AUNT BETSY CONSULTS A LAWYER.
Aunt Betsy did not rest well after her return from the opera. Novelty
and excitement always kept her awake, and her mind was not wholly at
ease with regard to what she had done. Not that she really felt she had
committed a sin, except so far as the example might be bad, but she
feared the result, should it ever reach the Orthodox church at
Silverton.
“There’s no telling what Deacon Bannister would do—send a _subpœna_
after me, for what I know,” she thought, as she laid her tired head upon
her pillow and went off into a weary state, half way between sleep and
wakefulness, in which operas, play-actors, Katy in full dress, Helen and
Mark Ray, choruses, music by the orchestra, to which she had been guilty
of beating her foot, Deacon Bannister, and the whole offended
brotherhood, with constable and subpœnas, were pretty equally blended
together.
But with the daylight her fears subsided, and at the breakfast table she
was hardly less enthusiastic over the opera than Mattie herself,
averring, however, that “once would do her, and she had no wish to go
again.”
The sight of Katy had awakened all the olden intense love she had felt
for her darling, and she could not wait much longer without seeing her.
“Hannah and Lucy, and amongst ’em, advised me not to come,” she said to
Mrs. Tubbs, “and they hinted that I might not be wanted up there; but
now I’m here I shall go, if I don’t stay more than an hour.”
“Of course I should,” Mattie answered, herself anxious to stand beneath
Wilford Cameron’s roof, and see Mrs. Wilford at home. “She don’t look as
proud as Helen, and you are her aunt, her blood kin; why shouldn’t you
go there if you like?”
“I shall—I am going,” Aunt Betsy replied, feeling that to take Mattie
with her was not quite the thing, and not exactly knowing how to manage,
for the girl must of course pilot the way. “I’ll risk it and trust to
Providence,” was her final decision, and so after an early lunch she
started out with Mattie as her escort, suggesting that they visit
Wilford’s office first, and get that affair off her mind.
At this point Aunt Betsy began to look upon herself as a most hardened
wretch, wondering at the depths of iniquity to which she had fallen. The
opera was the least of her offences, for was she not harboring pride and
contriving how to be rid of ’Tilda Tubbs, as clever a girl as ever
lived, hoping that if she found Wilford he would see her home, and so
save ’Tilda the trouble? Play-houses, pride, vanity, subterfuges and
deceit—it was a long catalogue she would have to confess to Deacon
Bannister, if confess she did, and with a groan the conscience-smitten
woman followed her conductor along the streets, and at last into the
stage which took them to Wilford’s office.
Broadway was literally jammed that day, and the aid of two policemen was
required to extricate the bewildered countrywoman from the mass of
vehicles and horses’ heads, which took all her sense away. Trembling
like a leaf when Mattie explained that the “two nice men” who had
dragged her to the walk were police officers, and thinking again of the
subpœna, the frightened woman who had escaped such peril, followed up
the two flights of stairs and into Wilford’s office, where she sank
breathless into a chair, while Mark, not in the least surprised, greeted
her cordially, and very soon succeeded in getting her quiet, bowing so
graciously to Mattie when introduced that the poor girl dreamed of him
for many a night, and by day built castles of what might have been had
she been rich, instead of only ’Tilda Tubbs, whose home was on the
Bowery. Why need Aunt Betsy in her introduction have mentioned that
fact? Mattie thought, her cheeks burning scarlet; or why need she
afterwards speak of her as _’Tilda_, who was kind enough to come with
her to the office where she hoped to find Wilford? Poor Mattie, she knew
some things very well, but she had never yet conceived of the
immeasurable distance between herself and Mark Ray, who cared but little
whether her home were on the Bowery or on Murray Hill, after the first
sight which told him what she was.
“Mr. Cameron has just left the office and will not return to-day,” he
said to Aunt Betsy, asking if _he_ could assist her in any way, and
assuring her of his willingness to do so.
Aunt Betsy could talk with him better than with Wilford, and was about
to give him the story of the sheep-pasture, in detail, when, motioning
to a side door, he said, “Walk in here, please. You will not be liable
to so many interruptions.”
“Come, ’Tilda, it’s no privacy,” Aunt Betsy said; but _’Tilda_ felt
intuitively that she was not wanted, and rather haughtily declined,
amusing herself by the window, while Aunt Betsy in the private office
told her troubles to Mark Ray; and received in return the advice to let
the claimant go to law if he chose; he probably would make nothing by
it; even if he did, she would not sustain a heavy loss, according to her
own statement of the value of the land.
“If I could keep the sweet apple-try, I wouldn’t care,” Aunt Betsy said,
“for the rest ain’t worth a law-suit; though it’s my property, and I
have thought of _willing_ it to Helen, if she ever marries.”
Here was a temptation which Mark Ray could not resist. Ever since Mrs.
General Reynolds’s party Helen’s manner had puzzled him; but her shyness
only made him more in love than ever, while the rumor of her engagement
with Dr. Morris tormented him continually. Sometimes he believed it, and
sometimes he did not, wishing always that he knew for certain. Here then
was a chance for confirming his fears or for putting them at rest, and
blessing ’Tilda Tubbs for declining to enter his back office, he said in
reply to Aunt Betsy’s “If she ever marries”—“And of course she will. She
is engaged, I believe?”
“Engaged! _Who to?_ When? Strange she never writ, nor Katy neither,”
Aunt Betsy exclaimed, while Mark, raised to an ecstatic state, replied,
“I refer to Dr. Grant. Haven’t they been engaged for a long time past?”
“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 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 way.
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 gratitude 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 would
take her to his mother’s and keep her until the morrow, and perhaps
until she left for home; telling Helen, of course, and then suffering
her to act accordingly.”
This he proposed to his client; assuring 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 up town in a
Twenty-third Street stage, with Mark Ray her _vis-à-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 brown-stone 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 round for it at once. Your number,
please?”
His manner was so off hand and yet; so polite that Mattie could neither
resist him, nor be angry, though there was a pang 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?”
With a good-bye 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 the truth,” was his rapid decision, and assuming 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, condemning herself for the feeling of
homesickness with which she remembered the Bowery, and 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
_cap-box_, 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 Mr. Tubbses. 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
assertion 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 was better in her own room, and as it was in
readiness, Mark 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 ejaculations of surprise 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
up stairs, 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 scrape,” he answered, coming up to her with the
saucy, winning smile she could never resist, and continuing, “To begin
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 who 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, at
that very moment an occupant of their best guest-chamber, 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 what a savage Wilford would be if he found her
there. 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 generous acts towards the old lady overhead, who was
standing by the window, and wondering what the huge building could be
gleaming so white in the fading sunlight.
“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 cap-box, with a note from
Mattie, had by this time arrived, and in her Sunday cap, with the purple
bows, Aunt Betsy felt better, and enjoyed the tempting little supper,
served on silver and Sèvres china, the attendant waiting in the hall
instead of in her room, where her presence might embarrass one
unaccustomed to such usages. They were very kind, and had Mark been her
own son he 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 not to say
all she thought, and merely remarked that Katy had some diamonds too,
which she presumed cost full 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,” and with a good-bye 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 first came
to New York, and he met her at the depot.