AUNT BETSY CONSULTS A LAWYER.
Aunt Betsy did not rest well after her return from the opera. Novelty
and excitement always kept her awake, while her mind was not wholly at
ease with regard to what she had done. Not that she really felt she had
committed a sin, except so far as the example might be bad, but she
feared the result, should it ever reach the orthodox church at Silverton.
"There's no telling what Deacon Bannister would do--send a subpoena
after me, for what I know," she thought, as she laid her tired head upon
her pillow and went off into that weary state halfway between sleep and
wakefulness, a state in which operas, play actors, Katy in full dress,
Helen and Mark Ray, choruses, music by the orchestra, to which she had
been guilty of beating her foot, Deacon Bannister and the whole offended
brotherhood, with constable and subpoenas, were pretty equally blended
together--the music which she liked, and the subpoena which she feared
taking the precedence of the others.
But with the daylight her fears subsided, and at the breakfast table
she was hardly less enthusiastic over the opera than Mattie herself,
averring, however; that "once would do her and she had no wish to go
again."
The sight of Katy looking so frail and delicate, but so beautiful
withal, had awakened all the olden intense love she had felt for her
darling, and she could not wait much longer without seeing her "in her
own home and hearing her blessed voice."
"Hannah, and Lucy amongst 'em, advised me not to come," she said to Mrs.
Tubbs, "hinting that I might not be wanted up there; but now I'm here I
shall go if I don't stay more than an hour."
"Of course I should," Mattie answered, herself anxious to stand beneath
Wilford Cameron's roof and see Mrs. Wilford at home. "She don't look as
proud as Helen, and you are her aunt, her blood kin, so why shouldn't
you go there if you like?"
"I shall--I am going," Aunt Betsy replied, feeling that to take Mattie
with her was not quite the thing, and not exactly knowing how to manage,
for the girl must of course pilot the way. "I'll risk it and trust to
Providence," was her final decision, and so after an early lunch she
started out with Mattie as her escort, suggesting that they visit
Wilford's office first and get that affair out of her mind.
At this point Aunt Betsy began to look upon herself as a most hardened
wretch, wondering at the depths of iniquity to which she had fallen. The
opera was the least of her offenses, for she was not harboring pride and
contriving how to be rid of 'Tilda Tubbs, as clever a girl as ever
lived, hoping that if she found Wilford he would see her home, and so
save 'Tilda the trouble? Playhouses, pride, vanity, subterfuge and
deceit--it was a long catalogue she would have to confess to Deacon
Bannister, if confess she did, and with a groan the conscience-smitten
woman followed her conductor along the street, and at last into the
stage which took them to Wilford's office.
Broadway was literally jammed that day, and the aid of two policemen was
required to extricate the bewildered countrywoman from the mass of
vehicles and horses' heads, which took all her sense away. Trembling
like a leaf when Mattie explained that the "two nice men" who had
dragged her to the walk were police officers, and thinking again of the
subpoena, the frightened woman who had escaped such peril, followed up
the two flights of stairs and into Wilford's office, where she sank
breathless into a chair, while Mark, not in the least surprised, greeted
her cordially, and very soon succeeded in getting her quiet, bowing so
graciously to Mattie when introduced that the poor girl dreamed of him
for many a night, and by day built castles of what might have been had
she been rich, instead of only 'Tilda Tubbs, whose home was on the
Bowery. Why need Aunt Betsy in her introduction have mentioned that
fact? Mattie thought, her cheeks burning scarlet; or why need she
afterward speak of her as 'Tilda, who was kind enough to come with her
to the office where she hoped to find Wilford? Poor Mattie, she knew
some things very well, but she had never yet conceived of the
immeasurable distance between herself and Mark Ray, who cared but little
whether her home were on the Bowery or on Murray Hill, after the first
sight which told him what she was. He was very polite to her, however,
for it was not in his nature to be otherwise, while the fact that she
came with Helen's aunt gave her some claim upon him.
"Mr. Cameron had just left the office and would not return that day,"
he said to Aunt Betsy, asking if he could assist her in any way, and
assuring her of his willingness to do so.
Aunt Betsy could talk with him better than with Wilford, and was about
to give him the story of the sheep pasture in detail, when, motioning to
a side door, he said, "Walk in here, please. You will not be liable to
so many interruptions."
"Come, 'Tilda, it's no privacy," Aunt Betsy said; but Tilda felt
intuitively that she was not wanted, and rather haughtily declined,
amusing herself by the window, while Aunt Betsy in the private office
told her troubles to Mark Ray; and received in return the advice to let
the claimant go to law if he chose, he probably would make nothing by
it, and even if he did, she would not sustain a heavy loss, according to
her own statement of the value of the land.
"If I could keep the sweet apple-tree, I wouldn't care," Aunt Betsy
said, "for, the rest ain't worth a lawsuit; though it's my property, and
I have thought of willing it to Helen, if she ever marries."
Here was a temptation which Mark Ray could not resist. Ever since Mrs.
General Reynolds' party Helen's manner had puzzled him; but her shyness
only made him more in love than ever, while the rumor of her engagement
with Dr. Morris tormented him continually. Sometimes he believed it, and
sometimes he did not, wishing always that he knew for certain. Here then
was a chance for confirming his fears or for putting them at rest, and
blessing 'Tilda Tubbs for declining to enter his back office, he said in
reply to Aunt Betsy's "If she ever marries," "And of course she will.
She is engaged, I believe?"
"Engaged? Who to? When? Strange she never writ, nor Katy neither," Aunt
Betsy exclaimed, while Mark, raised to an ecstatic state, replied, "I
refer to Dr. Grant. Haven't they been engaged for a long time past?"
"Why--no--indeed," was the response, and Mark could have hugged the good
old lady, who continued in a confidential tone: "I used to think they'd
make a good match; but I've gin that up, and now I sometimes mistrust
'twas Katy, Morris wanted. Anyhow, he's mighty changed since she was
married, and he never speaks her name. I never heard anybody say so, and
maybe it's all a fancy, so you won't mention it."
"Certainly not," Mark replied, drawing nearer to her, and continuing in
a low tone, "Isn't it possible that after all Helen is engaged to her
cousin, and you do not know it?"
"No," and Aunt Betsy grew very positive. "I am sure she ain't, for only
t'other day I said to Morris that I wouldn't wonder if Helen and another
chap had a hankerin' for one another; and he said he wished it might be
so, for you--no, that other chap, I mean--would make a splendid
husband," and Aunt Betsy turned very red at the blunder, which made Mark
Ray feel as if he walked on air, with no obstacle whatever in his path.
Still he could not be satisfied without probing her a little deeper, and
so he said: "And that other chap? Does he live in Silverton?"
Aunt Betsy's look was a sufficient answer; for the old lady knew he was
quizzing her, just as she felt that in some way she had removed a
stumbling block from his path. She had--a very large stumbling block,
and in the first flush of his joy and gratitude he could do most
anything. So when she spoke of going up to Katy's, he set himself
industriously at work to prevent it for that day at least. "They were to
have a large dinner party," he said, "and both Mrs. Cameron and Miss
Lennox would be wholly occupied. Would it not be better to wait until
to-morrow? Did she contemplate a long stay in New York?"
"No, she might go back to-morrow--certainly the day after," Aunt Betsy
replied, her voice trembling at this fresh impediment thrown in the way
of her seeing Katy.
The quaver in her voice touched Mark's sympathy. "She was old and
simple-hearted. She was Helen's aunt," and this, more than aught else,
helped him to a decision. "She must be homesick in the Bowery; he should
die if compelled to stay there long; he would take her to his mother's
and keep her until the morrow, and perhaps until she left for home;
telling Helen that night, of course, and then suffering her to act
accordingly."
This he proposed to his client; assuring her of his mother's entire
willingness to receive her, and urging so many reasons why she should go
there, instead of "up to Katy's," where they were in such confusion that
Aunt Betsy was at last persuaded, and was soon riding uptown in a
Twenty-third Street stage, with Mark Ray her _vis-à-vis_ and Mattie at
her right. Why Mattie was there Mark could not conjecture; and perhaps
she did not know herself, unless it were that, disappointed in her call
on Mrs. Cameron, she vaguely hoped for some redress by calling on Mrs.
Banker. How then was she chagrined, when, as the stage left them at a
handsome brownstone front, near Fifth Avenue Hotel, Mark said to her, as
if she were not of course expected to go in, "Please tell your mother
that Miss Barlow is stopping with Mrs. Banker to-day. Has she baggage at
your house?--If so, we will send around for it at once. Your number,
please?"
His manner was so offhand and yet so polite that Mattie could neither
resist him, nor yet be angry, though there was a sad feeling of
disappointment at her heart as she gave the required number, and then
shook Aunt Betsy's hand, whispering in a choked voice:
"You'll come to us again before you go home?"
"Of course I shall," Aunt Betsy answered, feeling that something was
wrong, and wondering if she herself were in fault.
With a good-by to Mark, whose bow atoned for a great deal, Mattie walked
slowly away, leaving Mark greatly relieved. Aunt Betsy was as much as he
cared to have on his hands at once, and as he led her up the steps, he
began to wonder more and more what his mother would say to his bringing
that stranger into her house, unbidden and unsought.
"I'll tell her just the truth," was his rapid decision, and assuming
a manner which warned the servant who answered his ring neither to be
curious nor impertinent, he conducted his charge into the parlor, and
bringing her a chair before the grate, went in quest of his mother, who
he found was out.
"Kindle a fire then in the front guest chamber," he said, "and see that
it is made comfortable as soon as possible."
The servant bowed in acquiescence, wondering who had come, and feeling
not a little surprised at the description given by John of the woman he
had let into the house, and who now in the parlor was looking around her
in astonishment and delight, thinking she had found New York at last,
and condemning herself for the feeling of homesickness with which she
remembered the Bowery, contrasting her "cluttered quarters" there with
the elegance around her. "Was Katy's house as fine as this?" she asked
herself, feeling intuitively that such as she might be out of place in
it, just as she began to fear she was out of her place here, bemoaning
the fact that she had forgotten her capbox, with its contents, and so
could not remove her bonnet, as she had nothing with which to cover her
gray head.
"What shall I do?" she was asking herself, when Mark appeared, explaining
that his mother was absent, but would be at home in a short time.
"Your room will soon be ready," he continued, "and meantime you might
lay aside your wrappings here if you find them too warm."
There was something about Mark Ray which inspired confidence, and in her
extremity Aunt Betsy gasped, "I can't take off my bunnet till I get my
caps down to Mrs. Tubbs'. Oh, what a trouble I be."
Not exactly comprehending the nature of the difficulty, Mark suggested
that she go without a cap until he could send for them; but Aunt Betsy's
assertion that "she was grayer than a rat," enlightened him with regard
to her dilemma, and full permission was given for her "to sit in her
bonnet" until such time as a messenger could go to the Bowery and back.
In this condition she had better be in her own room, and as it was in
readiness, Mark himself conducted her to it, the stern gravity of his
face putting down the laugh which sprang to the waiting maid's eyes at
the old lady's ejaculations of surprise and amazement that anything
could be so fine as the house where she so unexpectedly found herself a
guest.
"She is unaccustomed to the city, but a particular friend of mine; so
see that you treat her with respect," was all the explanation he
vouchsafed to the curious girl.
But that was enough. A friend of Mr. Ray's must be somebody, even if she
sat with two bonnets on instead of one, and appeared ten times more
rustic than Aunt Betsy, who breathed freer when she found herself alone
upstairs, and knew her baggage would soon be there.
In some little trepidation Mark paced up and down the parlor waiting
for his mother, who came ere long, expressing her surprise to find him
there, and asking if anything had happened that he seemed so agitated.
"Yes, I'm in a deuced scrape," he answered, coming up to her with the
saucy, winning smile she could never resist, and continuing, "To be in
at the foundation, you know how much I am in love with Helen Lennox?"
"No, I don't," was the reply, as Mrs. Banker removed her fur with the
most provoking coolness. "How should I know when you have never told me?"
"Haven't you eyes? Can't you see? Don't you like her yourself?"
"Yes, very much."
"And are you willing she should be your daughter?"
Mark had his arm around his mother's neck, and bending his face to hers,
kissed her playfully as he asked her the last question.
"Say, mother, are you willing I should marry Helen Lennox?"
There was a struggle in Mrs. Banker's heart, and for a moment she felt
jealous of the girl whom she had guessed was dearer to her son than ever
his mother could be again, but she was a sensible woman. She knew that
it was natural for another and a stronger love to come between her and
her boy. She liked Helen Lennox. She was willing to take her as a
daughter, and she said so at last, and listened half amazed and half
amused to the story which had in it so much of Aunt Betsy Barlow, who
had cleared away his doubts, and who at that very moment was an occupant
of their best guest chamber, sitting with her bonnet on, and waiting for
her cap from the Bowery.
"Perhaps it was wrong to bring her home," he added, "but I did it to
spare Helen. I knew just what a savage Wilford would be if he found her
there, where she would be in the way. Say, mother, was I wrong?"
He was not often wrong in his mother's estimation, and certainly he was
not now, when he kissed her so often, begging her to say he had done
right.
Certainly he had. Mrs. Banker was very glad to find him so thoughtful;
few young men would do as much, she said, and from feeling a little
doubtful, Mark came to look upon himself as a very nice young man, who
had done a most unselfish act, for of course he had not been influenced
by any desire to keep Aunt Betsy from the people who would be present at
the dinner, neither had Helen been at all mixed up in the affair.
It was all himself, and he began to whistle "Annie Laurie" very
complacently, thinking the while what a clever fellow he was, and
meditating other dangerous acts toward the old lady overhead, standing
by the window, and wondering what the huge building could be gleaming
so white in the fading light.
"Looks as if it was made of stone cheena," she thought, just as Mrs.
Banker appeared, her kind, friendly manner making Aunt Betsy feel wholly
at ease, as she answered the lady's questions or volunteered remarks of
her own.
Mrs. Banker had lived in the country, and had seen just such women as
Aunt Betsy Barlow, understanding her intrinsic worth, and knowing how
Helen Lennox, though her niece, could still be refined and cultivated.
She could also understand how one educated as Wilford Cameron had been
would shrink from coming in contact with her, and possibly be rude if
she thrust herself upon him. Mark did well to bring her here, she
thought, as she left the room to order the tea which the tired woman so
much needed. The satchel, umbrella and capbox, with a note from Mattie,
had by this time arrived, and in her Sunday cap, with the purple bows,
Aunt Betsy felt much better, and enjoyed the tempting little supper,
served on silver and Sèvres china, the attendant waiting in the hall
instead of in her room, where her presence might embarrass one
unaccustomed to such usages. They were thoughtful, very kind, and had
Mark been her own son she could not have been more deferential than he
appeared when just before starting for the dinner he went up to see her,
asking what message he should take to Helen. Mrs. Banker, too, came in,
her dress eliciting many compliments from her guest, who ventured to ask
the price of the diamond pin which fastened the point lace collar. Five
hundred dollars seemed an enormous sum, but Aunt Betsy was learning fast
not to say all she thought, and merely remarked that Katy had some
diamonds, too, which she presumed cost full as much as that.
"She should do very well alone," she said, "she could read her Bible,
and if she got too tired, go to bed, though she guessed she should stay
up till they came home, so as to hear about the doin's," and with a
good-by she sent them away, after saying to Mrs. Banker, "Maybe you
ain't the kissin' kind, but if you be, I wish you would kiss Katy once
for me."
There was a merry twinkle in Mark's eyes as he asked:
"And Helen, too?"
"I meant your marm, not you," Aunt Betsy answered; while Mrs. Banker
raised her hand to her mischievous son, who ran lightly down the stairs,
carrying a happier heart than he had known since Helen Lennox had first
come to New York, and he had met her at the depot.