MARK RAY AT SILVERTON.
The last day of summer was dying out in a fierce storm of rain which
swept in sheets across the Silverton hills, hiding the pond from
view, and beating the windows of the farmhouse, whose inmates were
nevertheless unmindful of the storm save as they hoped the morrow would
prove bright and fair, such as the day should be which brought them back
their Katy. Nearly worn out with constant reference was her letter, the
mother catching it up from time to time to read the part referring to
herself, the place where Katy had told how blessed it would be "to rest
again on mother's bed," just as she had often wished to do, "and hear
mother's voice;" the deacon spelling out by his spluttering tallow
candle, with its long, smoky wick, what she had said of "darling old
Uncle Eph," and the rides into the fields which she should have with
him; Aunt Betsy, too, reading mostly from memory the words: "Good old
Aunt Betsy, with her skirts so limp and short, tell her she will look
handsomer to me than the fairest belle at Newport;" and as often as Aunt
Betsy read it she would ejaculate: "The land! what kind of company must
the child have kept?" wondering next if Helen had never written of the
hoop, for which she had paid a dollar, and which was carefully hung in
her closet, waiting for the event of to-morrow, while the hem of her
pongee had been let down and one breadth added to accommodate the hoop.
On the whole, Aunt Betsy expected to make a stylish appearance before
the little lady of whom she stood slightly in awe, always speaking of
her to the neighbors as "My niece, Miss Cameron, from New York," and
taking good care to report what she had heard of "Miss Cameron's" costly
dress and the grandeur of her house, where the furniture of the best
chamber cost over fifteen hundred dollars.
"What could it be--gold?" Aunt Betsy had asked in her simplicity,
feeling an increased respect for Katy, and consenting the more readily
to the change in her pongee, as suggested to her by Helen.
But that was for to-morrow when Katy came; to-night she only wore a
dotted brown, whose hem just reached the top of her "bootees," as she
stood by the window, wondering, first, if the rain would ever stop, and
wondering, secondly, where all them fish worms, squirming on the grass
by the back door, did come from. Needn't tell her they crawled out of
the ground; she knew better--they rained from the clouds, though she
should s'pose that somebody would sometime have catched one on their
bunnet or umberill. Dammed if she didn't mean to stand out o' doors some
day till she was wet to the skin, and see what would come, and having
thus settled a way by which to decide the only question, except that of
the "'Piscopal Church and its quirks," on which she was still obstinate,
Aunt Betsy went to strain the milk just brought by Uncle Ephraim, while
Helen took her position near the window, looking drearily out upon the
leaden clouds, and hoping it would brighten before the morrow. Like the
others, Helen had read Katy's letter many times, dwelling longest upon
the part which said: "I have been so bad, so frivolous and wicked here
at Newport, that it will be a relief to make you my confessor,
depending, as I do, upon your love to grant me absolution."
From a family at Silverton, who had spent a few days at a private house
in Newport, Helen had heard something of her sister's life; the lady had
seen her once driving a tandem team, or as Aunt Betsy had it, "driving
tanterum," down the avenue, with Wilford at her side giving her
instructions. Since then there had been some anxiety felt for her at the
farmhouse, and more than Dr. Grant had prayed that she might be kept
unspotted from the world; but when her letter came, so full of love and
self-reproaches, the burden was lifted, and there was nothing to mar
the anticipations of the events for which they had made so many
preparations, Uncle Ephraim going to the expense of buying at auction a
half-worn, covered buggy, which he fancied would suit Katy better than
the corn-colored wagon in which Katy used to ride. To pay for this the
deacon had parted with the money set aside for the "greatcoat" he so
much needed for the coming winter, his old gray one having done him
service for fifteen years. But his comfort was nothing compared with
Katy's happiness, and so, with his wrinkled face beaming with delight,
he had brought home his buggy, which he designated a carriage, putting
it carefully in the barn, and saying no one should ride in it till
Katy came, the corn-color was good enough for them, but Katy was
different--Katy was Mrs. Cameron, and used to something better. With
untiring patience the old man mended up his harness, for what he had
heard of Katy's driving had impressed him strongly with her powers of
horsemanship, and, truth to tell, raised her somewhat in his respect.
Could he have afforded it Uncle Ephraim in his younger days would have
been a horse jockey, and even now he liked nothing better than to make
Old Whitey run when alone in the strip of woods between the house and
the head of the pond.
"Katy inherits her love of horses from me," he said, complacently, and
with a view of improving Whitey's style and metal, he took to feeding
him on corn and oats, talking to him at times, and telling him who was
coming.
Dear, simple-hearted Uncle Ephraim, the days which he must wait seemed
long to him as they did to the female portion of his family, to Mrs.
Lennox, Aunt Hannah and Aunt Betsy, who each did what she could to make
the house attractive. They were ready for Katy at last, or could be
early on the morrow, and with the shutting in of night the candles were
lighted in the sitting-room, and Helen sat down to her work, wishing it
was to-night that Katy was coming. As if in answer to her wish there was
the sound of wheels, which stopped before the house, and dropping her
work, Helen ran quickly to the door, just as from under the dripping
umbrella held by a driver boy, a tall young man, sprang upon the step,
nearly upsetting her, but passing an arm around her shoulders in time to
keep her from falling.
"I beg pardon for this assault upon you," the stranger said; and then,
turning to the boy, he continued: "It's all right, you need not wait."
With a chirrup and a blow the horse started forward, and the
mud-bespattered vehicle was rapidly moving down the road ere Helen had
recovered her surprise at recognizing Mark Ray, who shook the raindrops
from his hair, and offering her his hand said in reply to her
involuntary exclamation: "I thought it was Katy." "Shall I infer,
then, that I am the less welcome?" and his bright, saucy eyes looked
laughingly into hers. "Business had brought him to Southbridge," he
said, "and it was his intention to take the cars that afternoon for New
York, but having been detained longer than he expected, and not liking
the looks of the hotel arrangements, he had decided to presume upon his
acquaintance with Dr. Grant and spend the night at Linwood. But," and
again his eyes looked straight at Helen, "it rained so hard and the
light from your window was so inviting that I ventured to stop, so here
I am, claiming your hospitality until morning, if convenient; if not, I
will find my way to Linwood."
There was something in this pleasant familiarity which won Uncle Ephraim
at once, and he bade the young man stay, as did Aunt Hannah and Mrs.
Lennox, who now for the first time were presented to Mark Ray. Always
capable of adapting himself to the circumstances around him, Mark did so
now with so much ease and courteousness as to astonish Helen, and partly
thaw the reserve she had assumed when she found the visitor was from the
hated city.
"Are you expecting Mrs. Cameron?" he asked, adding as Helen explained
that she was coming to-morrow: "That is strange. Wilford wrote decidedly
that he should be in New York to-morrow. Possibly, though, he does not
intend himself to stop."
"I presume not," Helen replied, a weight suddenly lifting from her heart
at the prospect of not having to entertain the formidable brother-in-law
who, if he stayed long, would spoil all her pleasure.
Thus at her ease on this point, she grew more talkative, half wishing
that her dress was not a shilling calico, or her hair combed back quite
so straight, giving her that severe look which Morris had said was
unbecoming. It was very smooth and glossy, and even Sybil Grandon would
have given her best diamond to have had in her own natural right the
long heavy coil of hair bound so many times around the back of Helen's
head, ornamented with neither ribbon, comb, nor bow--only a single
geranium leaf, with a white and scarlet blossom, was fastened just
below the ear, and on the side where Mark could see it best, admiring
its effect and forgetting the arrangement of the hair in his admiration
of the well-shaped head, bending so industriously over the work which
Helen had resumed--not crocheting, nor yet embroidery, but the very
homely work of darning Uncle Ephraim's socks, a task which Helen always
did, and on that particular night. Helen knew it was not delicate
employment and there was a moment's hesitancy as she wondered what Mark
would think--then with a grim delight in letting him see that she did
not care, she resumed her darning needle, and as a kind of penance of
the flash of pride in which she had indulged, selected from the basket
the very coarsest, ugliest sock she could find, stretching out the huge
fracture at the heel to its utmost extent, and attacking it with a right
good will, while Mark, with a comical look on his face, sat watching
her. She knew he was looking at her, and her cheeks were growing very
red, while her hatred of him was increasing, when he said, abruptly:
"You follow my mother's custom, I see. She used to mend my socks on
Tuesday nights."
"Your mother mend socks!" and Helen started so suddenly as to run the
point of her darning needle a long way into her thumb, the wound
bringing a stream of blood which she tried to wipe away with her
handkerchief.
"Bind it tightly around. Let me show you, please," Mark said, and ere
she was aware of what she was doing Helen was quietly permitting the
young man to wind her handkerchief around her thumb which he held in his
hand, pressing it until the blood ceased flowing, and the sharp pain had
abated.
Perhaps Mark Ray liked holding that small, warm hand, even though it
were not as white and soft as Juno's; at all events he did hold it until
Helen drew it from him with a quick, sudden motion, telling him it would
now do very well, and she would not trouble him. Mark did not look as if
he had been troubled, but went back to his seat and took up the
conversation just where the needle had stopped it.
"My mother did not always mend herself, but she caused it to be done,
and sometimes helped. I remember she used to say a woman should know
how to do everything pertaining to a household, and she carried out her
theory in the education of my sister."
"Have you a sister?" Helen asked, now really interested, and listening
intently while Mark told her of his only sister, Julia, now Mrs. Ernst,
whose home was in New Orleans, though she at present was in Paris, and
his mother was there with her. "After Julia's marriage, nine years ago,
mother went to live with her," he said, "but latterly, as the little
Ernsts increase so fast, she wishes for a more quiet home, and this
winter she is coming to New York to keep house for me."
Helen thought she might like Mark's mother, who, he told her, had been
twice married, and was now Mrs. Banker, and a widow. She must be
different from Mrs. Cameron; and Helen let herself down to another
degree of toleration for the man whose mother taught her daughter to
mend the family socks. Still there was about her a chilling reserve,
which Mark wondered at, for it was not thus that ladies were accustomed
to receive his advances. He did not guess that Wilford Cameron stood
between him and Helen's good opinion; but when, after the family came
in, the conversation turned upon Katy and her life in New York, the
secret came out in the sharp, caustic mariner with which she spoke of
New York and its people.
"It's Will and the Camerons," Mark thought, blaming Helen less than he
would have done, if he, too, had not known something of the Cameron
pride.
It was a novel position in which Mark found himself that night; an
inmate of a humble farmhouse, where he could almost touch the ceiling
with his hand, and where his surroundings were so different from what he
had been accustomed to; but, unlike Wilford Cameron, he did not wish
himself away, nor feel indignant at Aunt Betsy's odd, old-fashioned
ways, or Uncle Ephraim's grammar. He noticed Aunt Betsy's oddities, it
is true, and noticed Uncle Ephraim's grammar, too; but the sight of
Helen sitting there, with so much dignity and self-respect, made him
look beyond all else, straight into her open face and clear brown eyes,
where there was nothing obnoxious or distasteful. Her grammar was
correct, her manner, saving a little stiffness, ladylike and refined;
and Mark rather enjoyed his situation as self-invited guest, making
himself so agreeable that Uncle Ephraim forgot his hour of retiring, nor
discovered his mistake until, with a loud yawn, Aunt Betsy told him that
it was half-past nine, and she was "desput sleepy."
Owing to Helen's influence there had been a change of the olden customs,
and instead of the long chapter, through which Uncle Ephraim used to
plod so wearily, there was now read the Evening Psalms, Aunt Betsy
herself joining in the reading, which she mentally classed with the
"quirks," but confessed to herself that it "was most as good as the
Bible."
As there were only Prayer Books enough for the family, Helen, in
distributing them, purposely passed Mark by, thinking he might not care
to join them. But he did, and when the verse came around to Helen he
quickly drew his chair near to hers, and taking one side of her book,
performed his part, while Helen's face grew red as the blossoms in her
hair, and her hand so near to Mark's trembled visibly.
"A right nice chap, and not an atom stuck up," was Aunt Betsy's mental
comment, and then, as he often will do, Satan followed the saintly woman
even to her knees, making her wonder if "Mr. Ray hadn't some notion
after Helen." She hoped not, for she meant that Morris should have
Helen, "though if 'twas to be it was, and she should not go agin' it;"
and while Aunt Betsy thus settled the case, Uncle Ephraim's prayer
ended, and the conscience-smitten woman arose from her knees with the
conviction that "the evil one had got the better of her once," mentally
asking pardon for her wandering thoughts, and promising to do better.
Mark was in no haste to retire, and when Uncle Ephraim offered to
conduct him to his room, he frankly answered that he was not sleepy,
adding, as he turned to Helen: "Please let me stay until Miss Lennox
finishes her socks. There are several pairs yet undarned. I will not
detain you, though," he continued, bowing to Uncle Ephraim, who, a
little uncertain what to do, finally departed, as did Aunt Hannah and
his sister, leaving Helen and her mother to entertain Mark Ray. It had
been Mrs. Lennox's first intention to retire also, but a look from
Helen detained her, and she sat down by that basket of socks, while Mark
wished her away. Still it was proper for her to remain, he knew, and he
respected Helen for keeping her, as he knew she did. A while they talked
of Katy and New York, Mark laboring to convince Helen that its people
were not all heartless and fickle, and at last citing his mother as an
instance.
"You would like mother, Miss Lennox. I hope you will know her some
time," he said, and then they talked of books, Helen forgetting that
Mark was city bred in the interest with which she listened to him, while
Mark forgot that the girl who appreciated and understood his views
almost before they were expressed was country born, and sitting there
before him clad in homely garb, with no ornaments save those of her fine
mind and the sparkling face turned so fully toward him.
"Mark Ray is not like Wilford Cameron," Helen said to herself, when as
the clock was striking eleven she bade him good-night and went up to her
room. "But of course in his heart he feels above us all," and opening
her window she leaned her hot cheek against the wet casement, and looked
out upon the night, now so beautiful and clear, for the rain was over,
and up in the heavens the bright stars were shining, each one bearing
some resemblance to Mark's eyes as they kindled and grew bright with his
excitement, resting always kindly on her--on Helen, who, leaning thus
from the window, felt stealing over her that feeling which, once born,
can never be quite forgotten.
Helen did not recognize the feeling, for it was a strange one to her.
She was only conscious of a sensation half pleasurable, half sad, of
which Mark Ray had been the cause, and which she tried in vain to put
aside, wondering what he thought of them all, and if he did not secretly
despise them even while making himself so familiar. And then there swept
over her a feeling of desolation such as she had never experienced
before, a shrinking from living all her life in Silverton, as she fully
expected to do, and laying her head upon the little stand, she cried
passionately.
"This is weak, this is folly," she suddenly exclaimed, as she became
conscious of acting as Helen Lennox was not wont to act, and with a
strong effort of the will she dried her tears and crept quietly to bed
just as Mark was falling into his first sleep, and dreaming of
smothering.
Helen would not have acknowledged it, and yet it was a truth not to be
denied, that she stayed next morning a much longer time than usual
before her glass, arranging her hair, which was worn more becomingly
than on the previous night, softening the somewhat too intellectual
expression of her face, and making her seem more womanly and modest.
Once she thought to wear the light buff gown in which she looked so
well, but the thought was repudiated as soon as formed, and donning the
same dark calico she would have worn if Mark had not been there, she
finished her simple toilet and went downstairs, just as Mark came in at
the side door, his hands full of water lilies and his boots bearing
marks of what he had been through to get them.
"Early country air is healthful," he said, "and as I do not often have a
chance to try it I thought I would improve the present opportunity! So I
have been down by the pond, and spying these lilies I persevered until I
reached them, in spite of mud and mire. There is no blossom I like so
well. Were I a young girl I would always wear one in my hair, just as
your sister did one night at Newport, and I never saw her look better.
Just let me try the effect on you;" and selecting a half-opened bud,
Mark placed it among Helen's braids as if hairdressing were one of his
accomplishments. "The effect is good," he continued, turning her
blushing face to the glass and asking if it were not.
"Yes," Helen stammered, seeing more the saucy eyes looking over her head
than the lily in her hair. "Yes, good enough, but hardly in keeping with
this old dress," and vanity whispered the wish that the buff had really
been worn.
"Your dress is suitable for morning, I am sure," Mark replied, turning
a little more to the right the lily and noticing as he did so how very
white and pretty was the neck and throat seen above the collar.
Mark liked a pretty neck, and he was glad to know that Helen had one,
though why he should care was a puzzle. He could hardly have analyzed
his feelings then, or told what he did think of Helen. He only knew
that by her efforts to repel him she attracted him the more, she was so
different from any young ladies he had known; so different from Juno,
into whose hair he had never twined a water lily. It would not become
her as it did Helen, he thought, as he sat opposite her at the table,
admiring his handiwork, which even Aunt Betsy observed, remarking that
"Helen was mightily spruced up for morning," a compliment which Helen
acknowledged with a painful blush, while Mark began a disquisition upon
the nature of lilies generally, which lasted until breakfast was ended.
It was arranged that Mark should ride to the cars with Uncle Ephraim
when he went for Katy, and as this gave him a good two hours of leisure,
he spoke of Dr. Grant, asking Helen if she did not suppose he would call
around. Helen thought it possible, and then remembering how many things
were to be done that morning, she excused herself from the parlor, and
repairing to the platform out by the back door, where it was shady and
cool, she tied on a broad check apron, and rolling her sleeves above her
elbows, was just bringing the churn-dasher to bear vigorously upon the
thick cream she was turning into butter, when, having finished his
cigar, Mark went out into the yard, and following the winding path came
suddenly upon her. Helen's first impulse was to stop, but with a strong
nerving of herself she kept on while Mark, coming as near as he dared,
said to her: "Why do you do that? Is there no one else?"
"No," Helen answered; "that is, we keep no servant, and my young arms
are stronger than the others."
"And mine are stronger still," Mark laughingly rejoined, as he put Helen
aside and plied the dasher himself, in spite of her protestations that
he would certainly ruin his clothes.
"Tie that apron around me, then," he said, with the utmost nonchalance,
and Helen obeyed, tying her check apron around the young man's neck, who
felt her hands as they touched his hair and knew that they were brushing
queer fancies into his brain, fancies which made him wonder what his
mother would think of Helen, or what she would say if she knew just how
he was occupied that morning, absolutely churning cream until it turned
to butter, for Mark persisted until the task was done, standing by while
Helen gathered up the golden lumps, and admiring her plump, round arms
quite as much as he had done her neck.
She would be a belle like her sister, though of a different stamp, he
thought, as he again bent down his head while she removed the apron and
disclosed more than one big spot upon his broadcloth. Mark assured her
that it did not matter; his coat was nearly worn out; and anyway he
never should regret that he had churned once in his life, or forget
it either; and then he asked if Helen would be in New York the coming
winter, talking of the pleasure it would be to meet her there until
Helen herself began to feel what she never before had felt, a desire to
visit Katy in her own home.
"Remember if you come that I am your debtor for numerous hospitalities,"
he said, when he at last bade her good-by, and sprang into the covered
buggy, which Uncle Ephraim had brought out in honor of Katy's arrival.
* * * * *
Old Whitey was hitched at a safe distance from all possible harm. Uncle
Ephraim had returned from the store nearby, laden with the six pounds
of crush sugar and the two pounds of real old Java, he had been
commissioned to purchase with a view to Katy's taste, and now upon the
platform at West Silverton, he stood with Mark Ray, waiting for the
arrival of the train just appearing in view across the level plain.
"It's fifteen months since she went away," he said, and Mark saw that
the old man's form trembled with the excitement of meeting her again,
while his eyes scanned eagerly every window and door of the cars now
slowly stopping before him. "There, there," and he laid his hand
nervously on Mark's shoulder as a white, jaunty feather appeared in
view; but no, that was not Katy, and the dim eyes ran again along the
whole line of the cars, from which so many were alighting, for that was
an eating house.
But Katy did not come, and with a long breath of wonder and
disappointment the deacon said: "Can it be she is asleep. Young
man, you are spryer than I. Go through the cars and find her."
Mark knew there was plenty of time, and so he made the tour of the cars,
but found, alas! no Katy.
"She's not there," was the report carried to the poor old man, who
tremblingly repeated his words: "Not there, not come," while over his
aged face there broke a look of touching sadness, which Mark never
forgot, remembering it always just as he remembered the big tear drops
which from his seat by the window he saw the old man wipe away with his
coat sleeve, whispering softly to Whitey of his disappointment as he
unhitched the horse and drove away alone.
"Maybe she's writ. I'll go and see," he said, and driving to their
regular office he found a letter directed by Wilford Cameron, but
written by Katy.
This last he knew, for he tore the envelope open; but he could not read
it then, and thrusting it into his pocket he went slowly back to the
home where the tempting dinner was prepared, and the family waiting
so eagerly for him. Even before he reached there they knew of the
disappointment, for from the garret window Helen had watched the road by
which he would come, and when the buggy appeared in sight she saw he was
alone.
There was a mistake; Katy had missed the train, she said to her mother
and aunts, who hoped she might be right. But Katy had not missed the
train, as was indicated by the letter which Uncle Ephraim without a word
put into Helen's hand, leaning on old Whitey's neck while she read aloud
the attempt at an explanation which Katy had hurried written, a stain on
the paper where a tear had fallen attesting her distress at the bitter
disappointment.
"Wilford did not know of the other letter," she said, "and had made
arrangements for her to go back with him to New York, inasmuch as the
house was already opened, and the servants there wanting ahead; besides
that, Wilford had been absent so long that he could not possibly stop at
Silverton himself, and as he would not think of living without her, even
for a few days, there was no alternative but for her to go with him on
the boat directly to New York. I am sorry, oh, so sorry, but indeed I
am not to blame," she added, in conclusion, and this was the nearest
approach there was to an admission that anybody was to blame for this
disappointment which cut so cruelly, making even Uncle Ephraim cry as
out in the barn he hung away the mended harness and covered the new
buggy, which had been bought for naught.
"I might have had the overcoat, for Katy will never come home again,
never. God grant that it's the Cameron pride, not hers, that kept her
from us," the old man said, as on the hay he knelt down and prayed that
Katy had not learned to despise the home where she was so beloved.
"Katy will never come to us again," seemed the prevailing opinion at
Silverton, where more than Uncle Ephraim felt a chilling doubt at times
as to whether she really wished to come or not. If she did, it seemed
easy of accomplishment to those who knew not how perfect and complete
were the fetters thrown around her, and how unbending the will which
governed hers. Could they have seen the look in Katy's face when she
first understood that she was not going to Silverton, their hearts would
have bled for the thwarted creature who fled up the stairs to her own
room, where Esther found her twenty minutes later, cold and fainting
upon the bed, her face as white as ashes, and her hands clinched so
tightly that the nails left marks upon the palms.
"It was not strange that the poor child should faint--indeed, it was
only natural that nature should give way after so many weeks of gayety,
and she very far from being strong," Mrs. Cameron said to Wilford, who
was beginning to repent of his decision, and who but for that remark
perhaps might have revoked it.
Indeed, he made an attempt to do so when, as consciousness came back,
Katy lay so pale and still before him; but Katy did not understand him
or guess that he wished her to meet him more than half the way, and so
the verdict was unchanged, and in a kind of bewilderment, Katy wrote the
hurried letter, feeling less actual pain than did its readers, for the
disappointment had stunned her for a time, and all she could remember of
the passage home on that same night when Mark Ray sat with Helen in the
sitting-room at Silverton, was that there was a fearful storm of rain
mingled with lightning flashes and thunder peals, which terrified the
other ladies, but brought to her no other sensation save that it would
not be so very hard to perish in the dark waters dashing so madly about
the vessel's side.