A NEW LIFE.
New York, December 16, 18—.
‘TO MISS HELEN LENNOX, SILVERTON, MASS:
“Your sister is very ill. Come as soon as possible.
W. CAMERON.”
This was the purport of a telegram received at the farm-house toward the
close of a chill December day, and Helen’s heart almost stopped its
beating as she read it aloud, and then looked in the white, scared faces
of those around her. Katy was very ill—dying, perhaps—or Wilford had
never telegraphed. What could it be? What was the matter? Had it been
somewhat later, they would have known; but now all was conjecture, and
in a half-distracted state, Helen made her hasty preparations for the
journey of the morrow, and then sent for Morris, hoping he might offer
some advice or suggestion, for her to carry to that sick room in New
York.
“Perhaps you will go with me,” Helen said. “You know Katy’s
constitution. You might save her life.”
But Morris shook his head. If he was needed they might send and he would
come, but not without; and so next day he carried Helen to the cars,
saying to her as they were waiting for the train, “I hope for the best,
but it may be Katy will die. If you think so, tell her, oh, tell her, of
the better world, and ask if she is prepared? I cannot lose her in
Heaven.”
And this was all the message Morris sent, though his heart and prayers
went after the rapid train which bore Helen safely onward, until
Hartford was reached, where there was a long detention, so that the dark
wintry night had closed over the city ere Helen reached it, timid,
anxious, and wondering what she should do if Wilford was not there to
meet her. “He will be, of course,” she kept repeating to herself,
looking around in dismay, as passenger after passenger left, seeking in
stages and street cars a swifter passage to their homes.
“I shall soon be all alone,” she said, feeling some relief as the car in
which she was seated began at last to move, and she knew she was being
taken whither the others had gone, wherever that might be.
“Is Miss Helen Lennox here?” sounded cheerily in her ears as she stopped
before the depot, and Helen uttered a cry of joy, for she recognized the
voice of Mark Ray, who was soon grasping her hand, and trying to
reassure her, as he saw how she shrank from the noise and clamor of New
York, heard now for the first time. “Our carriage is here,” he said, and
in a moment she found herself in a close-covered vehicle, with Mark
sitting opposite, tucking the warm blanket around her, asking if she
were cold, and paying those numberless little attentions so gratifying
to one always accustomed to act and think for herself.
Helen could not see Mark’s face distinctly; but full of fear for Katy,
she fancied there was a sad tone in his voice, as if he were keeping
back something he dreaded to tell her; and then, as it suddenly occurred
to her that Wilford should have met her, not Mark, her great fear found
utterance in words, and leaning forward so that her face almost touched
Mark’s she said, “Tell me, Mr. Ray, is Katy dead?”
“Not dead, oh no, nor very dangerous, my mother hopes; but she kept
asking for you, and so my—that is, Mr. Cameron sent the telegram.”
There was an ejaculatory prayer of thankfulness, and then Helen
continued, “Is it long since she was taken sick?”
“Her little daughter will be a week old to-morrow,” Mark replied; while
Helen, with an exclamation of surprise she could not repress, sank back
into the corner, faint and giddy with the excitement of this fact, which
invested little Katy with a new dignity, and drew her so much nearer to
the sister who could scarcely wait for the carriage to stop, so anxious
was she to be where Katy was, to kiss her dear face once more, and
whisper the words of love she knew she must have longed to hear.
Awe-struck, bewildered and half terrified, Helen looked up at the huge
brown structure, which Mark designated as “the place.” It was so lofty,
so grand, so like the Camerons, and so unlike the farm-house far away,
that Helen trembled as she followed Mark into the rooms flooded with
light, and seeming to her like fairy land. They were so different from
anything she had imagined, so much handsomer than even Katy’s
descriptions had implied, that for the moment the sight took her breath
away, and she sank passively into the chair Mark brought for her,
himself taking her muff and tippet, and noting, as he did so, that they
were not mink, nor yet Russian sable, but well-worn, well-kept fitch,
such as Juno would laugh at and criticise. But Helen’s dress was a
matter of small moment to Mark, and he thought more of the look in her
dark eyes than of all the furs in Broadway, as she said to him, “You are
very kind, Mr. Ray. I cannot thank you enough.” This remark had been
wrung from Helen by the feeling of homesickness which swept over her, as
she thought how really alone she should be there, in her sister’s house,
on this first night of her arrival, if it were not for Mark, thus
virtually taking the place of the brother-in-law, who should have been
there to greet her.
“He was with Mrs. Cameron,” the servant said, and taking out a card Mark
wrote down a few words, and handing it to the servant who had been
looking curiously at Helen, he continued standing until a step was heard
on the stairs and Wilford came quietly in.
It was not a very loving meeting, but Helen was civil and Wilford was
polite offering her his hand and asking some questions about her
journey.
“I was intending to meet you myself,” he said, “but Mrs. Cameron does
not like me to leave her, and Mark kindly offered to take the trouble
off my hands.”
He was looking pale and anxious, while there was on his face the light
of a new joy, as if the little life begun so short a time ago had
brought an added good to him, softening his haughty manner and making
him even endurable to the prejudiced sister watching him so closely.
“Does Phillips know you are here?” he asked, answering his own query by
ringing the bell and bidding Esther, who appeared, tell Phillips that
Miss Lennox had arrived, and wished for supper, explaining to Helen that
since Katy’s illness they had dined at three, as that accommodated them
the best.
This done and Helen’s baggage ordered to her room, he seemed to think he
had discharged his duty as host, and as Mark had left he began to grow
fidgety, for a tête-à-tête with Helen was not what he desired. He had
said to her all he could think to say, for it never once occurred to him
to inquire after the deacon’s family. He had asked for Dr. Grant, but
his solicitude went no further, and the inmates of the farm-house might
have been dead and buried for aught he knew to the contrary. The
omission was not made purposely, but because he really did not feel
enough of interest in people so widely different from himself even to
ask for them, much less to suspect how Helen’s blood boiled as she
detected the omission and imputed it to intended slight, feeling glad
when he excused himself, saying he must go back to Katy, but would send
his mother down to see her. _His mother._ Then _she_ was there, the one
whom Helen dreaded most of all, whom she had invested with every
possible terror, hoping now that she would not be in haste to come down.
She might have spared herself anxiety on this point, as the lady in
question was not anxious to meet a person who, could she have had her
way, would not have been there at all.
From the first moment of consciousness after the long hours of suffering
Katy had asked for Helen, rather than her mother.
“Send for Helen; I am so tired, and she could always rest me,” was her
reply, when asked by Wilford what he could do for her. “Send for Helen;
I want her so much,” she had said to Mrs. Cameron, when she came,
repeating the wish until a consultation was held between the mother and
son, touching the propriety of sending for Helen. “She would be of no
use whatever, and might excite our Katy. Quiet is highly important just
now,” Mrs. Cameron had said, thus veiling under pretended concern for
Katy her aversion to the girl whose independence in declining her
dressmaker had never been forgiven, and whom she had set down in her
mind as rude and ignorant.
“If her coming would do Katy harm she ought not to come,” Wilford
thought, while Katy in her darkened room moaned on—
“Send for sister Helen; please send for sister Helen.”
At last, on the fourth day, Mrs. Banker, Mark Ray’s mother, came to the
house, and in consideration of the strong liking she had evinced for
Katy ever since her arrival in New York, and the great respect felt for
her by Mrs. Cameron, she was admitted to the chamber and heard the
plaintive pleadings, “Send for sister Helen,” until her motherly heart
was touched, and as she sat with her son at dinner she spoke of the
young girl-mother moaning so for Helen.
Whether it was Mark’s great pity for Katy, or whether he was prompted by
some more selfish motive, we do not profess to say, but that he was
greatly excited was very evident from his manner as he exclaimed:
“Why not send for Helen, then? She is a splendid girl, and they idolize
each other. Talk of _her_ injuring Katy, that’s all a humbug. She is
just fitted for a nurse. Almost the sight of her would cure one of
nervousness, she is so calm and quiet.”
This was what Mark said, and the next morning Mrs. Banker’s carriage
stood at the door of No.—— Madison Square, while Mrs. Banker herself was
talking to Wilford in the library, and urging that Helen be sent for at
once.
“It may save her life. She is more feverish to-day than yesterday, and
this constant asking for her sister will wear her out so fast,” she
added, and that last argument prevailed.
Helen was sent for, and now sat waiting in the parlor for the coming of
Mrs. Cameron. Wilford did not mean Katy to hear him as he whispered to
his mother that Helen was below; but she did, and her blue eyes flashed
brightly as she started from her pillow, exclaiming:
“I am so glad, so glad! Kiss me, Wilford, because I am so glad. Does she
know? Have you told her? Wasn’t she surprised, and will she come up
quick?”
They could not quiet her at once, and only the assurance that unless she
were more composed, Helen should not see her that night, had any effect
upon her; but when they told her that, she lay back upon her pillow
submissively, and Wilford saw the great tears dropping from her hot
cheeks, while the pallid lips kept softly whispering “Helen.” Then the
sister love took another channel, and she said:
“She has not been to supper, and Phillips is always cross at extras.
Will somebody see to it. Send Esther to me, please. Esther knows and is
good-natured.”
“Mother will do all that is necessary. She is going down,” Wilford said;
but Katy had quite as much fear of leaving Helen to “mother” as to
Phillips, and insisted upon Esther until the latter came, receiving
numerous injunctions as to the jam, the sweetmeats, the peaches, and the
cold ham Helen must have, each one being remembered as her favorite.
Wholly unselfish, Katy thought nothing of herself or the effort it cost
her to care for Helen; but when it was over and Esther was gone, she
seemed so utterly exhausted that Mrs. Cameron did not leave her, but
stayed at her bedside, until the extreme paleness was gone, and her eyes
were more natural. Meanwhile the supper, which as Katy feared had made
Phillips cross, had been arranged by Esther, who conducted Helen to the
dining-room, herself standing by and waiting upon her because the one
whose duty it was had gone out for the evening, and Phillips had
declined the “honor,” as she styled it.
There was a homesick feeling tugging at Helen’s heart while she tried to
eat, and only the certainty that Katy was not far away kept her tears
back. To her the very grandeur of the house made it desolate, and she
was so glad it was Katy who lived there and not herself as she went up
the soft carpeted stairway, which gave back no sound, and through the
marble hall to the parlor, where, by the table on which her cloak and
furs were lying, a lady stood, as dignified and unconscious as if she
had not been inspecting the self-same _fur_ which Mark Ray had observed,
but not, like him, thinking it did not matter, for it did matter very
materially with her, and a smile of contempt had curled her lip as she
turned over the tippet which Phillips would not have worn.
“I wonder how long she means to stay, and if Wilford will have to take
her out,” she was thinking, just as Helen appeared in the door and
advanced into the room.
By herself, it was easy to slight Helen Lennox, but in her presence Mrs.
Cameron found it very hard to appear as cold and distant as she had
meant to do, for there was something about Helen which commanded her
respect, and she went forward to meet her, offering her hand and saying
cordially:
“Miss Lennox, I presume—my daughter Katy’s sister?”
Helen had not expected this, and the warm flush which came to her cheeks
made her very handsome, as she returned Mrs. Cameron’s greeting, and
then asked more particularly for Katy than she had yet done. For a while
they talked together, Mrs. Cameron noting carefully every item of
Helen’s attire, as well as the purity of her language and her perfect
repose of manner after the first stiffness had passed away.
“Naturally a lady as well as Katy; there must be good blood somewhere,
probably on the Lennox side,” was Mrs. Cameron’s private opinion, while
Helen, after a few moments, began to feel far more at ease with Mrs.
Cameron than she had done in the dining-room with Esther waiting on her,
and the cross Phillips stalking once through the room for no ostensible
purpose except to get a sight of her.
Helen wondered at herself, and Mrs. Cameron wondered too, trying to
decide whether it were ignorance, conceit, obtuseness, or what, which
made her so self-possessed when she was expected to appear so different.
“Strong-minded,” was her final decision, as she said at last, “We
promised Katy she should see you to-night. Will you go now?”
Then the color left Helen’s face and lips and her limbs shook
perceptibly, for the knowing she was soon to meet her sister unnerved
her; but by the time the door of Katy’s room was reached she was herself
again, and there was no need for Mrs. Cameron to whisper, “Pray do not
excite her.”
Katy heard her coming, and it required all Wilford’s and the nurse’s
efforts to keep her quiet.
“Helen, Helen, darling, darling sister!” she cried, as she wound her
arms around Helen’s neck, and laid her golden head on Helen’s bosom,
sobbing in a low, mournful way which told Helen more how she had been
longed for than did the weak voice which whispered, “I’ve wanted you so
much, oh Helen; you don’t know how much I’ve missed you all the years
I’ve been away. You will not leave me now,” and Katy clung closer to the
dear sister who gently unclasped the clinging arms and put back upon the
pillow the quivering face, which she kissed so tenderly, whispering in
her own old half soothing, half commanding way, “Be quiet now, Katy.
It’s best that you should. No, I will not leave you.”
Next to Dr. Grant Helen had more influence over Katy than any living
being, and it was very apparent now, for, as if her presence had a power
to soothe, Katy grew very quiet, and utterly wearied out, slept for a
few moments with Helen’s hand fast locked in hers. When she awoke the
tired look was gone, and turning to her sister she said, “Have you seen
my baby?” while the young mother-love which broke so beautifully over
her pale face, made it the face of an angel.
“It seems so funny that it is Katy’s baby,” Helen said, taking the puny
little thing, which with its wrinkled face and red, clinched fists was
not very attractive to her, save as she looked at it with Katy’s eyes.
She did not even kiss it, but her tears dropped upon its head as she
thought how short the time since up in the old garret at home she had
dressed rag dolls for the Katy who was now a mother. And still in a
measure she was the same, hugging Helen fondly when she said good night,
and welcoming her so joyfully in the morning when she came again,
telling her how just the sight of her sitting there by baby’s crib did
her so much good.
“I shall get well so fast,” she said; and she was right, for Helen was
worth far more to her than all the physician’s powders, and Wilford was
glad that Helen came, even if she did sometimes shock him with her
independent ways, upsetting all his plans and theories with regard to
Katy, and meeting him on other grounds with an opposition as puzzling as
it was new to him.
To Mrs. Cameron Helen was a study; she seemed to care so little for what
others might think of her, evincing no hesitation, no timidity, when
told the second day after her arrival that Mrs. Banker was in the
parlor, and had asked to see Miss Lennox. Mrs. Cameron did not suspect
how under that calm, unmoved exterior, Helen was hiding a heart which
beat painfully as she went down to meet the mother of Mark Ray, going
first to her own room to make some little change in her toilet, and
wishing that her dress was more like the dress of those around her—like
Mrs. Cameron’s, or even _Esther’s_ and the fashionable nurse’s. One
glance she gave to the brown silk, Wilford’s gift, but her good sense
told her that the plain merino she wore was more suitable to the sick
room where she spent her time, and so with a fresh collar and cuffs, and
another brush of her hair, she went to Mrs. Banker, forgetting herself
in her pleasure at finding in the stranger a lady so wholly congenial
and familiar, whose mild, dark eyes rested so kindly on her, and whose
pleasant voice had something motherly in its tone, putting her at her
ease, and making her appear at her very best.
Mrs. Banker was pleased with Helen, and she felt a kind of pity for the
young girl thrown so suddenly among strangers, without even her sister
to assist her.
“Have you been out at all?” she asked, and upon Helen’s replying that
she had not, she answered, “That is not right. Accustomed to the fresh
country air, you will suffer from too close confinement. Suppose you
ride with me. My carriage is at the door, and I have a few hours’
leisure. Tell your sister I insist,” she continued, as Helen hesitated
between inclination and what she fancied was her duty.
To see New York with Mrs. Banker was a treat indeed, and Helen’s heart
bounded high as she ran up to Katy’s room with the request.
“Yes, go by all means,” Katy said. “It is so kind in Mrs. Banker, and so
like her, too. I meant that Wilford should have driven with you to-day,
and spoke to him about it, but Mrs. Banker will do better. Tell her I
thank her so much for her thoughtfulness,” and with a kiss Katy sent
Helen away, while Mrs. Cameron, after twisting her rings nervously for a
moment, said to Katy:
“Perhaps your sister will do well to wear your furs. Hers are small, and
common fitch.”
“Yes, certainly. Take them to her,” Katy answered, knowing intuitively
the feeling which had prompted this suggestion from her mother-in-law,
who hastened to Helen’s room with the rich sable she was to wear in
place of the old fitch.
Helen appreciated the difference at once between her furs and Katy’s and
felt a pang of mortification as she saw how old and poor and _dowdy_
hers were beside the others. But they were her own—the best she could
afford. She would not begin by borrowing, and so she declined the offer,
and greatly to Mrs. Cameron’s horror went down to Mrs. Banker clad in
the despised furs, which Mrs. Cameron would on no account have had
beside her on Broadway in an open carriage. Mrs. Banker noticed them,
too, but the eager, happy face, which grew each moment brighter as they
drove down the street, more than made amends; and in watching that and
pointing out the places which they passed, Mrs. Banker forgot the furs
and the coarse straw hat whose strings of black had undeniably been
dyed. Never in her life had Helen enjoyed a ride as she did that
pleasant winter day, when her kind friend took her wherever she wished
to go, showing her Broadway in its glory from Union Square to Wall
Street, where they encountered Mark in the bustling crowd. He saw them,
and beckoned to them, while Helen’s face grew red, as, lifting his hat
to her, he came up to the carriage, and at his mother’s suggestion took
a seat just opposite, asking where they had been, and jocosely laughing
at his mother’s taste in selecting such localities as the Five Points,
the Tombs and Barnum’s Museum, when there were so many finer places to
be seen.
Helen felt the hot blood pricking the roots of her hair for the Five
Points, the Tombs and Barnum’s Museum had been her choice as the points
of which she had heard the most. So when Mark continued:
“You shall ride with me, Miss Lennox, and I will show you something
worth your seeing,” she frankly answered:
“Your mother is not in fault, Mr. Ray. She asked me where I wished to
go, and I mentioned these places; so please attribute it wholly to my
country breeding, and not to your mother’s lack of taste.”
There was something in the frank speech which won Mrs. Banker’s heart,
while she felt an increased respect for the young girl, who, she saw,
was keenly sensitive, even with all her strength of character.
“You were right to commence as you have,” she said, “for now you have a
still greater treat in store, and Mark shall drive you to the Park some
day. I know you will like that.”
Helen could like anything with that friendly voice to reassure her, and
leaning back she was thinking how pleasant it was to be in New York, how
different from what she had expected, when a bow from Mark made her look
up in time to see that they were meeting a carriage, in which sat
Wilford, with two gayly dressed ladies, both of whom gave her a
supercilious stare as they passed by, while the younger of the two half
turned her head, as if for a more prolonged gaze.
“Mrs. Grandon and Juno Cameron,” Mrs. Banker said, making some further
remark to her son, while Helen felt that the brightness of the day had
changed, for she could not be unconscious of the look with which she had
been regarded by these two fashionable ladies, and again her _furs_ came
up before her, bringing a felling of which she was ashamed, especially
as she had fancied herself above all weakness of the kind.
That night at the dinner, from which Mrs. Cameron was absent, Wilford
was unusually gracious, asking “if she had enjoyed her ride, and if she
did not find Mrs. Banker a very pleasant acquaintance.”
Wilford felt a little uncomfortable at having suffered a stranger to do
for Katy’s sister what should have been done by himself. Katy had asked
him to drive with Helen, but he had found it very convenient to forget
it, and take a seat instead with Juno and Mrs. Grandon, the latter of
whom complimented “Miss Lennox’s fine intellectual face,” after they had
passed, and complimented it the more as she saw how it vexed Juno, who
could see nothing “in those bold eyes and that masculine forehead,” just
because their _vis-à-vis_ chanced to be Mark Ray. Juno was not pleased
with Helen’s first appearance in the street, but nevertheless she called
upon her next day, with Sybil Grandon and her sister Bell. To this she
was urged by Sybil, who, having a somewhat larger experience of human
nature, foresaw that Helen would be popular just because Mrs. Banker had
taken her up, and who, besides, had conceived a capricious fancy to
patronize Miss Lennox. But in this she was foiled, for Helen was not to
_be_ patronized, and she received her visitors with that calm, assured
manner so much a part of herself.
“Diamond cut diamond,” Bell thought, as she saw how frigidly polite both
Juno and Helen were, each recognizing in the other something
antagonistic, which could not harmonize.
Had Juno never cared for Dr. Grant, or suspected Helen of standing
between herself and him, and had Mark Ray never stopped at Silverton, or
been seen on Broadway with her, she might have judged her differently,
for there was something attractive in Helen’s face and appearance as she
sat talking to her guests, with as much quiet dignity as if she had
never mended Uncle Ephraim’s socks or made a pound of butter among the
huckleberry hills. Bell was delighted, detecting at once traces of the
rare mind which Helen Lennox possessed, and wondering to find it so.
“I hope we shall see each other often,” she said, at parting. “I do not
go out a great deal myself—that is, not so much as Juno—but I shall be
always glad to welcome you to my _den_. You may find something there to
interest you.”
This was Bell’s leave-taking, while Sybil’s was, if possible, more
friendly, for she took a perverse kind of pleasure in annoying Juno, who
wondered “what she or Bell could see to like in that awkward country
girl, who she knew had on one of Katy’s cast-off collars, and whose
wardrobe was the most ordinary she ever saw; _fitch furs_, think of
that!” and Juno gave a little pull at the fastenings of her rich ermine
collar, showing so well over her velvet basquine.
“Fitch furs or not, they rode with Mark Ray on Broadway,” Bell retorted,
with a wicked look in her eye, which roused Juno to a still higher pitch
of anger, so that by the time the carriage stopped at No.——, the young
lady was in a most unamiable frame of mind as regarded both Helen Lennox
and the offending Mark.
That evening there was at Mrs. Reynolds’s a little company of thirty or
more, and as Mark was present, Juno seized the opportunity of
ascertaining, if possible, his real opinion of Helen Lennox, joking him
first about his having taken her to ride so soon, and insinuating that
he must have a _penchant_ for every new and pretty face.
“Then you think her pretty? You have called on her?” Mark replied, his
manner evincing so much pleasure that Juno bit her lip to keep down her
wrath, and flashing upon him her scornful eyes, replied: “Yes, Sybil and
Bell insisted that I should. Of myself I would never have done it, for I
have now more acquaintances than I can attend to, and do not care to
increase the list. Besides that, I do not imagine that Miss Lennox can
in any way add to my happiness, brought up as she has been among the
woods and hills, you know.”
“Yes, I have been there—to her home, I mean,” Mark rejoined, and Juno
continued:
“Only for a moment, though. You should have stayed, like Will, to
appreciate it fully. I wish you could hear him describe the feather beds
on which he slept—that is, describe them before he decided to take Katy;
for after that he was chary of his remarks, and the feathers by some
marvelous process were changed into hair, for what he knew or cared.”
Mark hesitated a moment, and then said, quietly:
“I have stayed there all night, and have tested that feather bed, but
found nothing disparaging to Helen, who was as much a lady in the
farm-house as here in the city.”
There was a look of withering scorn on Juno’s face as she replied,
“Pray, how long since you took to visiting Silverton so
frequently—becoming so familiar as to spend the night?”
There was no mistaking the jealousy which betrayed itself in every tone
of Juno’s voice as she stood before Mark, a fit picture of the enraged
goddess whose name she bore. Soon recollecting herself, however, she
changed her mode of attack, and said, laughingly,
“Seriously, though, this Miss Lennox seems a very nice girl, and is
admirably fitted, I think, for the position she is to fill—that of a
_country physician’s wife_,” and in the black eyes there was a wicked
sparkle as Juno saw that her meaning was readily understood, Mark
looking quickly at her, and asking if she referred to Dr. Grant.
“Certainly; I imagine that was settled as long ago as we met him in
Paris. Once I thought it might have been our Katy, but was mistaken. I
think the doctor and Miss Lennox well adapted to each other.”
There was for a moment a dull, heavy pain at Mark’s heart, caused by
that little item of information which made him so uncomfortable. On the
whole he did not doubt it, for everything he could recall of Morris had
a tendency to strengthen the belief. Nothing could be more probable,
thrown together as they had been, without other congenial society, and
nothing could be more suitable.
“They _are_ well matched,” Mark thought, as he walked listlessly through
Mrs. Reynolds’s parlors, seeing only one face, and _that_ the face of
Helen Lennox, with the lily in her hair, just as it looked when she tied
the apron about his neck and laughed at his appearance.
Helen was not the ideal which in his boyhood Mark had cherished of the
one who was to be his wife, for that was of a woman more like Juno, with
whom he had always been on the best of terms, giving her some reason for
believing herself the favored one; but ideals change as years go on, and
Helen Lennox had more attractions for him now than the most dashing
belle of his acquaintance.
“I do not believe I am in love with her,” he said to himself when, after
his return from Mrs. Reynolds’s he sat for a long time before the fire
in his dressing-room, cogitating upon what he had heard, and wondering
why it should affect him so much. “Of course I am not,” he continued,
feeling the necessity of reiterating the assertion by way of making
himself believe it. “She is not at all what I used to imagine the future
Mrs. Mark Ray to be. Half my friends would say she had no style, no
beauty, and perhaps she has not. Certainly she does not look just like
the ladies at Mrs. Reynolds’s to-night, but give her the same advantages
and she would surpass them all.”
And then Mark Ray went off into a reverie, in which he saw Helen Lennox
his wife, and with the aids by which he would surround her, rapidly
developing into as splendid a woman as little Katy Cameron, who did not
need to be developed, but took all hearts at once by that natural,
witching grace so much a part of herself. It was a very pleasant picture
which Mark painted upon the mental canvas; but there came a great blur
blotting out its brightness as he remembered Dr. Grant.
“But it shall not interfere with my being just as kind to her as before.
She will need some attendant here, and Wilford will be glad to shove her
off his hands. He is so infernal proud,” Mark said, and taking a fresh
cigar he finished his reverie with the magnanimous resolve that were
Helen a hundred times engaged she should be his especial care during her
sojourn in New York.