Family Pride Or Purified by Suffering Part 29

"No," came faintly from the lips which tried to smile; for Wilford knew who was the heroine of that story; wondering more and more where she was, and feeling a sensation of uneasiness as he thought, "Can any accident have befallen her?"

It was hardly probable; but Wilford felt very uncomfortable after hearing the story, which had brought a pang of doubt and fear to another mind than his. From the very first Helen feared that Aunt Betsy was the "odd woman" who had gotten upon the train at some station which Bob could not remember; while, as the story progressed, she was sure of it, for she had heard of the sheep-pasture trouble, and of Aunt Betsy's projected visit to New York, privately writing to her mother not to suffer it, as Wilford would be so greatly vexed. "Yes, it must be Aunt Betsy," she thought, and she turned so white that Mark, who was watching both her and Wilford, came as soon as possible to her side, and adroitly separating from the group around, said softly: "You look tired, Miss Lennox. Come with me a moment. I have something to tell you."

Alone with her in the hall, he continued, "I have the sequel of Bob Reynolds' story. That woman--"

"Was Aunt Betsy," Helen gasped. "But where is she now? That was two days ago. Tell me if you know. Mr. Ray, you do know," and in her agony of fear lest something dreadful had happened, she laid her hand on Mark's, beseeching him to tell her if he knew where Aunt Betsy was.

It was worth torturing her for a moment to see the pleading look in her eyes, and feel the soft touch of the hand which he took between both his own, holding it there while he answered her: "Aunt Betsy is at my house; kidnapped by me for safe keeping, until I could consult with you. Was that right?" he asked as a flush came to Helen's cheek, and an expression to her eye which told that his meaning was understood.

"Is she there willingly? How did it happen?" was Helen's reply, her hand still in those of Mark, who thus circ.u.mstanced grew very warm and eloquent with the sequel to Bob's story, making it as long as possible, telling what he knew, and also what he had done.

He had not implicated Wilford in any way; but Helen read it all, saying more to herself than him: "And she was at the opera. Wilford must have seen her, and that is why he left so suddenly, and why he has appeared so absent and nervous to-day, as if expecting something. Excuse me," she suddenly added, drawing her hand away and stepping back a little, "I forgot that I was talking as if you knew."

"I do know more than you suppose--that is, I know human nature--and I know Will better than I did that morning when I first met you," Mark said, glancing at the freed hand he wished so much to take again.

But Helen kept her hands to herself, and answered him.

"You did right under the circ.u.mstances. It would have been unpleasant for us all had she happened here to-night. I thank you, Mr. Ray--you and your mother, too--more than I can express. I will see her early to-morrow morning. Tell her so, please, and again I thank you."

There were tears in Helen's soft brown eyes, and they glittered like diamonds as she looked even more than spoke her thanks to the young man, who, for another look like that, would have driven Aunt Betsy amid the gayest crowd that ever frequented the Park, and sworn she was his blood relation! A few words from Mrs. Banker confirmed what Mark had said, and it was not strange if that night Miss Lennox, usually so entertaining, was a little absent, for her thoughts were up in that chamber on Twenty-third Street, where Aunt Betsy sat alone, but not lonely, for her mind was very busy with all she had been through since leaving Silverton, while something kept suggesting to her that it would have been wiser and better to have stayed at home than to have ventured where she was so sadly out of place. This last came gradually to Aunt Betsy as she thought the matter over, and remembered Wilford as he had appeared each time he came to Silverton.

"I ain't like him; I ain't like this Miss Banker; I ain't like anybody,"

she whispered. "I'm nothin' but a homely, old-fashioned woman, without larnin', without nothin'. I might know I wasn't wanted," and a rain of tears fell over the wrinkled face as she uttered this tirade against herself, standing before the long mirror and inspecting the image it gave back of a plain, unpolished countrywoman, not much resembling Mrs.

Banker, it must be confessed, nor much resembling the gay young ladies she had seen at the opera the previous night. "I won't go near Katy,"

she continued; "it will only mortify her, and I don't want to make her trouble. The poor thing's face looked as if she had it now, and I won't add to it. I'll start for home to-morrow. There's Miss Smith, in Springfield, will keep me overnight, and Katy shan't be bothered."

When this decision was reached Aunt Betsy felt a great deal better, and taking the Bible from the table, she sat down again before the fire, opening, as by a special Providence, to the chapter where hewers of wood and drawers of water are mentioned as being necessary to mankind, each filling his appointed place.

"That's me--that's Betsy Barlow," she whispered, taking off her gla.s.ses to wipe away the moisture gathering so fast upon them. Then resuming them, she continued: "I'm a hewer of wood--a drawer of water. G.o.d made me so, and shall the clay find fault with the potter for making it into a homely jug? No, indeed; and I was a very foolish old jug to think of sticking myself in with the chinaware. But I've larnt a lesson," and the philosophic woman read on, feeling comforted to know that though a vessel of the rudest make, a paltry jug, as she called herself, the promises were still for her as much as for the finer wares--ay, that there was more hope of her entering at last where "the walls are all of precious stones and the streets are paved with gold," than of those whose good things are given so abundantly during their lifetime.

a.s.sured, comforted, and encouraged, she fell asleep at last, and when Mrs. Banker returned she found her slumbering quietly in her chair, the Bible open on her lap, and her finger upon the pa.s.sage referring to the hewers of wood and drawers of water, as if that was the last thing read.

Next morning, at a comparatively early hour, Helen stood ringing the bell of Mrs. Banker's house. She had pa.s.sed a restless, but not altogether wretched night, for the remembrance of Mark's kindness in keeping Aunt Betsy away, and his manner while telling her of it would not permit of her being more than anxious as she lay awake, wondering why Mark was so kind, and if it could be possible that he was free from Juno and cared for her. It made her happy to think so, and her face, as she stood upon the steps, looked bright and fresh, instead of pale and tired, as it usually did after a night of wakefulness. She had said to Katy that she was going out and could not tell just when she might return, and as Katy never questioned her acts, while Wilford was too intent upon his own miserable thoughts as to "where Aunt Betsy could be or what had befallen her," to heed any one else, no inquiries were made and no obstacles put in the way of her going to Mrs. Banker's, where Mark met her himself, holding her cold hand until he led her to the fire and placed her in a chair. He knew she would rather meet her aunt alone, and so when he heard her step in the hall he left the room, holding the door for Aunt Betsy, who wept like a little child at the sight of Helen, accusing herself of being a fool, an old fool, who ought to be shut up in the insane asylum, but persisting in saying she was going home that very day without seeing Katy at all. "If she was here I'd like it, but I shan't go there, for I know Wilford don't want me. Say, Helen, don't you think he'll be ashamed of me and wish I was in Guinea?" she asked as her desire to see Katy grew stronger, but was met and combated with her dread of Wilford!

Helen could not tell her he would be ashamed, but Aunt Betsy knew she meant it, and with a fresh gush of tears she gave the project up entirely, telling Helen all she did not already know of her trip to New York, her visit to the opera, her staying with the Tubbses and her meeting with Mark, the best young chap she ever saw, not even excepting Morris. "If he was my own son, he couldn't be kinder," she added, "and I mistrust he hopes to be my nephew. You can't do better, and if he offers, take him."

Helen's cheeks were crimson as she waived this part of the conversation and wished aloud that she had come around in the carriage, as she could thus have taken Aunt Betsy over the city before the train would leave.

"Mark spoke of that when he heard I was going to-day," Aunt Betsy said; "I'll warrant you he'll tend to it."

Aunt Betsy was right, for when Mark and his mother joined their guests and learned that Aunt Betsy's intention was unchanged, he suggested the ride and offered the use of their carriage. Helen did not decline the offer, and ere half an hour had pa.s.sed, Aunt Betsy, with her satchel, umbrella and capbox, was comfortably adjusted in Mrs. Banker's carriage with Helen beside her, while Mark bade his coachman drive wherever Miss Lennox wished to go, taking care to reach the train in time.

They were tearful thanks which Aunt Betsy gave to her kind friends as she was driven away, going first to the Bowery to say good-by and leave the packages of fruits and herbs, lest the Tubbses should "think her suddenly stuck up."

"Would you mind taking 'Tilda in? It would please her mightily," Aunt Betsy whispered, as they were alighting in front of Mr. Peter Tubbs'; and as the result of this suggestion the carriage, when again it emerged into Broadway, held Mattie Tubbs, happier, prouder than she had been in all her life before, while the gratified mother at home felt amply repaid for all the trouble her visitor had made her.

And Helen enjoyed it, too, finding Mattie a little insipid and tiresome, it is true, but feeling happy in the consciousness that she was making others happy. It was a long drive they took, and Aunt Betsy saw so much that her brain grew giddy and she was glad when they started for the depot, taking Madison Square on the way and pa.s.sing Katy's house.

"I dare say it is all grand and smart," Aunt Betsy said, leaning out to look at it, "but I feel best at hum where they are used to me."

And her face did bear a brighter look, when finally seated in the cars, than it had before since she left Silverton.

"You'll be home in April, and maybe Katy'll come, too," she whispered as she kissed Helen good-by and shook hands with Mattie Tubbs, thanking her for her kindness in seein' to an old woman, and charging her again never to let the folks in Silverton know that "Betsy Barlow had once been seen at a playhouse."

Slowly the cars moved away and Helen was driven home, leaving Mattie alone in her glory as she rolled down the Bowery, enjoying greatly the _eclat_ of her position, but feeling a little chagrined at not meeting a single acquaintance by whom to be envied and admired. Only Tom saw her alight, giving vent to a whistle, and asking if she didn't feel big, as he tried to hold out his pantaloons in imitation of her dress and walk as she disappeared through the door where the dry goods were swinging.

Katy did not ask where Helen had been, for she was wholly absorbed in Marian Hazelton's letter, telling how fast the baby improved, how pretty it was growing, and how fond both she and Mrs. Hubbell were of it, loving it almost as well as if it were their own.

"I know now it was best for it to go, but it was hard at first," Katy said, putting the letter away, and sighing wearily as she missed the clasp of the little arms and touch of the baby lips.

Several times Helen was tempted to tell her of Aunt Betsy's visit, but decided finally not to do so as it might distress her to know that strangers rendered the hospitalities it was her duty to give, and so Katy never guessed the truth, nor knew what it was which for many days made Wilford so nervous and uneasy, starting quickly at every sudden ring, going often to the window, and looking out into the street as if expecting some one who never came, while he grew strangely anxious for news from Silverton, asking when Katy had heard from home, and why she did not write. One there was, however, who knew and who enjoyed it vastly, watching Wilford closely, and guessing just how his anxiety grew as day after day went by; and she neither came nor was heard from in any way, for Helen did not show the letter apprising her of Aunt Betsy's safe arrival home, and so all in Wilford's mind was left a vague conjecture.

He had seen her, she had been in New York, as was proven by Bob Reynolds, but where was she now, and who were those people with her? Had they entrapped her into some snare, and possibly murdered her? It might be. Such things were not of rare occurrence, and Wilford actually grew poor with the uncertainty which hung over the fate of one whom in his present state of mind he would have warmly welcomed to his fireside, had there been a dozen dinner parties in progress. At last, as he sat one day in his office, with the same worried look on his face, Mark, who had also been watching him, said:

"By the way, Will, how did that sheep pasture come out, or didn't the client appear?"

"Mark," and Wilford's voice was husky with emotion; "you've stumbled upon the very thing which is tormenting my life out of me. Aunt Betsy has never turned up or been heard from since that night. For aught I know she was murdered, or spirited away, and I am half distracted. I'd give a thousand dollars to know what has become of her."

"Put down half that pile and I'll tell you," was Mark's nonchalant reply, while Wilford, seizing his shoulder and compelling him to look up, exclaimed:

"You know, then? Tell me--you do know? Where is she?"

"Safe in Silverton, I presume," was the reply, and then Mark told his story, to which Wilford listened, half incredulous, half indignant, and a good deal relieved.

"You are a splendid fellow, Mark, though I must say you meddled, but I know you did not do it unselfishly. Yes, on the whole, I thank you and Helen, too, for saving me that mortification. I feel like a new man, knowing the old lady is safe at home, where I trust she will remain. And that Tom, who called here yesterday, asking to be our clerk, is the youth I saw at the opera. I thought his face was familiar. Let him come of course. In my grat.i.tude I feel like patronizing the entire Tubbs family."

And so it was this flash of grat.i.tude for a peril escaped which procured for young Tom Tubbs the situation of clerk in the office of Cameron and Ray, the application for such situation having been urged by the ambitious Mattie, who felt her dignity considerably increased when she could speak of Brother Tom in company with Messrs. Cameron & Ray. And it was also a part of the same grat.i.tude which suggested the huge package of merino and gingham, calico and linen, together with the handsome silk shawl and black lace veil, which a few days later was left by the express boy at the door of the farmhouse for Miss Betsy Barlow, who in a long letter overwhelmed Katy with her thanks, and nearly let out her visit to New York, as yet a secret to Mrs. Wilford.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

THE SEVENTH REGIMENT.

Does the reader remember the pleasant spring days of four years ago, when the thunder of Fort Sumter's bombardment came echoing up to the Northern hills and across the Western prairies, stopping for a moment the pulses of the nation, but quickening them again with a mighty power as from Maine to California man after man arose to smite the maddened foe trailing our honored flag in the dust? Nowhere, perhaps, was the excitement so great or the feeling so strong as in New York, when the Seventh Regiment was ordered on to Washington, its members, who so often had trodden the streets with a proud step, never faltering or holding back, but with a nerving of the will and a putting aside of self, prepared to do their duty. Conspicuous among them was Mark Ray, who, laughing at his mother's fears, kissed her livid cheek, and then with a pang remembered Helen--dearer even than his mother--wondering how she would feel, and thinking the path to danger would be so much easier if he knew her love was his, that her prayers, her wishes would go with him, shielding him from harm and bringing him back again to the sunshine of her presence.

And before he went Mark must know this for certain, chiding himself for having put it off so long. True she had been sick and confined to her room for a long while after Aunt Betsy's memorable visit; and when she was able to go out, Lent had put a stop to her mingling in festive scenes, so that he had seen but little of her, and had never met her alone. But he would write that very day. She knew, of course, that he was going, bidding him G.o.dspeed he was sure, for her whole heart was with the gallant men who had stood so n.o.bly against the enemy, surrendering only because they must. She would say that he did well to go; and she would answer "yes" to the question he would ask her. Mark felt sure of that; but still the letter he wrote was eloquent with his pleadings for her love, while he confessed his own, and asked that she would be his wife--would give him the right to carry her in his heart--to think of her as his affianced bride--to know she waited for his return, and would crown it at last with the full fruition of her priceless love.

"I meet a few of my particular friends at Mrs. Grandon's to-night," he added, in conclusion. "Can I hope to see you there, taking your presence as a token that I may speak and tell you in words what I have so poorly written?"

"She surely will be there, as it is the last, perhaps, she'll ever see of some of us poor wretches," Mark said, his hand trembling a little as he sealed the note, which he would not trust to the post.

He would deliver it himself, avoiding the possibility of a mistake, he said, and half an hour later he rang the bell at No. ----, asking "If Miss Lennox was at home."

She was; and handing the girl the note, Mark ran down the steps, while the servant carried the missive to the library, where upon the table lay other letters received that morning by the penny post, and as yet unopened; for Katy was very busy, and Helen was dressing to go out with Juno Cameron, who had graciously asked her to drive with her that morning and look at a picture she had set her heart on having.

Juno had not yet appeared; but Mark was scarcely out of sight when she came in with the familiarity of a sister and entered the library to wait. Carelessly turning over the books upon the table, she stumbled over Mark's letter, which, through some defect in the envelope, had become unsealed, and lay with its edge lifted so that to peer at its contents was a very easy matter had she been so disposed. But Juno, though indignant and jealous--for she knew the handwriting--could not at first bring herself even to touch what was intended for her rival. But as she gazed the longing grew, until at last she took it in her hand, turning it to the light, and tracing distinctly the words "My dear Helen," while a storm of pain and pa.s.sion swept over her, mingled with a feeling of shame that she had let herself down so far.