“Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaay?
Proputty, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'em saay.
But I knawed a Quaaker feller as often 'as towd ma this:
'Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is!'”
Helen had much to do to keep her busy during the next few days. She
had in the first place to receive visits from nearly everybody in
Oakdale, for she was a general favorite in the town, and besides
that everyone was curious to see what effect the trip had had upon
her beauty and accomplishments. Then too, she had the unpacking of
an incredible number of trunks; it was true that Helen, having been
a favored boarder at an aristocratic seminary, was not in the habit
of doing anything troublesome herself, but she considered it
necessary to superintend the servant. Last of all there was a great
event at the house of her aunt, Mrs. Roberts, to be anticipated and
prepared for.
It has been said that the marriage of Mr. Davis had been a second
romance in that worthy man's career, he having had the fortune to
win the love of a daughter of a very wealthy family which lived near
Oakdale. The parents had of course been bitterly opposed to the
match, but the girl had had her way. Unfortunately, however, the
lovers, or at any rate the bride, having been without any real idea
of duty or sacrifice, the match had proved one of those that serve
to justify the opinions of people who are “sensible;” the young
wife, wearying of the lot she had chosen, had sunk into a state of
peevish discontent from which death came to relieve her.
Of this prodigal daughter Aunt Polly was the elder, and wiser,
sister. She had never ceased to urge upon the other, both before and
after marriage, the folly of her conduct, and had lived herself to
be a proof of her own more excellent sense, having married a wealthy
stockbroker who proved a good investment, trebling his own capital
and hers in a few years. Aunt Polly therefore had a fine home upon
Madison Avenue in New York, and a most aristocratic country-seat a
few miles from Oakdale, together with the privilege of frequenting
the best society in New York, and of choosing her friends amongst
the most wealthy in the neighborhood of the little town. This
superiority to her erring sister had probably been one of the causes
that had contributed to develop the most prominent trait in her
character--which is perhaps the most prominent trait of high society
in general--a complete satisfaction with the world she knew, and
what she knew about it, and the part she played in it. For the rest,
Aunt Polly was one of those bustling little women who rule the world
in almost everything, because the world finds it is too much trouble
to oppose them. She had assumed, and had generally succeeded in
having recognized, a complete superiority to Mr. Davis in her
knowledge about life, with the result that, as has been stated, the
education of the one child of the unfortunate marriage had been
managed by her.
When, therefore, Helen had come off the steamer, it had been Mrs.
Roberts who was there to meet her; and the arrangement announced was
that the girl was to have three days to spend with her father, and
was then to come for a week or two at her aunt's, who was just
opening her country home and who intended to invite a score of
people whom she considered, for reasons of her own, proper persons
for her niece to meet. Mrs. Roberts spoke very condescendingly
indeed of the company which Helen met at her father's, Mr. Davis
having his own opinions about the duty of a clergyman toward the
non-aristocratic members of his flock.
The arrangement, it is scarcely necessary to say, pleased Helen very
much indeed; the atmosphere of luxury and easy superiority which she
found at her aunt's was much to her taste, and she looked forward to
being a center of attraction there with the keenest delight. In the
meantime, however, she slaked her thirst for happiness just as well
at Oakdale, accepting with queenly grace the homage of all who came
to lay their presents at her feet. Sunday proved to be a day of
triumph, for all the town had come to church, and was as much
stirred by the glory of her singing as Arthur had predicted. After
the service everyone waited to tell her about it, and so she was
radiant indeed.
By Tuesday, however, all that had come to seem a trifling matter,
for that afternoon Aunt Polly was to come, and a new world was to be
opened for her conquest. Helen was amusing herself by sorting out
the motley collection of souvenirs and curios which she had brought
home to decorate her room, when she heard a carriage drive up at the
door, and a minute later heard the voice of Mrs. Roberts' footman in
the hall.
Mrs. Roberts herself did not alight, and Helen kept her waiting only
long enough to slip on her hat, and to bid her father a hurried
farewell. In a minute more she was in the carriage, and was being
borne in state down the main street of Oakdale.
“You are beautiful to-day, my dear,” said her aunt, beaming upon
her; “I hope you are all ready for your triumph.”
“I think so,” said Helen. “I've about seen everybody and everything
I wanted to at home; I've been wonderfully happy, Auntie.”
“That is right, my dear,” said Aunt Polly. “You have certainly every
cause to be, and you would be foolish not to make the most of it.
But I should think this town would seem a somewhat less important
place to you, after all that you have seen of the world.”
“Yes, it does a little,” laughed Helen, “but it seemed good to see
all the old people again.”
“Someone told me they saw Arthur here on Saturday,” said the other.
“Did you see _him?_”
“Oh, yes,” said Helen; “that's what he came for. You can fancy how
glad I was to meet him. I spent a couple of hours walking in the
woods with him.”
Mrs. Roberts' look of dismay may be imagined; it was far too great
for her to hide.
“Where is he now?” she asked, hastily.
“Oh, he has gone home,” said Helen; and she added, smiling, “he went
on Saturday afternoon, because he's writing a poem about
thunderstorms, and he wanted to study that one.”
The other was sufficiently convinced of the irresponsibility of
poets to be half uncertain whether Helen was joking or not; it was
very frequently difficult to tell, anyway, for Helen would look
serious and amuse herself by watching another person's mystification--a
trait of character which would have been intolerable in anyone less
fascinating than she.
Perhaps Aunt Polly thought something of that as she sat and watched
the girl. Aunt Polly was a little woman who looked as if she herself
might have once made some pretense to being a belle, but she was
very humble before Helen. “My dear,” she said, “every minute that I
watch you, I am astonished to see how wonderfully you have grown. Do
you know, Helen, you are glorious!”
“Yes,” said Helen, smiling delightedly. “Isn't it nice, Aunt Polly?
I'm so glad I'm beautiful.”
“You funny child,” laughed the other. “What a queer thing to say!”
“Am I not to know I am beautiful?” inquired Helen, looking at her
with open eyes. “Why, dear me! I can look at myself in the glass and
be just as happy as anyone else; I love everything beautiful.”
Aunt Polly beamed upon her. “I am glad of it, my dear,” she laughed.
“I only wish I could say something to you to make you realize what
your wonderful beauty means.”
“How, Aunt Polly?” asked the girl. “Have you been reading poetry?”
“No,” said the other, “not exactly; but you know very well in your
heart what hopes I have for you, Helen, and I only wish you could
appreciate the gift that has been given you, and not fling it away
in any foolish fashion. With your talents and your education, my
dear, there is almost nothing that you might not do.”
“Yes,” said Helen, with all of her seriousness, “I often think of
it; perhaps, Auntie, I might become a poetess!”
The other looked aghast. Helen had seen the look on her aunt's face
at the mention of her walk with Arthur, and being a young lady of
electrical wit, had understood just what it meant, and just how the
rest of the conversation was intended to bear upon the matter; with
that advantage she was quite in her glory.
“No, indeed, Aunt Polly,” she said, “you can never tell; just
suppose, for instance, I were to fall in love with and marry a man
of wonderful genius, who would help me to devote myself to art? It
would not make any difference, you know, if he were poor--we could
struggle and help each other. And oh, I tell you, if I were to meet
such a man, and to know that he loved me truly, and to have proof
that he could remember me and be true to me, even when I was far
away, oh, I tell you, nothing could ever keep me--”
Helen was declaiming her glowing speech with real fervor, her hands
dramatically outstretched. But she could not get any further, for
the look of utter horror upon her auditor's face was too much for
her; she dropped her hands and made the air echo with her laughter.
“Oh, Aunt Polly, you goose!” she cried, flinging one arm about her,
“have you really forgotten me that much in three years?”
The other was so relieved at the happy denouement of that fearful
tragedy that she could only protest, “Helen, Helen, why do you fool
me so?”
“Because you fool me, or try to,” said Helen. “When you have a
sermon to preach on the impropriety of walking in the woods alone
with a susceptible young poet, I wish you'd mount formally into the
pulpit and begin with the text.”
“My dear,” laughed the other, “you are too quick; but I must
confess--”
“Of course you must,” said the girl; and she folded her hands meekly
and looked grave. “And now I am ready; and if you meet with any
difficulties in the course of your sermon, I've an expert at home
who has preached one hundred and four every year for twenty years,
all genuine and no two alike.”
“Helen,” said the other, “I do wish you would talk seriously with
me. You are old enough to be your own mistress now, and to do as you
please, but you ought to realize that I have seen the world more
than you, and that my advice is worth something.”
“Tell it to me,” said Helen, ceasing to laugh, and leaning back in
the carriage and gazing at her aunt. “What do you want me to do, now
that I am home? I will be really serious if you wish me to, for that
does interest me. I suppose that my education is finished?”
“Yes,” said the other, “it ought to be, certainly; you have had
every advantage that a girl can have, a great deal more than I ever
had. And you owe it all to me, Helen,--you do, really; if it hadn't
been for my insisting you'd have gotten all your education at
Hilltown, and you'd have played the piano and sung like Mary Nelson
across the way.”
Helen shuddered, and felt that that was cause indeed for gratitude.
“It is true,” said her aunt; “I've taken as much interest in you as
in any one of my own children, and you must know it. It was for no
reason at all but that I saw what a wonderful woman you promised to
become, and I was anxious to help you to the social position that I
thought you ought to have. And now, Helen, the chance is yours if
you care to take it.”
“I am taking it, am I not?” asked Helen; “I'm going with you, and I
shall be just as charming as I can.”
“Yes, I know,” said the other, smiling a little; “but that is not
exactly what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“Of course, my dear, you may enter good society a while by visiting
me; but that will not be permanently. You will have to marry into
it, Helen dear.”
“Marry!” echoed the girl, taken aback. “Dear me!”
“You will wish to marry some time,” said the other, “and so you
should look forward to it and choose your course. With your charms,
Helen, there is almost nothing that you might not hope for; you must
know yourself that you could make any man fall in love with you that
you wished. And you ought to know also that if you only had wealth
you could enter any society; for you have good birth, and you will
discover that you have more knowledge and more wit than most of the
people you meet.”
“I've discovered that already,” said Helen, laughing.
“All that you must do, my love,” went on the other, “is to realize
what is before you, and make up your mind to what you want. You know
that your tastes are not those of a poor woman; you have been
accustomed to comfort, and you need refinement and wealth; you could
never be happy unless you could entertain your friends properly, and
live as you pleased.”
“But I don't want to marry a man just for his money,” protested the
girl, not altogether pleased with her aunt's business-like view.
“No one wants you to,” the other responded; “you may marry for love
if you like; but it is not impossible to love a rich man, is it,
Helen?”
“But, Aunt Polly,” said Helen, “I am satisfied as I am now. I do not
want to marry anybody. The very idea makes me shudder.”
“I am not in the least anxious that you should,” was the answer.
“You are young, and you may choose your own time. All I am anxious
for is that you should realize the future that is before you. It is
dreadful to me to think that you might throw your precious chance
away by some ridiculous folly.”
Helen looked at her aunt for a moment, and then the irrepressible
smile broke out.
“What is the matter, child?” asked the other.
“Nothing, except that I was thinking about how these thoughts were
brought up.”
“How do you mean?”
“Apropos of my woodland walk with poor Arthur. Auntie, I do believe
you're afraid I'm going to fall in love with the dear fellow.”
“No,” said Aunt Polly; “it is not exactly that, for I'd never be
able to sleep at night if I thought you capable of anything quite so
ghastly. But we must have some care of what people will think, my
dear Helen.”
As a matter of fact, Aunt Polly did have some very serious fears
about the matter, as has been hinted before; it was, perhaps, a kind
of tribute to the divine fire which even society's leaders pay. If
it had been a question of a person of her own sense and experience,
the word “genius” would have suggested no danger to Mrs. Roberts,
but it was different with a young and probably sentimental person
like Helen, with her inflaming beauty.
“As a matter of fact, Aunt Polly,” said Helen, “everybody
understands my intimacy with Arthur.”
“Tell me, Helen dear,” said the other, turning her keen glance upon
her; “tell me the honest truth.”
“About what?”
“You are not in love with Arthur?”
And Helen answered her with her eyes very wide open: “No, I
certainly am not in the least.”
And the other drew secretly a great breath of relief. “Is he in love
with you, Helen?” she asked.
As Helen thought of Arthur's departure, the question could not but
bring a smile. “I--I'm afraid he is,” she said.--“a very little.”
“What a ridiculous impertinence!” exclaimed the other, indignantly.
“Oh, that's all right, Auntie,” said Helen; “he really can't help
it, you know.” She paused for a moment, and then she went on: “Such
things used to puzzle me when I was very young, and I used to think
them quite exciting; but I'm getting used to them now. All the men
seem to fall in love with me,--they do, honestly, and I don't know
how in the world to help it. They all will make themselves wretched,
and I'm sure it isn't my fault. I haven't told you anything about my
German lovers, have I, Auntie?”
“Gracious, no!” said the other; “were there any?”
“Any?” laughed the girl. “I might have robbed the Emperor of a whole
colonel's staff, and the colonel at the head of it. But I'll tell
you about Johann, the funniest one of all; I think he really loved
me more than all the rest.”
“Pray, who was Johann?” asked Aunt Polly, thinking how fortunate it
was that she learned of these things only after the danger was over.
“I never will forget the first time I met him,” laughed the girl,
“the first day I went to the school. Johann was a little boy who
opened the door for me, and he stared at me as if he were in a
trance; he had the most wonderful round eyes, and puffy red cheeks
that made me always think I'd happened to ring the bell while he was
eating; and every time after that he saw me for three years he used
to gaze at me in the same helpless wonder, with all lingers of his
fat little hands wide apart.”
“What a disagreeable wretch!” said the other.
“Not in the least,” laughed Helen; “I liked him. But the funniest
part came afterwards, for when I came away Johann had grown a whole
foot, and was quite a man. I sent for him to put the straps on my
trunks, and guess what he did! He stared at me for a minute, just
the same as ever, and then he ran out of the room, blubbering like a
baby; and that's the last I ever saw of him.”
Helen was laughing as she told the story, but then she stopped and
looked a little conscience-stricken. “Do you know, Aunt Polly,” she
said, “it is really a dreadful thing to make people unhappy like
that; I suppose poor Johann had spent three whole years dreaming
about the enchanted castle in which I was to be fairy princess.”
“It was a good chance for a romantic marriage,” said the other.
“Yes,” said the girl, laughing again; “I tried to fancy it. He'd
have kept a Wirthshaus, I suppose, and I'd have served the guests;
and Arthur might have come, and I'd have cut Butterbrod for him and
he could have been my Werther! Wouldn't Arthur have made a fine
Werther, though, Aunt Polly?”
“And blown his brains out afterwards,” added the other.
“No,” said Helen, “brains are too scarce; I'd rather have him follow
Goethe's example and write a book about it instead. You know I don't
believe half the things these poets tell you, for I think they put
themselves through their dreadful experiences just to tell about
them and make themselves famous. Don't you believe that, Auntie?”
“I don't know,” said the other (a statement which she seldom made).
“I don't know much about such things. Nobody reads poetry any more,
you know, Helen, and it doesn't really help one along very much.”
“It doesn't do any harm, does it?” inquired the girl, smiling to
herself, “just a little, once in a while?”
“Oh, no, of course not,” said the other; “I believe that a woman
ought to have a broad education, for she never knows what may be the
whims of the men she meets, or what turn a conversation may take.
All I'm afraid of, Helen, is that if you fill your mind with
sentimental ideas you might be so silly as to fancy that you were
doing something romantic in throwing your one great chance away upon
some worthless nobody. I want you to realize what you are, Helen,
and that you owe something to yourself, and to your family, too; for
the Roberts have always had wealth and position until your mother
chose to marry a poor man. What I warn you of now is exactly what I
warned her of. Your father is a good man, but he had absolutely
nothing to make your mother happy; she was cut off from everything
she had been used to,--she could not even keep a carriage. And of
course she could not receive her old friends, very few of them cared
to have anything more to do with her, and so she simply pined away
in discontentment and miserable poverty. You have had an easy life,
Helen, and you have no idea of what a horrible thing it is to be
poor; you have had the best of teachers, and you have lived at an
expensive school, and of course you have always had me to rely upon
to introduce you to the right people; but if you married a poor man
you couldn't expect to keep any of those advantages. I don't speak
of your marrying a man who had no money at all, for that would be
too fearful to talk about; but suppose you were to take any one of
the young men you might meet at Oakdale even, you'd have to live in
a mean little house, and do with one or two servants, and worry
yourself about the butcher's bills and brush your own dresses and
drive your own horse. And how long do you suppose it would be before
you repented of that? Think of having to be like those poor Masons,
for instance; they are nice people, and I like them, but I hate to
go there, for every time I can't help seeing that the parlor
furniture is more dingy, and thinking how miserable they must be,
not to be able to buy new things. And their servants' liveries are
half worn too; and when you dine there you see that Mrs. Mason is
eating with a plated fork, because she has not enough of her best
silver to go around. All those things are trifles, Helen, but think
of the worry they must give those poor people, who are pinching
themselves and wearing themselves out soul and body, trying to keep
in the station where they belong, or used to. Poor Mrs. Mason is
pale and nervous and wrinkled at forty, and those three poor girls,
who spend their time making over their old dresses, are so
dowdy-looking and uneasy that no man ever glances at them twice.
It is such misery as that which I dread for you, Helen, and why I am
talking to you. There is no reason why you should take upon you such
sorrows; you have a clear head, and you can think for yourself and
make up your mind about things if you only won't blind yourself by
foolish sentimentality. You have been brought up to a certain
station in life, and no man has a right to offer himself to you
unless he can maintain you in that station. There is really no
scarcity of such men, Helen, and you'd have no trouble in finding
one. There are hundreds of men in New York who are worth millions,
and who would fling themselves and their wealth at your feet if you
would have them. And you would find such a difference between the
opportunities of pleasure and command that such a chance would give
you and the narrow life that you lead in this little town that you
would wonder how you could ever have been satisfied. It is difficult
for you to realize what I mean, my dear, because you have only a
schoolgirl's knowledge of life and its pleasures, but when you are
in the world, and have learned what power is, and what it means to
possess such beauty as yours, you will feel your heart swelling with
a new pleasure, and you will thank me for what I tell you. I have
figured a wonderful triumph for you, Helen, and it is time you knew
what is before you. Of what use is your beauty, if you do not carry
it into a wide enough sphere, where it can bring you the admiration
and homage you deserve? You need such a field, Helen, to discover
your own powers in; believe me, my dear, there is really a higher
ambition in the world than to be a country clergyman's daughter.”
“Is there any higher than being happy, Auntie?” asked Helen.
The importance of that observation was beyond the other's ken, as
indeed it was beyond Helen's also; she had thrown it out as a chance
remark.
“Mr. Roberts and I were talking about this last night,” went on Aunt
Polly, “and he told me that I ought to talk seriously to you about
it, and get you to realize what a golden future is before you. For
it is really true, Helen, as sure as you can trust what I know about
the world, that you can have absolutely anything that you want. That
is the long and short of the matter--anything that you want! And why
should you not have the very best that life can give you? Why should
you have to know that other people dwell in finer houses than yours,
and are free from cares that make you ill? Why should you have the
humiliation of being looked down upon and scorned by other people?
Are these other people more entitled to luxury than you, or more
able to enjoy it; or could anyone do it more honor than you? You are
beautiful beyond telling; you have every gift that a woman can ask
to complete enjoyment of life; you are perfect, Helen, you are
really perfect! You _must_ know that; you must say it to yourself
when you are alone, and know that your life ought to be a queenly
triumph. You have only to stretch out your arms and everything will
come to you; and there is really and truly no end to the happiness
you can taste.”
Helen was gazing at the other with real earnestness, and the words
were sinking deep into her soul, deeper than words generally sunk
there. She felt her cheeks burning, and her frame stirred by a new
emotion; she had seldom before thought of anything but the happiness
of the hour.
“Just think of it, my love,” continued Mrs. Roberts, “and know that
that is what your old auntie was thinking of when you were only a
little tiny girl, sitting upon her knee, and when you were so
beautiful that artists used to beg to have you pose for them. I
never said anything about it then, because you were too young to
understand these things; but now that you are to manage yourself, I
have been waiting for a chance to tell you, so that you may see what
a prize is yours if you are only wise. And if you wonder why I have
cared so much and thought so much of what might be yours, the only
reason I can give is that you are my niece, and that I felt that any
triumph you might win would be mine. I want you to win a higher
place in the world than mine, Helen; I never had such a gift as
yours.”
Helen was silent for a minute, deeply thoughtful.
“Tell me, Auntie,” she asked, “and is it really true, then, that a
woman is to train herself and grow beautiful and to have so much
trouble and money spent upon her--only for her marriage?”
“Why of course, Helen; what else can a woman do? Unless you have
money and a husband you cannot possibly hope to accomplish anything
in society. With your talents and your beauty you might go anywhere
and rule anywhere, but you have to have money before you can even
begin.”
“But where am I to meet such a rich man, Aunt Polly?” asked Helen.
“You know perfectly well where. Do you suppose that after I have
worried myself about you all this time I mean to desert you now,
when you are at the very climax of your glory, when you are all that
I ever dared dream of? My dear Helen, I am more interested in you
just now than in anything else in the world. I feel as a card player
feels when millions are at stake, and when he knows that he holds
the perfect hand.”
“That is very nice,” said Helen, laughing nervously. “But there is
always a chance of mistake.”
“There is none this time, Helen, for I am an old player, and I have
been picking and arranging my hand for long, long years; and you are
the hand, my love, and the greatest glory of it all must be yours.”
Helen's heart was throbbing still faster with excitement, as if she
were already tasting the wonderful triumph that was before her; her
aunt was watching her closely, noting how the blood was mounting to
her bright cheeks. The girl felt herself suddenly choking with her
pent up excitement, and she stretched out her arms with a strange
laugh.
“Auntie,” she said, “you tell me too much at once.”
The other had been marshaling her forces like a general during the
last few minutes, and she felt just then as if there were nothing
left but the rout. “All that I tell you, you may see for yourself,”
she said. “I don't ask you to take anything on my word, for you have
only to look in the glass and compare yourself with the women you
meet. You will find that all men will turn their eyes upon you when
you enter a room.”
Helen did not consider it necessary to debate that question. “You
have invited some rich man to meet me at your house?” she asked.
“I was going to say nothing to you about it at first,” said the
other, “and let you find out. But I thought afterwards that it would
be better to tell you, so that you could manage for yourself. I have
invited all the men whom Mr. Roberts and I thought it would be best
for you to meet.”
Helen gazed at her aunt silently for a moment, and then she broke
into a nervous laugh. “A regular exposition!” she said; “and you'll
bring them out one by one and put them through their paces, won't
you, Auntie? And have them labeled for comparison,--so that I can
tell just what stocks they own and how they stand on the 'Street'!
Do you remember the suitor in Moliere?--_'J'ai quinze mille livres
de rente; j'ai le corps sain; j'ai des beaux dents!_'”
It was a flash of Helen's old merriment, but it did not seem so
natural as usual, even to her. She forced herself to laugh, for she
was growing more and more excited and uneasy.
“My dear,” said Aunt Polly, “please do not begin making fun again.”
“But you must let me joke a little, Auntie,” said the girl. “I have
never been serious for so long before.”
“You ought to be serious about it, my dear.”
“I will,” said Helen. “I have really listened attentively; you must
tell me all about these rich men that I am to meet, and what I am to
do. I hope I am not the only girl.”
“Of course not,” was the response; “I would not do anything
ridiculous. I have invited a number of other girls--but they won't
trouble you in the least.”
“No,” said Helen. “I am not afraid of other girls; but what's to be
done? It's a sort of house-warming, I suppose?”
“Yes,” was the reply, “I suppose so, for I only came down last week
myself. I have asked about twenty people for a week or two; they all
know each other, more or less, so there won't be much formality. We
shall amuse ourselves with coaching and golf, and anything else we
please; and of course there will be plenty of music in the evening.”
Helen smiled at the significant tone of her aunt's voice. “Are the
people there now?” she asked.
“Those who live anywhere in the neighborhood are; most of the men
will be down on the afternoon train, in time for dinner.”
“And tell me who are the men, Auntie?”
“I'm afraid I won't have time,” said Mrs. Roberts, glancing out of
the carriage. “We are too near home. But I will tell you about one
of them, if you like.”
“The king-bee?” laughed Helen. “Is there a king-bee?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Roberts; “there is. At any rate, my husband and I
think he is, and we are anxious to see what you think. His name is
Gerald Harrison, and he comes from Cincinnati.”
“Oh, dear,” said Helen, “I hate to meet men from the West. He must
be a pork-packer, or something horrible.”
“No,” said the other, “he is a railroad president.”
“And why do you think he's the king-bee; is he very rich?”
“He is worth about ten million dollars,” said Aunt Polly.
Helen gazed at her wildly. “Ten million dollars!” she gasped.
“Yes,” said the other; “about that, probably a little more. Mr.
Roberts knows all about his affairs.”
Helen was staring into her aunt's face. “Tell me,” she asked, very
nervously indeed. “Tell me, honestly!”
“What?”
“Is that the man you are bringing me here to meet?”
“Yes, Helen,” said the other quietly.
The girl's hands were clasped tightly together just then. “Aunt
Polly,” she asked, “what kind of a man is he? I will not marry a bad
man!”
“A bad man, child? How ridiculous! Do you suppose I would ask you to
marry a bad man, if he owned all New York? I want you to be happy.
Mr. Harrison is a man who has made his own fortune, and he is a man
of tremendous energy. Everyone is obliged to respect him.”
“But he must be old, Auntie.”
“He is very young, Helen, only about forty.”
“Dear me,” said the girl, “I could never marry a man as old as
forty; and then, I'd have to go out West!”
“Mr. Harrison has come to New York to live,” was the other's reply.
“He has just bought a really magnificent country seat about ten
miles from here--the old Everson place, if you remember it; and he
is negotiating for a house near ours in the city. My husband and I
both agreed, Helen, that if you could make Mr. Harrison fall in love
with you it would be all that we could desire.”
“That is not the real problem,” Helen said, gazing out of the
carriage with a frightened look upon her face; “it is whether I can
fall in love with him. Aunt Polly, it is dreadful to me to think of
marrying; I don't want to marry! I don't care who the man is!”
“We'll see about that later on,” said the other, smiling
reassuringly, and at the same time putting her arm about the girl;
“there is no hurry, my love, and no one has the least thought of
asking you to do what you do not want to do. But a chance like this
does not come often to any girl, my dear. Mr. Harrison is in every
way a desirable man.”
“But he's stupid, Aunt Polly, I know he's stupid! All self-made men
are; they tell you about how they made themselves, and what
wonderful things they hare made!”
“You must of course not expect to find Mr. Harrison as cultured as
yourself, Helen,” was the reply; “his education has been that of the
world, and not of books. But nobody thinks less of a man for that in
the world; the most one can ask is that he does not make pretenses.
And he is very far from stupid, I assure you, or he would not have
been what he is.”
“I suppose not,” said Helen, weakly.
“And, besides,” observed Aunt Polly, laughing to cheer the girl up,
“I assure you it doesn't make any difference. My husband makes no
pretense to being a wit, or a musician, or anything like that; he's
just a plain, sensible man, but we get along as happily as you could
wish. We each of us go our own way, and understand each other
perfectly.”
“So I'm to marry a plain, sensible man?” asked the girl, apparently
not much comforted by the observation.
“A plain, sensible man with ten million dollars, my dear,” said Aunt
Polly, “who adores you and has nothing to do with his money but to
let you make yourself happy and glorious with it? But don't worry
yourself, my child, because the first thing for you to feel is that
if you don't like him you need not take him. It all rests upon you;
he won't be here till after the rest, till the evening train, so you
can have time to think it over and calculate whether ten million
dollars will buy anything you want.” And Mrs. Roberts laughed.
Then the carriage having passed within the gates of her home, she
kissed the girl upon her cheek. “By the way,” she added, “if you
want to meet a romantic person to offset Mr. Harrison, I'll tell you
about Mr. Howard. I haven't mentioned him, have I?”
“I never heard of him,” said Helen.
“It's a real romance,” said the other. “You didn't suppose that your
sensible old auntie could have a romance, did you?”
“Tell me about it,” laughed Helen.
The carriage was driving up the broad avenue that led to the Roberts
house; it was a drive of a minute or two, however, and so Aunt Polly
had time for a hasty explanation.
“It was over twenty years ago,” she said, “before your mother was
married, and when our family had a camp up in the Adirondacks; there
were only two others near us, and in each of them there was a young
man about my age. We three were great friends for three or four
years, but we've never seen each other since till a short while
ago.”
“And one of them is this man?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Roberts; “his name is David Howard; I met him quite
by accident the other day, and recognized him. He lives all alone,
in the winter in New York somewheres, and in the summer up at the
same place in the mountains; he's the most romantic man you ever
met, and I know you'll find him interesting. He's a poet, I fancy,
or a musician at any rate, and he's a very great scholar.”
“Is he rich too?” asked the girl, laughing.
“I fancy not,” was the reply, “but I can't tell; he lives very
plainly.”
“Aren't you afraid I'll fall in love with him, Auntie?”
“No,” said the other, smiling to herself; “I'm not worrying about
that.”
“Why not?”
“Wait till you see him, my dear,” was the reply; “if you choose him
for a husband I'll give my consent.”
“That sounds mysterious,” observed the girl, gazing at her aunt;
“tell me, is he here now?”
“Yes,” said Aunt Polly; “he's been here a day or two; but I don't
think you'll see him at dinner, because he has been feeling unwell
today; he may be down a while this evening, for I've been telling
him about you, and he's anxious to see you. You must be nice to him,
Helen, and try to feel as sorry for him as I do.”
“Sorry for him?” echoed the girl with a start.
“Yes, my dear, he is an invalid, with some very dreadful
affliction.”
And Helen stared at her aunt. “An affliction!” she cried. “Aunt
Polly, that is horrible! What in the world did you invite an invalid
for at this time, with all the other people? I _hate_ invalids!”
“I had asked him before,” was the apologetic reply, “and so I
couldn't help it. I had great difficulty in getting him to promise
to come anyway, for he's a very strange, solitary man. But I wanted
to have my little romance, and renew our acquaintance, and this was
the only time the third party could come.”
“Oh, the third one is here too?”
“He will be in a day or two.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Lieutenant Maynard, and he's in the navy; he's
stationed at Brooklyn just now, but he expects to get leave for a
while.”
“That is a little better,” Helen remarked, as the carriage was
drawing up in front of the great house. “I'd marry a naval officer.”
“No,” laughed Aunt Polly; “he leaves a wife and some children in
Brooklyn. We three are going to keep to ourselves and talk about old
times and what has happened to us since then, and so you young folks
will not be troubled by us.”
“I hope you will,” said the other, “for I can't ever be happy with
invalids.”
And there, as the carriage door was opened, the conversation ended
abruptly. When Helen had sprung out she found that there were six or
eight people upon the piazza, to whom the excitement of being
introduced drove from her mind for a time all thoughts which her
aunt's words had brought.