A Righteous Woman’s Recompense

By Lella Marler Hoggan

(Previous chapter)

Chapter 3: The Heart of a Woman

A purple haze hung low over the painted woodland and a soft October breeze scattered the bright foliage upon the dead grass. Now and then a lone bird’s call echoed through the woods, or the chirp of a squirrel sounded near by, as he scampered over the dead leaves bearing nuts to his winter store. Ethel Barton sat on a fallen tree near the woodland brook and listened to its mellow gurgle as it flashed in the autumn sunshine and tumbled over the sticks and pebbles into the ravine near by. A little call followed by a peal of laughter reached her ears and she arose and shook herself and smoothed her brow with her fingers, as if to obliterate her thoughts. The canyon party were preparing for the home trip. She must not be seen, alone, at the ravine in reverie.

“It is all right,” she whispered, “I understand.” Her face was pale and her hands trembled a little as she plucked a few small burs from her skirt and tucked a stray wisp of hair under her comb. She began humming a cheerful little chorus as she hurried down a half trodden path toward camp. Across the sky a flock of wild ducks circled and veered. She watched them fall into a long wavering line and fade away in the distance. Some one from camp called to her and she answered their sally with a cheerful retort as she joined them. She was glad that the day had reached its close. Although she had kept up a cheerful spirit, it had been a day of sheerest agony to her. For every turn in the canyon road and every nook in the wooded path had reminded her of another day, a day she would like to forget. Then, the woods were filled with life and fragrance and beauty. And her heart was full of hope and joy. Now, it seemed very fitting and proper that the dead leaves should rustle under her feet and the naked branches of the trees bespeak her loneliness.

The days were all the same to Ethel except when her father felt more poorly than usual. Then a wild fear seized her and she sought employment out of doors in a vain effort to get away from her own thoughts. She had gone with the canyon party at her father’s request. He had noticed the sad, hunted look in her eyes and he thought the trip would cheer her up. But it had merely recalled the past more vividly to her remembrance. And when, on her return, she found her father worse, again, she chided herself for leaving him for so long a time.

He had not been entirely well all summer, and now that the autumn had come he was growing steadily worse. After the canyon party Ethel watched over him by night and by day and clung to him as a little child might cling to its mother. When her stepmother chided her for her vigilance, telling her she was wearing herself out uselessly, she always replied kindly and denied her own weariness. She was not content except in her father’s presence. He was the nearest relative she had in the world now, and she feared lest he might slip away from her in the stillness of the night, if she should leave his room. As the autumn days grew brief and the trees’ holiday dresses were shifted away by the soft winds, a prophetic stillness came upon the household, and a tender sympathy pervaded the very atmosphere. Mr. Barton was never left alone. He desired that someone be near him at all times and his wish was not denied. Ethel or her step-mother was always in his room. Sometimes, no word would pass between them and their patient for hours, except as he called for a drink of water or some necessary attention. But he felt assured in their presence and they loved to be near him. In the quiet evening of one golden autumn day he called Ethel to him.

“Where is your mother?” he asked.

“She has just gone across to Mrs. Green’s,” was Ethel’s reply. “She will be back soon.”

“It is all right,” he said. And then, after a moment’s pause, he placed his trembling, feeble hand upon her head.

“Ethel, my girl,” he said, “you have been the comfort of my years. I am going to my other Ethel, now. But I am not afraid to leave you, little girl; for I know that you will be true to yourself and God. Be good to your mother. She is the only mother you have ever known and she loves you. Be true to the truth. Ethel, and God will give you the things that your heart most desires. You shall be a loving wife and an honored mother in Israel and God’s hand shall be over you for good. He shall comfort you, and defend you, and keep you, and make you a power for good in Zion.” His face was lighted up by a divine fire, and his eyes beamed with hope and gladness.

“I leave my blessing with you, my girl,” he continued, “May it rest upon you as a benediction through the years, and give you hope in the dark hours and joy in the bright ones. I seal this blessing upon you in the name of Jesus. Amen.”

His hand dropped at his side. The light faded out of his eyes. Ethel stooped and kissed his lips. They were chilled in death.

The lilacs were shedding their fragrance abroad. The birds were muttering love messages to each other from the scented hedge to the trembling tree-tops. Down the shadowy lane the wood violets clustered in the deep grass and across the field the cowslips and meadow posies blossomed in the sunshine.

On the front porch of the old homestead Ethel Barton sat in a low rocker pensively gazing across the garden and unconsciously sniffing the odor of the apple-blossoms. In her lap lay a bit of sheer white linen and a mass of filmy lace. It was one of the wedding garments her white fingers were fashioning. From the wood violets in the lane to the chattering birds in the lilac hedge came fragrant kisses and love songs of congratulation to the little bride elect. But her heart did not bound in a glad response. She smiled sweetly and quietly and took up her needle again. There was a far away look in her eyes, and now and then a stitch had to be drawn out and taken over again.

“It is all right,” she assured herself. “God understands. It is all right.”

More than once the white garment was dropped in her lap as her gaze wandered away, across the garden, or down the lane. Then she would gather up her work again and close her lips firmly.

“Whatever can be the matter, this morning,” she mused. “Why should I be so restless? I feel as if something were going to happen. ‘What is to happen will happen,’ ” she smiled to herself. “So I may as well finish my work.”

“Dear, dear father,” she whispered. “If he could only be here, I think I should feel all right.”

For long days after Mr. Barton’s death, Ethel had been seriously ill of nervous exhaustion. The strain of losing him had been too much for her overwrought nerves and she had given way under the load of sorrow. The loneliness of the old home was almost unbearable to her when she began to recover. The household duties were forever crowding upon her for attention, and yet the one dearest member of the household was gone. Down in the little village cemetery was a newly spaded mound that held her tenderest affection and her brightest hopes. There was no place in the house or the vard or the garden that did not remind her of h: m. There was his empty chair by the window and his book and paper on the table. There in the corner stood his cane, and on the mantle lay his spectacles. Out of doors, the lack of his patient, generous care was evident everywhere. The animals missed him, greatly. And the numerous preparations for winter that were left undone bespoke his absence.

That was, indeed, a long lonely winter to Ethel and her stepmother. But they met it bravely and tried to make the home cheerful, for the children’s sake.

When the warm spring days came wooing the earth back to its verdure and roses, their hearts warmed also, and the intensity of their loss was gone.

Through the long bright summer days they gradually grew into their old employments, and pleasures, and hopes again. The great chair in the corner was still empty and the mound in the cemetery was ever green and flower-laden; but their great sorrow was losing its first bitterness. They were slowly coming back to their own. Ethel had long since resumed her social duties and pleasures, and although a year and a half had passed not even the slightest token had ever reached her to express Eugene Gordon’s sincerity or faithfulness. He had not so much as sent her a word of condolence at her father’s death; nor a Christmas wish; nor a “God bless you,” for the New Year that had now grown old and empty.

Often when Ethel Barton sat alone recalling those glorious spring days when Prof. Gordon had been near her, she would suddenly arise and walk out of doors as if to escape her thoughts.

“It is all over,” she would affirm to herself. “We are treading paths that will never meet. He will never come back. Oh, Eugene Gordon, why did you ever give me this false hope, to hang over me like a pall through all the years. Why did you not say good-bye and go away. Then I could have forgotten and grown into a helpful, happy woman. But what can I do, what can I be; with your name forever on my lips in prayer, your image forever in my heart? My course is in pursuit of a phantom. I am living in a dream that can never come true. My whole young being demands life and reality and action. My ambition is hungering for applause, my heart is starving for love, my inmost being is calling out for companionship. Yet I must sit alone, and listen for a voice and a footstep that I never hear; and watch for a face I never see; and wait for a hand that never touches mine; and pray for a soul that, mayhap, has forgotten the existence of a little Western girl, whom he met, and passed, and did not see again. Oh, Eugene Gordon, if you love me you must come back to me, now, now, today, this very hour.”

Sometimes, the lone call of a bird would be her answer; sometimes, her reply was the rustle of the corn; and once there was a footfall on the graveled walk: Willard Taylor had come to take her for a drive. After that there was often a foot fall on the graveled walk and the sound of wheels down the shaded lane. Sometimes Ethel’s face lit up with gladness, and her heart beat a little faster when his strong arm gave her assistance or protection. Gradually she came to look to him for advice and assistance in all her best plans. Eventually, she decided that she could trust her life’s work to his guardianship. Accordingly, the engage- ment had been announced. And now, her days were filled with plans and preparations for the great event. In the evenings, Willard called. And at night her dreams were rife with bridal gowns, and floral decorations and marriage ceremonies. Over and over again, she would assure herself, “It is all right, God understands it is all right.”

And she felt happy and satisfied, except, when a mad unrest would come upon her. At such times she would toss her sewing aside and walk rapidly out across the meadow and try to still the wild questioning of her heart. Once she dreamed of Eugene Gordon. His dark eyes looked deep into her own and she heard him say, “I have come back to you, little woman, I have found the way.” Then his hand touched hers and she awoke with a startled cry. The next day when she touched the filmy white creations she felt as if she were preparing burial clothes instead of wedding garments and she put them aside and went for a long ride with Willard. The sunshine and his earnest, sincere, tenderness made her forget her dream. Her heart went out to him in sincere affection. “He is clean, and honest, and generous, and good,” she whispered to herself. “I could trust him through any trial, under any temptation.”

And the next day the preparations were continued. Now, as Ethel sat speculating as to what caused her to be in such a restless, state of mind, her brother Ned called to her from the gate.

“There’s the mail, sis,” and he tossed a half dozen letters onto the lawn and rode on down to the barn.

Ethel gathered them up carefully and found that two of them were addressed to herself.

There was a plain white envelope addressed in a bold clear masculine hand, which she knew at a glance to be Williard’s. She tore it open hastily, apprehensive of some danger.

“Dearest Ethel,” it ran. “Walker has sent for me to come into town this afternoon. I leave in half an hour. Sorry I can’t see you first. I shall be back Thursday. Be good. Keep cheerful, and save me a kiss. Faithfully yours,

“Willard.”

The second letter was a long, lavender-scented envelope which Ethel was delighted to know come from Cecil Miller, who was attending school in the city, two counties distant. Her letter read:

“My Dear Ethel: Florence Lindsay’s letter has just reached me, telling of your approaching marriage. You madcap, why haven’t you told me yourself, long ago? I can forgive you, though, because I realize that engaged women are not wholly responsible for their business transactions. Their thoughts are topsy-turvey; and, too, they are usually very busily engaged with laces and linens, and dress-makers, and the calls of one certain gentleman.

“I’m awfully glad, Ethel dear, to know you are really preparing for the great event of your life. I hope you will be as happy as you deserve, and I feel sure that you will; for Willard certainly is a noble, generous, lovely fellow.

“I can hardly wait to see you and tell you how very happy I am in your joy. I shall be home for the linen shower Tuesday, at Florence’s.

“It is commencement week and you know what that means. So you will pardon this hasty note.

“Give Willard my heartiest congratulations and tell him I am wondering if he realizes what a lucky chap he is.

“With heaps of love and kisses to you, girlie,
I am,

“Sincerely and cordially yours,

“Cecil Miller.”

Ethel looked the letters over again, noting each return address.

“Not a word from Aunt Lucy, yet,” she said anxiously. “I do wonder if anything can be wrong. Today is Monday, the third of June. She should have been home before this. The twelfth is my wedding day,” she soliloquized. “Surely something must be wrong. I wonder if she is ill. If we do not hear from her by tomorrow, we shall have to wire her.”

Aunt Lucy had been away from home for more than a month.

She had gone to visit her sister in the small town of L— , not far from Omaha, expecting to return not later than the latter part of May, in order that she might assist with the preparations for Ethel’s marriage.

Again Ethel read Willard’s letter.

“He is so plain, and manly, and fine,” she said, as she slipped the letter into the bosom of her dress.

It was the afternoon following the linen shower that Ethel called at the dress-maker’s shop and brought ho^e her wedding gown. It was a beautiful creation of white satin. Her fingers trembled as she smoothed it out on her bed in her own little room. She touched it lovingly. “It hardly seems possible,” she whispered, “My wedding gown! Just one more week and I shall be Willard Taylor’s wife.” Something caught in her throat and she quickly stood erect and closed her lips firmly. “I shall be true to him,” she muttered, almost defiantly. And then a sudden desire came upon herself to see herself in her bridal robes. Quickly and deftly she loosened her hair and caught it up in a fluffy mass on too of her head. She robed herself in the beautiful wedding garments, even to the dainty white shoes. Then, laughing at her own pretty reflection in the little mirror, she completed the picture by gathering up a cluster of white lilacs and carelessly tucking them into her hair.

“Now, Willard Taylor’s bride,” she whispered, as if challenging her own heart to deny it, “now I must see you in all your beauty.”

Thinking herself alone in the house she slipped quietly into the front room, in order that she might look into the long mirror and view herself from head to toe. She smiled at the pretty picture before her.

“You will, do,” she breathed, happily. And then she clasped her hands and turned white to the lips and stood transfixed, unable to move or utter a sound. A figure had passed the window. A hand was pressing the bell on the front door. Then to her complete astonishment and horror she heard Ned’s shrill voice call out from the dining room, “Come in!”

The door was opened softly and she stood face to face with Eugene Gordon!

“Ethel!”

“Eugene — Prof. Gordon,” the white lips gasped.

For a moment there was silence. Then Prof. Gordon came a little nearer. “Little woman,” said the low, sweet familiar voice. “I had come back to tell you that I had found the way and that henceforward we would tread the same path. But I am too late.” He paused. His voice was full of pain. “You were right,” he added, a moment later, “our paths will never meet. But I want to thank you,” he said, “for all that you have been to me in the years that we have been apart. You have made me a better man. You have helped me to find God.”

Again there was silence. He glanced at her gown questioningly.

“I did not know,” he began. And then he added, “I reached town only half an hour ago and came directly here.”

There was an awkward pause.

“God bless you,” he said, hoarsely. “I know you could not be untrue to your own heart. So it is all right. It must be all right, only — I did not know.”

He turned to go.

“Good-bye,” was all he said.

“Good-bye,” Ethel’s white lips repeated.

And he was gone.

The clock struck one. It was an hour past midnight. Ethel Barton arose from her chair with a start.

“It is the only way. God has shown me the way and now I shall have to do my part. This is one of the lessons of life that we have to meet alone; and it cannot be met in a half-hearted way. Dear God, help me to be true to my conscience and to thee.”

Her countenance and every move bore the stamp of determination as she began the difficult task that lay before her.

“It is late,” he soliloquized, “but it must be done tonight. In the light of day, when others are near about me, my heart may falter in its righteous purposes. Yes, it must be begun tonight.” So saying she emptied a large chest of its contents. Then, lining it with white paper, she began to stow away the heaps of snowy linen and fine embroidered pieces of clothing and household articles, with which she had been employed for many weeks past. Her hands trembled a little as she touched some of the dainty white pieces. Her face was drawn and white as she carefully folded and pressed into place, the last article — her wedding gown.

She turned the key in the lock.

It was begun. The hardest part was not yet accomplished. Tomorrow night Willard Taylor would come back. She would have to tell him all that was in her heart. She would have to tell him that she could not be his wife. It would be hard to tell him. But there was no other way. She must be true to her own heart. In a few days Willard would be far away laboring as a missionary. They had planned it so. His good work would help him to forget. But what would she do? Suppose Eugene Gordon did not come again to claim her. Even if he came she was not quite sure that she could love him as she did before he went away. The future was full of foreboding. Let come what may, her course was decided. She had been to the Lord in prayer and she would abide by her answer. No circumstance would intervene to save her. She would have to meet her lesson without fear and alone.

When Willard Taylor returned Thursday evening he was greeted, not by the smiling, cheerful girl he was accustomed to meeting in the little front room at Barton’s, but by a grave, white-faced woman. His little Ethel looked pale, and sad, and old.

“What has happened, Ethel?” were his first words to her, as he searched her face with his eyes.

“He has come — back,” was her simple reply.

“You mean?” he questioned and paused.

“I mean that Prof. Eugene Gordon came to see me yesterday,” she answered, frankly.

“And you mean to tell me, Ethel, dear, that his call has changed my cheerful, happy litte sweetheart into a sad, white-faced woman? What am I to understand by this, dear? Tell me everything.”

“I shall be honest with you, Willard,” she said, looking straight into his face. “In all my life, I have never deceived you, and I hope I shall always be worthy of the faith and confidence you have placed in me. The whole truth is this, Willard, I have looked into my own heart and I have seen things that I did not know were there. I called at Mrs. Tracey’s today and brought my wedding dress home. After I had looked it over I was seized with a foolish desire to try it on again. I stepped into the front room that I might see the gown to advantage in that long mirror. As I stood looking into the mirror some one rang the door bell and before I could speak or leave the room Ned called ‘come in’ from the dining room and Prof. Gordon opened the door. You can imagine my feelings. I can’t express them. Neither of us asked any questions nor made any explanations. He intimated that he had been converted to our faith, and that he had come to claim me. It was self-evident that he was too late. It was all very strange. He did not sit down. He did not so much as touch my hand. He simply looked at me, or my dress; he said a few broken sentences; and then he went away. All I remember of his saying was that he knew I could not be untrue to my own heart. Those words somehow tore the veil from before my eyes and I could see into my own heart, and I knew that I was living a lie. Whether or not my former regard for Prof. Gordon was an infatuation, I cannot say. But I do know that I can never go before the altar of God and take a vow of eternal fidelity to any man, unless that vow is an echo of my own heart. I think it is blasphemous for a woman to assume an eternal obligation wherein she betrays her own heart. If we are true to ourselves, we cannot be untrue to God or man.”

“You are right,” he said, in a husky voice, “not for my life’s happiness would I have you perjure yourself before God or man. But I can’t understand how your heart can be so full of doubts and fears when my own is so sure and so calm.”

“Why, Ethel,” he concluded, as if it were the end of the argument, “I have loved you since you were a child of ten.”

She did not reply. She was thinking of the night when she stood in the light of the harvest moon and was thrilled by the touch of an awkward young man who had kissed her hands.

As she unconsciously compared that youth of a few years ago with the strong, fine specimen of manhood who now stood before her, she mentally admitted that he had made good, he had developed into the fullness of the ideal she had created for him in her heart. By God’s help and his strength of manhood, he had finished his four years’ course of study at school and he had kept clean.

At last she said, “I know you can’t understand my feelings. I can scarcely understand them myself. No man has ever fulfilled my ideal of manhood more completely than you have. I could trust you in any emergency — but — well — I’m afraid I do not love you with the right sort of love.”

“I understand,” he said quietly. Then after a pause he remarked, abruptly, “Say, Ethel, girl, I want you to make me a promise. I shall leave in a few days, and shall, in all probability, not see you again for two years. In the meantime, other men may be near you, may try to win you. They will offer you favors and courtesies that it will be impossible for me to extend. But I love you, little girl, I’ve been loving you all through the years; and I can’t give you up without a struggle. I want you to make me a promise.”

“Any promise I can make, honestly, I shall be glad to give,” she said.

“It is this,” he placed his hands gently on her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes: “Whatever grave occasion may arise. Whatever it may cost you, promise me this, that you will be true to yourself and God.”

“Yes, Willard. Whatever the occasion or the cost may be, I shall be true to myself and God.”

“That is all. I am willing to leave my destiny in his hands. He will do the thing that is for your good and happiness. And now, my girl, let us find out what you are going to do.”

“First, you must tell me that you forgive me. For the sake of the past, for the sake of all we have been to each other, I want you to trust me and still be my friend.”

“I have nothing to forgive,” he smiled. “You are simply living up to the promise you have just made — to be true to yourself. Besides, I haven’t given you up, yet. You still belong to me,

“‘Forever mine, my love,
From June to Life’s December,
Not mine, to have or hold,
But to pray for and remember.'”

When she did not reply, he asked, “and now, little girl, what are you going to do?”

“First, I shall go to Aunt Lucy. We received a message just before you came, saying she is very ill. As soon as she is able to travel I shall bring her home. After that, I do not know what I shall do. There is no reason why I should not remain here in my own home and take care of Aunt Lucy. Now that she is ill, she will need my help.”

“It is the best thing you can do. When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“I shall take you to the station,” he said, “but I shall say my farewell, tonight. You must wire us as soon as you reach L—, as to your Aunt’s condition. Is there any one going with you?”

“Ned was telling me this evening that Dr. Howard leaves for Omaha, tomorrow. So I shall have company all the way.”

There was a pause.

“Well,” he remarked, at last, “I believe there is nothing more to say, except good-night and good-bye.”

“And God bless you,” she added.

He quoted:

“‘May God’s exceeding care enfold you,
Until his tender hand
Shall guide you safely home, at last,
To love’s own land.”

“Amen!” she said, reverently. “And thank you — and peace be with you.”

“Good-night,” he said.

“Good-night.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

He stooped and kissed her.

With a great effort she controlled herself until his step died away in the soft grass.

Then she laid her head on her arms and sobbed softly.

Maybe he was going out of her life, forever!

Ethel found her step-mother very ill, indeed. And through the long days that followed she kept up untiring vigilance and unwavering faith. A prayer was always in her heart and often on her lips. Now that the test had come, she clung to her Aunt Lucy, in agony of spirit, as intensely as when she had hovered over her father’s bed during his last illness.

(To be continued)