Richard had no idea that Ethelyn cared in the least for Harry Clifford;
he knew she did not, though she sometimes singled him out as one whose
manners in society her husband would do well to imitate. Of the two
young men, Harry Clifford and Frank Van Buren, who had been suggested to
him as copies, Richard preferred the former, and wished he could feel as
easy with regard to Frank as he was with regard to Harry. He had never
forgotten that fragment of conversation overheard in Washington, and as
time went on it haunted him more and more. He had given up expecting any
confession from Ethelyn, though at first he was constantly expecting it,
and laying little snares by way of hints and reminders; but Ethelyn had
evidently changed her mind, and if there was a past which Richard ought
to have known, he would now probably remain in ignorance of it, unless
some chance revealed it. It would have been far better if Richard had
tried to banish all thoughts of Frank Van Buren from his mind and taken
Ethelyn as he found her; but Richard was a man, and so, manlike, he
hugged the skeleton which he in part had dragged into his home, and
petted it, and kept it constantly in sight, instead of thrusting it out
from the chamber of his heart, and barring the door against it. Frank's
name was never mentioned between them, but Richard fancied that always
after the receipt of Mrs. Dr. Van Buren's letters Ethelyn was a little
sad, and more disposed to find fault with him, and he sometimes wished
Mrs. Dr. Van Buren might never write to them again. There was one of her
letters awaiting Ethelyn after her return from Minnesota, and she read
it standing under the chandelier, with Richard lying upon the couch near
by, watching her curiously. There was something in the letter which
disturbed her evidently, for her face flushed, and her lips shut firmly
together, as they usually did when she was agitated. Richard already
read Aunt Barbara's letters, and heretofore he had been welcome to Mrs.
Van Buren's, a privilege of which he seldom availed himself, for he
found nothing interesting in her talk of parties, and operas and
fashions, and the last new color of dress goods, and style of
wearing the hair.
"It was too much twaddle for him," he had said in reply to Ethelyn's
questions as to whether he would like to see what Aunt Van Buren
had written.
Now, however, she did not offer to show him the letter, but crumpled it
nervously in her pocket, and going to her piano, began to play
dashingly, rapidly, as was her custom when excited. She did not know
that Richard was listening to her, much less watching her, as he lay in
the shadow, wondering what that letter contained, and wishing so much
that he knew. Ethelyn was tired that night, and after the first heat of
her excitement had been thrown off in a spirited schottische, she closed
her piano, and coming to the couch where Richard was lying, sat down by
his side, and after waiting a moment in silence, asked "of what he was
thinking."