AUNT BETSY GOES ON A JOURNEY.
Just through the woods, where Uncle Ephraim was wont to exercise old
Whitey, was a narrow strip of land, extending from the highway to the
pond, and fertile in nothing except the huckleberry bushes, and the
rocky ledges over which a few sheep roamed, seeking for the short grass
and stunted herbs, which gave them a meagre sustenance. As a whole, it
was comparatively valueless, but to Aunt Betsy Barlow it was of great
importance, as it was—_her property_—the land on which she paid taxes
willingly—the real estate, the deed of which was lying undisturbed in
her hair trunk, where it had lain for years. Several dispositions the
good old lady had mentally made of this property, sometimes dividing it
equally between Helen and Katy, sometimes willing it all to the former,
and again, when she thought of Mark Ray, leaving the _interest_ of it to
some missionary society in which she was interested.
How, then, was the poor woman amazed and confounded when suddenly there
appeared a claimant to her property; not the whole, but a part, and that
part taking in the big sweet apple-tree and the very best of the berry
bushes, leaving her nothing but rocks and bogs, a pucker cherry-tree, a
patch of tansy, and one small tree, whose gnarly apples were not fit,
she said, to feed the pigs.
Of course she was indignant, and all the more so because the claimant
was prepared to prove that the line fence was not where it should be,
but ran into his own dominions for the width of two or three rods, a
fact he had just discovered by looking over a bundle of deeds, in which
the boundaries of his own farm were clearly defined.
In her distress, Aunt Betsy’s first thoughts were turned to _Wilford_ as
the man who could redress her wrongs, if any one, and a long letter was
written to him, in which her grievances were told in detail and his
advice solicited. Commencing with “My dear Wilford,” closing with “Your
respected ant,” sealed with a wafer, stamped with her thimble, and
directed bottom side up, it nevertheless found its way to No. ——
Broadway, and into Wilford’s hands. But with a frown and pish of
contempt he tossed it into the grate, and vain were all Aunt Betsy’s
inquiries as to whether there was any letter for her when Uncle Ephraim
came home from the office. Letters there were from Helen, and sometimes
one from Katy, but none from Wilford, and her days were passed in great
perplexity and distress, until another idea took possession of her mind.
She would go to New York herself! She had never traveled over half a
dozen miles in the cars, it was true, but it was time she had, and now
that she had a new bonnet and shawl, she could go to _York_ as well as
not!
Wholly useless were the expostulations of the family, for she would not
listen to them, nor believe that she would not be welcome at that house
on Madison Square, to which Mrs. Lennox had never been invited since
Katy was fairly settled in it. Much at first had been said of her
coming, and of the room she was to occupy; but all that had ceased, and
in the mother’s heart there had been a painful doubt as to the reason of
the silence, until Helen’s letters enlightened her, telling her it was
Wilford who had built so high a wall between Katy and her friends.
Far better than she used, did Mrs. Lennox understand her son-in-law, and
she shrank in horror from suffering her aunt to go where she would be so
serious an annoyance, frankly telling her the reason for her objections,
and asking if she wished to mortify the girls
At this Aunt Betsy took umbrage at once.
“She’d like to know what there was about her to mortify anybody? Wasn’t
her black silk dress made long and full, and the old pongee fixed into a
Balmoral, and hadn’t she a bran new cap with purple ribbon, and couldn’t
she travel in her delaine, and didn’t she wear hoops always now, except
at cleanin’ house times? Didn’t she _nuss_ both the girls, especially
Cather_ine_, carrying her in her arms one whole night when she had the
canker-rash, and everybody thought she’d die? And when she swallered
that tin whistle, didn’t she spat her on the back and swing her in the
air till she came to and blew the whistle clear across the room? Tell
her that Cather_ine_ would be ashamed! She knew better!”
Then, as a doubt began to cross her own mind as to Wilford’s readiness
to entertain her at his house, she continued,
“At any rate, the _Tubbses_, who moved from Silverton last fall, and who
are living in such style on the Bowery, wouldn’t be ashamed, and I can
stop with them at first, till I see how the land lies. They have invited
me to come, both Miss Tubbs and ’Tilda, and they are nice folks, who
belong to the Orthodox Church. Tom is in town now, and if I see him I
shall talk with him about it, even if I never go.”
Most devoutly did Mrs. Lennox and Aunt Hannah hope that Tom would return
to New York without honoring the farm-house with a call; but,
unfortunately for them, he came that very afternoon, and instead of
throwing obstacles in Aunt Betsy’s way, urged her warmly to make the
proposed visit.
“Mother would be so glad to see an old neighbor,” the honest youth said,
“for she did not know many folks in the city. _’Till_ had made some
flashy acquaintances, of whom he did not think much, and they kept a few
boarders, but nobody had called, and mother was lonesome. He wished Miss
Barlow would come; she would have no difficulty in finding them,” and on
a bit of paper he marked out the route of the Fourth Avenue cars, which
passed their door, and which Aunt Betsy would take after arriving at the
New Haven depot. “If he knew when she was coming, he would meet her,” he
said, but Aunt Betsy could not tell; she was not quite certain whether
she should go at all, she was so violently opposed.
Still she did not give it up entirely, and when, a few days after Tom’s
return to New York, there came a pressing invitation from the daughter
Matilda, or Mattie, as she signed herself, the fever again ran high, and
this time with but little hope of its abating.
“We shall be delighted, both mother and me,” Mattie wrote. “I will show
you all the lions of the city, and when you get tired of us you can go
up to Mrs. Cameron’s. I know exactly where they live, and have seen her
at the opera in full dress, looking like a queen.”
Over the last part of this letter Aunt Betsy pondered for some time.
“That as good an Orthodox as Miss Tubbs should let her girl go to the
opera, passed her. She had wondered at Helen’s going, but then, she was
a ’Piscopal, and them ’Piscopals had queer notions about usin’ the world
and abusin’ it.” Still, as Helen did _not_ attend the theatre, and _did_
attend the opera, there must be a difference between the two places, and
into the old lady’s heart there slowly crept the thought that possibly
_she_ might try the opera, too, if Tilda Tubbs would go, and promise
never to tell the folks at Silverton.
This settled, Aunt Betsy began to devise the best means of getting off
with the least opposition. Both Morris and her brother would be absent
from town during the next week, and she finally resolved to take that
opportunity for starting on her visit to New York, wisely concluding to
keep her own counsel until she was quite ready. Accordingly, on the very
day Morris and the deacon left Silverton, she announced her intention so
quietly and decidedly that further opposition was useless, and Mrs.
Lennox did what she could to make her aunt presentable. And Aunt Betsy
did look very respectable, in her dark delaine, with her hat and shawl,
both Morris’s gift, and both in very good taste. As for the black silk
and the new cap, they were carefully folded away, one in a box and the
other in a satchel she carried on her arm, and in one compartment of
which were sundry papers of fennel, caraway, and catnip, intended for
Katy’s baby, and which could be sent to it from New York. There was also
a package of dried plums and peaches for Katy herself, and a few cakes
of yeast of her own make, better than any they had in the city! Thus
equipped, she one morning took her seat in the Boston and New York
train, which carried her swiftly on towards Springfield.
“If anybody can find their way in New York, it is Betsy,” Aunt Hannah
said to Mrs. Lennox, as the day wore on and their thoughts went after
the lone woman, who, with satchel, umbrella and cap-box, was
felicitating in the luxury of a whole seat, and the near neighborhood of
a very nice young man, who listened with well-bred interest while she
told of her troubles concerning the sheep-pasture, and how she was going
to New York to consult a first-rate lawyer.
Once she thought to tell who the lawyer was, and perhaps enhance her own
merits in the eyes of her auditor by announcing herself as aunt to Mrs.
Wilford Cameron, of whom she had no doubt he had heard—nay, more, whom
he possibly knew, inasmuch as his home was in New York, though he spent
much of his time at West Point, where he had been educated. But certain
disagreeable remembrances of Aunt Hannah’s parting injunction, “not to
tell everybody in the cars that she was Katy’s aunt,” kept her silent on
that point, and so Lieutenant Bob Reynolds failed to be enlightened with
regard to the relationship existing between the fastidious Wilford
Cameron of Madison Square, and the quaint old lady whose very first act
on entering the car had amused him vastly. At a glance he saw that she
was unused to traveling, and as the car was crowded, he had kindly
offered his seat near the door, taking the side one under the window,
and so close to her that she gave him her cap-box to hold while she
adjusted her other bundles. This done, and herself comfortably settled,
she was just remaking that she liked being close to the door, in case of
a fire, when the conductor appeared, extending his hand officially
towards her as the first one convenient. For an instant Aunt Betsy
scanned him closely, thinking she surely had never seen him before, but
as he seemed to claim acquaintance, she could not find it in her kind
heart to ignore him altogether, and so she grasped the offered hand,
which she tried to shake, saying apologetically,
“Pretty well, thank you, but you’ve got the better of me, as I don’t
justly recall your name.”
Instantly the eyes of the young man under the window met those of the
conductor with a look which changed the frown gathering in the face of
the latter into a comical smile, as he withdrew his hand and shouted,
“Ticket, madam, your ticket!”
“For the land’s sake, have I got to give that up so quick, when it’s at
the bottom of my satchel,” Aunt Betsy replied, somewhat crest-fallen at
her mistake, and fumbling in her pocket for the key, which was finally
produced, and one by one the paper parcels of fennel, caraway, and
catnip, dried plums, peaches and yeast cakes, were taken out, until at
the very bottom, as she had said, the ticket was found, the conductor
waiting patiently, and advising her, by way of avoiding future trouble,
to pin the card to her shawl, where it could be seen.
“A right nice man,” was Aunt Betsy’s mental comment, but for a long time
there was a red spot on her cheeks as she felt that she had made herself
ridiculous, and hoped the _girls_ would never hear of it.
The young man helped to reassure her, and in telling him her troubles
she forgot her chagrin, feeling very sorry that he was going on to
Albany, and so down the river to West Point. West Point was associated
in Aunt Betsy’s mind with that handful of noble men who within the walls
of Sumter were then the centre of so much interest, and at parting with
her companion she said to him.
“Young man, you are a soldier, I take it, from your havin’ been to
school at West Point. Maybe you’ll never have to use your learning, but
if you do, stick to the old flag. Don’t you go against that, and if an
old woman’s prayers for your safety can do any good, be sure you’ll have
mine.”
She raised her hand reverently, and Lieutenant Bob felt a kind of awe
steal over him as if he might one day need that benediction, the first
perhaps given in the cause then so terribly agitating all hearts both
North and South.
“I’ll remember what you say,” he answered, and then as a new idea was
presented he took out a card, and writing a few lines upon it, bade her
hand it to the conductor just as she was getting into the city.
Without her glasses Aunt Betsy could not read, and thinking it did not
matter now, she thrust the card into her pocket, and bidding her
companion good-by, took her seat in the other train. Lonely and a very
little homesick she began to feel; for her new neighbors were not as
willing to talk as Bob had been, and she finally relapsed into silence,
which resulted in a quiet sleep, from which she awoke just as they were
entering the long, dark tunnel, which she would have likened to
Purgatory, had she believed in such a place.
“I didn’t know we ran into cellars,” she said faintly; but nobody heeded
her, or cared for the anxious timid-looking woman, who grew more and
more anxious, until suddenly remembering the card, she drew it from her
pocket, and the next time the conductor appeared handed it to him,
watching him while he read that “Lieut. Robert Reynolds would consider
it as a personal favor if he would see the bearer safely into the Fourth
Avenue cars.”
Surely there is a Providence which watches over all; and Lieutenant
Reynolds’s thoughtfulness was not a mere chance, but the answer to the
simple trust Aunt Betsy had that God would take her safely to New York.
The conductor knew Lieutenant Bob, and attended as faithfully to his
wishes as if it had been a born princess instead of Aunt Betsy Barlow
whom he led to a street car, ascertaining the number on the Bowery where
she wished to stop, and reporting to the conductor, who bowed in
acquiescence, after glancing at the woman, and knowing intuitively that
she was from the country. Could she have divested herself wholly of the
fear that the conductor would forget to put her off at the right place,
Aunt Betsy would have enjoyed that ride very much; and as it was, she
looked around with interest, thinking New York a mightily cluttered-up
place, and wondering if all the folks were in the streets; then, as a
lady in flaunting robes took a seat beside her, crowding her into a
narrow space, the good old dame thought to show that she did not resent
it, by an attempt at sociability, asking if she knew “Miss Peter Tubbs,
whose husband kept a store on the Bowery?”
“I have not that honor,” was the haughty reply, the lady drawing up her
costly shawl and moving a little away from her interlocutor, who
continued, “I thought like enough you might have seen ’Tilda, or Mattie
as she calls herself now. She is a right nice girl, and Tom is a very
forrard boy.”
To this there was no reply; and as the lady soon left the car, Aunt
Betsy did not make another attempt at conversation, except to ask once
how far they were from the Bowery, adding, as she received a civil
answer, “You don’t know Mr. Peter Tubbs?”
That worthy man was evidently a stranger to the occupants of that car,
which stopped at last upon a crossing, the conductor pointing back a few
doors to the right, and telling her that was her number.
“I should s’pose he might have driv right up, instead of leaving me
here,” she said, looking wistfully after the retreating car. “Coats, and
trowsers, and jackets! I wonder if there is nothing else to be seen
here,” she continued, as her eye caught the long line of clothing so
conspicuously displayed in that part of the Bowery. “’Taint no great
shakes,” was the feeling struggling into Aunt Betsy’s mind, as with
Tom’s outline map in hand she peered at the numbers of the doors,
finding the right one, and ringing the bell with a force which brought
Mattie at once to the rescue.
If Mattie was not glad to see her guest, she seemed to be, which
answered every purpose for the tired woman, who followed her into the
dark, narrow hall, and up the narrow stairs, through a still darker
hall, and into the front parlor, which looked out upon the Bowery.
Mrs. Tubbs was glad to see Aunt Betsy. She did not take kindly to city
life, and the sight of a familiar face, which brought the country with
it, was very welcome to her. Mattie, on the contrary, liked New York,
and there was scarcely a street where she had not been, with Tom for a
protector; while she was perfectly conversant with all the respectable
places of amusement—with their different prices and different grades of
patrons. She knew where Wilford Cameron’s office was, and also his
house, for she had walked by the latter many a time, admiring the
elegant curtains, and feasting her eyes upon the glimpses of inside
grandeur, which she occasionally obtained as some one came out or went
in. Once she had seen Helen and Katy enter their carriage, which the
colored coachman drove away, but she had never ventured to accost them.
Katy would not have known her if she had, for the family had come to
Silverton while she was at Canandaigua, and as, after her return to
Silverton, until her marriage, Mattie had been in one of the Lawrence
factories, they had never met. With Helen, however, she had a speaking
acquaintance; but she had never presumed upon it in New York, though to
some of her young friends she had told how she once sat in the same pew
with Mrs. Wilford Cameron’s sister when she went to the “Episcopal
meeting,” and the consideration which this fact procured for her from
those who had heard of Mrs. Wilford Cameron, of Madison Square, awoke in
her the ambition to know more of that lady, and, if possible, gain an
entrance to her dwelling. To this end she favored Aunt Betsy’s visit,
hoping thus to accomplish her object, for, of course, when Miss Barlow
went to Mrs. Cameron’s, she was the proper person to go with her and
point the way. This was the secret of Mattie’s letter to Aunt Betsy, and
the warmth with which she welcomed her to that tenement on the Bowery,
over a clothing store, and so small that it is not strange Aunt Betsy
wondered where they all slept, never dreaming of the many devices known
to city housekeepers, who can change a handsome parlor into a kitchen or
sleeping room, and _vice versa_, with little or no trouble. But she
found it out at last, lifting her hands in speechless amazement, when,
as the hour for retiring came, what she had imagined the parlor bookcase
was converted into a comfortable bed, on which her first night in New
York was passed in comfort if not in perfect quiet.
The next day had been set apart by Mattie for showing their guest the
city, and possibly calling on Mrs. Wilford; but the poor old lady,
unused to travel and excitement, was too tired to go out, and stayed at
home the entire day, watching the crowds of people in the street, and
occasionally wishing herself back in the clean, bright kitchen, where
the windows looked out upon woods and fields instead of that
never-ceasing rush which made her dizzy and faint. On the whole she was
as nearly homesick as she well could be, and so when Mattie asked if she
would like to go out that evening, she caught eagerly at the idea, as it
involved a change, and again the opera came before her mind, in spite of
her attempts to thrust it away.
“Did ’Tilda know if Katy went to the opera now? Did she s’pose she would
be there to-night? Was it far to the show? What was the price?—and was
it a very wicked place?”
To all these queries Mattie answered readily. She presumed Katy would be
there, as it was a new opera. It was not so very far. Distance in the
city was nothing, and it was not a wicked place; but over the price
Mattie faltered. Tickets for Aunt Betsy, herself and Tom, who of course
must go with them, would cost more than her father had to give. The
theatre was preferable, as that came within their means, and she
suggested Wallack’s, but from that Aunt Betsy recoiled as from
Pandemonium itself.
“Catch _her_ at a theatre—a deacon’s sister, looked up to for a sample,
and who run once for Vice-President of the Sewing Society in Silverton!
It was too terrible to think of.” But the opera seemed different. Helen
went there; it could not be very wrong, particularly as the tickets were
so high, and taking out her purse, Aunt Betsy counted its contents
carefully, holding the bills thoughtfully for a moment, while she seemed
to be balancing between what she knew was safe and what she feared might
be wrong, at least in the eyes of Silverton.
“But Silverton will never know it,” the tempter whispered, “and it is
worth something to see the girls in full dress.”
This last decided it, and Aunt Betsy generously offered “to pay the
fiddler, provided ’Tilda would never let it get to Silverton, that Betsy
Barlow was seen inside a play-house!” To Mrs. Tubbs it seemed impossible
that Aunt Betsy could be in earnest, but when she found she was, she put
no impediments in her way; and so, conspicuous among the crowd of
transient visitors who that night entered the Academy of Music was Aunt
Betsy Barlow, chaperoned by Miss Mattie Tubbs, and protected by Tom, a
shrewd, well-grown youth of seventeen, who passed for some years older,
and consequently was a sufficient escort for the ladies under his
charge. It was not his first visit there, and he managed to procure a
seat which commanded a good view of several private boxes, and among
them that of Wilford Cameron. This Mattie pointed out to the excited
woman gazing about her in a maze of bewilderment, and half doubting her
own identity with the Betsy Barlow who, six weeks before, if charged
with such a sin as she was now committing, would have exclaimed, “Is thy
servant a dog, to do this thing?” Yet here she was, a deacon’s sister, a
candidate for the Vice-Presidency of the Silverton Sewing Society, a
woman who, for sixty-three years and a half, had led a blameless life,
frowning upon all worldly amusements and setting herself for a burning
light to others—here she was in her black dress, her best shawl pinned
across her chest, and her bonnet tied in a square bow which reached
nearly to her ears. Here she was, in that huge building, where the
lights were so blinding, and the crowd so great that she shut her eyes
involuntarily, while she tried to realize what she could be doing.
“I’m in for it now, anyhow, and if it is wrong may the good Father
forgive me,” she said softly to herself, just as the orchestra struck
up, thrilling her with its ravishing strains, and making her forget all
else in her rapturous delight.
She was very fond of music, and listened eagerly, beating time with both
her feet, and making her bonnet go up and down until the play commenced
and she saw stage dress and stage effect for the first time in her life.
This part she did not like; “they mumbled their words so nobody could
understand more than if they spoke a heathenish tongue,” she thought,
and she was beginning to yawn when a nudge from Mattie and a whisper,
“There they come,” roused her from her stupor, and looking up she saw
both Helen and Katy entering their box, and with them Mark Ray and
Wilford Cameron.
Very rapidly Katy’s eyes swept the house, running over the sea of heads
below, but failing to see the figure which, half rising from its seat,
stood gazing upon her, the tears running like rain over the upturned
face, and the lips murmuring, “Darling Katy! blessed child! She’s
thinner than when I see her last, but oh! so beautiful and grand!
Precious lambkin! It isn’t wicked now for me to be coming here, where I
can see her face again.”
It was all in vain that Mattie pulled her dress, bidding her sit down as
people were staring at her. Aunt Betsy did not hear, and if she had she
would scarcely have cared for those who, following her eyes, saw the
beautiful young ladies, behind whom Wilford and Mark were standing, but
never dreamed of associating them with the “crazy thing” who sank back
at last into her seat, keeping her eyes still upon the box where Helen
and Katy sat, their heads uncovered, and their cloaks falling off just
enough to show the astonished woman that their necks were uncovered too,
while Helen’s arms, raised to adjust her glass, were discovered to be in
the same condition.
“Ain’t they splendid in full dress!” Mattie whispered, while Aunt Betsy
replied,
“Call that full dress? I’d sooner say it was no dress at all! They’ll
catch their death of cold. What would their mother say?”
Then, as the enormity of the act grew upon her, she continued more to
herself than to Mattie,
“I mistrusted Catherine, but that _Helen_ should come to this passes
me.”
Still, as she became more accustomed to it, and glanced at other
full-dressed ladies, the first shock passed away, and she could calmly
contemplate Katy’s dress, wondering what it cost, and then letting her
eyes pass on to Helen, to whom Mark Ray seemed so lover-like that Aunt
Betsy remembered her impressions when he stopped at Silverton, her heart
swelling with pride as she thought of both the girls making out so well.
“Who is that young man talking to Helen?” Mattie asked, between the
acts, and when told it “was Mr. Ray, Wilford’s partner,” she drew her
breath eagerly, and turned again to watch him, envying the young girl
who did not seem as much gratified with the attentions as Mattie fancied
she should be were she in Helen’s place.
How could she, with Juno Cameron just opposite, watching her jealously,
while Madam Cameron fanned herself indignantly, refusing to look upon
what she so greatly disapproved.
But Mark continued his attentions until Helen wished herself away, and
though a good deal surprised, was not sorry when Wilford abruptly
declared the opera a _bore_, and suggested going home.
They would order an ice, he said, and have a much pleasanter time in
their own private parlor.
“Please not go; I like the play to-night,” Katy said; but on Wilford’s
face there was that look which never consulted Katy’s wishes, and so the
two ladies tied on their cloaks, and just as the curtain rose in the
last act, left their box, while Aunt Betsy looked wistfully after them,
but did not suspect _she_ was the cause of their exit, and of Wilford’s
perturbation.
Running his eyes over the house below, they had fallen upon the trio,
Aunt Betsy, Mattie, and Tom, the first of whom was at that moment partly
standing, while she adjusted her heavy shawl, which the heat of the
building had compelled her to unfasten.
There was a start, a rush of blood to the head and face, and then he
reflected how impossible it was that _she_ should be _there_, in New
York, and at the opera, too.
The shawl arranged, Aunt Betsy took her seat and turned her face fully
toward him, while Wilford seized Katy’s glass and leveled it at her. He
was not mistaken. It was Aunt Betsy Barlow, and Wilford felt the
perspiration oozing out beneath his hair and about his lips, as he
remembered _the letter_ he had burned, wishing now that he had answered
it, and so, perhaps, have kept her from his door. For she _was_ coming
there, nay, possibly had come, since his departure from home, and
learning his whereabouts had followed on to the Academy of Music,
leaving her baggage where he should stumble over it on entering the
hall.
Such was the fearful picture conjured up by Wilford’s imagination, as he
stood watching poor Aunt Betsy, a dark cloud on his brow and fierce
anger at his heart, that she should thus presume to worry and annoy him.
“If she spies us she will be finding her way up here; there’s no piece
of effrontery of which that class is not capable,” he thought, wondering
next who the vulgar-looking girl and _gauche_ youth were who were with
her.
“Country cousins, of whom I have never heard, no doubt,” and he ground
his teeth together as with his next breath he suggested going home,
carrying out his suggestion and hurrying both Helen and Katy to the
carriage as if some horrible dragon had been on their track.
There was _no_ baggage in the hall; there had been no woman there, and
Wilford’s fears for a time subsided, but grew strong again about the
time he knew the opera was out, while the sound of wheels coming towards
his door was sufficient to make his heart stop beating, and every hair
prickle at its roots.
But Aunt Betsy did not come except in Wilford’s dreams, which she
haunted the entire night, so that the morning found him tired, moody and
cross. That day they entertained a select dinner party, and as this was
something in which Katy excelled, while Helen’s presence, instead of
detracting from, would add greatly to the éclat of the affair, Wilford
had anticipated it with no small degree of complacency. But now, alas,
there was a phantom at his side,—a skeleton of horror, wearing Aunt
Betsy’s guise; and if it had been possible he would have given the
dinner up. But it was too late for that; the guests were bidden, the
arrangements made, and there was nothing now for him but to abide the
consequences.
“She shall at least stay in her room, if I have to lock her in,” he
thought, as he went down to his office without kissing Katy or bidding
her good-by.
Business that day had no interest for him, and in a listless, absent way
he sat watching the passers-by and glancing at his door as if he
expected the first assault to be made there. Then, as the day wore on,
and he felt sure that what he so much dreaded had really come to pass,
that the baggage expected last night had certainly arrived by this time
and spread itself over his house, he could endure the suspense no
longer, and startled Mark with the announcement that he was going home,
and should not return again that day.
“Going home, when Leavit is to call at three!” Mark said, in much
surprise, and feeling that it would be a relief to unburden himself to
some one, the story came out that Wilford had seen Aunt Betsy at the
opera, and expected to find her at Madison Square.
“I wish I had answered her letter about that confounded sheep-pasture,”
he said, “for I would rather give a thousand dollars—yes, ten
thousand—than have her with us to-day. I did _not_ marry my wife’s
relations,” he continued, excitedly, adding, as Mark looked quickly up,
“Of course I don’t mean Helen. Neither do I mean that doctor, for he is
a gentleman. But this Barlow woman—oh! Mark, I am all of a dripping
sweat just to think of it.”
He did not say what he intended doing, but with Mark Ray’s ringing laugh
in his ears, passed into the street, and hailing a stage was driven
towards home, just as a down town stage deposited on the walk in front
of his office “that Barlow woman” and Mattie Tubbs!