Family Pride Or Purified by Suffering Part 18

"I beg pardon for this a.s.sault upon you," the stranger said; and then, turning to the boy, he continued: "It's all right, you need not wait."

With a chirrup and a blow the horse started forward, and the mud-bespattered vehicle was rapidly moving down the road ere Helen had recovered her surprise at recognizing Mark Ray, who shook the raindrops from his hair, and offering her his hand said in reply to her involuntary exclamation: "I thought it was Katy." "Shall I infer, then, that I am the less welcome?" and his bright, saucy eyes looked laughingly into hers. "Business had brought him to Southbridge," he said, "and it was his intention to take the cars that afternoon for New York, but having been detained longer than he expected, and not liking the looks of the hotel arrangements, he had decided to presume upon his acquaintance with Dr. Grant and spend the night at Linwood. But," and again his eyes looked straight at Helen, "it rained so hard and the light from your window was so inviting that I ventured to stop, so here I am, claiming your hospitality until morning, if convenient; if not, I will find my way to Linwood."

There was something in this pleasant familiarity which won Uncle Ephraim at once, and he bade the young man stay, as did Aunt Hannah and Mrs.

Lennox, who now for the first time were presented to Mark Ray. Always capable of adapting himself to the circ.u.mstances around him, Mark did so now with so much ease and courteousness as to astonish Helen, and partly thaw the reserve she had a.s.sumed when she found the visitor was from the hated city.

"Are you expecting Mrs. Cameron?" he asked, adding as Helen explained that she was coming to-morrow: "That is strange. Wilford wrote decidedly that he should be in New York to-morrow. Possibly, though, he does not intend himself to stop."

"I presume not," Helen replied, a weight suddenly lifting from her heart at the prospect of not having to entertain the formidable brother-in-law who, if he stayed long, would spoil all her pleasure.

Thus at her ease on this point, she grew more talkative, half wis.h.i.+ng that her dress was not a s.h.i.+lling calico, or her hair combed back quite so straight, giving her that severe look which Morris had said was unbecoming. It was very smooth and glossy, and even Sybil Grandon would have given her best diamond to have had in her own natural right the long heavy coil of hair bound so many times around the back of Helen's head, ornamented with neither ribbon, comb, nor bow--only a single geranium leaf, with a white and scarlet blossom, was fastened just below the ear, and on the side where Mark could see it best, admiring its effect and forgetting the arrangement of the hair in his admiration of the well-shaped head, bending so industriously over the work which Helen had resumed--not crocheting, nor yet embroidery, but the very homely work of darning Uncle Ephraim's socks, a task which Helen always did, and on that particular night. Helen knew it was not delicate employment and there was a moment's hesitancy as she wondered what Mark would think--then with a grim delight in letting him see that she did not care, she resumed her darning needle, and as a kind of penance of the flash of pride in which she had indulged, selected from the basket the very coa.r.s.est, ugliest sock she could find, stretching out the huge fracture at the heel to its utmost extent, and attacking it with a right good will, while Mark, with a comical look on his face, sat watching her. She knew he was looking at her, and her cheeks were growing very red, while her hatred of him was increasing, when he said, abruptly: "You follow my mother's custom, I see. She used to mend my socks on Tuesday nights."

"Your mother mend socks!" and Helen started so suddenly as to run the point of her darning needle a long way into her thumb, the wound bringing a stream of blood which she tried to wipe away with her handkerchief.

"Bind it tightly around. Let me show you, please," Mark said, and ere she was aware of what she was doing Helen was quietly permitting the young man to wind her handkerchief around her thumb which he held in his hand, pressing it until the blood ceased flowing, and the sharp pain had abated.

Perhaps Mark Ray liked holding that small, warm hand, even though it were not as white and soft as Juno's; at all events he did hold it until Helen drew it from him with a quick, sudden motion, telling him it would now do very well, and she would not trouble him. Mark did not look as if he had been troubled, but went back to his seat and took up the conversation just where the needle had stopped it.

"My mother did not always mend herself, but she caused it to be done, and sometimes helped. I remember she used to say a woman should know how to do everything pertaining to a household, and she carried out her theory in the education of my sister."

"Have you a sister?" Helen asked, now really interested, and listening intently while Mark told her of his only sister, Julia, now Mrs. Ernst, whose home was in New Orleans, though she at present was in Paris, and his mother was there with her. "After Julia's marriage, nine years ago, mother went to live with her," he said, "but latterly, as the little Ernsts increase so fast, she wishes for a more quiet home, and this winter she is coming to New York to keep house for me."

Helen thought she might like Mark's mother, who, he told her, had been twice married, and was now Mrs. Banker, and a widow. She must be different from Mrs. Cameron; and Helen let herself down to another degree of toleration for the man whose mother taught her daughter to mend the family socks. Still there was about her a chilling reserve, which Mark wondered at, for it was not thus that ladies were accustomed to receive his advances. He did not guess that Wilford Cameron stood between him and Helen's good opinion; but when, after the family came in, the conversation turned upon Katy and her life in New York, the secret came out in the sharp, caustic mariner with which she spoke of New York and its people.

"It's Will and the Camerons," Mark thought, blaming Helen less than he would have done, if he, too, had not known something of the Cameron pride.

It was a novel position in which Mark found himself that night; an inmate of a humble farmhouse, where he could almost touch the ceiling with his hand, and where his surroundings were so different from what he had been accustomed to; but, unlike Wilford Cameron, he did not wish himself away, nor feel indignant at Aunt Betsy's odd, old-fas.h.i.+oned ways, or Uncle Ephraim's grammar. He noticed Aunt Betsy's oddities, it is true, and noticed Uncle Ephraim's grammar, too; but the sight of Helen sitting there, with so much dignity and self-respect, made him look beyond all else, straight into her open face and clear brown eyes, where there was nothing obnoxious or distasteful. Her grammar was correct, her manner, saving a little stiffness, ladylike and refined; and Mark rather enjoyed his situation as self-invited guest, making himself so agreeable that Uncle Ephraim forgot his hour of retiring, nor discovered his mistake until, with a loud yawn, Aunt Betsy told him that it was half-past nine, and she was "desput sleepy."

Owing to Helen's influence there had been a change of the olden customs, and instead of the long chapter, through which Uncle Ephraim used to plod so wearily, there was now read the Evening Psalms, Aunt Betsy herself joining in the reading, which she mentally cla.s.sed with the "quirks," but confessed to herself that it "was most as good as the Bible."

As there were only Prayer Books enough for the family, Helen, in distributing them, purposely pa.s.sed Mark by, thinking he might not care to join them. But he did, and when the verse came around to Helen he quickly drew his chair near to hers, and taking one side of her book, performed his part, while Helen's face grew red as the blossoms in her hair, and her hand so near to Mark's trembled visibly.

"A right nice chap, and not an atom stuck up," was Aunt Betsy's mental comment, and then, as he often will do, Satan followed the saintly woman even to her knees, making her wonder if "Mr. Ray hadn't some notion after Helen." She hoped not, for she meant that Morris should have Helen, "though if 'twas to be it was, and she should not go agin' it;"

and while Aunt Betsy thus settled the case, Uncle Ephraim's prayer ended, and the conscience-smitten woman arose from her knees with the conviction that "the evil one had got the better of her once," mentally asking pardon for her wandering thoughts, and promising to do better.

Mark was in no haste to retire, and when Uncle Ephraim offered to conduct him to his room, he frankly answered that he was not sleepy, adding, as he turned to Helen: "Please let me stay until Miss Lennox finishes her socks. There are several pairs yet undarned. I will not detain you, though," he continued, bowing to Uncle Ephraim, who, a little uncertain what to do, finally departed, as did Aunt Hannah and his sister, leaving Helen and her mother to entertain Mark Ray. It had been Mrs. Lennox's first intention to retire also, but a look from Helen detained her, and she sat down by that basket of socks, while Mark wished her away. Still it was proper for her to remain, he knew, and he respected Helen for keeping her, as he knew she did. A while they talked of Katy and New York, Mark laboring to convince Helen that its people were not all heartless and fickle, and at last citing his mother as an instance.

"You would like mother, Miss Lennox. I hope you will know her some time," he said, and then they talked of books, Helen forgetting that Mark was city bred in the interest with which she listened to him, while Mark forgot that the girl who appreciated and understood his views almost before they were expressed was country born, and sitting there before him clad in homely garb, with no ornaments save those of her fine mind and the sparkling face turned so fully toward him.

"Mark Ray is not like Wilford Cameron," Helen said to herself, when as the clock was striking eleven she bade him good-night and went up to her room. "But of course in his heart he feels above us all," and opening her window she leaned her hot cheek against the wet cas.e.m.e.nt, and looked out upon the night, now so beautiful and clear, for the rain was over, and up in the heavens the bright stars were s.h.i.+ning, each one bearing some resemblance to Mark's eyes as they kindled and grew bright with his excitement, resting always kindly on her--on Helen, who, leaning thus from the window, felt stealing over her that feeling which, once born, can never be quite forgotten.

Helen did not recognize the feeling, for it was a strange one to her.

She was only conscious of a sensation half pleasurable, half sad, of which Mark Ray had been the cause, and which she tried in vain to put aside, wondering what he thought of them all, and if he did not secretly despise them even while making himself so familiar. And then there swept over her a feeling of desolation such as she had never experienced before, a shrinking from living all her life in Silverton, as she fully expected to do, and laying her head upon the little stand, she cried pa.s.sionately.

"This is weak, this is folly," she suddenly exclaimed, as she became conscious of acting as Helen Lennox was not wont to act, and with a strong effort of the will she dried her tears and crept quietly to bed just as Mark was falling into his first sleep, and dreaming of smothering.

Helen would not have acknowledged it, and yet it was a truth not to be denied, that she stayed next morning a much longer time than usual before her gla.s.s, arranging her hair, which was worn more becomingly than on the previous night, softening the somewhat too intellectual expression of her face, and making her seem more womanly and modest.

Once she thought to wear the light buff gown in which she looked so well, but the thought was repudiated as soon as formed, and donning the same dark calico she would have worn if Mark had not been there, she finished her simple toilet and went downstairs, just as Mark came in at the side door, his hands full of water lilies and his boots bearing marks of what he had been through to get them.

"Early country air is healthful," he said, "and as I do not often have a chance to try it I thought I would improve the present opportunity! So I have been down by the pond, and spying these lilies I persevered until I reached them, in spite of mud and mire. There is no blossom I like so well. Were I a young girl I would always wear one in my hair, just as your sister did one night at Newport, and I never saw her look better.

Just let me try the effect on you;" and selecting a half-opened bud, Mark placed it among Helen's braids as if hairdressing were one of his accomplishments. "The effect is good," he continued, turning her blus.h.i.+ng face to the gla.s.s and asking if it were not.

"Yes," Helen stammered, seeing more the saucy eyes looking over her head than the lily in her hair. "Yes, good enough, but hardly in keeping with this old dress," and vanity whispered the wish that the buff had really been worn.

"Your dress is suitable for morning, I am sure," Mark replied, turning a little more to the right the lily and noticing as he did so how very white and pretty was the neck and throat seen above the collar.

Mark liked a pretty neck, and he was glad to know that Helen had one, though why he should care was a puzzle. He could hardly have a.n.a.lyzed his feelings then, or told what he did think of Helen. He only knew that by her efforts to repel him she attracted him the more, she was so different from any young ladies he had known; so different from Juno, into whose hair he had never twined a water lily. It would not become her as it did Helen, he thought, as he sat opposite her at the table, admiring his handiwork, which even Aunt Betsy observed, remarking that "Helen was mightily spruced up for morning," a compliment which Helen acknowledged with a painful blush, while Mark began a disquisition upon the nature of lilies generally, which lasted until breakfast was ended.

It was arranged that Mark should ride to the cars with Uncle Ephraim when he went for Katy, and as this gave him a good two hours of leisure, he spoke of Dr. Grant, asking Helen if she did not suppose he would call around. Helen thought it possible, and then remembering how many things were to be done that morning, she excused herself from the parlor, and repairing to the platform out by the back door, where it was shady and cool, she tied on a broad check ap.r.o.n, and rolling her sleeves above her elbows, was just bringing the churn-dasher to bear vigorously upon the thick cream she was turning into b.u.t.ter, when, having finished his cigar, Mark went out into the yard, and following the winding path came suddenly upon her. Helen's first impulse was to stop, but with a strong nerving of herself she kept on while Mark, coming as near as he dared, said to her: "Why do you do that? Is there no one else?"

"No," Helen answered; "that is, we keep no servant, and my young arms are stronger than the others."

"And mine are stronger still," Mark laughingly rejoined, as he put Helen aside and plied the dasher himself, in spite of her protestations that he would certainly ruin his clothes.

"Tie that ap.r.o.n around me, then," he said, with the utmost nonchalance, and Helen obeyed, tying her check ap.r.o.n around the young man's neck, who felt her hands as they touched his hair and knew that they were brus.h.i.+ng queer fancies into his brain, fancies which made him wonder what his mother would think of Helen, or what she would say if she knew just how he was occupied that morning, absolutely churning cream until it turned to b.u.t.ter, for Mark persisted until the task was done, standing by while Helen gathered up the golden lumps, and admiring her plump, round arms quite as much as he had done her neck.

She would be a belle like her sister, though of a different stamp, he thought, as he again bent down his head while she removed the ap.r.o.n and disclosed more than one big spot upon his broadcloth. Mark a.s.sured her that it did not matter; his coat was nearly worn out; and anyway he never should regret that he had churned once in his life, or forget it either; and then he asked if Helen would be in New York the coming winter, talking of the pleasure it would be to meet her there until Helen herself began to feel what she never before had felt, a desire to visit Katy in her own home.

"Remember if you come that I am your debtor for numerous hospitalities,"

he said, when he at last bade her good-by, and sprang into the covered buggy, which Uncle Ephraim had brought out in honor of Katy's arrival.

Old Whitey was. .h.i.tched at a safe distance from all possible harm. Uncle Ephraim had returned from the store nearby, laden with the six pounds of crush sugar and the two pounds of real old Java, he had been commissioned to purchase with a view to Katy's taste, and now upon the platform at West Silverton, he stood with Mark Ray, waiting for the arrival of the train just appearing in view across the level plain.

"It's fifteen months since she went away," he said, and Mark saw that the old man's form trembled with the excitement of meeting her again, while his eyes scanned eagerly every window and door of the cars now slowly stopping before him. "There, there," and he laid his hand nervously on Mark's shoulder as a white, jaunty feather appeared in view; but no, that was not Katy, and the dim eyes ran again along the whole line of the cars, from which so many were alighting, for that was an eating house.

But Katy did not come, and with a long breath of wonder and disappointment the deacon said: "Can it be she is asleep. Young man, you are spryer than I. Go through the cars and find her."

Mark knew there was plenty of time, and so he made the tour of the cars, but found, alas! no Katy.

"She's not there," was the report carried to the poor old man, who tremblingly repeated his words: "Not there, not come," while over his aged face there broke a look of touching sadness, which Mark never forgot, remembering it always just as he remembered the big tear drops which from his seat by the window he saw the old man wipe away with his coat sleeve, whispering softly to Whitey of his disappointment as he unhitched the horse and drove away alone.

"Maybe she's writ. I'll go and see," he said, and driving to their regular office he found a letter directed by Wilford Cameron, but written by Katy.

This last he knew, for he tore the envelope open; but he could not read it then, and thrusting it into his pocket he went slowly back to the home where the tempting dinner was prepared, and the family waiting so eagerly for him. Even before he reached there they knew of the disappointment, for from the garret window Helen had watched the road by which he would come, and when the buggy appeared in sight she saw he was alone.

There was a mistake; Katy had missed the train, she said to her mother and aunts, who hoped she might be right. But Katy had not missed the train, as was indicated by the letter which Uncle Ephraim without a word put into Helen's hand, leaning on old Whitey's neck while she read aloud the attempt at an explanation which Katy had hurried written, a stain on the paper where a tear had fallen attesting her distress at the bitter disappointment.

"Wilford did not know of the other letter," she said, "and had made arrangements for her to go back with him to New York, inasmuch as the house was already opened, and the servants there wanting ahead; besides that, Wilford had been absent so long that he could not possibly stop at Silverton himself, and as he would not think of living without her, even for a few days, there was no alternative but for her to go with him on the boat directly to New York. I am sorry, oh, so sorry, but indeed I am not to blame," she added, in conclusion, and this was the nearest approach there was to an admission that anybody was to blame for this disappointment which cut so cruelly, making even Uncle Ephraim cry as out in the barn he hung away the mended harness and covered the new buggy, which had been bought for naught.

"I might have had the overcoat, for Katy will never come home again, never. G.o.d grant that it's the Cameron pride, not hers, that kept her from us," the old man said, as on the hay he knelt down and prayed that Katy had not learned to despise the home where she was so beloved.

"Katy will never come to us again," seemed the prevailing opinion at Silverton, where more than Uncle Ephraim felt a chilling doubt at times as to whether she really wished to come or not. If she did, it seemed easy of accomplishment to those who knew not how perfect and complete were the fetters thrown around her, and how unbending the will which governed hers. Could they have seen the look in Katy's face when she first understood that she was not going to Silverton, their hearts would have bled for the thwarted creature who fled up the stairs to her own room, where Esther found her twenty minutes later, cold and fainting upon the bed, her face as white as ashes, and her hands clinched so tightly that the nails left marks upon the palms.

"It was not strange that the poor child should faint--indeed, it was only natural that nature should give way after so many weeks of gayety, and she very far from being strong," Mrs. Cameron said to Wilford, who was beginning to repent of his decision, and who but for that remark perhaps might have revoked it.

Indeed, he made an attempt to do so when, as consciousness came back, Katy lay so pale and still before him; but Katy did not understand him or guess that he wished her to meet him more than half the way, and so the verdict was unchanged, and in a kind of bewilderment, Katy wrote the hurried letter, feeling less actual pain than did its readers, for the disappointment had stunned her for a time, and all she could remember of the pa.s.sage home on that same night when Mark Ray sat with Helen in the sitting-room at Silverton, was that there was a fearful storm of rain mingled with lightning flashes and thunder peals, which terrified the other ladies, but brought to her no other sensation save that it would not be so very hard to perish in the dark waters das.h.i.+ng so madly about the vessel's side.