 | CHAPTER XXI.
A NEW LIFE. The Cameron pride, or, Purified by suffering |  |
21. CHAPTER XXI.
A NEW LIFE.
TO MISS HELEN LENNOX, Silverton, Mass:
Your sister is very ill. Come as soon as possible.
This was the purport of a telegram received at the
farm-house toward the close of a chill December day, and
Helen's heart almost stopped its beating as she read it
aloud, and then looked in the white, scared faces of those
around her. Katy was very ill—dying, perhaps—or
Wilford had never telegraphed. What could it be?
What was the matter? Had it been somewhat later,
they would have known; but now all was conjecture, and
in a half-distracted state, Helen made her hasty preparations
for the journey of the morrow, and then sent for
Morris, hoping he might offer some advice or suggestion,
for her to carry to that sick-room in New York.
“Perhaps you will go with me,” Helen said. “You
know Katy's constitution. You might save her life.”
But Morris shook his head. If he was needed they
might send and he would come, but not without; and so
next day he carried Helen to the cars, saying to her as
they were waiting for the train, “I hope for the best, but
it may be Katy will die. If you think so, tell her, oh,
tell her, of the better world, and ask if she is prepared!
I cannot lose her in Heaven.”
And this was all the message Morris sent, though his
heart and prayers went after the rapid train which bore
Helen safely onward, until Hartford was reached, where
there was a long detention, so that the dark wintry night
had closed over the city ere Helen reached it, timid,
anxious, and wondering what she should do if Wilford
was not there to meet her. “He will be, of course,” she
kept repeating to herself, looking around in dismay, as
passenger after passenger left, seeking in stages and
street cars a swifter passage to their homes.
“I shall soon be all alone,” she said, feeling some relief
as the car in which she was seated began at last to
move, and she knew she was being taken whither the
others had gone, wherever that might be.
“Is Miss Helen Lennox here?” sounded cheerily in
her ears as she stopped before the depot, and Helen uttered
a cry of joy, for she recognized the voice of Mark
Ray, who was soon grasping her hand, and trying to
reassure her, as he saw how she shrank from the noise
and clamor of New York, heard now for the first time.
“Our carriage is here,” he said, and in a moment she
found herself in a close-covered vehicle, with Mark sitting
opposite, tucking the warm blanket around her,
asking if she were cold, and paying those numberless little
attentions so gratifying to one always accustomed to
act and think for herself.
Helen could not see Mark's face distinctly; but full
of fear for Katy, she fancied there was a sad tone in his
voice, as if he were keeping back something he dreaded
to tell her; and then, as it suddenly occurred to her
that Wilford should have met her, not Mark, her great
fear found utterance in words, and leaning forward so
that her face almost touched Mark's she said, “Tell me,
Mr. Ray, is Katy dead?”
“Not dead, oh no, nor very dangerous, my mother
Mr. Cameron sent the telegram.”
There was an ejaculatory prayer of thankfulness, and
then Helen continued, “Is it long since she was taken
sick?”
“Her little daughter will be a week old to-morrow,”
Mark replied; while Helen, with an exclamation of surprise
she could not repress, sank back into the corner,
faint and giddy with the excitement of this fact, which
invested little Katy with a new dignity, and drew her
so much nearer to the sister who could scarcely wait for
the carriage to stop, so anxious was she to be where
Katy was, to kiss her dear face once more, and whisper
the words of love she knew she must have longed to
hear.
Awe-struck, bewildered and half terrified, Helen looked
up at the huge brown structure, which Mark designated
as “the place.” It was so lofty, so grand, so like the
Camerons, and so unlike the farm-house far away, that
Helen trembled as she followed Mark into the rooms
flooded with light, and seeming to her like fairy land.
They were so different from anything she had imagined,
so much handsomer than even Katy's descriptions had
implied, that for the moment the sight took her breath
away, and she sank passively into the chair Mark
brought for her, himself taking her muff and tippet, and
noting, as he did so, that they were not mink, nor yet
Russian sable, but well-worn, well-kept fitch, such as
Juno would laugh at and criticise. But Helen's dress
was a matter of small moment to Mark, and he thought
more of the look in her dark eyes than of all the furs
in Broadway, as she said to him, “You are very
kind, Mr. Ray. I cannot thank you enough.” This remark
had been wrung from Helen by the feeling of home-sickness
which swept over her, as she thought how really
alone she should be there, in her sister's house, on
this first night of her arrival, if it were not for Mark,
thus virtually taking the place of the brother-in-law,
who should have been there to greet her.
“He was with Mrs. Cameron,” the servant said, and
taking out a card Mark wrote down a few words, and
handing it to the servant who had been looking curiously
heard on the stairs and Wilford came quietly in.
It was not a very loving meeting, but Helen was civil
and Wilford was polite, offering her his hand and asking
some questions about her journey.
“I was intending to meet you myself,” he said, “but
Mrs. Cameron does not like me to leave her, and Mark
kindly offered to take the trouble off my hands.”
He was looking pale and anxious, while there was on
his face the light of a new joy, as if the little life begun
so short a time ago had brought an added good to him,
softening his haughty manner and making him even endurable
to the prejudiced sister watching him so closely.
“Does Phillips know you are here?” he asked, answering
his own query by ringing the bell and bidding Esther,
who appeared, tell Phillips that Miss Lennox had arrived,
and wished for supper, explaining to Helen that since
Katy's illness they had dined at three, as that accommodated
them the best.
This done and Helen's baggage ordered to her room,
he seemed to think he had discharged his duty as host,
and as Mark had left he began to grow fidgety, for a têteà-tête
with Helen was not what he desired. He had
said to her all he could think to say, for it never once
occurred to him to inquire after the deacon's family. He
had asked for Dr. Grant, but his solicitude went no further,
and the inmates of the farm-house might have been
dead and buried for aught he knew to the contrary.
The omission was not made purposely, but because he
really did not feel enough of interest in people so widely
different from himself even to ask for them, much less
to suspect how Helen's blood boiled as she detected the
omission and imputed it to intended slight, feeling glad
when he excused himself, saying he must go back to
Katy, but would send his mother down to see her. His
mother. Then she was there, the one whom Helen dreaded
most of all, whom she had invested with every possible
terror, hoping now that she would not be in haste to
come down. She might have spared herself anxiety on
this point, as the lady in question was not anxious to
meet a person who, could she have had her way, would
not have been there at all.
From the first moment of consciousness after the long
hours of suffering, Katy had asked for Helen, rather
than her mother.
“Send for Helen; I am so tired, and she could always
rest me,” was her reply, when asked by Wilford what he
could do for her. “Send for Helen; I want her so
much,” she had said to Mrs. Cameron, when she came,
repeating the wish until a consultation was held between
the mother and son, touching the propriety of sending
for Helen. “She would be of no use whatever, and
might excite our Katy. Quiet is highly important just
now,” Mrs. Cameron had said, thus veiling under pretended
concern for Katy her aversion to the girl whose
independence in declining her dress-maker had never
been forgiven, and whom she had set down in her mind
as rude and ignorant.
“If her coming would do Katy harm she ought not to
come,” Wilford thought, while Katy in her darkened
room moaned on,
“Send for sister Helen; please send for sister Helen.”
At last, on the fourth day, Mrs. Banker, Mark Ray's
mother, came to the house, and in consideration of
the strong liking she had evinced for Katy ever since
her arrival in New York, and the great respect felt for
her by Mrs. Cameron, she was admitted to the chamber
and heard the plaintive pleadings, “Send for sister
Helen,” until her motherly heart was touched, and as
she sat with her son at dinner she spoke of the young
girl-mother moaning so for Helen.
Whether it was Mark's great pity for Katy, or whether
he was prompted by some more selfish motive, we do
not profess to say, but that he was greatly excited was
very evident from his manner as he exclaimed,
“Why not send for Helen, then? She is a splendid
girl, and they idolize each other. Talk of her injuring
Katy, that's all a humbug. She is just fitted for a nurse.
Almost the sight of her would cure one of nervousness,
she is so calm and quiet.”
This was what Mark said, and the next morning Mrs.
Banker's carriage stood at the door of No. — Madison
Square, while Mrs. Banker herself was talking to Wilford
in the library, and urging that Helen be sent for at once.
“It may save her life. She is more feverish to-day
than yesterday, and this constant asking for her sister
will wear her out so fast,” she added, and that last argument
prevailed.
Helen was sent for, and now sat waiting in the parlor
for the coming of Mrs. Cameron. Wilford did not mean
Katy to hear him as he whispered to his mother that
Helen was below; but she did, and her blue eyes flashed
brightly as she started from her pillow, exclaiming,
“I am so glad, so glad! Kiss me, Wilford, because I
am so glad. Does she know? Have you told her?
Wasn't she surprised, and will she come up quick?”
They could not quiet her at once, and only the assurance
that unless she were more composed, Helen should
not see her that night, had any effect upon her; but
when they told her that, she lay back upon her pillow
submissively, and Wilford saw the great tears dropping
from her hot cheeks, while the pallid lips kept softly
whispering “Helen.” Then the sister love took another
channel, and she said.
“She has not been to supper, and Phillips is always
cross at extras. Will somebody see to it. Send Esther
to me, please. Esther knows and is good-natured.”
“Mother will do all that is necessary. She is going
down,” Wilford said; but Katy had quite as much fear
of leaving Helen to “mother” as to Phillips, and insisted
upon Esther until the latter came, receiving numerous
injunctions as to the jam, the sweetmeats, the peaches
and the cold ham Helen must have, each one being remembered
as her favorite.
Wholly unselfish, Katy thought nothing of herself or
the effort it cost her to care for Helen; but when it was
over and Esther was gone, she seemed so utterly exhausted
that Mrs. Cameron did not leave her, but staid at her
bedside, until the extreme paleness was gone, and her
eyes were more natural. Meanwhile the supper, which
as Katy feared had made Phillips cross, had been
arranged by Esther, who conducted Helen to the dining-room,
herself standing by and waiting upon her because
the one whose duty it was had gone out for the evening,
and Phillips had declined the “honor,” as she styled it.
There was a homesick feeling tugging at Helen's heart,
was not far away kept her tears back. To her the very
grandeur of the house made it desolate, and she was so
glad it was Katy who lived there and not herself as she
went up the soft carpeted stairway, which gave back no
sound, and through the marble hall to the parlor, where,
by the table on which her cloak and furs were lying, a
lady stood, as dignified and unconscious as if she had
not been inspecting the self-same fur which Mark Ray
had observed, but not, like him, thinking it did not matter,
for it did matter very materially with her, and a smile of
contempt had curled her lip as she turned over the
tippet which Phillips would not have worn.
“I wonder how long she means to stay, and if Wilford
will have to take her out,” she was thinking, just
as Helen appeared in the door and advanced into the
room.
By herself, it was easy to slight Helen Lennox, but in
her presence Mrs. Cameron found it very hard to appear
as cold and distant as she had meant to do, for there
was something about Helen which commanded her respect,
and she went forward to meet her, offering her
hand and saying cordially.
“Miss Lennox, I presume—my daughter Katy's sister?”
Helen had not expected this, and the warm flush which
came to her cheeks made her very handsome, as she returned
Mrs. Cameron's greeting, and then asked more
particularly for Katy than she had yet done. For a while
they talked together, Mrs. Cameron noting carefully
every item of Helen's attire, as well as the purity of her
language and her perfect repose of manner after the first
stiffness had passed away.
“Naturally a lady as well as Katy; there must be good
blood somewhere, probably on the Lennox side,” was
Mrs. Cameron's private opinion, while Helen, after a few
moments, began to feel far more at ease with Mrs. Cameron
that she had done in the dining-room with Esther
waiting on her, and the cross Phillips stalking once
through the room for no ostensible purpose except to get
a sight of her.
Helen wondered at herself, and Mrs. Cameron wondered
obtuseness, or what, which made her so self-possessed
when she was expected to appear so different.
“Strong-minded,” was her final decision, as she said at
last, “We promised Katy she should see you to-night.
Will you go now?”
Then the color left Helen's face and lips and her limbs
shook perceptibly, for the knowing she was soon to meet
her sister unnerved her; but by the time the door of
Katy's room was reached she was herself again, and there
was no need for Mrs. Cameron to whisper, “Pray do not
excite her.”
Katy heard her coming, and it required all Wilford's
and the nurse's efforts to keep her quiet.
“Helen, Helen, darling, darling sister!” she cried, as
she wound her arms around Helen's neck, and laid her
golden head on Helen's bosom, sobbing in a low, mournful
way which told Helen more how she had been longed
for than did the weak voice which whispered, “I've
wanted you so much, oh Helen; you don't know how
much I've missed you all the years I've been away. You
will not leave me now,” and Katy clung closer to the
dear sister who gently unclasped the clinging arms and
put back upon the pillow the quivering face, which she
kissed so tenderly, whispering in her own old half soothing,
half commanding way, “Be quiet now, Katy. It's
best that you should. No, I will not leave you.”
Next to Dr. Grant Helen had more influence over
Katy than any living being, and it was very apparent
now, for, as if her presence had a power to soothe, Katy
grew very quiet, and utterly wearied out, slept for a few
moments with Helen's hand fast locked in hers. When
she woke the tired look was gone, and turning to her sister
she said, “Have you seen my baby?” while the young
mother love which broke so beautifully over her pale
face, made it the face of an angel.
“It seems so funny that it is Katy's baby,” Helen said,
taking the puny little thing, which with its wrinkled face
and red, clinched fists was not very attractive to her, save
as she looked at it with Katy's eyes.
She did not even kiss it, but her tears dropped upon
its head as she thought how short the time since up in
Katy who was now a mother. And still in a measure she
was the same, hugging Helen fondly when she said good-night,
and welcoming her so joyfully in the morning
when she came again, telling her how just the sight of
her sitting there by baby's crib did her so much good.
“I shall get well so fast,” she said; and she was right,
for Helen was worth far more to her than all the physician's
powders, and Wilford was glad that Helen came,
even if she did sometimes shock him with her independent
ways, upsetting all his plans and theories with regard
to Katy, and meeting him on other grounds with an opposition
as puzzling as it was new to him.
To Mrs. Cameron Helen was a study; she seemed to
care so little for what others might think of her, evincing
no hesitation, no timidity, when told the second day after
her arrival that Mrs. Banker was in the parlor, and had
asked to see Miss Lennox. Mrs. Cameron did not suspect
how under that calm, unmoved exterior, Helen was
hiding a heart which beat painfully as she went down to
meet the mother of Mark Ray, going first to her own
room to make some little change in her toilet, and wishing
that her dress was more like the dress of those around
her—like Mrs. Cameron's, or even Esther's and the fashionable
nurse's. One glance she gave to the brown silk,
Wilford's gift, but her good sense told her that the plain
merino she wore was more suitable to the sick room
where she spent her time, and so with a fresh collar
and cuffs, and another brush of her hair, she went to
Mrs. Banker, forgetting herself in her pleasure at finding
in the stranger a lady so wholly congenial and familiar,
whose mild, dark eyes rested so kindly on her, and whose
pleasant voice had something motherly in its tone, putting
her at her ease, and making her appear at her very
best.
Mrs. Banker was pleased with Helen, and she felt a
kind of pity for the young girl thrown so suddenly among
strangers, without even her sister to assist her.
“Have you been out at all?” she asked, and upon Helen's
replying that she had not, she answered, “That is
not right. Accustomed to the fresh country air, you will
suffer from too close confinement. Suppose you ride
hours' leisure. Tell your sister I insist,” she continued,
as Helen hesitated between inclination and what she fancied
was her duty.
To see New York with Mrs. Banker was a treat indeed,
and Helen's heart bounded high as she ran up to Katy's
room with the request.
“Yes, go by all means,” Katy said. “It is so kind in
Mrs. Banker, and so like her, too. I meant that Wilford
should have driven with you to-day, and spoke to him
about it, but Mrs. Banker will do better. Tell her I
thank her so much for her thoughtfulness,” and with a
kiss Katy sent Helen away, while Mrs. Cameron, after
twisting her rings nervously for a moment, said to Katy,
“Perhaps your sister would do well to wear your furs.
Hers are small, and common fitch.”
“Yes, certainly. Take them to her,” Katy answered,
knowing intuitively the feeling which had prompted this
suggestion from her mother-in-law, who hastened to
Helen's room with the rich sable she was to wear in place
of the old fitch.
Helen appreciated the difference at once between her
furs and Katy's, and felt a pang of mortification as she
saw how old and poor and dowdy hers were beside the
others. But they were her own—the best she could afford.
She would not begin by borrowing, and so she
declined the offer, and greatly to Mrs. Cameron's horror
went down to Mrs. Banker clad in the despised furs,
which Mrs. Cameron would on no account have had beside
her on Broadway in an open carriage. Mrs. Banker
noticed them, too, but the eager, happy face, which grew
each moment brighter as they drove down the street,
more than made amends; and in watching that and
pointing out the places which they passed, Mrs. Banker
forgot the furs and the coarse straw hat whose strings
of black had undeniably been dyed. Never in her life
had Helen enjoyed a ride as she did that pleasant winter
day, when her kind friend took her wherever she
wished to go, showing her Broadway in its glory from
Union Square to Wall Street, where they encountered
Mark in the bustling crowd. He saw them, and
beckoned to them, while Helen's face grew red, as,
his mother's suggestion took a seat just opposite, asking
where they had been, and jocosely laughing at his mother's
taste in selecting such localities as the Five Points,
the tombs and Barnum's Museum, when there were so
many finer places to be seen.
Helen felt the hot blood prickling the roots of her hair,
for the Five Points, the Tombs and Barnum's Museum
had been her choice as the points of which she had heard
the most. So when Mark continued,
“You shall ride with me, Miss Lennox, and I will show
you something worth your seeing,” she frankly answered,
“Your mother is not in fault, Mr. Ray. She asked me
where I wished to go, and I mentioned these places; so
please attribute it wholly to my country breeding, and
not to your mother's lack of taste.”
There was something in the frank speech which won
Mrs. Banker's heart, while she felt an increased respect
for the young girl, who, she saw, was keenly sensitive,
even with all her strength of character.
“You were right to commence as you have,” she said,
“for now you have a still greater treat in store, and
Mark shall drive you to the Park some day. I know you
will like that.”
Helen could like anything with that friendly voice to
reassure her, and leaning back she was thinking how
pleasant it was to be in New York, how different from
what she had expected, when a bow from Mark made her
look up in time to see that they were meeting a carriage,
in which sat Wilford, with two gaily dressed ladies, both
of whom gave her a supercilious stare as they passed by,
while the younger of the two half turned her head, as
if for a more prolonged gaze.
“Mrs. Grandon and Juno Cameron,” Mrs. Banker said,
making some further remark to her son, while Helen felt
that the brightness of the day had changed, for she could
not be unconscious of the look with which she had been
regarded by these two fashionable ladies, and again her
furs came up before her, bringing a feeling of which she
was ashamed, especially as she had fancied herself above
all weakness of the kind.
That night at the dinner, from which Mrs. Cameron
she had enjoyed her ride, and if she did not find Mrs.
Banker a very pleasant acquaintance.”
Wilford felt a little uncomfortable at having suffered a
stranger to do for Katy's sister what should have been
done by himself. Katy had asked him to drive with Helen;
but he had found it very convenient to forget it, and take
a seat instead-with Juno and Mrs. Grandon, the latter of
whom complimented “Miss Lennox's fine intellectual
face,” after they had passed, and complimented it the more
as she saw how it vexed Juno, who could see nothing “in
those bold eyes and that masculine forehead,” just because
their vis-à-vis chanced to be Mark Ray. Juno was
not pleased with Helen's first appearance in the street,
but nevertheless she called upon her next day, with Sybil
Grandon and her sister Bell. To this she was urged
by Sybil, who, having a somewhat larger experience of
human nature, foresaw that Helen would be popular just
because Mrs. Banker had taken her up, and who, besides,
had conceived a capricious fancy to patronize Miss Lennox.
But in this she was foiled, for Helen was not to be
patronized, and she received her visitors with that calm,
assured manner so much a part of herself.
“Diamond cut diamond,” Bell thought, as she saw how
frigidly polite both Juno and Helen were, each recognizing
in the other something antagonistic, which could not
harmonize.
Had Juno never cared for Dr. Grant, or suspected Helen
of standing between herself and him, and had Mark
Ray never stopped at Silverton, or been seen on Broadway
with her, she might have judged her differently, for
there was something attractive in Helen's face and appearance
as she sat talking to her guests, with as much
quiet dignity as if she had never mended Uncle Ephraim's
socks or made a pound of butter among the huckleberry
hills. Bell was delighted, detecting at once traces
of the rare mind which Helen Lennox possessed, and
wondering to find it so.
“I hope we shall see each other often,” she said, at
parting. “I do not go out a great deal myself—that is,
not so much as Juno—but I shall be always glad to welcome
interest you.”
This was Bell's leave-taking, while Sybil's was, if possible,
more friendly, for she took a perverse kind of pleasure
in annoying Juno, who wondered “what she or Bell
could see to like in that awkward country girl, who she
knew had on one of Katy's cast-off collars, and whose
wardrobe was the most ordinary she ever saw; fitch
furs, think of that!” and Juno gave a little pull at the
fastenings of her rich ermine collar, showing so well over
her velvet basquine.
“Fitch furs or not, they rode with Mark Ray on Broadway,”
Bell retorted, with a wicked look in her eye, which
roused Juno to a still higher pitch of anger, so that by
the time the carriage stopped at No. —, the young lady
was in a most unamiable frame of mind as regarded both
Helen Lennox and the offending Mark.
That evening there was at Mrs. Reynolds's a little company
of thirty or more, and as Mark was present, Juno
seized the opportunity of ascertaining, if possible, his
real opinion of Helen Lennox, joking him first about his
having taken her to ride so soon, and insinuating that
he must have a penchant for every new and pretty face.
“Then you think her pretty? You have called on
her?” Mark replied, his manner evincing so much pleasure
that Juno bit her lip to keep down her wrath, and
flashing upon him her scornful eyes, replied, “Yes, Sybil
and Bell insisted that I should. Of myself I would
never have done it, for I have now more acquaintances
than I can attend to, and do not care to increase the list.
Besides that, I do not imagine that Miss Lennox can in
any way add to my happiness, brought up as she has
been among the woods and hills, you know.”
“Yes, I have been there—to her home, I mean,” Mark
rejoined, and Juno continued:
“Only for a moment, though. You should have staid,
like Will, to appreciate it fully. I wish you could hear
him describe the feather beds on which he slept—that is,
describe them before he decided to take Katy; for after
that he was chary of his remarks, and the feathers by
some marvelous process were changed into hair, for what
he knew or cared.”
Mark hesitated a moment, and then said, quietly,
“I have staid there all night, and have tested that
feather bed, but found nothing disparaging to Helen, who
was as much a lady in the farm-house as here in the city.”
There was a look of withering scorn on Juno's face as
she replied,
“Pray, how long since you took to visiting Silverton
so frequently—becoming so familiar as to spend the
night?”
There was no mistaking the jealousy which betrayed
itself in every tone of Juno's voice as she stood before
Mark, a fit picture of the enraged goddess whose name
she bore. Soon recollecting herself, however, she changed
her mode of attack, and said, laughingly,
“Seriously, though, this Miss Lennox seems a very
nice girl, and is admirably fitted, I think, for the position
she is to fill—that of a country physician's wife,” and in
the black eyes there was a wicked sparkle as Juno saw
that her meaning was readily understood, Mark looking
quickly at her, and asking if she referred to Dr. Grant.
“Certainly; I imagine that was settled as long ago as
we met him in Paris. Once I thought it might have
been our Katy, but was mistaken. I think the doctor
and Miss Lennox well adapted to each other.”
There was for a moment a dull, heavy pain at Mark's
heart, caused by that little item of information which
made him so uncomfortable. On the whole he did not
doubt it, for everything he could recall of Morris had a
tendency to strengthen the belief. Nothing could be
more probable, thrown together as they had been, without
other congenial society, and nothing could be more
suitable.
“They are well matched,” Mark thought, as he walked
listlessly through Mrs. Reynolds's parlors, seeing only
one face, and that the face of Helen Lennox, with the lily
in her hair, just as it looked when she tied the apron
about his neck and laughed at his appearance.
Helen was not the ideal which in his boyhood Mark
had cherished of the one who was to be his wife, for that
was of a woman more like Juno, with whom he had always
been on the best of terms, giving her some reason
for believing herself the favored one; but ideals change
for him now than the most dashing belle of his acquaintance.
“I do not believe I am in love with her,” he said to
himself when, after his return from Mrs. Reynolds's he
sat for a long time before the fire in his dressing-room,
cogitating upon what he had heard, and wondering why
it should affect him so much. “Of course I am not,” he
continued, feeling the necessity of reiterating the assertion
by way of making himself believe it. “She is not
at all what I used to imagine the future Mrs. Mark Ray
to be. Half my friends would say she had no style, no
beauty, and perhaps she has not. Certainly she does not
look just like the ladies at Mrs. Reynolds's to-night, but
give her the same advantages and she would surpass
them all.”
And then Mark Ray went off into a reverie, in which
he saw Helen Lennox his wife, and with the aids by
which he would surround her, rapidly developing into as
splendid a woman as little Katy Cameron, who did not
need to be developed, but took all hearts at once by that
natural, witching grace so much a part of herself. It
was a very pleasant picture which Mark painted upon
the mental canvas; but there came a great blur blotting
out its brightness as he remembered Dr. Grant.
“But it shall not interfere with my being just as kind
to her as before. She will need some attendant here, and
Wilford will be glad to shove her off his hands. He is
so infernal proud,” Mark said, and taking a fresh cigar
he finished his reverie with the magnanimous resolve
that were Helen a hundred times engaged she should be
his especial care during her sojourn in New York.
| CHAPTER XXI.
A NEW LIFE. The Cameron pride, or, Purified by suffering | |