Ethelyn's Mistake

Richard had been sick for a week or more. As is frequently the case, the

baths did not agree with him at first, and Mrs. Pry reported to Ethelyn

that the governor was confined to his bed, and saw no one but the doctor

and nurses, not even "that bold Miss Owens, who had actually sent to

Geneva for a bouquet, which she sent to his room with her compliments."

This Mrs. Pry knew to be a fact, and the highly scandalized woman

repeated the story to Ethelyn, who scarcely heard what she was saying

for the many turbulent emotions swelling at her heart. That Richard

should be sick so near to her, his wife--that other hands than hers

should tend his pillow and minister to his wants--seemed not as it

should be; and when she recalled the love and tender care which had been

so manifest that time when he came home from Washington and found her so

very ill, the wish grew strong within her to do something for him. But

what to do--that was the perplexing question. She dared not go openly to

him, until assured that she was wanted; and so there was nothing left

but to imitate Miss Owens and adorn his room with flowers. Surely she

had a right to do so much, and still her cheek crimsoned like some young

girl's as she gathered together the choicest flowers the little town

afforded, and arranging them into a most tasteful bouquet, sent them in

to Richard, vaguely hoping that at least in the cluster of double pinks,

which had been Richard's favorite, there might be hidden some mesmeric

power or psychological influence which should speak to the sick man of

the wayward Ethie who had troubled him so much.

Richard was sitting up in bed when Mary brought the bouquet, saying,

Miss Bigelow sent it, thinking it might cheer him a bit. Should she put

it in the tumbler near Miss Owens'?

Miss Owens had sent a pretty vase with hers, but Ethie's was simply tied

with a bit of ribbon she had worn about her neck. And Richard took it

in his hand, an exclamation escaping him as he saw and smelled the

fragrant pinks, whose perfume carried him first to Olney and Andy's

weedy beds in the front yard, and then to Chicopee, where in Aunt

Barbara's pretty garden, a large plant of them had been growing when he

went after his bride. A high wind had blown them down upon the walk, and

he had come upon Ethie one day trying to tie them up. He had plucked a

few, he remembered, telling Ethie they were his favorites for perfume,

while the red peony was his favorite for beauty. There had been a

comical gleam in her brown eyes which he now knew was born of contempt

for his taste with regard to flowers. Red peonies were not the rarest of

blossoms--Melinda had taught him that when he suggested having them in

his conservatory; but surely no one could object to these waxen,

feathery pinks, whose odor was so delicious. Miss Bigelow liked them,

else she had never sent them to him. And he kept the bouquet in his

hand, admiring its arrangement, inhaling the sweet perfume of the

delicate pinks and heliotrope, and speculating upon the kind of person

Miss Bigelow must be to have thought so much of him. He could account

for Miss Owens' gift--the hot-house blossoms, which had not moved him

one-half so much as did this bunch of pinks. She had known him

before--had met him in Washington; he had been polite to her on one or

two occasions, and it was natural that she should wish to be civil, at

least while he was sick. But the lady in No. 101--the Miss Bigelow for

whom he had discarded his boots and trodden on tiptoe half the time

since his arrival--why she should care for him he could not guess; and

finally deciding that it was a part of Clifton, where everybody was so

kind, he put the bouquet in the tumbler Mary had brought and placed it

on the stand beside him. He was very restless that night, and Ethie

heard the watchman at his door twice asking if he wanted anything.