35. CHAPTER XXXV.
MRS. PETER PRY TAKES A PACK.
MRS. PRY was in a pack, a whole pack, too, which
left nothing free but her head, and even that was
bandaged in a wet napkin, so that the good woman
was in a condition of great helplessness, and nervously
counted the moments which must elapse ere Annie, the
bath girl, would come to her relief. Now, as was always
the case when in a pack, her ears were uncorked and turned
toward the door, which she had purposely left ajar, so as
not to lose a word, in case any of the ladies came down to
that end of the hall and stood by the window while they
talked together. They were there now, some half a dozen
or more, and they were talking eagerly of the last fresh
piece of news brought by Mrs. Carter and daughter, who
had arrived from Iowa the day before, and for lack of accommodation
at the Cure had gone to the hotel. Both
were old patients, and well known in Clifton, and they had
spent most of the day at the Cure, hunting up old acquaintances
and making new ones. Being something of lion-seekers,
they had asked at the office who was there worth
knowing, the young lady's face wearing a very important air
as she glanced round upon the guests, and remarked, “How
different they look from those charming people from Boston
and New York whom we met here last summer.”
It did not appear as if there was a single lion at Clifton
this season, whether moneyed, literary, or notorious; and
Miss Anne Carter thought it very doubtful whether she
should remain or go on to Saratoga, as all the while she
had wished to do. In great distress the clerk racked his
brain to think who the notables were, and finally thought
of Governor Markham, whose name acted like magic upon
the new-comers.
“Governor Markham here? Strange, I never thought
of Clifton when I heard that he was going East for his
health. How is he? Does he improve? It is quite desirable
that he should do so, if reports are true;” and Mrs.
Carter looked very wise and knowingly upon the group
which gathered around her, anxious to hear all she had to
tell of Governor Markham.
She did not pretend that she knew him herself, as she
lived some distance from Davenport; but she had heard a
great deal about him and his handsome house; and Anne,
her daughter, who visited in Davenport, had been all over
it after it was finished. Such a beautiful suite of rooms as
he had fitted up for his bride; they were the envy and
wonder of both Davenport and Rock Island, too.
“His bride! We did not know he had one. He passes
for a widower here,” several voices echoed in chorus; and
then Mrs. Carter began the story which had come to her
through a dozen mediums, and which circulated rapidly
through the house, but had not reached Mrs. Pry up to
the time when, with her blanket and patchwork quilt, she
lay reposing in her pack, with her ears turned toward the
door, ready to catch the faintest breath of gossip.
She heard a great deal that afternoon, for the ladies at
the end of the hall did not speak very low, and when, at
last, she was released from her bandages and had made
her toilet, she hastened to Miss Bigelow to report what
she had heard. Ethie had just returned from the parlor,
and tired with her vigils of the previous night was lying
down, but she bade Mrs. Pry come in, and then kept very
quiet while the good woman asked if she had heard the
news. Ethie had not, but her heart stood still while her
visitor, speaking in a whisper, asked next if she was sure
Governor Markham could not hear. That the news concerned
herself Ethelyn was sure, and she was glad that her
face was in a measure concealed from view as she listened
to the story.
Governor Markham's wife was not dead, as they had supposed.
She was a shameless creature, who eight or ten
years before eloped with a man a great deal younger than
herself. She was very beautiful, people said, and very fascinating,
and the Governor worshipped the ground she trod
upon. He took her going off very hard at first, and for
years scarcely held up his head. But lately he had seemed
different, and had listened more favorably to a divorce, as
advised by his friends. This, however, was after he met
Miss Sallie Morton, whose father was a millionnaire in Chicago,
and whose pretty face had captivated the grave Governor.
To get the divorce was a very easy matter there,
and the Governor was now free to marry again. As Miss
Morton preferred Davenport to any other place in Iowa, he
had built him a magnificent house upon a bluff, finishing it
elegantly, and taking untold pains with the suite of rooms
intended for his bride. As Miss Sallie objected to marrying
him while he was so much of an invalid, he had come to
Clifton, hoping to re-establish his health so as to bring
home his wife in the autumn.
This was the story as told by Mrs. Pry, and considering
that it had come to her through eight or ten different persons,
she repeated the substance of it pretty accurately,
and then stopped for Ethie's comment. But Ethie had
nothing to say, and when, surprised at her silence, Mrs. Pry
asked if she believed it all, there was still no reply, for
Ethelyn had fainted. The reaction was too great from the
bright anticipations of the hour before, to the crushing
blow which had fallen so suddenly upon her hopes. That a
patient at Clifton should faint was not an uncommon thing.
Mrs. Pry had often felt like it herself when just out of a
pack, or a hot sulphur bath, and so Ethie's faint excited no
suspicion in her mind. She was fearful, though, that Miss
Bigelow had not heard all the story, but Ethie assured her
that she had, and then added that if left to herself she
might possibly sleep, as that was what she needed. So
Mrs. Pry departed, and Ethie was alone with the terrible
calamity which had come upon her. She had been at the
Water Cure long enough to know that not more than half
of what she heard was true, and this story she knew was
false in the parts pertaining to herself and her desertion of
her husband. She had never heard before that she was
suspected of having had an associated in her flight, and her
cheeks crimsoned at the idea, while she wondered if Richard
had ever thought that of her. He had not at first,
she knew, else he had never sought for her so zealously
as Aunt Barbara had intimated; but latterly, as he
heard no tidings from her, he might have surmised
something of the kind, and that was the secret of the
divorce.
“O, Richard! Richard!” she murmured, with her hands
pressed tightly over her lips, so as to smother all sound,
“I felt so sure of your love. You were so different from
me. I am punished more than I can bear.”
Ethie knew now how much she really loved her husband,
and how the hope of eventually returning to him had
been the day-star of her life. Had she heard that he was
lying dead in the next room, she would have gone to him
at once, and claiming him as hers, would have found some
comfort in weeping over him, and kissing his cold lips, but
now it did indeed seem more than she could bear. She
did not doubt the story of the divorce, or greatly disbelieve
in the other wife. It was natural that many should
seek to win his love, now that he had risen so high, and
she supposed it was natural that he should wish for another
companion. Perhaps he believed her dead, and Ethie's
heart gave one great throb of joy as she thought of going
in to him, and by her bodily presence contradicting that
belief, and possibly winning him from his purpose. But
Ethie was too proud for that, and her next feeling was one
of exultation that she had not permitted Aunt Barbara to
write, or herself taken any measures for communicating
with him. He should never know how near she had been
to him, or guess ever so remotely of the anguish she was
enduring, as, only a few feet removed from him, she suffered,
in part, all the pain and sorrow she had brought upon
him. Then, as she remembered the new house fitted for
the bride, she said—
“I must see that house. I must know just what is in
store for my rival. No one knows me in Davenport.
Richard is not at home, and there is no chance for my
being recognized.”
With this decision came a vague feeling akin to hope
that possibly the story was false,—that after all there was
no rival, no divorce. At all events she should know for a
certainty by going to Davenport; and with every nerve
stretched to its utmost tension, Ethie arose from her bed
and packed her trunk quietly and quickly, and then
going to the office, surprised the clerk with the announcement
that she wished to leave on the ten o'clock train.
She had received news which made her going so suddenly
imperative, she said to him, and to the physician, whom
she called upon next, and whose strong arguments against
her leaving that night almost overcame her. But Ethie's
will conquered, and when the train from the East came in
she stood upon the platform at the station, her face closely
veiled, and her heart throbbing with the doubts which
began to assail her as to whether she were really doing a
wise and prudent thing in going out alone and unprotected
to the home she had no right to enter, and where she was
not wanted.
