AUNT BETSY GOES ON A JOURNEY.
Just through the woods, where Uncle Ephraim was wont to exercise old
Whitey, was a narrow strip of land, extending from the highway to the
pond, and fertile in nothing except the huckleberry bushes, where the
large, dark fruit grew so abundantly, and the rocky ledges over which a
few sheep roamed, seeking for the short grass and stunted herbs, which
gave them a meager sustenance. As a whole it was comparatively
valueless, but to Aunt Betsy Barlow it was of great importance, as it
was her own--her property--her share--set off from the old estate--the
land on which she paid taxes willingly--the real estate the deed of
which was lying undisturbed in her hair trunk, where it had lain for
years. Several dispositions the good old lady had mentally made of this
property, sometimes dividing it equally between Helen and Katy,
sometimes willing it all to the former, and again, when she thought of
Mark Ray, leaving the interest of it to some missionary society in which
she was greatly interested.
How then was the poor woman amazed and confounded when suddenly there
appeared a claimant to her property; not the whole, but a part, and that
part taking in the big sweet apple tree and the very best of the berry
bushes, leaving her nothing but rocks and bogs, a pucker cherry tree, a
patch of tansy, and one small tree, whose gnarly apples were not fit,
she said, to feed the pigs.
Of course she was indignant, and all the more so because the claimant
was prepared to prove that the line fence was not where it should be,
but ran into his own dominions for the width of two or three rods, a
fact he had just discovered by looking over a bundle of deeds, in which
the boundaries of his own farm were clearly defined.
In her distress Aunt Betsy's first thoughts were turned to Wilford as
the man who could redress her wrongs if any one, and a long letter was
written to him in which her grievances were told in detail and his
advice solicited. Commencing with "My dear Wilford," closing with
"Your respected ant," sealed with a wafer, stamped with her thimble,
and directed bottom side up, it nevertheless found its way to
No. ---- Broadway, and into Wilford's hands. But with a frown and pish of
contempt he tossed it into the grate, and vain were all Aunt Betsy's
inquiries as to whether there was any letter for her when Uncle Ephraim
came home from the office. Letters there were from Helen, and sometimes
one from Katy, but none from Wilford, none for her, and her days were
passed in great perplexity and distress, until another idea took
possession of her mind. She would go to New York herself! She had never
traveled over half a dozen miles in the cars, it was true, but it was
time she had, and now that she had a new bonnet and shawl, as good as
anybody's, she could go to York as well as not!
Wholly useless were the expostulations of the family, for she would not
listen to them, nor believe that she would not be welcome at that house
on Madison Square, to which even Mrs. Lennox had never been invited
since Katy was fairly settled in it. Much at first had been said of her
coming, and of the room she was to occupy; but all that had ceased, and
in the mother's heart there had been a painful doubt as to the reason of
the silence, until Helen's letters enlightened her, telling her it was
not Katy, for she was still unchanged--was still the loving, impulsive
creature who, if she could, would take all Silverton to her arms. It was
Wilford who had built so high a wall between Katy and her friends;
Wilford who at first had endured Helen because he must, but who now kept
her with him from choice, even though she was sometimes greatly in his
way, especially when her will clashed with his and her stronger
arguments for the right swept his own aside. Far better than she used,
did Mrs. Lennox understand her son-in-law, and she shrank in horror from
suffering her aunt to go where she would be so serious an annoyance,
frankly telling her the reason for her objections, and asking if she
wished to mortify the girls.
At this Aunt Betsy took umbrage at once.
"She'd like to know what there was about her to mortify anybody? Wasn't
her black silk dress made long and full, and the old pongee fixed into a
Balmoral, and hadn't she a bran-new cap with purple ribbon, and couldn't
she travel in her delaine, and didn't she wear hoops always now, except
at cleanin' house times? Didn't she nuss both the girls, especially
Catherine, carrying her in her arms one whole night when she had the
canker-rash, and everybody thought she'd die; and when she swallered
that tin whistle didn't she spat her on the back and swing her in the
air till she came to and blew the whistle clear across the room? Tell
her that Catherine would be ashamed? she knew better!"
Then as a doubt began to cross her own mind as to Wilford's readiness to
entertain her at his house, she continued:
"At any rate, the Tubbses, who moved from Silverton last fall, and who
were living in such style on the Bowery, wouldn't be ashamed, and I can
stop with them at first, till I see how the land lies. They have invited
me to come, both Miss Tubbs and 'Tilda, and they are nice folks, who
belong to the Orthodox Church. Tom is in town now, and if I see him I
shall talk with him about it, even if I never go."
Most devoutly did Mrs. Lennox and Aunt Hannah hope that Tom would
return to New York without honoring the farmhouse with a call; but
unfortunately for them he came that very afternoon, and instead of
throwing obstacles in Aunt Betsy's way, urged her warmly to make the
proposed visit.
"Mother would be so glad to see an old neighbor," the honest youth said,
"for she did not know many folks in the city. 'Till had made some flashy
acquaintances, of whom he did not think much, and they kept a few
boarders, but nobody had called, and mother was real lonesome. He wished
Miss Barlow would come; she would have no difficulty in finding them,"
and on a bit of paper he marked out the route of the Fourth Avenue cars,
which passed their door, and which Aunt Betsy would take after arriving
at the New Haven depot. "If he knew when she was coming he would meet
her," he said, but Aunt Betsy could not tell; she was not quite certain
whether she should go at all, she was so violently opposed.
Still she did not give it up entirely, and when, a few days after Tom's
return to New York, there came a pressing invitation from the daughter
Matilda, or Mattie, as she signed herself, the fever again ran high, and
this time with but little hope of its abating.
"We shall be delighted, both mother and me," Mattie wrote. "I will show
you all the lions of the city, and when you get tired of us you can go
up to Mrs. Cameron's. I know exactly where they live, and have seen her
at the opera in full dress, looking like a queen."
Over the last part of this letter Aunt Betsy pondered for some time.
That as good an orthodox as Miss Tubbs should let her girl go to the
opera, passed her. She had wondered at Helen's going, but then she was a
'Piscopal, and them 'Piscopals had queer notions about usin' the world
and not abusin' it. Still, as Helen did not attend the theatre and did
attend the opera, there must be a difference in the two places, and into
the old lady's heart there slowly crept the thought that possibly she
might try the opera too, if 'Tilda Tubbs would go, and promise never to
tell the folks at Silverton! She should like to see what it was, and
also what full dress meant, though she s'posed it was pilin' on all the
clothes you had so as to make a show; but if she wore her black silk
gown with her best bunnet and shawl, she guessed that would be dress
enough for her.
This settled, Aunt Betsy began to devise the best means of getting off
with the least opposition. Both Morris and her brother would be absent
from town during the next week, and she finally resolved to take that
opportunity for starting on her visit to New York, wisely concluding to
keep her own counsel until she was quite ready. Accordingly, on the very
day Morris and the deacon left Silverton, she announced her intention so
quietly and decidedly that further opposition was useless, and Mrs.
Lennox did what she could to make her aunt presentable. And Aunt Betsy
did look very respectable in her dark delaine, with her hat and shawl,
both Morris' gift, and both in very good taste. As for the black silk
and the new cap, they were carefully folded away, one in a box and the
other in a satchel she carried on her arm, and in one compartment of
which were sundry papers of fennel, caraway, and catnip, intended for
Katy's baby, and which could be sent to it from New York. There was also
a package of dried plums and peaches for Katy herself, and a few cakes
of yeast of her own make, better than any they had in the city! Thus
equipped she one morning took her seat in the Boston and New York train,
which carried her swiftly on toward Springfield.
"If anybody can find their way in New York, it is Betsy," Aunt Hannah
said to Mrs. Lennox, as the day wore on and their thoughts went after
the lone woman, who with satchel, umbrella and capbox, was felicitating
in the luxury of a whole seat, and the near neighborhood of a very nice
young man, who listened with well-bred interest while she told of her
troubles concerning the sheep pasture, and how she was going to New York
to consult a first-rate lawyer.
Once she thought to tell who the lawyer was, and perhaps enhance her own
merits in the eyes of her auditors by announcing herself as aunt to Mrs.
Wilford Cameron, of whom she had no doubt he had heard--nay, more, whom
he possibly knew, inasmuch as his home was in New York, though he spent
much of his time at West Point, where he had been educated. But certain
disagreeable remembrances of Aunt Hannah's parting injunction, "not to
tell everybody in the cars that she was Katy's aunt," kept her silent on
that point, and so Lieutenant Bob Reynolds failed to be enlightened with
regard to the relationship existing between the fastidious Wilford
Cameron of Madison Square, and the quaint old lady whose very first act
on entering the car amused him vastly. At a glance he saw that she was
unused to traveling, and as the car was crowded, he had kindly offered
his seat near the door, taking the side one under the window, and so
close to her that she gave him her capbox to hold while she adjusted her
other bundles. This done and herself comfortably settled, she was just
remarking that she liked being close to the door in case of a fire, when
the conductor appeared, extending his hand officially toward her as the
first one convenient. For an instant Aunt Betsy scanned him closely,
thinking she surely had never seen him before, but as he seemed to claim
acquaintance she could not find it in her kind heart to ignore him
altogether, and so she grasped the offered hand, which she tried to
shake, saying apologetically:
"Pretty well, thank you, but you've got the better of me, as I don't
justly recall your name."
Instantly the eyes of the young man under the window met those of the
conductor with a look which changed the frown gathering in the face of
the latter into a comical smile as he withdrew his hand and shouted:
"Ticket, madam, your ticket!"
"For the land's sake, have I got to give that up so quick, when it's at
the bottom of my satchel," Aunt Betsy replied, somewhat crestfallen at
her mistake, and fumbling in her pocket for the key, which was finally
produced, and one by one the paper parcels of fennel, caraway, and
catnip, dried plums, peaches and yeast cakes, were taken out, until at
the very bottom, as she had said, the ticket was found, the conductor
waiting patiently, and advising her, by way of avoiding future trouble,
to pin the card to her shawl, where it could be seen.
"A right nice man," was Aunt Betsy's mental comment, but for a long time
there was a red spot on her cheeks as she felt that she had made herself
ridiculous, and hoped the girls would never hear of it.
The young man, however, helped to reassure her, and in telling him her
troubles she forgot her chagrin, feeling very sorry that he was going on
to Albany, and so down the river to West Point. West Point was
associated in Aunt Betsy's mind with that handful of noble men who
within the walls of Sumter were then the center of so much interest, and
at parting with her companion she said to him:
"Young man, you are a soldier, I take it, from your havin' been to
school at West Point. Maybe you'll never have to use your learning, but
if you do, stick to the old flag. Don't you go against that, and if an
old woman's prayers for your safety can do any good, be sure you'll have
mine."
She raised her hand reverently, and Lieutenant Bob felt a kind of awe
steal over him as if he might one day need that benediction, the first
perhaps given in the cause now so terribly agitating all hearts both
North and South.
"I'll remember what you say," he answered, and then as a new idea was
presented he took out a card, and writing a few lines upon it, bade her
hand it to the conductor just as she was getting into the city.
Without her glasses Aunt Betsy could not read, and thinking it did not
matter now, she thrust the card into her pocket, and bidding her
companion good-by, took her seat in the other train. Lonely and a very
little homesick she began to feel; for her new neighbors were not
one-half as willing to talk as Bob had been, and she finally relapsed
into silence, which resulted in a quiet sleep, from which she awoke
just as they were entering the long, dark tunnel, which she would have
likened to Purgatory had she believed in such a place.
"I didn't know we ran into cellars," she said, faintly; but nobody
heeded her, or cared for the anxious and now timid-looking woman, who
grew more and more anxious, until suddenly remembering the card, she
drew it from her pocket, and the next time the conductor appeared handed
it to him, watching him while he read that "Lieutenant Robert Reynolds
would consider it as a personal favor if he would see the bearer into
the Fourth Avenue cars."
Surely there is a Providence which watches over all; and Lieutenant
Reynolds' thoughtfulness was not a mere chance, but the answer to the
simple trust Aunt Betsy had that God would take her safely to New York,
never doubting until she reached it that she had been heard. And even
then she did not doubt it long, for the conductor knew Lieutenant Bob,
and attended as faithfully to his wishes as if it had been a born
princess instead of Aunt Betsy Barlow whom he led to a street car,
ascertaining the number on the Bowery where she wished to stop, and
reporting to that conductor, who bowed in acquiescence, after glancing
at the woman, and knowing intuitively that she was from the country.
Could she have divested herself wholly of the fear that the conductor
would forget to put her off at the right place, Aunt Betsy would have
enjoyed that ride very much; and as it was, she looked around with
interest, thinking New York a mightily cluttered-up place, and wondering
if all the folks were in the streets. "They must be a gadding set," she
thought; and then, as a lady in flaunting robes took a seat beside her,
crowding her into a narrow space, the good old dame thought to show that
she did not resent it, by an attempt at sociability, asking if she knew
"Mrs. Peter Tubbs, whose husband kept a store on the Bowery?"
"I have not that honor," was the haughty reply, the lady drawing up
her costly shawl and moving a little away from her interlocutor, who
continued: "I thought like enough you might have seen 'Tilda, or Mattie
she calls herself now. She is a right nice girl, and Tom is a very
forrard boy."
To this there was no reply; and as the lady soon left the car, Aunt
Betsy did not make another attempt at conversation, except to ask once
how far they were from the Bowery, adding, as she received a civil
answer, "You don't know Mr. Peter Tubbs?"
The worthy man was evidently a stranger to the occupants of that car,
and so Aunt Betsy employed her time in wondering if they kept up a sight
of style. She presumed they did from what 'Tilda had written to one of
Captain Perry's girls about their front parlor, and back parlor, and
library; but she did so hope their boarders were not the stuck up kind.
In Mrs. Peter Tubbs herself she had the utmost confidence, knowing her
to be a kind, friendly woman; and so her heart did not beat quite as
fast as it would otherwise have done when the car stopped at last upon
a crossing, and the conductor pointed back a few doors to the right,
telling her that was her number.
"I should s'pose he might have driv right up, instead of leaving me
here," she said, looking wistfully at the retreating car, which now
seemed almost like home. "Coats, and trousers, and jackets! I wonder if
there is nothing else to be seen here," she continued, as her eye caught
the long line of clothing so conspicuously displayed in that part of the
Bowery. "'Tain't no great shakes," was the feeling struggling into Aunt
Betsy's mind, as with Tom's outline map in hand she peered at the
numbers of the doors, finding the right one at last, and ringing the
bell with a force which brought Mattie at once to the rescue.
If Mattie was not glad to see her guest, she seemed to be, which
answered every purpose for the tired woman, who followed her into the
dark, narrow hall, filled with the sickly odor of the kitchen, and up
the narrow stairs, through a still darker hall, and into the front
parlor, which looked out upon the Bowery. This was comparatively
comfortable, for there was a fire in the stove, and the carpet the same
which Aunt Betsy remembered to have seen in Mrs. Tubbs' best room at
Silverton. But the diminutive dimensions of the apartment struck her at
once, and she mentally decided that it must be the "libry." But, alas!
the so-called "library" was a large-sized closet, or single room, at the
other end of the hall, and now used as an _omnium gatherum_ for the
various articles Mrs. Tubbs found necessary for her "back parlor," or
dining-room, where the table was set cornerwise, its soiled linen and
dingy napkins presenting a striking contrast to the snowy cloth which
always covered the table at the farmhouse, while the dry, baker's bread,
and the frowsy butter were almost more than Aunt Betsy could swallow,
hungry as she was.
But all this was half an hour after the time when Mrs. Tubbs came in to
meet her, expressing genuine pleasure at seeing her there, and feeling
what she said; for Mrs. Tubbs did not take kindly to city life, and the
sight of a familiar face, which brought the country with it, was very
welcome to her. Mattie, on the contrary, liked New York, and there was
scarcely a street where she had not been, with Tom for a protector;
while she was perfectly conversant with all the respectable places of
amusement--with their different prices and different grades of patrons.
She knew where Wilford Cameron's office was, and also his house, for she
had walked by the latter many times, admiring the elegant curtains and
feasting her eyes upon the glimpses of inside grandeur, which she
occasionally obtained as some one came out or went in. Once she had seen
Helen and Katy enter their carriage, which the colored coachman drove
away, but she had never ventured to accost them. Katy would not have
known her if she had, for the family had come to Silverton while she was
at Canandaigua, and as, after her return to Silverton, until her
marriage, Mattie had been in one of the Lawrence factories, they had
never met. With Helen, however, she had a speaking acquaintance; but she
had never presumed upon it in New York, though to some of her young
friends she had told how she once sat in the same pew with Mrs. Wilford
Cameron's sister when she went to the "Episcopal meeting," and the
consideration which this fact procured for her from those who had heard
of Mrs. Wilford Cameron, of Madison Square, awoke in her the ambition to
know more of that lady, and, if possible, gain an entrance to her
dwelling. To this end she favored Aunt Betsy's visit, hoping thus to
accomplish her object, for, of course, when Miss Barlow went to Mrs.
Cameron's, she was the proper person to go with her and point the way.
This was the secret of Mattie's letter to Aunt Betsy, and the warmth
with which she welcomed her to that tenement on the Bowery, over a
clothing store, and so small that it is not strange Aunt Betsy wondered
where they all slept, never dreaming of the many devices known to city
housekeepers, who can change a handsome parlor into a kitchen or
sleeping-room, and _vice versa_, with little or no trouble. But she
found it out at last, lifting her hands in speechless amazement, when,
as the hour for retiring came, what she imagined the parlor bookcase was
converted into a comfortable bed, on which her first night in New York
was passed in comfort if not in perfect quiet.
The next day had been set apart by Mattie for showing their guest the
city and possibly calling on Mrs. Wilford; but the poor old lady, unused
to travel and excitement, was too tired to venture out, seeing from the
window more than she had seen in all her life before, and coming to the
conclusion that New York must contain "a sight of folks," judging from
the crowds who passed that way and the glimpses she caught of other
crowds in the streets beyond. Still in some things she was disappointed.
New York was not so grand as she had imagined it to be--not as grand as
Helen's letters would imply; and she "didn't suppose everybody lived
upstairs and kept men's clothes to sell." The boarders, too, troubled
her. They were well enough, it is true, but they were neither fine
ladies nor gentlemen, such as Wilford and Katy; and Aunt Betsy, while
receiving every attention which Mrs. Tubbs could give her, was guilty of
wishing herself back in the clean, bright kitchen at home, where the
windows looked out upon woods and fields instead of that never-ceasing
rush which made her dizzy and faint. On the whole she was as nearly
homesick as she well could be, and so when Mattie asked if she would
like to go out that evening, she caught eagerly at the idea, as it
involved a change, and again the opera came before her mind, in spite
of her attempts to thrust it away.
"Did 'Tilda know if Katy went to the opera now? Did she s'pose she
would be there to-night? Was it far to the show house? What was the
price--and was it a very wicked place?"
To all these queries Mattie answered readily. She presumed Katy would be
there, as it was a new opera. It was not so very far. Distance in the
city was nothing, and it was not a wicked place, but over the price
Mattie faltered. Tickets for Aunt Betsy, herself and Tom, who of course
must go with them, would cost more than her father had to give. The
theatre was preferable, as that came within their means, and she
suggested Laura Keene's; but from that Aunt Betsy recoiled as from
Pandemonium itself.
Catch her at a theatre--her, a deacon's sister, looked up to for a
sample, and who run once for vice-president of the Sewing Society in
Silverton! It was too terrible to think of. But the opera seemed
different. Helen went there; it could not be very wrong, particularly as
the tickets were so high that bad folks could not go, and taking out her
purse Aunt Betsy counted its contents carefully, holding the bills
thoughtfully for a moment, while she seemed to be balancing between what
she knew was safe and what she feared might be wrong, at least in the
eyes of Silverton.
"But Silverton will never know it," the tempter whispered, "and it is
worth something to see the girls in full dress."
This decided it, and Aunt Betsy generously offered "to pay the fiddler,"
as she termed it, "provided 'Tilda would never let it get to Silverton
that Betsy Barlow was seen inside a playhouse!" To Mrs. Tubbs it seemed
impossible that Aunt Betsy could be in earnest, but when she was, she
put no impediments in her way; and so, conspicuous among the crowd of
transient visitors who that night entered the Academy of Music was Aunt
Betsy Barlow, chaperoned by Miss Mattie Tubbs and protected by Tom, a
shrewd, well-grown youth of seventeen, who passed for some years older,
and consequently was a sufficient escort for the ladies under his
charge. It was not his first visit there and he managed to procure a
seat which commanded a good view of several private boxes, and among
them that of Wilford Cameron. This Mattie, who remembered where she had
seen both Helen and Katy, pointed out to the excited woman gazing about
her in a maze of bewilderment, and half doubting her own identity with
the Betsy Barlow who, six weeks before, if charged with such a sin as
she was now committing, would have exclaimed, "Is thy servant a dog to
do this thing?" Yet here she was, a deacon's sister, a candidate for the
vice-presidency of the Silverton Sewing Society, a woman who, for
sixty-three years and a-half, had led a blameless life, frowning upon
all worldly amusements and setting herself for a burning light to
others--here she was in her black silk dress, her best shawl pinned
across her chest, and her bonnet tied in a square bow which reached
nearly to her ears, which Mattie Tubbs, who tied it, had said was all
the style. Here she was, in that huge building, where the lights were so
blinding and the crowd so great that she shut her eyes involuntarily,
while she tried to realize what she could be doing.
"I'm in for it now anyhow, and if it is wrong may the good Father
forgive me," she said softly to herself, just as the orchestra struck
up, thrilling her with its ravishing strains, and making her forget all
else in her rapturous delight.
She was very fond of music and listened eagerly, beating time with both
her feet, and making her bonnet go up and down until the play commenced
and she saw stage dress and stage effect for the first time in her life.
This part she did not like: "they mumbled their words so nobody could
understand more than if they spoke a heathenish tongue," she thought,
and she was beginning to yawn when a nudge from Mattie and a whisper,
"There they come," roused her from her stupor, and looking up she saw
both Helen and Katy entering their box, and with them Mark Ray and
Wilford Cameron.
Very rapidly Katy's eyes swept the house, running over the sea of heads
below but failing to see the figure which, half arising from its seat,
stood with clasped hands, gazing upon her, the tears running like rain
over the upturned face, and the lips murmuring: "Darling Katy! blessed
child! She's thinner than when I see her last, but oh! so beautiful and
grand! Precious lambkin! It isn't wicked now for me to be coming here,
where I can see her face again."
It was all in vain that Mattie pulled her dress, bidding her sit down
as people were staring at her. Aunt Betsy did not hear, and if she had
she would scarcely have cared for those who did look at her, and who,
following her eyes, saw the beautiful young ladies, behind whom Wilford
and Mark were standing, but never dreamed of associating them with the
"crazy thing" who sank back at last into her seat, keeping her eyes
still upon the box where Helen and Katy sat, their heads uncovered and
their rich cloaks falling off just enough to show the astonished woman
that both their necks were uncovered, too, while Helen's arms, raised to
adjust her glass, were discovered to be in the same condition.
"Ain't they splendid in full dress?" Mattie whispered, while Aunt Betsy
replied:
"Call that full dress? I'd sooner say it was no dress at all! They'll
catch their death of cold. What would their mother say?"
Then as the enormity of the act grew upon her, she continued more to
herself than to Mattie:
"I mistrusted Catherine, but that Helen should come to this passes me."
Still as she became more accustomed to it, and glanced at other
full-dressed ladies, the first shock passed away, and she could calmly
contemplate Katy's dress, wondering what it cost, and then letting her
eyes pass on to Helen, to whom Mark Ray seemed so loverlike that Aunt
Betsy remembered her impressions when he stopped at Silverton, her heart
swelling with pride as she thought of both the girls making out so well.
"Who is that young man talking to Helen?" Mattie asked, between the
acts, and when told that it was "Mr. Ray, Wilford's partner," she drew
her breath eagerly, and turned again to watch him, envying the young
girl who did not seem as much gratified with the attentions as Mattie
fancied she should do were she in Helen's place.
How could she, with Juno Cameron just opposite, watching her jealously,
while Madam Cameron fanned herself in dignity, refusing to look upon
what she so greatly disapproved.
But Mark did not care who was watching him, and continued his attentions
until Helen wished herself away, and though a good deal surprised, was
not sorry when Wilford abruptly declared the opera a bore, and suggested
going home.
They would order an ice, he said, and have a much pleasanter time in
their own private parlor.
"Please don't go; I rather like the play to-night," Katy said; but on
Wilford's face there was that look which never consulted Katy's wishes,
and so the two ladies tied on their cloaks, and just as the curtain rose
in the last act, left their box, Juno wondering at the movement, and
hoping Mark would now come around to her, while Aunt Betsy looked
wistfully after them, but did not suspect she was the cause of their
exit, and of Wilford's evident perturbation.
Running his eye over the house below, it had fallen upon the trio, Aunt
Betsy, Mattie and Tom, the first of whom was at that moment partly
standing, while she adjusted her heavy shawl, which the heat of the
building had compelled her to unfasten.
There was a start, a rush of blood to the head and face, and then he
reflected how impossible it was that she should be there, in New York,
and at the opera, too.
The shawl arranged, Aunt Betsy took her seat and turned her face fully
toward him, while Wilford seized Katy's glass and leveled it at her. He
was not mistaken. It was Aunt Betsy Barlow, and Wilford felt the
perspiration oozing out beneath his hair and about his lips, as he
remembered the letter he had burned, wishing now that he had answered
it, and so, perhaps, have kept her from his door. For she was coming
there, nay, possibly had come, since his departure from home, and
learning his whereabouts, had followed on to the Academy of Music,
leaving her baggage where he should stumble over it on entering the
hall.
Such was the fearful picture conjured up by Wilford's imagination, as
he stood watching poor Aunt Betsy, a dark cloud on his brow and fierce
anger at his heart, that she should thus presume to worry and annoy him.
"If she spies us she will be finding her way up here; there's no piece
of effrontery of which that class is not capable," he thought, wondering
next who the vulgar-looking girl and _gauche_ youth were who were with
her.
"Country cousins, of whom I have never heard, no doubt," and he ground
his teeth together as with his next breath he suggested going home,
carrying out his suggestion and hurrying both Helen and Katy to the
carriage as if some horrible dragon had been on their track.
There was no baggage in the hall, there had been no woman there, and
Wilford's fears for a time subsided, but growing strong again about the
time he knew the opera was out, while the sound of wheels coming toward
his door was sufficient to make his heart stop beating and every hair
prickle at its roots.
But Aunt Betsy did not come except in Wilford's dreams, which she
haunted the entire night, so that the morning found him tired, moody,
and cross. That day they entertained a select dinner party, and as this
was something in which Katy rather excelled, while Helen's presence,
instead of detracting from, would add greatly to the _éclat_ of the
affair, Wilford had anticipated it with no small degree of complacency.
But now, alas! there was a phantom at his side--a skeleton of horror,
wearing Aunt Betsy's guise; and if it had been possible he would have
given the dinner up. But it was too late for that; the guests were
bidden, the arrangements made, and there was nothing now for him but
to abide the consequences.
"She shall at least stay in her room, if I have to lock her in," he
thought, as he went down to his office without even kissing Katy or
bidding her good-by.
But business that day had no interest for him, and in a listless, absent
way he sat watching the passers-by and glancing at his door as if he
expected the first assault to be made there. Then as the day wore on,
and he felt sure that what he so much dreaded had really come to pass,
that the baggage expected last night had certainly arrived by this time
and spread itself over his house, he could endure the suspense no
longer, and startled Mark with the announcement that he was going home,
and should not return again that day.
"Going home, when Leavitt is to call at three!" Mark said, in much
surprise, and feeling that it would be a relief to unburden himself to
some one, the story came out how Wilford had seen Aunt Betsy at the
opera, and expected to find her at Madison Square.
"I wish I had answered her letter about that confounded sheep pasture,"
he said, "for I would rather give a thousand dollars--yes, ten
thousand--than have her with us to-day. I did not marry my wife's
relations," he continued, excitedly, adding, as Mark looked quickly up,
"Of course I don't mean Helen. She is right; and though she rasps me a
little, I'd rather have her than not. Neither do I mean that doctor, for
he is a gentleman. But this Barlow woman--oh! Mark, I am all of dripping
sweat just to think of it."
He did not say what he intended doing, but with Mark Ray's ringing laugh
in his ears, passed into the street, and hailing a stage was driven
toward home, just as a downtown stage deposited on the walk in front of
his office "that Barlow woman" and Mattie Tubbs!