A Righteous Woman’s Recompense

By Lella Marler Hoggan

(Previous chapter)

Chapter 2: The Price of Truth

A feeling of sincere friendship and tender sympathy was established between Ethel Barton and Prof. Gordon; and during the remainder of the winter the little god of love held their destinies in the scales of prudence and conventionality. But when capricious spring came, bounding into her heritage, she not only laughed the hoary winter out of countenance, and set the world atremble and ablaze, but she also turned the gray mists into rose-colored veils of beauty and filled the atmosphere with sweet odors and glad music. The life of the earth was resurrected from its long death-like slumber; and out of the fulness of the rosy dawn, Cupid glinted his shafts anew and began his play of casting, with as much joyous gusto as if his game were as new as the early dawn instead of being as old as the acres. And the affairs of lovers became romantic and fascinating and, sometimes, almost tragic. There were school parties, and class parties, and out-of-door socials, and canyon excursions; until old and young almost wearied of entertainments. The days were ‘made to order,” until one morning spring grew freakish, and, forgetting all her gentle manners, greeted the lilttle village with a frowning countenance followed by a drenching of tears. Mud, of course, was the aftermath. Mud, sticky and black and deep in all the country roads and lanes and hollows. It was the darkest, muddiest night of the season, when the Ladies’ Literary Club came straggling into Cecil Miller’s home to complete their preparations for the reception to the district school teachers. Out at her home Ethel Barton waited with impatience for the sound of wheels on the graveled walk. More than once she walked out on the porch and peered into the darkness and listened. She could hear the dripping rain as a little gust of wind shook the wet trees; that was all.

It was past the hour set for the party to begin. She must not, she could not, disappoint the girls. So, donning a storm coat and high-topped rubbers, she started out alone in the darkness to walk to town. As soon as she left the protection of the trees and entered the open road, a gust of wind caught at her skirts and tossed her scarf in a tangle about her face. For a moment she hesitated, and then plunged forward again with determination, into the mud and the darkness. Before she reached the end of the long lane her skirts were decorated in mud, her hair was in somewhat of a tangle and her spirits were extremery ruffled. And then she heard carriage wheels in the distance. Could it be that her escort had come from the town road and called for her at that late hour, only to find that she had gone? For a moment she hesitated in chagrin, wondering what to do or say. And then the carriage had overtaken her and she recognized Willard Tavlor’s voice as he called out, “Good evening! Going into town?”

“That is what I have been foolish enough to attempt,” she replied, laughing to hide her embarrassment.

“Oh, is that you, Ethel?” continued Willard. who had, in turn, recognized her voice. “Wait a moment and I’ll drive across that pool, so you can get in more easily,” he said, taking it for granted that she would accept a chance to ride into town. Without further questions he assisted her into the carriage, and carefully arranged the robes about her, to protect her from the mud. Then extending his hand, he said, “Now shake hands with me, little girl, and tell me what in the world you are doing out here alone on such a night.”

“I don’t know, Willard, unless I came out to welcome you home.” She tried to laugh but it sounded like a sob in her voice, so she gave it up. It would be so easy to cry and tell him all about it. He was still holding her hand as they drove on in the darkness.

“Well, girlie,” he laughed, “if you came out to welcome me home, I must not scold you. I’ll call for you next time, and see that you do not get so muddy.”

Ethel wanted to cry more than ever, but she could not tell him, now. Besides, she could not forget that vivid, handsome face that she had been watching and obeying for so many weeks. Where was Prof. Gordon? Her heart was in a tumult.

“I am on my way to Cecil Miller’s,” Willard explained, “and I came this way to avoid that bad lane in front of Wilson’s. I suppose you are going to Cecil’s aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Ethel, “I am. And I am indeed glad that you happened to come this way. I was about to give up, in sheer desperation, and go back home. I had no idea the roads were so bad, or I should never have attempted to walk.”

“It certainly is not very pleasant walking tonight,” he consented. And then he proceeded to tell Ethel of some amusing incidents connected with the storm. “I would have called for you,” he said, “but I thought, of course, you would be gone by this hour.”

More than once during the ride Willard wondered what had induced Ethel to walk in to town alone on such a night. But he was too much of a gentleman to either twit or question her concerning the matter. In fact, he avoided mentioning the episode, and put Ethel entirely at her ease by keeping up a pleasant and somewhat humorous conversation, during the entire drive. Ethel had laughed herself into a cheerful mood and had almost forgotten the condition of her hair and her skirts, when they drove up to Miller’s long, low porch just in time to see Prof. Gordon assisting Florence Lindsay from his vehicle.

Willard greeted Florence cordially and stood waiting.

Ethel hastily forgot her own embarrassment and presented Willard to Prof. Gordon. They exchanged greetings, and the four young people entered the house in a group; each one smiling and pretending to be entirely at ease, and each one hiding a question mark in his heart.

No opportunity for explanation was afforded during the evening, and when, at the close of the party, the guests began to depart, Willard Taylor and Eugene Gordon assisted their ladies into their wraps and their carriages as gracefully and as gallantly as if each were escorting the lady of his choice, according to arrangement.

Of course, Ethel Barton did not know that Prof. Gordon had been unavoidably detained in town until a late hour; that, as a matter of courtesy, he had invited Florence Lindsay to ride over to Cecil Miller’s with him; and that he was on his way to her home when he met her in company with Willard Taylor at Miller’s back porch. Neither did Prof. Gordon know why Ethel had come to the party with another escort instead of waiting for him. And he did not feel free to seek or make an explanation. To add to the difficulty, Ethel accepted more than one invitation from Willard Taylor to attend socials and entertainments. She was obligated to attend the entertainments, to assist with the musical numbers of the program; and, of course, she could not go without an escort. And so the tangle in their skein of love grew more intricate from day to day. And not until the day of the canyon excursion, did Gordon muster sufficient courage to demand an explanation.

It was late in the afternoon. All day long Willard Taylor had assiduously devoted himself to Ethel Barton. He had assisted her in the rugged climb up the mountain, in order that she might secure a better view of the canyon. He had hunted and carried her specimens and souvenirs of the trip. He had helped to prepare the noon luncheon and to arrange a cozy corner among the pines where the ladies might rest while the boys were fishing. And even now, he was making his way into a deep ravine in search of a cool spring, in order that he might secure her a refreshing drink of water.

Ethel stood alone amid a little clump of trees, leaning against a half fallen quaking-asp. Her face wore a sad expression and there was a spirit of dejection in her very attitude. For the first time during the day she had permitted herself to remember the bitterness in her own heart. She had hoped that Prof. Gordon would find an opportunity during the day to make some explanation of his actions during the past week. Now the day was almost at the close and he had spoken no word nor had he made any attempt at reconciliation. Perhaps, after all, he did not care. And she had been foolish enough to think he really cared for her. Her fingers trembled as she pulled the leaves from a little branch near by. Her face was drawn with pain and her serious eyes were bright with unshed tears. She heard a step behind her, but she did not look up. Her heart told her who was near. And when she heard a deep, tender voice speak her name she tried to smile and answer pleasantly; but a sob was in her voice and a tear was on her white cheek.

“I am so glad I have found you alone,” said Eugene Gordon, in a low, earnest tone. “I have been trying, all day, to speak with you. Ethel Barton, little girl of mine, tell me what is the matter. Surely, this is all a mistake. You have not purposely put me aside for this old friend, have you?” He, too, was leaning against the tree. She could feel his breath on her cheek and she knew that earnest eyes were searching her face for his answer,. but she could not look into his face.

“It is all a mistake,” he whispered, confusedly. “I am sure it is all a mistake.”

He lowered his voice and for a moment his strong, warm hand clasped her trembling fingers.

“Some one is coming from the ravine,” he said. ”We haven’t time for an explanation, now; hut yon must smile once and tell me it is all right, before I go. Yon understand, don’t you, little woman?”

Their eyes met in one long understanding glance. Ethel smiled through her tears into his earnest, happy face. “It is all right,” she whispered, “I understand.”

Because of his faithful, diligent services during the winter, the students and school trustees were giving Prof. Gordon a farewell party and banquet at the home of Mr. Lindsay. The Ladies’ Literary Club had kindly consented to prepare the banquet. It was the night before the party. Every preparation was as nearly complete as was possible at that time.

Ethel Barton, who had been assisting the Literary Club during the afternoon, walked home alone in the early dusk, with a heart full of happy anticipations. Only once since the canyon excursion had she seen Prof. Gordon; but the sincere kindliness of his greeting at that time had reassured her. Again and again she recalled the little incident at the ravine.

The only thing that saddened her was the thought of Willard Taylor. He had never expressed any sentiments other than friendship for her. But she could not forget that night under the harvest moon. Of course, he had always been her best friend and she owed him her confidence. More than once she tried to tell him, but the words caught in her throat and her parched lips refused to utter them. Willard was so clean, and generous and sincere, and she had loved him so long; it was hard to give him pain. But this new friend, this charming, magnetic gentleman could not be denied. He was so strong, so compelling and yet so gentle and persuasive that he had won her heart before she realized it. He had created a new heaven and a n w earth for her. There was a light spring to her steps as she hurried along in the twilight. Her heart was singing the glad song of youth, the song of hope, and love, satisfaction.

“Every one must be away from home,” she mused as she opened the front gate. Everything was so quiet. But on entering the dining room, she discovered her father sitting by the window alone in the twilight. He greeted her kindly, as usual, and explained that the other members of the family were away spending the evening.

“Why did you not go with them, father?” she asked, coming over to him at “once and caressing his hair. “Aren’t yon well?”

“Oh, yes; I’m all right,” he assured her, “just a little weary is all. Besides, my girl, I’ve been wanting to have a talk with you for a long time; and I thought tonight would be a good chance.”

A strange fear crept into Ethel’s breast, as if someone had suddenly pressed a cold hand upon her heart. The serene, hopeful song in her bosom died away, faint and fearful; and her being was filled with a sort of wild apprehension, a prophetic fear of some calamity that was just ahead, some ordeal she would have to meet. But she summoned all her fortitude, and with a prayer in her heart that God would help her to do the thing that he desired her to do, she drew a chair up beside her father and seated herself calmly.

“Shall I bring a light, papa, or shall we sit here in the twilight?” she asked quietly.

“Never mind the light, my girl,” he replied. “I can think better in the dusk, and probably I can talk better, too. There’s a good many things I want to say to you, Ethel, and I’ve been thinking of late that maybe I had better say them right away, before it is too late.” And then he sat silent again, silent for so long a time that the stillness became oppressive.

“Ethel, my little girl,” he said, at last, “I want to ask you a question.”

“Yes, papa, what is it?”

“Is this young professor, this Gordon, serious in his attentions to you?”

For a moment Ethel did not reply, and her father continued, “I mean, my girl, has he told you of his regard for you; has he spoken to you of marriage?”

“No, indeed, papa!” was her quick reply.

“I am very glad to know I have spoken in time,” continued her father. “Maybe I am mistaken, but it has seemed to me, for some time now, that Gordon is rather serious in his attentions to you. As I say, Ethel, maybe I am mistaken. I hope I am. I hope, too, my girl, that you have not been so foolish as to become infatuated with a man of whose life and character you know so little. But whatever your feelings are, I am sure I can depend upon you to do what is right. You will not deceive me, will you, my girl?”

“No father, I shall not deceive you.” Her voice was hoarse with emotion and she felt grateful for the sheltering darkness.

“I have a story to tell you, Ethel; the story of your birthright. I should have told you long ago, but perhaps I am not too late, even now.” Again Mr. Barton sat very still for a long time, then he began slowly:

“It takes a good deal of courage for a man to give up a beautiful little home, his relatives, and his friends; and journey with his little family into the wilderness, into a land that he knows is inhabited only by savage Indians and wild animals. But that’s what your grandfather Bennett did, my girl. And his little family never wavered in their determination to go with him. Your grandmother was a heroine by birth. Her ancestors were among the early settlers of America; and she was as proud of her courage and her blue blood, as women are now-a-days of their jewels and fine clothes and their pretty faces. ‘Jim Bennett,’ she said, ‘you are not strong, you are not able to make that hard trip alone. But we’ll go with you and stay by you and help you over the hard places.’ And so, with a smile on their lips and a prayer in their hearts, they turned their faces toward the setting sun; and with unfaltering steps, began their journey into the great unknown West. And like the Israelites of old, they went their way uncomplaining, nor did they look back to the treasures they had left behind. When your grandfather fell ill, your grandmother’s faith and zeal were increased. Long miles she trudged across the barren waste singing, and cheering her companions on- ward. And when in the quiet evening of one long, 1onely day, your grandfather’s spirit took its flight, she bowed down beneath her burden of sorrow, but she never wavered in her faith or her courage to go forward. She watched in silence while his body was concealed in an unmarked grave. And she uttered no cry when a fire was built on the snow to further obliterate his last resting place. ‘God help me! God help me!’ was all the white lips uttered as the charred grave faded from view in the distance and flip wagon train wound on across the gray, nameless prairie. And through the long years of hardships and trial that followed, she remained faithful to God’s people and to His cause. She made her home a place of good cheer and she never failed in her words and work of comfort and consolation to those who were in need. With such a parent, it is no wonder that your mother came into her heritage, as a daughter in Israel, with a happy heart and a hopeful spirit. Her very life was a bright sunbeam. The gospel seemed to be a part of her being. And she never hesitated in fulfilling any call that it brought to her. ‘I thank God for my birthright,’ she would say, ‘and I do pray that I may never be disinherited.’ I shall never forget how beautiful and happy she looked on our wedding day as we entered the House of the Lord to be united. ‘It is the dream of all my days,’ she said. And I cannot tell you of the long, happy days that followed. Often and often we would say that it was almost too good to be true. There was but one thing that marred the happiness of our dear little home. We had been married three years and we were still childless. Then one glad day my little sweetheart crept into my arms and whimpered the secret to me that completed our joy. God had answered our prayers; a child was to be given us.”

Her father paused in his story and a little sigh escaped Ethel’s lips. He took her hand tenderly in his and continued:

“You can never know how happy it made us, little girl. Through the long days your mother was busy making things ready for your coming. And the evenings were happier than they had ever been before. Then came a call for me to go away and preach the gospel. At first, I hesitated. Perhaps it would be better for me to wait, I thought. But your mother was a little saint, through and through, and she would not listen to such a thing. She said God would take care of her and I must have faith enough to leave her in his charge. So, with many misgivings and with somewhat of a sad heart, I kissed my noble little wife good bye and went out into the world to carry the message of truth to the children of men. The waiting days were long, anxious ones to me; but the cheerful, happy letters of my loved one reassured me, and helped me to do my work faithfully and well. Then, one day, came the long looked-for letter, which filled my heart with untold happiness. It was all over. My dear, brave wife had passed through the wonderful experience of becoming a mother. God had blessed us with a little daughter. I was a father. Just what joy and hope and ambitions that gave me, you cannot know. For a while I could hardly content myself with my work. I wanted to fly home to my wife and baby. But I knew she would not welcome me until I had completed my work and, therefore. I compelled myself to be satisfied, and I continued my labors with a new hope and energy. Finally, my mission was almost finished. In a few more weeks I would see my wife and baby. Then came a message for me to come home immediately. My dear one was not expected to live. We could not travel in those days as quickly as we can today. But I went with the greatest haste possible. And only God knows what suspense I suffered during those long hours. I reached home in time to say good bye before her sweet spirit took its flight. ‘Good bye,’ she said. ‘God bless you! Take care of our little one. Teach her to love her birthright as I have loved mine.’ And then she was gone.”

When he could speak again, he said. “Your mother’s name was Ethel. You are so much like her. You have been the comfort of my life and I must not lose you. The gospel has cost us the life of two brave, sweet souls. And vet it is still the light of my life and yours. You are a daughter in Israel. Tell, me, my girl, are you going to be true to your birthright?”

Ethel rose pale and trembling. For a moment she looked into her father’s eyes earnestly, and then she stooped and kissed his lios. “Yes. father,” she whispered, hoarsely, “no matter what it may cost me, I shall be true to mv birthright.”

There was a sound of wheels on the graveled walk. “Good-night,” she added, tenderly, “God bless you.”

“Peace be with you. my girl,” was all he said, as she fled to her room, in time to avoid greeting the home folks as they came noisily into the house.

Clad in a soft, becoming gown, Ethel sat alone in the twilight, idly fingering the keys of the piano. A little breeze, heavy with the sweet odor of lilacs and apple blossoms, ruffled the white curtain at the open window. From the luxuriant lilac hedge came the chirp of a night bird calling to his mate; while out of a cluster of pink peach blossoms a muffled twitter sounded in reply. Ethel sat quiet for a moment and listened. Then, for the fourth time, she stepped out onto the front porch and peered into the gathering dusk. She waited, and listened, and looked again, and a little sigh of disappointment escaped her lips. The old garden was vibrating with life and love and fragrance and beauty. But her heart was too heavy to answer nature’s challenge of gladness.

Tomorrow, Eugene Gordon would leave the little town. And he had not yet come to make the explanation he had promised. Ethel did not attend the social given by the students and trustees in his honor. Her father was ill and she had tried to make herself believe that his illness had kept her at home. But in her heart she knew that it was the fear of meeting Prof. Gordon that had kept her away from him. Her mother’s dying wish for her was burning itself into her very soul. She had made a sacred promise to her father to fulfil that wish. And she feared lest she should not be strong enough to keep that promise. Until tonight, she had avoided meeting Prof. Gordon. But now that the time of departure had come, she felt that she could not let him go without saying good bye. Her soul was filled with an intense desire that was little short of madness. She must look upon his face again, she must hear him whisper her name, she must touch his hand once more. Then, she would say good bye forever, he would go out of her life, and she would try to forget.

She was too uneasy to remain quietly indoors; and yet the sweet incense of the spring night almost stifled her, and the love-laden messages from bird throat to bird throat, mocked her own loneliness and despair.

It was growing dark. The fruit blossoms were already hidden in the dusky foliage, and the path down the shadowy lane was too uncertain to be watched any longer. Would he not come, after all? Had she looked upon his face for the last time? No, she would tolerate no such disappointment. The very intensity of her desire to see him must bring him to her. She tried to reassure herself by claying a tender little snatch of a song, but her fingers lost themselves and the notes drawled out in a lone discord. And then she heard a footstep on the graveled walk and her heart stood still. For one sacred moment she dropped her white face into her hands. ”God help me.” she breathed devoutly. “God help me! Amen.” The next moment she answered the light rap on the door with a pleasant “Good evening, Prof. Gordon, come in!”

“You would not come to me,” he said, smiling, as he took her hand, “and so I have come to you — to say good bye,” he added, after a little pause.

“I am sorry, Prof. Gordon,” she said, earnestly, “that I could not attend the party given for you.”

“Then you knew, and were not there,” he said, disappointment sounding in every tone.

“My father is ill,” was her quiet reply.

This bit of information put them on open friendship terms again, for Gordon was exceptionally fond of Ethel’s father. Ethel invited him to her father’s room and Mr. Barton greeted him cordially. The short, cheerful interview that followed made them all feel happier.

Later in the evening they strolled out through the old garden and sat on a rustic seat beneath the flowering fruit tree. The white moon beams filtered through the sweet scented branches, and the rustle of the evening breeze showered fragrant petals in the grass at their feet. They spoke of Prof. Gordon’s work and his students; and, of their childhood days and their present ambitions. And under the magic spell of the night Ethel forgot the proprieties of time and place, and she felt half ashamed that Prof. Gordon found it necessary to remind her of such conventionalities.

“I must go now, little girl,” he said, “I am afraid I have already kept you out later than I should. But before I say goodbye, girl of mine, I must tell you what has brought me to you tonight. I have come to tell you life’s sweetest story. Ethel Barton, little woman,” he whispered, “I love you as I have never loved any woman before.”

Ethel could feel his strong hands clasping her own firmly. His warm breath was on her cheek and his earnest gaze was searching her face. But she did not move nor speak.

“Look into my eyes, Ethel,” he continued earnestly, “tell me you understand; girl of mine. You will wait for me? Yon will be true to me? You will be my own sweet wife, someday?”

Ethel started, and drew back, as if suddenly awakened from a dream.

“Oh, no, no, no! Prof. Gordon, you must not say the words, you must not.”

“Ethel Barton,” he exclaimed, with white lips, “Ethel Barton, soul of my soul, you have not deceived me? no! You shall not deceive me. You do love me, little woman. Tell me, you do love me.”

“Better than all the world.” she whispered hoarsely. For one brief moment she was held close to Prof. Gordon’s heart, his lips met hers. Then with a great effort, she drew herself away.

“No, no, no!” she repeated. “You must not. You must not. I can never, never be your wife.”

“What is it, Ethel, my girl? I have never deceived you, Yon may look into mv past. I have kept myself clean and honorable before men. What is it?” he demanded. “I cannot understand.”

“It is this,” she said, firmly and quietly, “we are treading two different paths, and they are paths that will never meet.”

“You mean,” he hesitated, “you mean your religion?”

“I mean my religion.”

For a moment Prof. Gordon stood silent; then drawing her hand through his arm, he said quietly.

“I must take you to the house, now.”

In silence they walked to the front porch, in silence she passed him his hat.

“I must go,” he said. “I need not ask you to wait for me. I need not ask you to be true to me. A woman who is as true to her religion as you are to yours, cannot be false to her heart or to her honor. Someday, little girl, I may find the path you are treading. If I do, I shall come back to you. If I do not return, you may think of me as a poor, lone wanderer. And, sometimes, you may ask God to help me find the way. (“Good bye,” he added, “God bless you.”

“Good bye,” she whispered, “I shall pray for you, always.”

And then, taking her hands in his. he stooped and kissed them reverently.

Ethel watched him depart, in agony of spirit.

Then a startled cry almost escaped her lips.

She remembered the divine touch. She remembered that night under the harvest moon.

(To be continued)