Ethelyn's Mistake

"She nursed me carefully and tried to be kind, but I could see that my

being there was a great annoyance to her. Her husband had an aunt--a

rich, eccentric old lady--who came sometimes to see me, and seemed

interested in me. Forgive me, auntie, if it was wrong. I dropped the

name of Markham and took yours, asking Abby to call me simply Miss

Bigelow to her friends. Her husband knew my real name, but to all others

I was Adelaide Bigelow. Old Mrs. Plum did not know I was married, for

Abby was as anxious to keep the secret as I was myself. She was going

abroad, the rich aunt, and being a nervous invalid, she wanted some

young, handy person as traveling companion. So when I was better Abby

asked if I was still resolved not to go home, and on learning that I

was, she spoke of Mrs. Plum, and asked if I would go. I caught at it

eagerly, and in May I was sailing over the sea to France. I wrote a few

lines to Andy before I went, and I wanted to write to you, but I fancied

you must be vexed and mortified, and I would not trouble you.

"Mrs. Plum was very nervous, and capricious, and exacting, and my life

with her was not altogether an easy one. At first, before we were

accustomed to each other, it was terrible. I suppose I have a high

temper. She thought so, and yet she could not do without me, for she was

lame in her arms, and unable to help herself readily; besides that, I

spoke the French language well enough to make myself understood, and so

was necessary to her. There were many excellent traits of character

about her, and after a time I liked her very much, while she seemed to

think of me as a willful but rather 'nicish' kind of a daughter. She

took me everywhere, even into Russia and Palestine; but the last two

years of our stay abroad were spent in Southern France, where the days

were one long bright summer dream, and I should have been so happy if

the past had been forgotten."

"And did you hear nothing from us in all that time?" Aunt Barbara asked,

and Ethelyn replied: "Nothing from Richard, no; and nothing direct from

you. I requested as a favor that Mrs. Plum should order the Boston

_Traveller_ and Springfield _Republican_ to be sent to her address in

Paris, which we made our headquarters. I knew you took both these

papers, and if anything happened to you, it would appear in their

columns. I saw the death of Col. Markham, and after that I used to grow

so faint and cold, for fear I might find yours. I came across a New York

paper, too, and saw that Aunt Van Buren had arrived at the Fifth Avenue

Hotel, knowing then that she was just as gay as ever. Richard's name I

never saw; neither did Abby know anything about him.. I called at her

house yesterday. She has seven children now--five born since I went

away--and her women's rights have given place to theories with regard to

soothing syrups and baby-jumpers, and the best means of keeping one

child quiet while she dresses the other. Mrs. Plum died six weeks

ago--died in Paris; and, auntie, I was kind to her in her last sickness,

bearing everything, and finding my reward in her deep gratitude,

expressed not only in words, but in a most tangible form. She made her

will, and left me ten thousand dollars. So you see I am not poor nor

dependent. I told her my story, too--told her the whole as it was; and

she made me promise to come back, to you at least, if not to Richard.

Going to him would depend upon whether he wanted me, I said. Do you

think he has forgotten me?"