Ethelyn's Mistake Part 6

Meanwhile, John, who was even more shy of Ethelyn than James, had been made the recipient of the elegantly embroidered slippers, which presented so marked a contrast to his heavy cowhides, and were three sizes too small for his mammoth feet. Ethelyn saw the discrepancy at once, and the effort it was for John to keep from laughing outright, as he took the dainty things into which he could but little more than thrust his toes.

"You did not know what a Goliath I was, nor what stogies I wore; but I thank you all the same," John said, and with burning blushes Ethelyn turned next to her beautiful Schiller--the exquisite little bust--which Andy, in his simplicity mistook for a big doll, feeling a little affronted that Ethelyn should suppose him childish enough to care for such toys.

But when Richard, who stood looking on, explained to his weak brother what it was, saying that people of cultivation prized such things as these, and that some time he would read to him of the great German poet, Andy felt better, and accepted his big doll with a very good grace.

The coiffure came next, Mrs. Markham saying she was much obliged, and Eunice asking if it was a half-handkerchief, to be worn about the neck.

Taken individually and collectively, the presents were a failure--all but the pretty collar and ribbon-bow, which, as an afterthought, Ethelyn gave to Eunice, whose delight knew no bounds. This was something she could appreciate, while Ethelyn's gifts to the others had been far beyond them, and but for the good feeling they manifested might as well have been withheld. Ethelyn felt this heavily, and it did not tend to lessen the bitter disappointment which had been gnawing in her heart ever since she had reached her Western home. Everything was different from what she had pictured it in her mind--everything but Daisy's face, which, from its black-walnut frame above her piano, seemed to look so lovingly down upon her. It was a sweet, refined face, and the soft eyes of blue were more beautiful than anything Ethelyn had ever seen. She did not wonder that every member of that family looked upon their lost Daisy as the household angel, lowering their voices when they spoke of her, and even r.e.t.a.r.ding their footsteps when they pa.s.sed near her picture. She did wonder, however, that they were not more like what Daisy would have been, judging from the expression of her face and all Richard had said of her.

Between Mrs. Markham and Ethelyn there was from the first a mutual feeling of antagonism, and it was in no degree lessened by Aunt Barbara's letter, which Mrs. Markham read three times on Sunday, and then on Monday very foolishly talked it up with Eunice, whom she treated with a degree of familiarity wholly unaccountable to Ethelyn.

"What did that Miss Bigelow take her for that she must ask her to be kind to Ethelyn? Of course she should do her duty, and she guessed her ways were not so very different from other people's, either," and the good woman gave an extra twist to the tablecloth she was wringing, and shaking it out rather fiercely, tossed it into the huge clothes-basket standing near.

The wash was unusually large that day and as the unpacking of the box had taken up some time, the clock was striking two just as the last clothespin was fastened in its place, and the last brown towel hung upon the currant bushes. It was Mrs. Markham's weakness that her wash should be fluttering in the wind before that of Mrs. Jones, which could be plainly seen from her kitchen window. But to-day Mrs. Jones was ahead, and Melinda's pink sun-bonnet was visible in the little back-yard as early as eleven, at which time the Markham garments had just commenced to boil. The bride had brought with her a great deal of extra work, and what with waiting breakfast for her until the coffee was cold and the baked potatoes "all soggy," and then cleaning up the litter of "that box," Mrs. Markham was dreadfully behind with her Monday's work. And it did not tend to improve her temper to know that the cause of all her discomposure was "playing lady" in a handsome cashmere morning gown, with heavy ta.s.sels knotted at her side, while she was bending over the washtub in a faded calico pinned about her waist, and disclosing the quilt patched with many colors, and the black yarn stockings footed with coa.r.s.e white. Not that Mrs. Markham cared especially for the difference between her dress and Ethelyn's--neither did she expect Ethelyn to "help" that day--but she might at least have offered to wipe the dinner dishes, she thought. It would have shown her good will at all events.

But instead of that she had returned to her room the moment dinner was over, and Eunice, who went to hunt for a missing sock of Richard's, reported that she was lying on the lounge with a story book in her hand.

"s.h.i.+ffless," was the word Mrs. Markham wanted to use, but she repressed it, for she would not talk openly against Richard's wife so soon after her arrival, though she did make some invidious remarks concerning the handsome underclothes, wondering "what folks were thinking of to put so much work where it was never seen. Puffs, and embroidery, and lace, and, I vum, if the ruffles ain't tucked too," she continued, in a despairing voice, hoping Ethelyn knew "how to iron such filagree herself, for the mercy knew she didn't."

Now these same puffs, and embroidery, and ruffles, and tucks had excited Eunice's liveliest admiration, and her fingers fairly itched to see how they would look hanging on the clothes bars after pa.s.sing through her hands. That Ethelyn could touch them she never once dreamed. Her instincts were truer than Mrs. Markham's and it struck her as perfectly proper that one like Ethelyn should sit still while others served, and to her mistress' remarks as to the ironing, she hastened to reply: "I'd a heap sight rather do them up than to iron the boys' coa.r.s.e s.h.i.+rts and pantaloons. Don't you mind the summer I was at Camden working for Miss Avery, who lived next door to Miss Judge Miller, from New York? She had just such things as these, and I used to go in sometimes and watch Katy iron 'em, so I b'lieve I can do it myself. Anyways, I want to try."

Fears that Eunice might rebel had been uppermost in Mrs. Markham's mind when she saw the pile of elegant clothes, for she had a suspicion that Mrs. Ethelyn would keep as much aloof from the ironing-board as she did from the dish-was.h.i.+ng; but if Eunice was willing and even glad of the opportunity, why, that made a difference, and the good woman began to feel so much better that by the time the last article was on the line, the kitchen floor cleared up, and the basin of water heating on the stove for her own ablutions, she was quite amiably disposed toward her grand daughter-in-law, who had not made her appearance since dinner.

Ethelyn liked staying in her chamber better than anywhere else, and it was especially pleasant there to-day, for Eunice had taken great pains to make it so, sweeping, and dusting and putting to rights, and patting the pillows and cus.h.i.+ons just as she remembered seeing Melinda do, and then, after the collar and ribbon had been given to her, going down on her hands and knees before the fire to wash the hearth with milk, which gave to the red bricks a polished, s.h.i.+ning appearance, and added much to the cheerfulness of the room. Ethelyn had commended her pleasantly, and, in the seventh heaven of delight, Eunice had returned to her was.h.i.+ng, taking greater pains than ever with the dainty puffs and frills, and putting in a st.i.tch where one was needed.

It was very evident that Eunice admired Ethelyn, and Ethelyn in return began to appreciate Eunice; and when, after dinner, she went to her room, and, wearied with her unpacking, lay down upon the lounge, she felt happier than she had since her first sight of Olney. It was pleasant up there, and the room looked very pretty with the brackets and ornaments, and pictures she had hung there instead of in the parlor, and she decided within herself that though disappointed in every respect, she could be quite comfortable for the few weeks which must intervene before she went to Was.h.i.+ngton. She should spend most of the time in the retirement of her room, mingling as little as possible with the family, and keeping at a respectful distance from her mother-in-law, whom she liked less than any of Richard's relations.

"I trust the Olney people will not think it their duty to call," she thought. "I suppose I shall have to endure the Joneses for Abigail's sake. Melinda certainly has some taste; possibly I may like her," and while cogitating upon Melinda Jones and the expected gayeties in Was.h.i.+ngton, she fell asleep; nor did Richard's step arouse her, when, about three o'clock, he came in from the village in quest of some law doc.u.ments he wished to see.

Frank Van Buren would probably have kissed her as she lay there sleeping so quietly; but Richard was in a great hurry. He had plunged at once into business. Once there were forty men waiting to see and consult "the Squire," whose reputation for honesty and ability was very great, and whose simple a.s.sertion carried more weight than the roundest oath of some lawyers, sworn upon the biggest Bible in Olney. Waylaid at every corner, and plied with numberless questions, he had hardly found an opportunity to come home to dinner, and now he had no time to waste in love-making. He saw Ethelyn, however, and felt that his room had never been as pleasant as it was with her there in it, albeit her coming was the cause of his books and papers being disturbed and tossed about and moved where he had much trouble to find them. He felt glad, too, that she was out of his mother's way, and feeling that all was well, he found his papers and hurried off to the village again, while Ethelyn slept on till Eunice Plympton came up to say that "Miss Jones and Melinda were both in the parlor and wanted her to come down."

CHAPTER XI

CALLS AND VISITING

Mrs. Jones had risen earlier than usual that Monday morning, and felt not a little elated when she saw her long line of snowy linen swinging in the wind before that of her neighbor, whom she excused on the score of Richard's wife. But when twelve o'clock, and even one o'clock struck, and still the back yard gave no sign, she began to wonder "if any of 'em could be sick"; and never was flag of truce watched for more anxiously than she watched for something which should tell that it was all well at Sister Markham's.

The sign appeared at last, and with her fears quieted, Mrs. Jones pursued the even tenor of her way until everything was done and her little kitchen was as s.h.i.+ning as soap and sand and scrubbing brush could make it. Perhaps it was was.h.i.+ng the patchwork quilt which Abigail had pieced that brought the deceased so strongly to Mrs. Jones' mind, and made her so curious to see Abigail's successor. Whatever it was, Mrs.

Jones was very anxious for a sight of Ethelyn; and when her work was done she donned her alpaca dress, and tying on her black silk ap.r.o.n, announced her intention of "running into Mrs. Markham's just a minute.

Would Melinda like to go along?"

Melinda had been once to no purpose, and she had inwardly resolved to wait a while before calling again; but she felt that she would rather be with her mother at her first interview with Ethelyn, for she knew she could cover up some defects by her glibber and more correct manner of conversing. So she signified her a.s.sent, but did not wear her best bonnet as she had on Sat.u.r.day night. This was only a run in, she said, never dreaming that, "for fear of what might happen if she was urged to stay to tea," her mother had deposited in her capacious pocket the s.h.i.+rt-sleeve of unbleached cotton she was making for Tim.

And so about four o'clock the twain started for the house of Mrs.

Markham, who saw them coming and welcomed them warmly. She was always glad to see Mrs. Jones, and she was doubly glad to-day, for it seemed to her that some trouble had come upon her which made neighborly sympathy and neighborly intercourse more desirable than ever. Added to this, there was in her heart an unconfessed pride in Ethelyn and a desire to show her off. "Miss Jones was not going to stir home a step till after supper," she said, as that lady demurred at laying off her bonnet. "She had got to stay and see Richard; besides that, they were going to have waffles and honey, with warm gingerbread."

n.o.body who had once tested them, could withstand Mrs. Markham's waffles and gingerbread. Mrs. Jones certainly could not; and when Eunice went up for Ethelyn, that worthy woman was rocking back and forth in a low rocking-chair, her bra.s.s thimble on her finger and Tim's s.h.i.+rt-sleeve in progress of making; while Melinda, in her pretty brown merino and white collar, with her black hair s.h.i.+ning like satin, sat in another rocking-chair, working at the bit of tatting she chanced to have in her pocket. Ethelyn did not care to go down; it was like stepping into another sphere leaving her own society for that of the Joneses; but there was no alternative, and with a yawn she started up and began smoothing her hair.

"This wrapper is well enough," she said, more to herself, than Eunice, who was still standing by the door looking at her.

Eunice did not think the wrapper well enough. It was pretty, she knew, but not as pretty as the dresses she had seen hanging in Ethelyn's closet when she arranged the room that morning; so she said, hesitatingly: "I wish you wouldn't wear that down. You were so handsome yesterday in the black gown, with them red earrings and pin, and your hair brushed up, so."

Ethelyn liked to look well, even here in Olney, and so the wrapper was laid aside, the beautiful brown hair was wound in heavy coils about the back of the head, and brushed back from her white forehead after a fas.h.i.+on which made her look still younger and more girlish than she was.

A pretty plaid silk, with tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs of blue, was chosen for to-day, Eunice going nearly wild over the short jaunty basque, laced at the sides and the back. Eunice had offered to stay and a.s.sist at her young mistress' toilet, and as Ethelyn was not unaccustomed to the office of waiting-maid, she accepted Eunice's offer, finding, to her surprise, that the coa.r.s.e red fingers, which that day had washed and starched her linen, were not unhandy even among the paraphernalia of a Boston lady's toilet.

"You do look beautiful," Eunice said, standing back to admire Ethelyn, when at last she was dressed. "I have thought Melinda Jones handsome, but she can't hold a candle to you, nor n.o.body else I ever seen, except Miss Judge Miller, in Camden. She do act some like you, with her gown dragglin' behind her half a yard."

Thus flattered and complimented, Ethelyn shook out her skirts, which "draggled half a yard behind," and went downstairs to where Mrs. Jones sat working on Timothy's s.h.i.+rt, and Melinda was crocheting, while Mrs.

Markham, senior, clean and neat, and stiff in her starched, purple calico, sat putting a patch on a fearfully large hole in the knee of Andy's pants. As Ethelyn swept into the room there fell a hush upon the inmates, and Mrs. Jones was almost guilty of an exclamation of surprise.

She had expected something fine, she said--something different from the Olney quality--but she was not prepared for anything as grand and queenly as Ethelyn, when she sailed into the room, with her embroidered handkerchief held so gracefully in her hands, and in response to Mrs.

Markham's introduction, bowed so very low, and slowly, too, her lips scarcely moving at all, and her eyes bent on the ground. Mrs. Jones actually ran the needle she was sewing with under her thumb in her sudden start, while Melinda's crocheting dropped into her lap. She, too, was surprised, though not as much as her mother. She, like Eunice, had seen Mrs. Judge Miller, from New York, whose bridal trousseau was imported from Paris, and whose wardrobe was the wonder of Camden. And Ethelyn was very much like her, only younger and prettier.

"Very pretty," Melinda thought, while Mrs. Jones fell to comparing her, mentally, with the deceased Abigail; wondering how Richard, if he had ever loved the one, could have fancied the other, they were so unlike.

Of course, the mother's heart gave to Abigail the preference for all that was good and womanly, and worthy of Richard Markham; but Ethelyn bore off the palm for style, and beauty, too.

"Handsome as a doll, but awfully proud," Mrs. Jones decided, during the interval in which she squeezed her wounded thumb, and got the needle again in motion upon Timothy's s.h.i.+rt-sleeve.

Ethelyn was not greatly disappointed in Mrs. Jones and her daughter; the mother especially was much like what she had imagined her to be, while Melinda was rather prettier--rather more like the Chicopee girls than she expected. There was a look on her face like Susie Granger, and the kindly expression of her black eyes made Ethelyn excuse her for wearing a magenta bow, while her cheeks were something the same hue. They were very stiff at first, Mrs. Jones saying nothing at all, and Melinda only venturing upon common-place inquiries--as to how Ethelyn bore her journey, if she was ever in that part of the country before, and how she thought she should like the West. This last question Ethelyn could not answer directly.

"It was very different from New England," she said, "but she was prepared for that, and hoped she should not get very homesick during the few weeks which would elapse before she went to Was.h.i.+ngton."

At this point Mrs. Markham stopped her patching and looked inquiringly at Ethelyn. It was the first she had heard about Ethelyn's going to Was.h.i.+ngton; indeed, she had understood that Richard's wife was to keep her company during the winter, a prospect which since Ethelyn's arrival had not looked so pleasing to her as it did before. How in the world they should get on together without Richard, she did not know, and if she consulted merely her own comfort she would have bidden Ethelyn go.

But there were other things to be considered--there was the great expense it would be for Richard to have his wife with him. Heretofore he had saved a good share of his salary, but with Ethelyn it would be money out of his pocket all the time; besides that, there were reasons why it was not proper for Ethelyn to go; her best place was at home.

Thus reasoned Mrs. Markham, and when next her needle resumed its work on Andy's patch, Ethelyn's fate with regard to Was.h.i.+ngton was decided, for as thought the mother on that point, so eventually would think the son, who deferred so much to her judgment. He came in after a little, looking so well and handsome that Ethelyn felt proud of him, and had he then laid his hand upon her shoulder, or put his arm around her waist, as he sometimes did when they were alone, she would not have shaken it off, as was her usual custom. Indeed, such is the perversity of human nature, and so many contradictions are there in it, that Ethelyn rather wished he would pay her some little attention. She could not forget Abigail, with Abigail's mother and sister sitting there before her, and she wanted them to see how fond her husband was of her, hoping thus to prove how impossible it was that Abigail could ever have been to him what she was. But Richard was shy in the presence of others, and would sooner have put his arm around Melinda than around his wife, for fear he should be thought silly. He was very proud of her, though, and felt a thrill of satisfaction in seeing how superior, both in look and manner, she was to Melinda Jones, whose buxom, healthy face grew almost coa.r.s.e and homely from comparison with Ethelyn's.

As Ethelyn's toilet had occupied some time, it was five when she made her appearance in the parlor, consequently she had not long to wait ere the announcement of supper broke up the tediousness she endured from that first call, or visit. The waffles and the gingerbread were all they had promised to be, and the supper pa.s.sed off quietly, with the exception of a mishap of poor, awkward Andy, who tipped his plate of hot cakes and honey into his lap, and then in his sudden spring backward, threw a part of the plate's contents upon Ethelyn's s.h.i.+ning silk. This was the direst calamity of all, and sent poor Andy from the table so heart-broken and disconsolate that he did not return again, and Eunice found him sitting on the wood-house steps, wiping away with his coat-sleeve the great tears which rolled down his womanish face.

"Ethelyn never would like him again," he said, calling himself "a great blundering fool, who never ought to eat at the same table with civilized folks."

But when Ethelyn, who heard from Eunice of Andy's distress, went out to see him, a.s.suring him that but little damage had been done, that soft water and magnesia would make the dress all right again, he brightened up, and was ready to hold Mr. Harrington's horse when, after dark, that gentleman drove over from Olney with his wife and sister to call on Mrs.

Richard. It would almost seem that Ethelyn held a reception that evening, for more than the Harringtons knocked at the front door, and were admitted by the smiling Eunice. It was rather early to call, the Olneyites knew, but there on the prairie they were not hampered with many of Mrs. Grundy's rules, and so curious to see the "Boston lady,"

several of the young people had agreed together between the Sunday services to call at Mrs. Markham's the following night. They were well-meaning, kind-hearted people, and would any one of them gone far out of their way to serve either Richard or his young wife; but they were not Eastern bred, and feeling somewhat awed by Ethelyn's cold, frigid manner, they appeared shy and awkward--all except Will Parsons, the young M.D. of Olney, who joked, and talked and laughed so loudly, that even Richard wondered he had never before observed how noisy Dr.

Parsons was, while Andy, who was learning to read Ethelyn's face, tried once or twice, by pulling the doctor's coat-skirts and giving him a warning glance, to quiet him down a little. But the doctor took no hints, and kept on with his fun, finding a splendid coadjutor in the "terrible Tim Jones," who himself came over to call on d.i.c.k and his woman.

Tim was rigged out in his best, with a bright red cravat tied around his neck, and instead of his muddy boots with his pants tucked in the tops, he wore coa.r.s.e shoes tied with strings and flirted his yellow silk handkerchief for the entire evening. It was dreadful to Ethelyn, for she could see nothing agreeable in Richard's friends; indeed, their presence was scarcely bearable, and the proud look on her face was so apparent that the guests felt more or less ill at ease, while Richard was nearer being angry with Ethelyn than he had ever been. Will Parsons and Tim Jones seemed exceptions to the rest of the company, especially the latter, who, if he noticed Ethelyn's evident contempt, was determined to ignore it, and make himself excessively familiar.

As yet, the open piano had been untouched, no one having the courage to ask Ethelyn to play; but Tim was fond of music, and unhesitatingly seating himself upon the stool, thrust one hand in his pocket, and with the other struck the keys at random, trying to make out a few bars of "Hail, Columbia!" Then turning to Ethelyn he said, with a good-humored nod, "Come, old lady, give us something good."

Ethelyn's eyes flashed fire, while others of the guests looked their astonishment at Tim, who knew he had done something, but could not for the life of him tell what.

"Old lady" was a favorite t.i.tle with him. He called his mother so, and Melinda, and Eunice Plympton, and Maria Moorehouse, whose eyes he thought so bright, and whom he always saw home from meeting on Sunday nights; and so it never occurred to him that this was his offense. But Melinda knew, and her red cheeks burned scarlet as she tried to cover her brother's blunder by modestly urging Ethelyn to favor them with some music.

Of all the Western people whom she had seen, Ethelyn liked Melinda the best. She had thought her rather familiar, and after the Olneyites came in and put her more at her ease, she fancied her a little flippant and forward; but, in all she did or said, there was so much genuine sincerity and frankness, that Ethelyn could not dislike her as she had thought she should dislike a sister of Abigail Jones and the terrible Tim. She had not touched her piano since her arrival, for fear of the homesickness which its familiar tones might awaken, and when she saw Tim's big red hands fingering the keys, in her resentment at the desecration she said to herself that she never would touch it again; but when in a low aside Melinda added to her entreaties: "Please, Mrs.

Markham, don't mind Tim--he means well enough, and would not be rude for the world, if he knew it," she began to give way, and it scarcely needed Richard's imperative, "Ethelyn," to bring her to her feet. No one offered to conduct her to the piano--not even Richard, who sat just where he was; while Tim, in his haste to vacate the music stool, precipitated it to the floor, and got his leather shoes entangled in Ethelyn's skirts.

Tim, and Will Parsons, and Andy all hastened to pick up the stool, knocking their heads together, and raising a laugh in which Ethelyn could not join. Thoroughly disgusted and sick at heart, she felt much as the Jewish maidens must have felt when required to give a song. Her harp was indeed upon the willows hung, and her heart was turning sadly toward her far-off Jerusalem as she sat down and tried to think what she should play to suit her audience. Suddenly it occurred to her to suit herself rather than her hearers, and her snowy fingers--from which flashed Daisy's diamond and a superb emerald--swept the keys with a masterly grace and skill. Ethelyn was perfectly at home at the piano, and das.h.i.+ng off into a brilliant and difficult overture, she held her hearers for a few minutes astonished both at her execution and the sounds she made. To the most of them, however, the sounds were meaningless; their tastes had not yet been cultivated up to Ethelyn's style. They wanted something familiar--something they had heard before; and when the fine performance was ended terrible Tim electrified her with the characteristic exclamation: "That was mighty fine, no doubt, for them that understand such; but, now, for land's sake, give us a tune."