His Second Wife | Page 2

of her view--and so

it was with her memories. It was hard to keep hold of any one.
She had lived with her father, a lonely old man in a small, quiet town in
Ohio, down in the lower part of the State. He was dead, and she was
going to live with her married sister in New York. He was dead and his
daughter was not sad, though she'd been his only close companion and
had loved him tenderly. And this brought a guilty feeling now, which
she fought down by telling herself there had been little sadness in his
death. She pictured her father making his speech at the unveiling of the
Monument. How happy and proud he had appeared. For half his life old
Colonel Knight had exhorted his fellow townsmen and painted dark the
shame of their town: "The only county seat in Ohio with no soldiers'
monument, sir!" He had held countless meetings, he had gone begging
to his neighbours, and every dollar he himself could save had gone into
that dream of his. At last he had triumphed; and after all the excitement
of his final victory, the old soldier had made his speech, and died.
Around him and the monument and the old frame house on River Street,
the lazy, shallow river, the high school near the court house, Demley's
Tavern across the square, the line of shops on either side, the new
"movie" theatre of pink tile, and the old yellow church on the
corner--the pictures of her life trooped by, the pictures of her last few
years--with the miracle, the discovery that she herself, Ethel Knight,
who had always been considered "plain," was slowly now developing
into a beautiful woman. That brought memories which thrilled--various
faces of men, young and old, looks and glances, words overheard, and
countless small attentions. But these came in mere fragments, rising
only to be whirled back again into the past, as the train sped on toward
the city.
She was going to live in New York with her married sister, Amy Lanier.
And from looking out of the car window, Ethel would turn quickly,
throw a swift glance at her sister and smile. Amy seemed quite
wonderful--Amy with her elegance, her worldly assurance, her smiling
good-humour and knowledge of "life," her apparent content, her sense
of well being, of being a joy to look at and love; Amy who had an
adoring husband, Amy who spent money like water, Amy with dash

and beauty and style.
"New York just fairly shimmering in everything she wears!" thought
Ethel.
Amy's sable cloak was long. She had worn it at the funeral, with a
black skirt and a heavy veil. But the veil she had put into her bag as
soon as they had left the town, and the cloak thrown back revealed rich
colours, the glitter and glint of a diamond brooch; and she wore a small
blue feathered hat which threw out changing colours in the play of light
in the car. There was to be no more mourning. Amy didn't believe in
that; she was good-humouredly arguing her young sister out of it. And
Ethel, smiling back at her, saw how sensible it was. She felt death and
sadness slipping away, and the life in the city opening.
Since Amy's marriage five years ago, Ethel had only seen her
twice--once when Amy had come home, appearing resplendent with
Joe her husband in a large new touring car, and had sent a wave of
excitement through the quiet little town; and again when she had asked
Ethel to visit her for a week in New York. That had been a glamourous
week, but it had not been repeated. For nearly three years they had not
met. In that time had come the change in Ethel's own appearance. And
glancing now at Amy, she read in those clear, smiling eyes that Amy
was relieved and pleased and surprised at the striking beauty which had
come to her young sister. There was even a tone of expectancy in
Amy's talk of their life in New York.
"She thinks I'll get on finely!" This exciting thought kept rising
repeatedly in Ethel's mind. And with it came the sturdy resolve, "I
mustn't be too humble now, or too dependent on her. I must show her
I'm somebody all by myself--that I won't be a burden on her hands. I've
got to make a life of my own--find work perhaps--or marry!"
Then all such resolutions would merge in the images vivid and new,
which kept rising in her mind, of the life she would have in the city.
She had a good voice. Old Mr. Riggs, the organist in the yellow church
at home, had planted that idea deep in her mind. If