University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE GOVERNOR.

THEY were to elect a new one in Iowa, and there
were rumors afloat that Richard Markham would
be the man chosen by his party. There had been
similar rumors once before, but Mrs. Markham had regarded
them as mythical, never dreaming that such an honor could
be in store for her boy. Now, however, matters began to
look a little serious. Crowds of men came frequently to
the farm-house and were closeted with Richard. Tim Jones
rode up and down the country, electioneering for “Dick.”
Hal Clifford, in Camden, contributed his influence, though
he belonged to the other party. Others, too, of Harry's
way of thinking, cast aside political differences and “went
in,” as they said, for the best man,—one whom they knew
to be honest and upright, like Judge Markham. Each in
his own way,—James and John, and Andy and Melinda,—
worked for Richard, who was frequently absent from home
for several days, sometimes taking the stump himself, but

oftener remaining quiet while others presented his cause.
Search as they might, his opponents could find nothing
against him, except that sad affair with his wife, who, one
paper said, “had been put out of the way when she became
troublesome,” hinting at every possible atrocity on the husband's
part, and dilating most pathetically upon the injured,
innocent, and beautiful young wife. Then, with a
face as pale as ashes, Richard made his “great speech” in
Camden Court-house, asking that the whole matter be dropped
at once, and saying that he would far rather live a life
of obscurity than have the name, more dear to him than the
names of the dead, bandied about from lip to lip and made
the subject for newspaper paragraphs. They knew Richard
in Camden, and they knew Ethelyn, too, and liked both so
well, that the result of that speech was to increase Richard's
popularity tenfold, and to carry in his favor the entire
town.

The day of election was a most exciting one, especially
in Olney, where Richard had lived from boyhood. It was
something for a little town like this to furnish the Governor,
the Olneyites thought; and though, for party's sake,
there were some opponents, the majority went for Richard;
and Tim Jones showed his zeal by drinking with so many,
that at night he stopped at the farm-house, insisting that
he had reached home, and should stay there, “for all of
Melind,” and hurrahing so loud for “Richud—Mark-um—
Square,” that he woke up the little blue-eyed boy which
for six weeks had been the pride, and pet, and darling of
the household.

Andy's tactics were different. He had voted in the
morning, and prayed the rest of the day, that, if it were
right, “old Dick might lick the whole of 'em,” adding the

petition that “he need not be stuck up if he was Governor,”
and that Ethie might come back to share his greatness.
Others than Andy were thinking of Ethelyn that
day, for not the faintest echo of a huzza reached Richard's
ear that did not bring with it regretful thoughts of her.
And when at last success was certain, and, flushed with
triumph, he stood receiving the congratulations of his
friends, and the Olney bell was ringing in honor of the
new Governor, and bonfires were lighted in the streets,
there was not a throb of his heart which did not go out
after the lost one, with a yearning desire to bring her back,
and, by giving her the highest position in the State, atone
in part for all which had been wrong. But Ethie was very,
very far away,—further than he dreamed,—and strain ear
and eye as she might, she could not see the lurid blaze
which lit up the prairie till the tall grass grew red in the
ruddy glow, or hear the deafening shouts which rent the
sky for Governor Markham, elected by an overwhelming
majority. Oh, how lonely Richard felt, even in the first
moments of his success! And how he longed to get away
from all the noise and din which greeted him at every step,
and be alone again, as since Ethie went away he had chosen
to be so much of his time. Melinda guessed at his feelings
in part; and when he came home at last, looking so pale
and tired, she pitied him, and showed her pity by letting
him alone; and when supper was ready, sending his tea to
his room, whither he had gone as soon as his mother had
unwound her arms from his neck, and told him how glad
she was.

These were also days of triumph to Melinda, for it was
soon known that she was to be the lady of the Governor's
mansion, and the knowledge gave her a fresh accession of

dignity among her friends. It was human that Melinda
should feel her good fortune a little, and perhaps she did.
Andy thought so, and prayed silently against the pomps
and vanities of the world, especially after her new purple
silk was sent home, with the velvet cloak and crimson
morning-gown. These had been made in Camden, a thing
which gave mortal offence to Miss Henry, the Olney dressmaker,
who wondered “what Melinda Jones was that
she should put on such airs,a nd try to imitate Mrs.
Richard Markham.” They had expected such things from
Ethelyn, and thought it perfectly right. She was born to
it, they said; but for Melinda, whom all remembered as
wearing a red woolen gown when a little girl, “for her to
set up so steep was another matter.” But when Melinda
ordered a blue merino, and a flannel wrapper, and a blue
silk, and a white cloak for baby, made at Miss Henry's,
and told that functionary just how her purple was trimmed,
and even offered to shot it to her, the lady changed her
mind, and quoted “Mrs. James Markham's” wardrobe for
months afterward.

Richard, and James, and Melinda, and baby, and Eunice
Plympton as baby's nurse, all went to Des Moines, and left
the house so lonely that Andy lay flat upon the floor and
cried, and his mother's face wore the look of one who had
just returned from burying her dead. It was something,
however, to be the mother and brother of a governor, and
a comfort to get letters from the absent ones, to hear of
Richard's immense popularity, and the very graceful manner
in which Melinda dischaged her duties. But to see
their names in print, to find something about Governor
Markham in almost every paper,—that was best of all;
and Andy spent half his time in cutting out and saving

every little scrap pertaining to the “Governor's family,”
and what they did at Des Moines. Andy was laid up with
rheumatism toward spring; but Tim Jones used to bring
him the papers, rolling his quids of tobacco rapidly from
side to side as he pointed to the paragraphs so interesting
to both. Tim hardly knew whether himself, or Richard,
or Melinda, was the Governor. On the whole, he gave the
preference to “Melind,” after the Governor's levee, at which
she had appeared in “royal purple, with ostrich feathers in
her hair,” and was described in the Camden Leader as the
“elegant and accomplished Mrs. James Markham, who had
received the guests with so much dignity and grace.”

“Ain't Melind a brick? and only to think how she used
to milk the cows, and I once chased her with a garter
snake,” Tim said, reading the article aloud to Andy, who,
while assenting that she was a brick, and according all due
credit to her for what she was, and what she did, never for
a moment forgot Ethelyn.

She would have done so much better, and looked so much
neater, especially her shoes! Andy could not quite forgive
Melinda her big feet and ankles, especially as his contempt
for such appendages was constantly kept in mind by the
sight of the little, half-worn slippers which Ethie had left
in her closet when she moved to Camden, and which, now
that she was gone, he kept as something almost as sacred
as Daisy's hair, admiring the dainty rosettes and small high
heels more than he had admired the whole of Melinda's
wardrobe when spread upon the bed, and tables, and chairs,
preparatory to packing it for Des Moines. Richard, too,
remembered Ethelyn, and never did Melinda stand at his
side in any gay saloon that he did not see in her place a
brown-eyed, brown-haired woman, who would have moved

a very queen among the people. Ethelyn was never forgotten,
whether in the capitol, or the street, or at home, or
awake or asleep. Ethie's face and Ethie's form were everywhere,
and if earnest, longing thoughts could have availed
to bring her back, she would have come, whether across
the rolling sea, or afar from the trackless desert. But they
could not reach her. Ethie did not come, and the term of
Richard's governorship glided away, and he declined a re-election,
and went back to Olney, looking ten years older
than when he left it, with an habitual expression of sadness
on his face, which even strangers noticed, wondering what
was the heart-trouble which was ageing him so fast, and
turning his brown hair gray.

For a time the stillness and quiet of Olney were very acceptable
to him, and then he began to long for more excitement,—something
to divert his mind from the harrowing
fear, daily growing more and more certain, that Ethie
would never come back. It was four years since she went
away, and nothing had been heard from her since the letter
sent to Andy from New York. “Dead,” he said to himself
many a time, and but for the dread of the hereafter, he,
too, would gladly have lain down in the graveyard where
Daisy was sleeping so quietly. With Andy it was different.
Ethie was not dead,—he knew she was not,—and
some time she would surely come back. There was comfort
in Andy's strong assurance, and Richard always felt
better after a talk with his hopeful brother. Perhaps she
would come back, and if so he must have a place worthy of
her, he said, one day, to Melinda, who seized the opportunity
to unfold a plan she had long been meditating. During
the two years spent in Des Moines, James had devoted
himself to the study of law, preferring it to his farming, and

now he was looking out for a good locality where to settle
and practise his profession.

“Let's go together somewhere and build a house,” Melinda
said. “You know Ethie's taste. You can fashion it
as you think she would like it, and until she comes back we
will live with you and see to you a little. You need some
looking after,” and Melinda laid her hand half pityingly
upon the bowed head of her brother-in-law, who, but for
her strong, upholding influence, and Andy's cheering faith,
would have sunk ere this into hopeless despondency.

Melinda was a fine specimen of true womanhood. She
had met many highly cultivated people at Des Moines and
other towns where, as the Governor's sister-in-law, she had
spent more or less of the last two years, and as nothing
ever escaped her notice, she had improved wonderfully,
until even Mrs. Van Buren, of Boston, would have been
proud of her acquaintance. She had known sorrow, too;
for in the cemetery at Des Moines she had left her little
blue-eyed baby boy when only six months old, and her
heart had ached to its very core, until there came another
child, a little girl, whom they had christened “Ethelyn
Grant,” and who, on this account, was quite as dear to
Richard as to either of its parents. Richard was happier
with that little brown-haired girl than with any one else,
and when Melinda suggested they should go together somewhere,
he assented readily, mentioning Davenport as a
place where Ethelyn had many times said she would like
to live. Now, as ever, Melinda's was the active, ruling
voice, and almost before Richard knew it, he was in Davenport
and bargaining for a vacant lot which overlooked the
river and the country beyond. Davenport suited them all,
and by September Melinda, who had spent the summer

with her mother, was located at a hotel and making herself
very useful to Richard with her suggestions with regard
to the palatial mansion he was building.

There was nothing in Davenport like the “Governor's
house,” and the people watched it curiously as it went
rapidly up. There was a suite of rooms called Ethelyn's,
and to the arrangement and adorning of these Richard
gave his whole attention, sparing nothing which could
make them beautiful and attractive, and lavishing so much
expense upon them that strangers came to inspect and
comment upon them, wondering why he took so much
pains, and guessing, as people will, that he was contemplating
a second marriage as soon as a divorce could be
obtained from his runaway wife.

The house was finished at last, and Richard took possession,
installing Melinda as house-keeper, and feeling how
happy he should be if only Ethie were there. Somehow
he expected her now. Andy's prayers would certainly be
answered even if his own were not, for he, too, had begun
to pray, feeling, at times, that God was slow to hear, as
weeks and weeks went by and still Ethie did not come.
“Hope deferred maketh the heart sick,” and the weary
waiting told upon his bodily health, which began to fail so
rapidly that people said “Governor Markham was going
into a decline,” and the physicians urged a change of air,
and Mr. Townsend, who came in May for a day to Davenport,
recommended him strongly to try what Clifton Springs,
in Western New York, could do for him,—the Clifton,
whose healing waters and wonderful power to cure were
famous from the shores of the Atlantic to the Californian
hills.