Even Abigail Jones, the shoemaker's daughter, faded into insignificance
before this indignity, and it was long before Ethelyn could recover her
composure or her pulse resume its regular beat. She was in no haste to
see him; but such is the inconsistency of perverse girlhood that,
because he delayed his coming, she felt annoyed and piqued, and was half
tempted to have a headache and go to bed, and so not see him at all. But
he was coming at last, linen coat and all; and Susie Graham, who had
stopped for a moment by the gate to speak with Ethelyn, pronounced him
"a magnificent-looking fellow," and said to Ethelyn, "I should think you
would feel so proud."
Susie did not observe the linen coat, or if she had, she most likely
thought it a very sensible arrangement for a day when the thermometer
stood no degrees in the shade; but Susie was not Boston finished. She
had been educated at Mount Holyoke, which made a difference, Ethelyn
thought. Still, Susie's comment did much towards reconciling her to the
linen coat; and, as Richard Markham came up the street, she did feel a
thrill of pride and even pleasure, for he had a splendid figure and
carried himself like a prince, while his fine face beamed all over with
that joyous, happy expression which comes only from a kind, true heart,
as he drew near the house and his eye caught the flutter of a white robe
through the open door. Ethelyn was very pretty in her cool, cambric
dress, with a bunch of sweet English violets in her hair; and at sight
of her the man usually so grave and quiet, and undemonstrative with
those of the opposite sex, felt all his reserve give way, and there was
a world of tenderness in his voice and a misty look in his eye, as he
bent over her, giving her the second kiss he had ever given to her, and
asking, "How is my darling to-night?"
She did not take his arm from her neck this time--he had a right to keep
it there--and she suffered the caress, feeling no greater inconvenience
than that his big hand was very warm and pressed a little too hard
sometimes upon her shoulders. He spoke to her of the errand on which he
had come, and the great, warm hand pressed more heavily as he said, "It
seems to me all a dream that in a few days you will be my own Ethie, my
wife, from whom I need not be parted"; and then he spoke of his mother
and his three brothers, James, and John, and Anderson, or Andy, as he
was called. Each of these had sent kindly messages to Richard's
bride--the mother saying she should be glad to have a daughter in her
home, and the three brothers promising to love their new sister so much
as to make "old Dick" jealous, if possible.