THE DINNER PARTY.
It was a very select party which Wilford Cameron entertained that
evening; and as the carriages rolled to his door and deposited the
guests, the cloud which had been lifting ever since he came home and
found "no Barlow woman" there, disappeared entirely, leaving him the
blandest, most urbane of hosts, pleased with everybody--himself, his
guests, his sister-in-law, and his wife, who had never looked better
than she did to-night, in pearls and light blue silk, which harmonized
so perfectly with her waxlike complexion. Like some little fairy she
flitted through the rooms, receiving, with a sweet childlike grace the
kiss which Mrs. Banker gave her, but never dreaming from whom it came.
Aunt Betsy's proximity was wholly unsuspected, both by her and Helen,
who was very handsome to-night, in crimson and black, with lilies in her
hair. Nothing could please Mark better than his seat at table, where he
could look into her eyes, which dropped so shyly whenever they met his
ardent gaze. Helen was beginning to doubt the story of his engagement
with Juno, or at least to think that it might possibly have been broken
off. Certainly she could not mistake the nature of the attentions he
paid to her, especially to-night, when he hovered continually near her,
totally ignoring Juno's presence, and conscious apparently of only one
form, one face, and that the face and form of Helen Lennox.
There was another, too, who felt the influence of Helen's beauty, and
that was Lieutenant Bob, who, after dinner, attached himself to her
side, while around them gathered quite a group, all listening with peals
of laughter as Bob, who was something of a mimic, related his adventure
of two days before, with "the most rustic and charming old lady it was
ever his fortune to meet." Told by Bob the story lost nothing of its
freshness; for every particular, except indeed the kindness he had shown
her, was related, even to the sheep pasture, about which she was going
to New York to consult a lawyer.
"I thought once of referring her to you, Mr. Cameron," Bob said; "but
couldn't find it in my heart to quiz her, she was so wholly unsuspicious.
You have not seen her, have you?"
"No," came faintly from the lips which tried to smile; for Wilford knew
who was the heroine of that story; wondering more and more where she
was, and feeling a sensation of uneasiness as he thought, "Can any
accident have befallen her?"
It was hardly probable; but Wilford felt very uncomfortable after
hearing the story, which had brought a pang of doubt and fear to another
mind than his. From the very first Helen feared that Aunt Betsy was the
"odd woman" who had gotten upon the train at some station which Bob
could not remember; while, as the story progressed, she was sure of it,
for she had heard of the sheep-pasture trouble, and of Aunt Betsy's
projected visit to New York, privately writing to her mother not to
suffer it, as Wilford would be so greatly vexed. "Yes, it must be Aunt
Betsy," she thought, and she turned so white that Mark, who was watching
both her and Wilford, came as soon as possible to her side, and adroitly
separating from the group around, said softly: "You look tired, Miss
Lennox. Come with me a moment. I have something to tell you."
Alone with her in the hall, he continued, "I have the sequel of Bob
Reynolds' story. That woman--"
"Was Aunt Betsy," Helen gasped. "But where is she now? That was two days
ago. Tell me if you know. Mr. Ray, you do know," and in her agony of
fear lest something dreadful had happened, she laid her hand on Mark's,
beseeching him to tell her if he knew where Aunt Betsy was.
It was worth torturing her for a moment to see the pleading look in her
eyes, and feel the soft touch of the hand which he took between both his
own, holding it there while he answered her: "Aunt Betsy is at my house;
kidnapped by me for safe keeping, until I could consult with you. Was
that right?" he asked as a flush came to Helen's cheek, and an
expression to her eye which told that his meaning was understood.
"Is she there willingly? How did it happen?" was Helen's reply, her
hand still in those of Mark, who thus circumstanced grew very warm and
eloquent with the sequel to Bob's story, making it as long as possible,
telling what he knew, and also what he had done.
He had not implicated Wilford in any way; but Helen read it all, saying
more to herself than him: "And she was at the opera. Wilford must have
seen her, and that is why he left so suddenly, and why he has appeared
so absent and nervous to-day, as if expecting something. Excuse me," she
suddenly added, drawing her hand away and stepping back a little, "I
forgot that I was talking as if you knew."
"I do know more than you suppose--that is, I know human nature--and I
know Will better than I did that morning when I first met you," Mark
said, glancing at the freed hand he wished so much to take again.
But Helen kept her hands to herself, and answered him.
"You did right under the circumstances. It would have been unpleasant
for us all had she happened here to-night. I thank you, Mr. Ray--you and
your mother, too--more than I can express. I will see her early to-morrow
morning. Tell her so, please, and again I thank you."
There were tears in Helen's soft brown eyes, and they glittered like
diamonds as she looked even more than spoke her thanks to the young man,
who, for another look like that, would have driven Aunt Betsy amid the
gayest crowd that ever frequented the Park, and sworn she was his blood
relation! A few words from Mrs. Banker confirmed what Mark had said, and
it was not strange if that night Miss Lennox, usually so entertaining,
was a little absent, for her thoughts were up in that chamber on
Twenty-third Street, where Aunt Betsy sat alone, but not lonely, for
her mind was very busy with all she had been through since leaving
Silverton, while something kept suggesting to her that it would have
been wiser and better to have stayed at home than to have ventured where
she was so sadly out of place. This last came gradually to Aunt Betsy
as she thought the matter over, and remembered Wilford as he had
appeared each time he came to Silverton.
"I ain't like him; I ain't like this Miss Banker; I ain't like anybody,"
she whispered. "I'm nothin' but a homely, old-fashioned woman, without
larnin', without nothin'. I might know I wasn't wanted," and a rain of
tears fell over the wrinkled face as she uttered this tirade against
herself, standing before the long mirror and inspecting the image it
gave back of a plain, unpolished countrywoman, not much resembling Mrs.
Banker, it must be confessed, nor much resembling the gay young ladies
she had seen at the opera the previous night. "I won't go near Katy,"
she continued; "it will only mortify her, and I don't want to make her
trouble. The poor thing's face looked as if she had it now, and I won't
add to it. I'll start for home to-morrow. There's Miss Smith, in
Springfield, will keep me overnight, and Katy shan't be bothered."
When this decision was reached Aunt Betsy felt a great deal better, and
taking the Bible from the table, she sat down again before the fire,
opening, as by a special Providence, to the chapter where hewers of wood
and drawers of water are mentioned as being necessary to mankind, each
filling his appointed place.
"That's me--that's Betsy Barlow," she whispered, taking off her glasses
to wipe away the moisture gathering so fast upon them. Then resuming
them, she continued: "I'm a hewer of wood--a drawer of water. God made
me so, and shall the clay find fault with the potter for making it into
a homely jug? No, indeed; and I was a very foolish old jug to think of
sticking myself in with the chinaware. But I've larnt a lesson," and the
philosophic woman read on, feeling comforted to know that though a
vessel of the rudest make, a paltry jug, as she called herself, the
promises were still for her as much as for the finer wares--ay, that
there was more hope of her entering at last where "the walls are all of
precious stones and the streets are paved with gold," than of those
whose good things are given so abundantly during their lifetime.
Assured, comforted, and encouraged, she fell asleep at last, and when
Mrs. Banker returned she found her slumbering quietly in her chair, the
Bible open on her lap, and her finger upon the passage referring to the
hewers of wood and drawers of water, as if that was the last thing read.
Next morning, at a comparatively early hour, Helen stood ringing the
bell of Mrs. Banker's house. She had passed a restless, but not
altogether wretched night, for the remembrance of Mark's kindness in
keeping Aunt Betsy away, and his manner while telling her of it would
not permit of her being more than anxious as she lay awake, wondering
why Mark was so kind, and if it could be possible that he was free from
Juno and cared for her. It made her happy to think so, and her face, as
she stood upon the steps, looked bright and fresh, instead of pale and
tired, as it usually did after a night of wakefulness. She had said to
Katy that she was going out and could not tell just when she might
return, and as Katy never questioned her acts, while Wilford was too
intent upon his own miserable thoughts as to "where Aunt Betsy could be
or what had befallen her," to heed any one else, no inquiries were made
and no obstacles put in the way of her going to Mrs. Banker's, where
Mark met her himself, holding her cold hand until he led her to the fire
and placed her in a chair. He knew she would rather meet her aunt alone,
and so when he heard her step in the hall he left the room, holding the
door for Aunt Betsy, who wept like a little child at the sight of Helen,
accusing herself of being a fool, an old fool, who ought to be shut up
in the insane asylum, but persisting in saying she was going home that
very day without seeing Katy at all. "If she was here I'd like it, but I
shan't go there, for I know Wilford don't want me. Say, Helen, don't you
think he'll be ashamed of me and wish I was in Guinea?" she asked as her
desire to see Katy grew stronger, but was met and combated with her
dread of Wilford!
Helen could not tell her he would be ashamed, but Aunt Betsy knew she
meant it, and with a fresh gush of tears she gave the project up
entirely, telling Helen all she did not already know of her trip to New
York, her visit to the opera, her staying with the Tubbses and her
meeting with Mark, the best young chap she ever saw, not even excepting
Morris. "If he was my own son, he couldn't be kinder," she added, "and I
mistrust he hopes to be my nephew. You can't do better, and if he
offers, take him."
Helen's cheeks were crimson as she waived this part of the conversation
and wished aloud that she had come around in the carriage, as she could
thus have taken Aunt Betsy over the city before the train would leave.
"Mark spoke of that when he heard I was going to-day," Aunt Betsy said;
"I'll warrant you he'll tend to it."
Aunt Betsy was right, for when Mark and his mother joined their guests
and learned that Aunt Betsy's intention was unchanged, he suggested the
ride and offered the use of their carriage. Helen did not decline the
offer, and ere half an hour had passed, Aunt Betsy, with her satchel,
umbrella and capbox, was comfortably adjusted in Mrs. Banker's carriage
with Helen beside her, while Mark bade his coachman drive wherever Miss
Lennox wished to go, taking care to reach the train in time.
They were tearful thanks which Aunt Betsy gave to her kind friends as
she was driven away, going first to the Bowery to say good-by and leave
the packages of fruits and herbs, lest the Tubbses should "think her
suddenly stuck up."
"Would you mind taking 'Tilda in? It would please her mightily," Aunt
Betsy whispered, as they were alighting in front of Mr. Peter Tubbs';
and as the result of this suggestion the carriage, when again it emerged
into Broadway, held Mattie Tubbs, happier, prouder than she had been in
all her life before, while the gratified mother at home felt amply
repaid for all the trouble her visitor had made her.
And Helen enjoyed it, too, finding Mattie a little insipid and tiresome,
it is true, but feeling happy in the consciousness that she was making
others happy. It was a long drive they took, and Aunt Betsy saw so much
that her brain grew giddy and she was glad when they started for the
depot, taking Madison Square on the way and passing Katy's house.
"I dare say it is all grand and smart," Aunt Betsy said, leaning out to
look at it, "but I feel best at hum where they are used to me."
And her face did bear a brighter look, when finally seated in the cars,
than it had before since she left Silverton.
"You'll be home in April, and maybe Katy'll come, too," she whispered as
she kissed Helen good-by and shook hands with Mattie Tubbs, thanking her
for her kindness in seein' to an old woman, and charging her again never
to let the folks in Silverton know that "Betsy Barlow had once been seen
at a playhouse."
Slowly the cars moved away and Helen was driven home, leaving Mattie
alone in her glory as she rolled down the Bowery, enjoying greatly the
_éclat_ of her position, but feeling a little chagrined at not meeting a
single acquaintance by whom to be envied and admired. Only Tom saw her
alight, giving vent to a whistle, and asking if she didn't feel big, as
he tried to hold out his pantaloons in imitation of her dress and walk
as she disappeared through the door where the dry goods were swinging.
Katy did not ask where Helen had been, for she was wholly absorbed in
Marian Hazelton's letter, telling how fast the baby improved, how pretty
it was growing, and how fond both she and Mrs. Hubbell were of it,
loving it almost as well as if it were their own.
"I know now it was best for it to go, but it was hard at first," Katy
said, putting the letter away, and sighing wearily as she missed the
clasp of the little arms and touch of the baby lips.
Several times Helen was tempted to tell her of Aunt Betsy's visit, but
decided finally not to do so as it might distress her to know that
strangers rendered the hospitalities it was her duty to give, and so
Katy never guessed the truth, nor knew what it was which for many days
made Wilford so nervous and uneasy, starting quickly at every sudden
ring, going often to the window, and looking out into the street as if
expecting some one who never came, while he grew strangely anxious for
news from Silverton, asking when Katy had heard from home, and why she
did not write. One there was, however, who knew and who enjoyed it
vastly, watching Wilford closely, and guessing just how his anxiety
grew as day after day went by; and she neither came nor was heard from
in any way, for Helen did not show the letter apprising her of Aunt
Betsy's safe arrival home, and so all in Wilford's mind was left a vague
conjecture.
He had seen her, she had been in New York, as was proven by Bob
Reynolds, but where was she now, and who were those people with her? Had
they entrapped her into some snare, and possibly murdered her? It might
be. Such things were not of rare occurrence, and Wilford actually grew
poor with the uncertainty which hung over the fate of one whom in his
present state of mind he would have warmly welcomed to his fireside, had
there been a dozen dinner parties in progress. At last, as he sat one
day in his office, with the same worried look on his face, Mark, who had
also been watching him, said:
"By the way, Will, how did that sheep pasture come out, or didn't the
client appear?"
"Mark," and Wilford's voice was husky with emotion; "you've stumbled
upon the very thing which is tormenting my life out of me. Aunt Betsy
has never turned up or been heard from since that night. For aught I
know she was murdered, or spirited away, and I am half distracted. I'd
give a thousand dollars to know what has become of her."
"Put down half that pile and I'll tell you," was Mark's nonchalant
reply, while Wilford, seizing his shoulder and compelling him to look
up, exclaimed:
"You know, then? Tell me--you do know? Where is she?"
"Safe in Silverton, I presume," was the reply, and then Mark told his
story, to which Wilford listened, half incredulous, half indignant, and
a good deal relieved.
"You are a splendid fellow, Mark, though I must say you meddled, but I
know you did not do it unselfishly. Yes, on the whole, I thank you and
Helen, too, for saving me that mortification. I feel like a new man,
knowing the old lady is safe at home, where I trust she will remain. And
that Tom, who called here yesterday, asking to be our clerk, is the
youth I saw at the opera. I thought his face was familiar. Let him come
of course. In my gratitude I feel like patronizing the entire Tubbs
family."
And so it was this flash of gratitude for a peril escaped which procured
for young Tom Tubbs the situation of clerk in the office of Cameron and
Ray, the application for such situation having been urged by the
ambitious Mattie, who felt her dignity considerably increased when she
could speak of Brother Tom in company with Messrs. Cameron & Ray. And it
was also a part of the same gratitude which suggested the huge package
of merino and gingham, calico and linen, together with the handsome silk
shawl and black lace veil, which a few days later was left by the
express boy at the door of the farmhouse for Miss Betsy Barlow, who in
a long letter overwhelmed Katy with her thanks, and nearly let out her
visit to New York, as yet a secret to Mrs. Wilford.