Married people -- Fiction; United States -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
It was more than an hour before even Aunt Barbara ventured into the
room, and when she did she knew by the joy written on Richard's face and
the deep peace shining in Ethie's eyes that the reconciliation had been
complete and perfect. Every error had been confessed, every fault
forgiven, and the husband and wife stood ready now to begin the world
anew, with perfect love for and confidence in each other. Ethie had
acknowledged all her faults, the greatest of which was the giving her
hand to one from whom she withheld her heart.
"But you have that now," she said. "I can truly say that I love you far
betten than ever frank Van Buren was loved, and I know you to be worthy,
too. I have been so wicked, Richard,--so wilful and impatient,--that I
wonder you have not learned to hate my very name. I may be wilful still.
My old hot temper is not all subdued, though I hope I am a better woman
than I used to be when I cared for nothing but myself. God has been so
good to me who have forgotten Him so long; but we will serve Him
together now."
As Ethie talked she had nestled closer and closer to her husband, whose
arms encircled her form and whose face bent itself down to hers, while a
rain of tears fell upon her hair and forehead as the strong man,--the
grave Judge and the honored Governor,--confessed where he, too, had been
in fault, and craving his young wife's pardon, ascribed also to God the
praise for bringing them both to feel their dependence on Him, as well
as to see this day, the happiest of their lives.
Gradually, as she could bear it, the family came in one by one to see
her, Mrs. Markham, Sen., waiting till the very last, and refusing to go
until Ethelyn had expressed a wish to see her.
"I was pretty hard on her, I s'pose, and it would not be strange if she
laid it up against me," she said to Melinda; but Ethie had nothing
against her now.
The deep waters through which she had passed had obliterated all traces
of bitterness toward anyone, and when her mother-in-law came in she
feebly extended her hand and whispered: "I'm too tired, mother, to talk
much, but kiss me once for the sake of what we are going to be to
each other."
Mrs. Markham was not naturally a bad or a hard woman, either. She was
only unfortunate that her ideas had run in one rut so long without any
jolt to throw them out. Circumstances had greatly softened her, and
Ethie's words touched her deeply.
"I was mighty mean to you sometimes, Ethelyn, and I've been sorry for
it," she said, as she stooped to kiss her daughter-in-law, and then
hurried from the room, "Only to think, she called me mother," she said
to Melinda, to whom she reported the particulars of her interview with
Ethelyn--"me, who had been meaner than dirt to her--called me mother,
when I used to mistrust her she didn't think any more of me than if I'd
been an old squaw. I shan't forget it right away."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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