Family Pride Or Purified by Suffering Part 28

"Why--no--indeed," was the response, and Mark could have hugged the good old lady, who continued in a confidential tone: "I used to think they'd make a good match; but I've gin that up, and now I sometimes mistrust 'twas Katy, Morris wanted. Anyhow, he's mighty changed since she was married, and he never speaks her name. I never heard anybody say so, and maybe it's all a fancy, so you won't mention it."

"Certainly not," Mark replied, drawing nearer to her, and continuing in a low tone, "Isn't it possible that after all Helen is engaged to her cousin, and you do not know it?"

"No," and Aunt Betsy grew very positive. "I am sure she ain't, for only t'other day I said to Morris that I wouldn't wonder if Helen and another chap had a hankerin' for one another; and he said he wished it might be so, for you--no, that other chap, I mean--would make a splendid husband," and Aunt Betsy turned very red at the blunder, which made Mark Ray feel as if he walked on air, with no obstacle whatever in his path.

Still he could not be satisfied without probing her a little deeper, and so he said: "And that other chap? Does he live in Silverton?"

Aunt Betsy's look was a sufficient answer; for the old lady knew he was quizzing her, just as she felt that in some way she had removed a stumbling block from his path. She had--a very large stumbling block, and in the first flush of his joy and grat.i.tude he could do most anything. So when she spoke of going up to Katy's, he set himself industriously at work to prevent it for that day at least. "They were to have a large dinner party," he said, "and both Mrs. Cameron and Miss Lennox would be wholly occupied. Would it not be better to wait until to-morrow? Did she contemplate a long stay in New York?"

"No, she might go back to-morrow--certainly the day after," Aunt Betsy replied, her voice trembling at this fresh impediment thrown in the way of her seeing Katy.

The quaver in her voice touched Mark's sympathy. "She was old and simple-hearted. She was Helen's aunt," and this, more than aught else, helped him to a decision. "She must be homesick in the Bowery; he should die if compelled to stay there long; he would take her to his mother's and keep her until the morrow, and perhaps until she left for home; telling Helen that night, of course, and then suffering her to act accordingly."

This he proposed to his client; a.s.suring her of his mother's entire willingness to receive her, and urging so many reasons why she should go there, instead of "up to Katy's," where they were in such confusion that Aunt Betsy was at last persuaded, and was soon riding uptown in a Twenty-third Street stage, with Mark Ray her _vis-a-vis_ and Mattie at her right. Why Mattie was there Mark could not conjecture; and perhaps she did not know herself, unless it were that, disappointed in her call on Mrs. Cameron, she vaguely hoped for some redress by calling on Mrs.

Banker. How then was she chagrined, when, as the stage left them at a handsome brownstone front, near Fifth Avenue Hotel, Mark said to her, as if she were not of course expected to go in, "Please tell your mother that Miss Barlow is stopping with Mrs. Banker to-day. Has she baggage at your house?--If so, we will send around for it at once. Your number, please?"

His manner was so offhand and yet so polite that Mattie could neither resist him, nor yet be angry, though there was a sad feeling of disappointment at her heart as she gave the required number, and then shook Aunt Betsy's hand, whispering in a choked voice:

"You'll come to us again before you go home?"

"Of course I shall," Aunt Betsy answered, feeling that something was wrong, and wondering if she herself were in fault.

With a good-by to Mark, whose bow atoned for a great deal, Mattie walked slowly away, leaving Mark greatly relieved. Aunt Betsy was as much as he cared to have on his hands at once, and as he led her up the steps, he began to wonder more and more what his mother would say to his bringing that stranger into her house, unbidden and unsought.

"I'll tell her just the truth," was his rapid decision, and a.s.suming a manner which warned the servant who answered his ring neither to be curious nor impertinent, he conducted his charge into the parlor, and bringing her a chair before the grate, went in quest of his mother, who he found was out.

"Kindle a fire then in the front guest chamber," he said, "and see that it is made comfortable as soon as possible."

The servant bowed in acquiescence, wondering who had come, and feeling not a little surprised at the description given by John of the woman he had let into the house, and who now in the parlor was looking around her in astonishment and delight, thinking she had found New York at last, and condemning herself for the feeling of homesickness with which she remembered the Bowery, contrasting her "cluttered quarters" there with the elegance around her. "Was Katy's house as fine as this?" she asked herself, feeling intuitively that such as she might be out of place in it, just as she began to fear she was out of her place here, bemoaning the fact that she had forgotten her capbox, with its contents, and so could not remove her bonnet, as she had nothing with which to cover her gray head.

"What shall I do?" she was asking herself, when Mark appeared, explaining that his mother was absent, but would be at home in a short time.

"Your room will soon be ready," he continued, "and meantime you might lay aside your wrappings here if you find them too warm."

There was something about Mark Ray which inspired confidence, and in her extremity Aunt Betsy gasped, "I can't take off my bunnet till I get my caps down to Mrs. Tubbs'. Oh, what a trouble I be."

Not exactly comprehending the nature of the difficulty, Mark suggested that she go without a cap until he could send for them; but Aunt Betsy's a.s.sertion that "she was grayer than a rat," enlightened him with regard to her dilemma, and full permission was given for her "to sit in her bonnet" until such time as a messenger could go to the Bowery and back.

In this condition she had better be in her own room, and as it was in readiness, Mark himself conducted her to it, the stern gravity of his face putting down the laugh which sprang to the waiting maid's eyes at the old lady's e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns of surprise and amazement that anything could be so fine as the house where she so unexpectedly found herself a guest.

"She is unaccustomed to the city, but a particular friend of mine; so see that you treat her with respect," was all the explanation he vouchsafed to the curious girl.

But that was enough. A friend of Mr. Ray's must be somebody, even if she sat with two bonnets on instead of one, and appeared ten times more rustic than Aunt Betsy, who breathed freer when she found herself alone upstairs, and knew her baggage would soon be there.

In some little trepidation Mark paced up and down the parlor waiting for his mother, who came ere long, expressing her surprise to find him there, and asking if anything had happened that he seemed so agitated.

"Yes, I'm in a deuced sc.r.a.pe," he answered, coming up to her with the saucy, winning smile she could never resist, and continuing, "To be in at the foundation, you know how much I am in love with Helen Lennox?"

"No, I don't," was the reply, as Mrs. Banker removed her fur with the most provoking coolness. "How should I know when you have never told me?"

"Haven't you eyes? Can't you see? Don't you like her yourself?"

"Yes, very much."

"And are you willing she should be your daughter?"

Mark had his arm around his mother's neck, and bending his face to hers, kissed her playfully as he asked her the last question.

"Say, mother, are you willing I should marry Helen Lennox?"

There was a struggle in Mrs. Banker's heart, and for a moment she felt jealous of the girl whom she had guessed was dearer to her son than ever his mother could be again, but she was a sensible woman. She knew that it was natural for another and a stronger love to come between her and her boy. She liked Helen Lennox. She was willing to take her as a daughter, and she said so at last, and listened half amazed and half amused to the story which had in it so much of Aunt Betsy Barlow, who had cleared away his doubts, and who at that very moment was an occupant of their best guest chamber, sitting with her bonnet on, and waiting for her cap from the Bowery.

"Perhaps it was wrong to bring her home," he added, "but I did it to spare Helen. I knew just what a savage Wilford would be if he found her there, where she would be in the way. Say, mother, was I wrong?"

He was not often wrong in his mother's estimation, and certainly he was not now, when he kissed her so often, begging her to say he had done right.

Certainly he had. Mrs. Banker was very glad to find him so thoughtful; few young men would do as much, she said, and from feeling a little doubtful, Mark came to look upon himself as a very nice young man, who had done a most unselfish act, for of course he had not been influenced by any desire to keep Aunt Betsy from the people who would be present at the dinner, neither had Helen been at all mixed up in the affair.

It was all himself, and he began to whistle "Annie Laurie" very complacently, thinking the while what a clever fellow he was, and meditating other dangerous acts toward the old lady overhead, standing by the window, and wondering what the huge building could be gleaming so white in the fading light.

"Looks as if it was made of stone cheena," she thought, just as Mrs.

Banker appeared, her kind, friendly manner making Aunt Betsy feel wholly at ease, as she answered the lady's questions or volunteered remarks of her own.

Mrs. Banker had lived in the country, and had seen just such women as Aunt Betsy Barlow, understanding her intrinsic worth, and knowing how Helen Lennox, though her niece, could still be refined and cultivated.

She could also understand how one educated as Wilford Cameron had been would shrink from coming in contact with her, and possibly be rude if she thrust herself upon him. Mark did well to bring her here, she thought, as she left the room to order the tea which the tired woman so much needed. The satchel, umbrella and capbox, with a note from Mattie, had by this time arrived, and in her Sunday cap, with the purple bows, Aunt Betsy felt much better, and enjoyed the tempting little supper, served on silver and Sevres china, the attendant waiting in the hall instead of in her room, where her presence might embarra.s.s one unaccustomed to such usages. They were thoughtful, very kind, and had Mark been her own son she could not have been more deferential than he appeared when just before starting for the dinner he went up to see her, asking what message he should take to Helen. Mrs. Banker, too, came in, her dress eliciting many compliments from her guest, who ventured to ask the price of the diamond pin which fastened the point lace collar. Five hundred dollars seemed an enormous sum, but Aunt Betsy was learning fast not to say all she thought, and merely remarked that Katy had some diamonds, too, which she presumed cost full as much as that.

"She should do very well alone," she said, "she could read her Bible, and if she got too tired, go to bed, though she guessed she should stay up till they came home, so as to hear about the doin's," and with a good-by she sent them away, after saying to Mrs. Banker, "Maybe you ain't the kissin' kind, but if you be, I wish you would kiss Katy once for me."

There was a merry twinkle in Mark's eyes as he asked:

"And Helen, too?"

"I meant your marm, not you," Aunt Betsy answered; while Mrs. Banker raised her hand to her mischievous son, who ran lightly down the stairs, carrying a happier heart than he had known since Helen Lennox had first come to New York, and he had met her at the depot.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE DINNER PARTY.

It was a very select party which Wilford Cameron entertained that evening; and as the carriages rolled to his door and deposited the guests, the cloud which had been lifting ever since he came home and found "no Barlow woman" there, disappeared entirely, leaving him the blandest, most urbane of hosts, pleased with everybody--himself, his guests, his sister-in-law, and his wife, who had never looked better than she did to-night, in pearls and light blue silk, which harmonized so perfectly with her waxlike complexion. Like some little fairy she flitted through the rooms, receiving, with a sweet childlike grace the kiss which Mrs. Banker gave her, but never dreaming from whom it came.

Aunt Betsy's proximity was wholly unsuspected, both by her and Helen, who was very handsome to-night, in crimson and black, with lilies in her hair. Nothing could please Mark better than his seat at table, where he could look into her eyes, which dropped so shyly whenever they met his ardent gaze. Helen was beginning to doubt the story of his engagement with Juno, or at least to think that it might possibly have been broken off. Certainly she could not mistake the nature of the attentions he paid to her, especially to-night, when he hovered continually near her, totally ignoring Juno's presence, and conscious apparently of only one form, one face, and that the face and form of Helen Lennox.

There was another, too, who felt the influence of Helen's beauty, and that was Lieutenant Bob, who, after dinner, attached himself to her side, while around them gathered quite a group, all listening with peals of laughter as Bob, who was something of a mimic, related his adventure of two days before, with "the most rustic and charming old lady it was ever his fortune to meet." Told by Bob the story lost nothing of its freshness; for every particular, except indeed the kindness he had shown her, was related, even to the sheep pasture, about which she was going to New York to consult a lawyer.

"I thought once of referring her to you, Mr. Cameron," Bob said; "but couldn't find it in my heart to quiz her, she was so wholly unsuspicious.

You have not seen her, have you?"