"Oh, Richard! Richard!" she murmured, with her hands pressed tightly
over her lips, so as to smother all sound, "I felt so sure of your love.
You were so different from me. I am punished more than I can bear."
If she had never known before, Ethie knew now, how much she really loved
her husband, and how the hope of eventually returning to him had been
the day-star of her life. Had she heard that he was lying dead in the
next room, she would have gone to him at once, and claiming him as hers,
would have found some comfort in weeping sadly over him, and kissing his
cold lips, but now it did indeed seem more than she could bear. She did
not doubt the story of the divorce, or greatly disbelieve in the other
wife. It was natural that many should seek to win his love now that he
had risen so high, and she supposed it was natural that he should wish
for another companion. Perhaps he believed her dead, and Ethie's heart
gave one great throb of joy as she thought of going in to him, and by
her bodily presence contradict that belief, and possibly win him from
his purpose. But Ethie was too proud for that, and her next feeling was
one of exultation that she had not permitted Aunt Barbara to write, or
herself taken any measures for communicating with him. He should never
know how near she had been to him, or guess ever so remotely of the
anguish she was enduring, as, only a few feet removed from him, she
suffered, in part, all the pain and sorrow she had brought upon him.
Then, as she remembered the new house fitted for the bride, she said: "I must see that house. I must know just what is in store for my rival.
No one knows me in Davenport. Richard is not at home, and there is no
chance for my being recognized."
With this decision came a vague feeling akin to hope that possibly the
story was false--that after all there was no rival, no divorce. At all
events, she should know for a certainty by going to Davenport; and with
every nerve stretched to its utmost tension, Ethie arose from her bed
and packed her trunk quietly and quickly, and then going to the office,
surprised the clerk with the announcement that she wished to leave on
the ten-o'clock train. She had received news which made her going so
suddenly imperative, she said to him, and to the physician, whom she
called upon next, and whose strong arguments against her leaving that
night almost overcame her. But Ethie's will conquered at last, and when
the train from the East came in she stood upon the platform at the
station, her white face closely veiled, and her heart throbbing with the
vague doubts which began to assail her as to whether she were really
doing a wise and prudent thing in going out alone and unprotected to the
home she had no right to enter, and where she was not wanted.