University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE OCCUPANT OF NO. 102.

HE DID not cough, but he seemed to be a restless
spirit, for Ethie heard him pacing up and down
his room long after the gas was turned off
and her own candle extinguished. Once, she heard a long-drawn
sigh or groan, which made her start suddenly, for
something in the tone carried her to Olney, and the house
on the prairie. It was late ere she slept, and when next
morning she awoke, the nervous headache, which had
threatened her the previous night, was upon her in full
force, and kept her for nearly the entire day confined to
her bed. Mrs. Pry was spending the day in Phelps, and,
with this source of information cut off, Ethelyn heard
nothing of No. 102 further than the chambermaid's casual
remark that “the gentleman was quite an invalid, and for
the present was to take his meals and baths in his room to
avoid so much going up and down stairs.”

Who he was Ethelyn did not know or care, though
twice she woke from a feverish sleep with the impression
that she had heard Richard speaking to her; but it was
only Jim, the bath man, talking in the next room, and she
laid her throbbing head again upon her pillow, while her
new neighbor dreamed in turn of her, and woke with
the strange fancy that she was near him. Ethie's head
was better that night; so much better that she dressed
herself and went down to the parlor in time to hear the
calling of the letters as the Western mail was distributed.
Usually she felt but little interest in the affair
further than watching the eager, anxious faces bending
near the boy, and the looks of joy or disappointment
which followed failure and success. To-night, however,
it was different. She was not expecting a letter herself.
Nobody wrote to her but Aunt Barbara, whose letters
came in the morning, but she was conscious of a strange
feeling of expectancy, and taking a step toward the table
around which the excited group were congregated, she
stood leaning against a column, while name after name was
called. First the letters, a score or two, and then the papers,
things of less importance, but still snatched eagerly
by those who could get nothing better. There was a
paper for Mrs. Morehouse, and Mrs. Stone, and Mrs Wilson,
and Mrs. Turner, while Mr. Danforth had half a dozen
or less, and then Perry paused a moment over a new name,
—one which had never before been called in the parlor at
Clifton:

“Hon. Richard Markham.”

The name rang out loud and clear, and Ethie grasped
the pillar to keep herself from falling. She did not hear
Mr. Danforth explaining that it was “Governor Markham

from Iowa, who came the night before.” She did not
know, either, how she left the parlor, for the next thing
of which she was perfectly conscious was the fact that she
was hurrying up the stairs and through the unfinished
halls toward her own room, casting frightened glances
around, and almost shrieking with excitement when
through the open door of No. 102 she heard Dr. Haynes
speaking to some one, and in the voice which answered
recognized her husband.

He was there, then, next to her, separated by only a
thin partition,—the husband whom she had not seen for
five long years, whom she had voluntarily left, resolving never
to go back to him again, was there, and by crossing a single
threshold, she could fall at his feet and sue for the forgiveness
she had made up her mind to crave should she ever see
him again. Dr. Haynes' next call was upon her, and he
found her fainting upon the floor, where she had fallen in
the excitement of the shock she had experienced.

“It was a headache,” she said, when questioned as to the
cause of the sudden attack; but her eyes had in them a
frightened, startled look, for which the doctor could not
account.

There was something about her case which puzzled and
perplexed him. “She needed perfect quiet, but must not
be left alone,” he said, and so all that night Richard, who
was very wakeful, watched the light shining out into the hall
from the room next to his own, and heard occasionally a murmur
of low voices as the nurse put some question to Ethie,
who answered always in whispers, while her eyes turned furtively
toward No. 102, as if fearful that its occupant would
hear and know how near she was. For three days her door
was locked against all intruders, for the headache and nervous

excitement did not abate one whit. How could they,
when every sound from No. 102, every footfall on the floor,
every tone of Richard's voice speaking to servants or physician
quickened the rapid beats and sent the hot blood throbbing
fiercely through the temple veins and down the neck?
At Clifton they are accustomed to every phase of nervousness,
from spasms at the creaking of a board to the stumbling
up stairs of the fireman in the early winter morning, and
once when Ethie shuddered and turned her head aside
at the sound of Richard's step, the attendant said to the
physician—

“It's the gentleman's boots, I think, which make her
nervous.”

There was a deprecating gesture on Ethie's part, but it
passed unnoticed, and when next the doctor went to visit
Richard he said, in a half-apologetic way, that the young
lady in the next room was suffering from a violent headache,
which was aggravated by every sound, even the squeak
of a boot,—would Gov. Markham greatly object to wearing
slippers for a while? Dr. Haynes was sorry to trouble
him, but “if they would effect a cure they must keep their
patients quiet, and guard against everything tending to increase
nervous irritation.”

Gov. Markham would do anything in his power for the
young lady, and he asked some questions concerning her.
Had he annoyed her much? Was she very ill? And
what was her name?

“Bigelow,” he repeated after Dr. Haynes, thinking of
Aunt Barbara in Chicopee, and thinking of Ethelyn, too,
but never dreaming how near she was to him.

He had come to Clifton at the earnest solicitation of
some of his friends, who had for themselves tested the

healing properties of the waters, but he had little faith that
anything could cure so long as the pain was so heavy at
his heart. It had not lessened one jot with the lapse of
years. On the contrary it seemed harder and harder to
bear, as the months went by and brought no news of Ethie.
Oh! how he wanted her back again, even if she came as
wilful and imperious as she used to be at times, when the
high spirit was roused to its utmost, and even if she had
no love for him, as she had once averred. He could make
her love him now, he said; he knew just where he had
erred; and many and many a time in dreams he had
strained the wayward Ethie to his bosom in the fond caress
which from its very force should impart to her some faint
sensation of joy. He had stroked her beautiful brown hair,
and caressed her smooth round cheek, and pressed her little
hands, and made her listen to him till the dark eyes flashed
into his own with something of the tenderness he felt for
her. Then, with a start, he had wakened to find it all a
dream, and only darkness around him. Ethie was not
there. The arms which had held her so lovingly were
empty, the pillow where her dear head had lain was untouched,
and he was alone as of old. Even that handsome
house he had built for her had ceased to interest him, for
Ethie did not come back to enjoy it. She would never
come now, he said, and he had had many fancies as to what
her end had been, and where her grave could be. Here
at Clifton he had thought of her continually, but not that
she was alive. Andy's faith in her return was as strong as
ever, but Richard's had all died out. Ethie was dead, and
when asked by Dr. Haynes if he had a wife, he answered
sadly—

“I had one, but I lost her.”

He had no thought of deception, or how soon the story
would circulate through the house that he was a widower,
or that, as ex-Governor of Iowa, and a man just in his
prime, he would become an object of speculative interest
to every marriageable woman there. He had no thought
nor care for the ladies, though for the Miss Bigelow, whom
his boots annoyed, he did feel a passing interest, and Ethie,
whose ears seemed doubly sharp, heard him in his closet,
adjusting the thin-soled slippers, which made no sound upon
the carpet. She heard him, too, as he moved his water
pitcher, and knew he was doing it quietly for her. The
idea of being cared for by him, even if he did not know
who she was, very soothing and pleasant, and she fell
into a quiet sleep, which lasted several hours, while Richard,
on the other side of the wall, scarcely moved, so fearful was
he of worrying the young lady.

Ethie's headache spent itself at last, and she awoke at
the close of the third day, free from pain, but very weak
and languid, and wholly unequal to the task of entertaining
Mrs. Peter Pry, who had been so distressed on her account,
and was so delighted with a chance to see and talk
with her again. Ethie knew she meant to be kind, and believed
she was sincere in her professions of friendship. At
another time she might have been glad to see her; but
now, when she guessed what the theme of conversation
would be, she felt a thrill of terror as the good woman
came in, knitting in hand, and announced her intention of
sitting through the chapel exercises. She was not going
to prayer-meeting that night, she said, for Dr. Foster was
absent, and they were always stupid when he was away.
She could not understand all Mr. Glenn said, his words
were so learned, while the man who talked so long, and

never came to the point, was insufferable in hot weather;
so she preferred to stay with Miss Bigelow, who, she supposed,
knew that she had a Governor for her next door
neighbor,—Governor Markham, from Iowa,—and a widower,
too, Dr. Haynes had told her.

“A widower!” and Ethie looked up so inquiringly that
Mrs. Pry, mistaking the nature of her sudden interest, went
on more flippantly. “Yes, and a splendid looking man,
too, if he wasn't sick. I saw him in the chapel this morning,—the
only time he has been there,—and sat where I
had a good view of his face. They say he is very rich, and
has one of the handsomest places in Davenport.”

“Does he live in Davenport?” Ethie asked, in some
surprise, and Mrs. Pry replied—

“Yes; and that Miss Owens, from New York, is setting
her cap for him already. She met him in Washington, a
few years ago, and the minute chapel exercises were over,
she and her mother made up to him at once. I'm glad
there's somebody good enough for them to notice. If
there's a person I dislike it's that Susan Owens. I do hope
she'll find a husband. It's what she's here for, everybody
says.”

Mrs. Peter had dropped a stitch while animadverting
against Miss Susan Owens, from New York, and stopped a
moment while she picked it up. It would be difficult to describe
Ethelyn's emotions as she heard her own husband talked
of as something marketable, which others than Susan Owens
might covert. He was evidently the lion of the season. It
was something to have a Governor of Richard's reputation
in the house, and the guests made the most of it, wishing
he would join them in the parlor or on the piazza, and regretting
that he stayed so constantly in his room. Many

attempts were made to draw him out, Mrs. and Miss
Owens, on the strength of their acquaintance in Washington,
venturing to call upon him, and advising him to take
more exercise. Miss Owens' voice was loud and clear, and
Ethie heard it distinctly as the young lady talked and
laughed with Richard, and the hot blood coursed rapidly
through her veins, and the first genuine pangs of jealousy
she had ever felt crept into her heart as she guessed what
might possibly be in Miss Owens' mind. Many times she
resolved to make herself known to him; but uncertainty as
to how she might be received, and the remembrance of
what Mrs. Van Buren had said with regard to the divorce,
held her back; and so, with only a thin partition between
them, and within sound of each other's footsteps, the husband
and wife, so long estranged from each other, lived on,
day after day, Richard spending the most of his time in his
room, and Ethelyn managing so adroitly when she came in
and when she went out, that she never saw so much as his
shadow upon the floor, and did not know whether he was
greatly changed or not.