30. CHAPTER XXX.
ETHIE'S STORY.
YOU say you read my letter, auntie; and if you
did, you know nearly all that made me go
away. I do not remember now just what was in
it, but I know it was very concise and plain, and literal;
for I was angry when I wrote it, and would not spare
Richard a bit. But, oh! I had been so tried and so
wretched. You can't guess half how wretched I was at
the farm-house first, where they were all so different. I
mean Richard's mother, auntie. I liked the others,—they
were kind and good; especially Andy. Oh, Andy! dear
old Andy! I have thought of him so often during the
last five years, and bad as I am I have prayed every night
that he need not forget me.
“Aunt Barbara, I did not love Richard, and that was my
great mistake. I ought not to have married him, but I
was so sore and unhappy then that any change was a relief.
I do not see now how I ever could have loved Frank; but I
did, or thought I did, and was constantly contrasting Richard
with him and making myself more miserable. If I had
loved Richard things would have been so much easier to
bear. I was beginning to love him, and life was so much
pleasanter, when he got so angry about Frank and charged
me with those dreadful things, driving me frantic, and
making me feel as if I hated him, and could do much to
worry him. Don't look so shocked. I know how wicked
it was, and sometimes I fear God never can forgive me;
but I did not think of Him then. I forgot everything but
myself and my trouble, and so I went away, going first to
Milford, so as to mislead Richard, and then turning straight
back to New York.
“Do you remember Abby Jackson, who was at school in
Boston, and who once spent a week with me here? She is
married, and lives in New York, and believes in women's
rights and wears the Bloomer dress. She would take my
part, I said, and I went at once to her house and told her
all I had done, and asked if I could stay until I found employment.
Aunt Barbara, this is a queer world, and there
are queer people in it. I thought I was sure of Abby, she
used to protest so strongly against the tyranny of men, and
say she should like nothing better than protecting females
who were asserting their own rights. I was asserting mine,
and I went to her for sympathy. She was glad to see me
at first, and petted and fondled me just as she used to do
at school. She was five years older than I, and so I looked
up to her. But when I told my story her manner changed,
and it really seemed as if she looked upon me as a suspicious
person who had done something terrible. She
advocated women's rights as strongly as ever, but could not
advise me to continue in my present course. It would
bring odium upon me, sure. A woman separated from her
husband was always pointed at, no matter what cause she
had for the separation. It was all wrong, she argued, that
public opinion should be thus, and ere long she trusted
there would be a change. Till then I would do well to
return to Iowa and make it up with Richard. That was
what she said, and it made me very angry, and I resolved
to leave her the next day; but I was sick in the morning,
and remained sick for several weeks, so that I could not
leave her house.
“She nursed me carefully and tried to be kind, but I
could see that my being there was a great annoyance to her.
Once she suggested writing to Richard, but I begged her
not to do it, and she did not. Her husband had an aunt,—
a rich, eccentric old lady,—who came sometimes to see me,
and seemed interested in me. Forgive me, auntie, if it was
wrong. I dropped the name of Markham and took yours,
asking Abby to call me Miss Bigelow to her friends. Her
husband knew my real name, but to all others I was Adelaide
Bigelow. Old Mrs. Plum did not know I was married,
for Abby was as anxious to keep the secret as I was
myself. Mrs. Plum was going abroad, and being a nervous
invalid, she was looking for some young, handy person as
travelling companion. When I was better and Abby found
that I was still resolved not to go home, she spoke of Mrs.
Plum, and asked if I would go. I caught at the idea
eagerly, and in May I was sailing over the sea to France. I
wrote a few lines to Andy before I went, and I wanted to
write to you, but I fancied you must be vexed and mortified,
and I would not trouble you.
“Mrs. Plum was very nervous, and capricious, and exacting,
and my life with her was not altogether an easy one.
I suppose I have a high temper. She thought so, and yet
she could not do without me, for she was lame in her arms,
and unable to help herself readily; besides that, I spoke
the French language well enough to make myself understood,
and so was necessary to her. There were many excellent
traits of character about her, and after a time I liked
her very much, and I know that she liked me. She took
me everywhere, even into
Russia and Palestine; but the
last two years of our stay abroad were spent in Southern
France, where the days were one long bright summer dream,
and I should have been so happy if the past had been forgotten.”
“And did you hear nothing from us in all that time?”
Aunt Barbara asked, and Ethelyn replied, “Nothing from
Richard, and nothing direct from you. I requested as a favor
that Mrs. Plum should order the Boston Traveller and
Springfield Republican to be sent to her address in Paris,
which we made our head-quarters. I knew you took both
these papers, and if anything happened to you, it would appear
in their columns. I saw the announcement of Col
Markham's death, and after that I used to grow so faint
and cold, for fear I might find yours. I came across a New
York paper, too, and saw that Aunt Van Buren had arrived
at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, knowing then that she was just
as gay as ever. Richard's name I never saw; neither did
Abby know anything about him. I called at her house
yesterday. She has seven children now,—four born since
I went away,—and her women's rights have given place to
theories with regard to soothing-syrups and baby-jumpers,
and the best means of keeping one child quiet while she
dresses the other. Mrs. Plum died six weeks ago, in Paris;
and, auntie, I was kind to her in her last sickness, bearing
everything, and finding my reward in her deep gratitude,
expressed not only in words, but in a most tangible form.
She made her will, and left me ten thousand dollars. So
you see I am not poor nor dependent. I told her my story,
too,—told her the whole as it was; and she made me
promise to come back, to you at least, if not to Richard.
Going to him would depend upon whether he wanted me,
I said. Do you think he has forgotten me?”
Again the eager, anxious expression crept into Ethie's
eyes, which grew very soft, and even dewy, as Aunt Barbara
replied, “Forgotten you? No. I never saw a man
feel as he did when he first came here, and Sophie talked
so to him, as he sat there in that very willow chair.”
Involuntarily Ethie's hand rested itself on the chair where
Richard had sat, and Ethie's face crimsoned when Aunt
Barbara asked—
“Do you love Richard now?”
“I cannot tell. I only know that I have dreamed of him
so many times, and thought it would be such perfect rest
to put my tired head in his lap, as I never did put it.
When I was on the ocean, coming home, there was a fearful
storm, and I prayed to live till I could hear him say
that he forgave me for all the trouble I have caused him. I
might not love him if I were to see him again just as he
used to be. Sometimes I think I should not, but I would
try. Write to him, auntie, please, and tell him I am here,
but nothing more. Don't say I want to see him, or that I
am any changed from the wilful, high-tempered Ethie who
made him so unhappy, for perhaps I am not.”
Awhile then they talked of Aunt Van Buren, and Frank,
and Nettie, and Susie Granger, who was married to a missionary
and gone to heathen lands; and the clock was striking
one before Aunt Barbara lighted her darling up to the
old room, and, kissing her good-night, went back to weep
glad tears of joy in the rocking-chair by the hearth, and
to thank her Heavenly Father for sending home her long
lost Ethelyn.
