he hastened to open the window, and
admit the fresh, pure air.

“Seems as it did the day Daisy died,” Andy said, and
his eyes filled with tears.

To Richard it was far worse than the day Daisy died, for
he had then the memory of her last loving words in his ear,
and the feeling of her clinging kiss upon his lips, while now
the memories of the lost one were only bitter and sad in the
extreme.

“Melinda suggested a letter or something. Where do
you suppose she would put it if there were one?” Richard
asked, in a helpless, appealing way, as he sank into a chair
and looked around the room.

He had been very bold and strong in the cars and in the
street; but here, in the deserted room, where Ethie used
to be, and where something said she would never be again,
he was weak as a girl, and leaned wholly upon Andy, who
seemed to feel how much was depending upon him, and so
kept up a cheery aspect while he kindled a fresh fire and
cleared the ashes from the hearth by blowing them off upon
the oil-cloth; then, as the warmth began to make itself felt
and the cold to diminish, he answered Richard's query.

“In her draw, most likely; mother mostly puts her traps
there.” So, to the “draw” they went,—the very one
where Daisy's ring was lying; and Richard saw that first,
knowing now for sure that Ethelyn had fled.

He knew so before, but this made it more certain,—more
dreadful, too, for it showed a determination never to return.

“It was Daisy's, you know,” he said to Andy, who, at
his side, was not looking at the ring, but on beyond it, to
the two letters, his own and Richard's, both of which he
seized, with a low cry, for he, too, was sure now of Ethie's
flight.

“See, Dick, there's one for you and one for me,” he exclaimed,
and his face grew very red as he tore open his own
note and began to devour the contents, whispering the
words, and breaking down entirely amid a storm of sobs
and tears when he reached the words:

He could get no farther than this, and with a great cry
he buried his face in his hands and sobbed, “Yes, Ethie, I
will, I will; but oh! what is it? What made you go?
Why did she, Dick?” and he turned to his brother, who,
with lightning rapidity, was reading Ethelyn's long letter.
He did not doubt a word she had written, and when the
letter was finished he put it in Andy's hand, and then, with
a bitter groan, laid his throbbing head upon the cushion of
the lounge where he was sitting. There were no tears in
his eyes,—nothing but red circles floating before them;
while the aching balls seemed starting from their sockets
with their pressure of pain. He had had his chance with
Ethie, and lost it; and though, as yet, he saw but dimly
where he had been to blame, where he had made a mistake,
he endured for the time all he was capable of enduring,
and if revenge had been her object, Ethie had more than
her desire.

Andy was stunned for a moment, and sat staring blankly
at the motionless figure of his brother; then, as the terrible
calamity began to impress itself fully upon him, intense pity
for Richard became uppermost in his mind, and stooping
over the crushed man he laid his arm across his neck, and,
tender as a sorrowing, loving mother, kissed and fondled the
damp brown hair, and dropped great tears upon it, and
murmured words of sympathy, incoherent at first, for the
anguish choking his own utterance, but gradually gathering
force and sound as his quivering lips kept trying to articulate,
“Dick, poor old Dick, dear old Dick, don't keep so
still and look so white and stony. She'll come back again,
Ethie will. I feel it, I see it, I know it. I shall pray for
her every hour until she comes. Prayer will reach her
where nothing else can find her. Poor Dick, I am so sorry.

Don't, don't look so; you scare me. Try to cry; try to
make a fuss; try to do anything rather than that dreadful
look. Lay your head on me, so,” and lifting up the bowed
head, which offered no resistance, Andy laid it gently on
his arm, and smoothing back the hair from the pallid forehead,
went on: “Now cry, old boy, cry with all your
might;” and with his hand Andy brushed away the
scalding tears which began to fall like rain from Richard's
eyes.

“Better so, a great deal better, than that other way.
Don't hold up till you've had it out,” he kept repeating,
while Richard wept until the fountain was dry and the
tears refused to flow.

“I've been a brute, Andy,” he said, when at last he
could speak. “The fault was all my own. I did not
understand her in the least. I ought never to have married
her. She was not of my make at all.”

Andy would hear nothing derogatory of Richard any
more than of Ethelyn, and he answered promptly, “But,
Dick, Ethie was some to blame. She didn't or'to marry
you, feelin' as she did. That was where the wrong begun.”

This was the most and the worst Andy ever said against
Ethelyn, and he repented of that the moment the words
were out of his mouth. It was mean to speak ill of the
absent, especially when the absent one was Ethie, who had
written, “In fancy I put my arms around your neck and
kiss your dear, kind face.” Andy deemed himself a monster
of ingratitude when he recalled those lines, and remembered
that of her who penned them he had said, “She was
some to blame.” He took it all back to himself, and tried
to exonerate Ethie entirely, though it was hard work to do
so when he saw how broken, and stunned, and crushed his

brother was, and how little he realized what was passing
around him.

“He don't know much more than I do,” was Andy's
mental comment, when to his question, “What shall we do
next?” Richard replied, in a maudlin kind of way, “Yes,
that's a very proper course. I leave it entirely to you.”

Andy felt that a great deal was depending upon himself,
and he tried to meet the emergency. Seeing how Richard
continued to shiver, and how cold he was, he persuaded
him to lie down upon the bed, and piling the blankets upon
him, made such a fire as he said to himself “would roast a
common ox;” then, when Hal Clifford came to the door
and knocked, he kept him out, with the word that “Dick
had been broke of his rest, and was tryin' to make it
up.”

But this state of things could not last long. Richard
was growing ill, and talking so strangely withal, that Andy
began to feel the necessity of having somebody there beside
himself; “some of the wimmen folks, who knew what to
do, for I'm no better than a settin' hen,” he said.

Very naturally his thoughts turned to his mother as the
proper person to come, “though Melinda Jones was the
properest of the two. There was snap to her, and she
would not go to pitchin' in to Ethie.”

Accordingly, the next mail carried to Melinda Jones a
note from Andy, which was as follows:

This note Melinda carried straight to Mrs. Markham, and
as the result, four hours later both the mother and Melinda
were on the road to Camden, where Melinda's services were
needed to stem the tide of wonder and gossip which had
set in when it began to be known that Ethelyn was really
gone, and Richard was lying sick in his room, tended only
by Andy, who would admit no one, not even the doctor,
when, urged by Harry Clifford, he came to offer his services.

“He wasn't goin' to let in a lot of curis critters to hear
what Dick was talkin',” he said to his mother and Melinda,
his haggard face showing how much he had endured in
keeping them at bay, and answering through the keyhole
their numerous inquiries.

Richard did not have a fever, as was feared at first; but
for many days he kept his bed, and during that time his
mother and Melinda stayed by him, nursing him most assiduously,
but never once speaking to each other of Ethelyn.
Both had read her letter, for Mrs. Markham never thought
of withholding it from Melinda, who, knowing that she
ought not to have seen it, wisely resolved to keep to herself
the knowledge of its contents. So, when she was asked,
as she was repeatedly, “Why Mrs. Markham had gone
away,” she answered evasively, or not at all, and finding
that nothing could be obtained from her, the people at last
left her in quiet and turned to their own resources, which
furnished various reasons for the desertion. They knew it

was a desertion now, and hearing how sick and broken
Richard was, popular opinion was in his favor mostly,
though many a kind and wistful thought went after the
fair young wife, who had been a belle in their midst, and
a general favorite too. Where was she now, and what was
she doing, while the winter crept on into spring, and the
March winds blew raw and chill against the windows of the
chamber where Richard battled with the sickness which he
finally overcame, so that by the third week of Ethie's absence
he was up again and able to go in quest of her, if so
be she might be found and won to the love she never had
returned.