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Helen anticipated, the young ladies of the town, her most intimate
friends and former school-mates, came in a body that afternoon to see
her. The reception formally opened in the great parlor down-stairs,
but it was not many minutes before they all found themselves in Helen's
chamber fluttering about and chattering like doves in their spring
plumage.
“There's no use putting it off longer,” Ida Tarpley, Helen's cousin,
laughed; “they are all bent on seeing your _things_, and they will
simply spend the night here if you don't get them out.”
“Oh, I think that would look so vain and silly in me,” Helen protested,
her color rising. “I don't like to exhibit my wardrobe as if I were a
dressmaker, or a society woman who is hard up and trying to dispose of
them.”
“The idea of your not doing it, dear,” Mary King, a little blonde, said,
“when not one of us has seen a decent dress or hat since the summer
visitors went away last fall.”
“Leave it to me,” Ida Tarpley laughed. “You girls get off the bed. I
want something to lay them on. If it were only evening I'd make her
put on that gown she wore at the Governor's ball. You remember what the
_Constitution's_ society reporter said about it. He said it was a poet's
dream. If I ever get one it will be _in_ a dream. You must really wear
it to your dance, Helen.”
“_My_ dance?” Helen said, in surprise.
“Oh, I hope I'm not telling secrets,” Ida said; “but I met Keith Gordon
and Bob Smith in town as I came on. They had a list and were taking
subscriptions from all the young men. They had already enough put down
to buy a house and lot. They say they are going to give you the swellest
dance that was eyer heard of. Bob said that it simply had to surpass
anything you'd been to in Augusta or Atlanta. Expense is not to be
considered. The finest band in Chattanooga has already been engaged;
the refreshments are to be brought from there by a caterer and a dozen
expert waiters. A carload of flowers have been ordered. It is to open
with a grand march.” Ida swung her hands and body comically to and fro
as if in the cake walk, and bowed low. “Nobody is to be allowed to dance
with you who hasn't an evening suit on, and _then_ only once. They are
all crazy about you, Helen. I never could understand it. I've tried to
copy the look you have in the eyes hundreds of times, but it won't have
the slightest effect.”
“There's only one explanation of it,” Miss Wimberley, another girl,
remarked; “it is simply because she really likes them all.”
“Well, I really do, as for that,” Helen said; “and I think it is awfully
nice of them to give me such a dance. It's enough to turn a girl's head.
Well, if Ida really is going to pull out my things, I'll go down-stairs
and make you a lemonade.”
Later in the afternoon the young ladies had all gone except Ida Tarpley,
who lingered with Helen on the veranda.
“I'm glad the girls didn't have the bad taste to embarrass you by
questioning you about Mr. Sanders,” Ida said. “Of course, it is all over
town. Uncle spoke of the possibility of it to some one and that put
it afloat. I'm anxious to see him, Helen. I know he must be
nice--everything, in fact, that a man ought to be, for you always had
high ideals.”
Helen flushed almost angrily, and she drew herself erect and stood quite
rigid, looking at her cousin.
“Ida,” she said, “I don't like what you have just said.”
“Oh, dearest, I'm sorry, but I thought--”
“That's the trouble about a small town,” Helen went on. “People take
such liberties with you, and about the most delicate things. Down in
Augusta my friends never would think of saying I was actually engaged
to a man till it was announced. But here at home it is in every mouth
before they have even seen the gentleman in question.”
“But you really have been receiving constant attentions from Mr. Sanders
for more than a year, haven't you, dear?” Miss Tarpley asked, blandly.
“Yes, but what of that?” Helen retorted. “He and I are splendid friends.
He has been very kind and thoughtful of my comfort, and I like him. He
is noble, sincere, and good. He extended the sweetest sympathy to me
when I went down there under my great grief, and I never can forget it,
but, nevertheless, Ida, I have not promised to marry him.”
“Oh, I see, it is not actually settled yet,” Miss Tarpley said. “Well,
I'm glad. I'm very, very glad.”
“You are glad?” Helen said, wonderingly.
“Yes, I am. I'm glad because I don't want you to go away off down there
and marry a stranger to us. I really hope something will break it up. I
know Mr. Sanders must be awfully fond of you--any man would be who had
a ghost of a chance of winning you--and I know your aunt has been doing
all in her power to bring the match about--but I understand you, dear,
and I am afraid you would not be happy.”
“Why do you say that so--so positively?” Helen asked, coldly.
“Because,” Ida said, impulsively, “I don't believe a girl of your
disposition ever could love in the right way more than once, and--”
“And what?” Helen demanded, her proud lips compressed, her eyes flashing
defiantly.
“Well, I may be wrong, dear,” Miss Tarpley went on, “but if you were not
actually in love before you went to Augusta, you were very near it.”
“How absurd!” Helen exclaimed, with a little angry toss of her head.
“Do you remember the night our set drove out to the Henderson party? I
went with Mr. Garner and Carson Dwight took you? Oh, Helen, I met you
and Carson walking together in the moonlight that evening under the
apple-trees in the old meadow, and if ever a pair of human beings really
loved each other you two must have done so that night. I saw it in his
happy, triumphant face, and in the fact, Helen dear, that you allowed
him to be with you so much, when you knew other admirers were waiting to
see you.”
Helen looked down; her face was clouded over, her proud lip twitched.
“Ida,” she said, tremulously, “I don't want you ever again to mention
Carson Dwight's name to me in--in that way. You have no right to.”
“Yes, I have,” Ida protested, firmly. “I have the right as a loyal
friend to the best, most suffering, and noblest young man I ever knew. I
read you like a book, dear. You really cared very, very much for Carson
once, but after your great loss you never thought the same of him
again.”
“No, nor I never shall,” Helen said, firmly. “I admire him and shall
treat him as a good friend when we meet, but that will be the end of it.
Whether I cared for him or not, as girls care for young men, is neither
here nor there. It is over with.”
“And all simply because he was a little wild at the time your poor
brother--”
“Stop!” Helen said; “don't argue the matter. I can only now associate
him with the darkest hour of my life. I'm tempted to tell you something,
Ida,” and Helen bowed her head for a moment, and then went on in an
unsteady voice. “When my poor brother's trunk was brought home, it was
my duty to put the things it contained in order. There I found some
letters to him, and one dated only two days before Albert's death was
from--from Carson Dwight. I read only a portion of it, but it revealed a
page in poor Albert's life that I had never read--never dreamed could be
possible.”
“But Carson,” Ida Tarpley exclaimed; “what did _he_ have to do with
that?”
Helen swallowed the lump in her throat, and with a cold, steely gleam in
her eyes she said, bitterly: “He could have held out his hand with the
superior strength you think he has and drawn the poor boy back from the
brink, but he didn't. The words he wrote about it were light, flippant,
and heartless. He treated the whole awful situation as a joke, as if--as
if he _himself_ were familiar with such unmentionable things.”
“Ah, I begin to understand it all now!” Ida sighed. “That letter,
coupled with Cousin Albert's awful death, was such a terrible shock that
you cannot feel the same towards Carson. But oh, Helen, you would pity
him if you knew him now as I do. He has never altered in his feelings
towards you. In fact, it seems to me that he loves you even more deeply
than ever. And, dear, if you had seen his patient efforts to make a
better man of himself you'd not harbor such thoughts against him. You
will understand Carson some day, but it may then be too late. I don't
believe a woman ever has a real sweetheart but once. You may marry the
man your aunt wants you to take, but your heart will some day turn back
to the other. You will remember, too, and bitterly, that you condemned
him for a youthful fault which you ought to have pardoned.”
“Do you think so, Ida?” Helen asked, her soft, brown eyes averted.
“Yes, and you'll remember, too, that while his other friends were trying
to help him stick to his resolutions you turned against him. He's going
to make a great and good man, Helen. I've known that for some time. He
is having his troubles, but even they will help him to be stronger
in the end. His greatest trial is going on right now, while folks are
saying that you are going to marry another man. Pshaw! you may say what
you like about Mr. Sanders' good qualities, but I know I shall not
like him,” concluded Ida, with a smile, as she turned to go. “He is a
usurper, and I'm dead against him.”
Helen remained on the veranda after her cousin had left till the
twilight gathered about her. She was about to go in, as it was near
tea-time, when she heard a grumbling voice down the street and saw old
Uncle Lewis returning from town, driving his son, the troublesome Peter,
before him.
“You go right thoo dat gate on back ter dat house, you black imp er
'straction!” he thundered, “er I'll tek er boa'd en lambast de life
out'n you. Here it is night-time en you ain't chop no stove-wood fer
de big house kitchen, en been lyin' roun' dem cotton wagons raisin' mo'
rows wid dem mountain white men.”
“What's the matter, Uncle Lewis?” Helen asked, as the boy sulkily passed
round the corner of the house and the old man, out of breath, paused at
the steps.
“Oh, Missy, you don't know what me'n' Mam' Lindy got to bear up under. We
don't know how ter manage dat boy. Lindy right now is out'n 'er head
wid worry. Buck Black come tol' us 'bout an hour ago dat Pete en some mo'
triflin' niggers was down at de warehouse sassin' some mountain white
men. Buck heard Pete say dat Johnson en his gang couldn't whip him ergin
dout gittin' in trouble, en dey was in er inch of er big row when de
marshal busted it up. Buck ain't no fool, fer a black man, Missy, en
he told me'n' Lindy ef we don't manage ter git Pete out'n de company he
keeps dat dem white men will sho string 'im up.”
“Yes, something has to be done, that's plain,” said Helen,
sympathetically. “I know Mam' Linda must be worrying, and I'll go down
to see her this evening. It doesn't seem to me that a town like this is
best for a boy like Pete. I'll speak to father about it, Uncle Lewis. It
won't do to have Mammy bothered like this. It will kill her. She is not
strong enough to stand it.”
“Oh, Missy,” the old man said, “I wish you would try ter do some'n'.
Me'n' Lindy is sho at de end er our rope.”
“Well, I promise you I'll do all I can, Uncle Lewis,” Helen said, and,
much relieved, the old negro trudged homeward.