University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
AT HOME.

MRS. JAMES MARKHAM had spent a few weeks
with a party of Davenport friends in St. Paul's and
vicinity, but she was now at home in Olney with
her mother, whom she helped with the ironing that morning,
showing a quickness and dexterity in the doing up of Tim's
shirts and the best table linen which proved that, although
a “mighty fine lady,” as some of the Olneyites termed her,
she had neither forgotten, nor was above working in the
kitchen when the occasion required. The day's ironing
was over, and refreshed with a bath, and a half hour's sleep
after it, she sat under the shadow of the tall trees, arrayed
in her white marseilles, which, being gored, made her look,
as unsophisticated Andy thought, most too slim and flat.
Andy himself was over at the Joneses that afternoon, and,
down upon all fours, was playing bear with baby Ethelyn,
who shouted and screamed with delight at the antics of her
childish uncle. Mrs. James was not contemplating a return
to Davenport for three or four weeks; indeed, ever since
the letter received from Clifton with regard to Richard's
sickness, she had been seriously meditating a flying visit to
the invalid, who she knew would be glad to see her. It
must be very desolate for him there alone, she said; and
then her thoughts went after the wanderer whom they had
long since ceased to talk about, much less to expect back
again. Melinda was thinking sadly of her, and speculating
as to what her fate had been, when down the road from the

village came the little messenger boy, who always made
one's heart beat so fast when he handed out his missive.
He had one now, and he brought it to Melinda, who, thinking
of her husband, whom she had left in St. Paul's, felt a
thrill of fear lest something had befallen him. But the
despatch came from Davenport, from Mrs. Dobson herself,
and said that a strange woman lay very sick in the
house.

“A strange woman,” that was all, but it made Melinda's
heart leap up into her throat at the bare possibility as to
who the strange woman might be. Andy read the message
next, and Melinda knew by the flush upon his face,
and the drops of perspiration which started out so suddenly
around his mouth, that he, too, shared her suspicions.
But not a word was spoken by either upon the subject
agitating them both so powerfully. Melinda only said,
“I must go home at once,—in the next train, if possible,”
while Andy rejoined, “I am going with you.”

Melinda knew why he was going, and when at last
they were on the way, the sight of his honest face,
glowing all over with eagerness and joyful anticipations,
kept her own spirits up, and made what she so greatly
hoped for seem absolutely certain. It was morning when
they arrived, and were driven rapidly through the streets
toward home. The house seemed very quiet; every
window and shutter, so far as they could see, was closed,
and both experienced a terrible fear lest “the strange
woman” was gone. They could not wait for Hannah
to open the door, and so they went round to the basement,
and surprised Mrs. Dobson as she bent over the fire, stirring
the basin of gruel she was preparing for her patient.
“The strange woman” was not gone. She was raving

mad, Mrs. Dobson said, and talked the queerest things.
“I've had the doctor, just as I knew you would have
done, had you been here,” she said, “and he pronounced
it brain fever, brought on by fatigue, and some great
excitement or worriment. 'Pears like she thought she
was divorced, or somebody was divorced, for she was
talking about it, and showing the ring on her fourth
finger. I hope Governor Markham won't mind. 'Twas
none of my doings. She went there herself, and I found
her in the bed in that room where nobody ever slept,—
the bride's room, I call it, you know.”

“Is she there?” Melinda asked, in amazement, while
Andy, who had been standing near the door which led up
to the next floor, disappeared up the stairs, leaving the
women alone.

He knew the way to the room designated, and went hurrying
on, until he reached the door, and there he paused,
his flesh creeping with the intensity of his excitement, and
his whole being pervaded with a crushing sense of eager
expectancy. He had not put into words what or whom he
expected to find on the other side of the door he hardly
dared to open. He only knew he should be terribly disappointed
if his conjectures proved wrong, and a smothered
prayer rose to his lips, “God grant it may be the she I
mean.”

The she he meant was sleeping. The brown head which
had rolled so restlessly all night was lying quietly upon the
pillows, the burning cheek resting upon one hand, and the
mass of long bright hair tucked back under one of Mrs.
Dobson's own nightcaps, that lady having sought in vain
for such an article among her mistress's wardrobe. She did
not hear Andy as he stepped across the floor to the bedside.

Bending cautiously above her, he hesitated a moment,
while a great throb of disappointment ran through
his veins. Surely that was not Ethie, with the hollow
cheeks and the disfiguring frill around her face, giving her
the look of the new and stylish nurse Melinda had got from
Chicago,—the woman who wore a cap in place of a bonnet,
and jabbered half the time in some foreign tongue, which
Melinda said was French. The room was very dark, and
Andy pushed back a blind, letting in such a flood of light
that the sleeper started, and moaned, and turned herself
upon the pillow, while with a gasping, sobbing cry, Andy
fell upon his knees, and with clasped hands and streaming
eyes, exclaimed—

“I thank Thee, Father of mercies, more than I can tell,
for it is Ethie,—it is Ethie,—it is Ethie, our own darling
Ethie, come back to us again; and now, dear Lord,
bring old Dick home at once, and let us have a time of
it.”

Ethie's eyes were open and fixed inquiringly upon Andy.
Something in his voice or manner must have penetrated
through the mists of delirium clouding her brain, for the
glimmer of a smile played round her lips and her hands
moved slowly toward him; then they went back again to
her throat and tugged at the nightcap strings which good
Mrs. Dobson had tied in a hard knot by way of keeping
the cap upon the refractory head. Ethie did not fancy the
cap any more than Andy, who, guessing her wishes, lent
his own assistance to the untying of the strings.

“You don't like the pesky thing on your head, making
you look so like a scarecrow, do you?” he said, gently, as
with a jerk he broke the strings and then threw the discarded
cap upon the floor.

Ethie seemed to know him for a moment, and “Kiss
me, Andy,” came feebly from her lips. Winding his arms
about her, Andy did kiss her many times, while his tears
dropped upon her face and moistened the long hair which,
relieved from its confinement, fell in dark masses about her
face, making her look more like the Ethelyn of old than
she had at first.

“Was there a divorce?” she whispered, and Andy, in
great perplexity, was wondering what she meant, when
Melinda's step came along the hall, and Melinda entered
the room together with Mrs. Dobson.

“It's she,—herself! It's our own Ethie!” Andy
exclaimed, standing back a little from the bed, but still
holding the feverish hand which had grasped his so firmly,
as if in that touch alone was rest and security.

“I thought so,” and with a satisfied nod Mrs. Dobson
put down her bowl of gruel and went to communicate
the startling news to Hannah, who nearly lost her senses
in the first moment of surprise.

“Do you know me, Ethie?” Melinda asked, and Ethie's
lip quivered slightly as she said sadly and beseechingly,
“Don't send me away, when I am so tired and sorry.”

She seemed to have a vague idea of where she was and
who was with her, clinging closer to Andy, as if surest of
him, and once when he bent over her, she suddenly wound
her arms around his neck and whispered, “Don't leave
me,—it's nice to know you are with me; and don't let
them put that dreadful thing on my head again. Aunt
Van Buren said I was a fright. Will Richard think so
too?”

This was the only time she mentioned her husband, but
she talked of Clifton, and Mrs. Pry, and the story of the

divorce, and the little chapel where she said God always
came, and she bade Andy kneel down and pray just as
they were doing there when the summer day drew to a
close.

“We must send for Dick,” Andy said; “but don't let's
tell the whole; let's leave something to his imagination;”
and so the telegram which went to Gov. Markham read
simply, “Come home immediately.”

Richard had heard of Miss Bigelow's sudden departure,
and had been surprised to find how much he missed the
light footstep and the rustling sound which had come from
No. 101. He was a good deal interested in Miss Bigelow,
and he felt sorry that she was gone, and Clifton was not
so pleasant to him now as it had been at first. He was
much better, and had been several times to the chapel,
when up the three flights of stairs Perry came one
day and stopped at Room No. 102. There was a
telegram for Richard, who took it with trembling hands
and read it with a blur before his eyes and something
at his heart like a blow, but which was born of a sudden
hope that, after many days and months and years of waiting,
God had deigned to be merciful. But only for a brief
moment did this hope buoy him up. It could not be, he
said; and yet, as he made his hasty preparations for his
journey, he found the possibility constantly recurring to
his mind, while the nearer he came to Davenport the more
probable it seemed, and the more impatient he grew at
every little delay. There were several upon the road, and
once, when only fifty miles from home, there was a detention
of four hours. But the long train moved on at last, and
just as the sun was setting the cars stopped in the Davenport
depot, and as the passengers alighted the longers

whispered to each other, “Governor Markham has come
home.”