THE DINNER PARTY.
It was a very select party which Wilford Cameron entertained that
evening; and as the carriages rolled to his door and deposited the
guests, the cloud which had been lifting ever since he came home and
found “no Barlow woman” there, disappeared, leaving him the blandest,
most urbane of hosts, pleased with everybody—himself, his guests, his
sister-in-law, and his wife, who had never looked better than she did
to-night, in pearls and light blue silk, which harmonized so perfectly
with her wax-like complexion. Aunt Betsy’s proximity was wholly
unsuspected, both by her and Helen, who was very handsome, in crimson
and black, with lilies in her hair. Nothing could please Mark better
than his seat at table, where he could look into her eyes, which dropped
so shyly whenever they met his gaze. Helen was beginning to doubt the
story of his engagement with Juno. Certainly she could not mistake the
nature of the attentions he paid to her, especially to-night, when he
hovered continually near her, totally ignoring Juno’s presence, and
conscious apparently of only one form, one face, and that the face and
form of Helen Lennox.
There was another, too, who felt the influence of Helen’s beauty, and
that was Lieutenant Bob, who, after dinner, attached himself to her
side, while around them gathered quite a group, all listening with peals
of laughter as Bob related his adventure of two days before, with “the
most rustic and charming old lady it was ever his fortune to meet.” Told
by Bob the story lost nothing of its freshness; for every particular,
except indeed the kindness he had shown her, was related, even to the
_sheep-pasture_, about which she was going to New York to consult a
lawyer.
“I thought once of referring her to you, Mr. Cameron,” Bob said; “but
couldn’t find it in my heart to quiz her, she was so wholly
unsuspicious. You have not seen her, have you?”
“No,” came faintly from the lips which tried to smile; but 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 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 her 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’s 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 an 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 circumstanced, 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 circumstances. 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 would 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 over night, 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 the 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 glasses
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. God 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 china ware. But I’ve larnt a lesson,” and
the philosophic old 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—aye, 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.
Assured, 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 passage 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 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 direct 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, who ought to be shut up in an 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.” Then she told 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 attend 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 a half hour had passed, Aunt Betsy, with her satchel,
umbrella, and cap-box, 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 to the Bowery to say good-bye, 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’s;
and as the result of this suggestion, the carriage, when again it
emerged into Broadway, held Mattie Tubbs, 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,
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 passing Katy’s house.
“I dare say it’s all grand and smart,” Aunt Betsy said, as she leaned
out to look at it, “but I feel best at _hum_, where they are used to
me.”
And her face did wear 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-bye, and shook hands with Mattie Tubbs, charging
her again never to let the folks in Silverton know that “Betsy Barlow
had been seen at a play-house.”
Slowly the cars moved away, and Helen was driven home, leaving Mattie
alone in her glory as she rolled down the Bowery, enjoying the éclat of
her position, but feeling a little chagrined at not meeting a single
acquaintance by whom to be envied and admired.
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, and Katy never knew what it was which for
many days made Wilford so nervous and uneasy, starting at every sudden
ring, going often to the window, and looking out into the street as if
expecting some one, 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 watching
Wilford, 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 vague conjecture.
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? Such things were not of rare
occurrence, and Wilford actually grew thin 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 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. Perhaps with Katy not won I might do
the same. Yes, on the whole, I thank you and Helen 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 gratitude
I feel like patronizing the entire Tubbs family.”
And so it was this flash of gratitude for a peril escaped which procured
for young _Tom Tubbs_ the situation of clerk in the office of Cameron &
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 and Ray.