University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
AUNT BETSY CONSULTS A LAWYER.

AUNT Betsy did not rest well after her return from
the opera. Novelty and excitement always kept
her awake, and 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 subpœna after me, for what I know,” she
thought, as she laid her tired head upon her pillow and
went off into a weary state, half way between sleep and
wakefulness, 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 subpœnas, were pretty equally
blended together.

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 had awakened all the olden intense

love she had felt for her darling, and she could not wait
much longer without seeing her.

“Hannah and Lucy, and amongst 'em, advised me not
to come,” she said to Mrs. Tubbs, “and they hinted 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; 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 off 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
offences, for was she 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? Play-houses, pride, vanity,
subterfuges 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 streets, 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 subpœna, 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 afterwards 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.

“Mr. Cameron has just left the office and will not return
to-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; 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-try, I wouldn't care,”
Aunt Betsy said, “for the rest ain't worth a law-suit;
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's 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 I sometimes mistrust 'twas Katy
Morris wanted. Any how, 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 way.

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
would take her to his mother's and keep her until the
morrow, and perhaps until she left for home; telling
Helen, 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 up
town 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 brown-stone
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 round for it at once. Your number, please?”

His manner was so off hand and yet so polite that
Mattie could neither resist him, nor be angry, though
there was a pang 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?”

With a good-bye 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 the truth,” was his 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 in to the
house, and who now in the parlor was looking around her
in astonishment and delight, condemning herself for the
feeling of homesickness with which she remembered the
Bowery, and 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 cap-box, 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 Mr.
Tubbses. 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 was better
in her own room, and as it was in readiness, Mark 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 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 up
stairs, 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 begin 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 who 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,

at that very moment an occupant of their best guest-chamber,
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 what a savage Wilford
would be if he found her there. 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 generous acts
towards the old lady overhead, who was standing by the
window, and wondering what the huge building could be
gleaming so white in the fading sunlight.

“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 cap-box,
with a note from Mattie, had by this time arrived, and in
her Sunday cap, with the purple bows, Aunt Betsy felt
better, and enjoyed the tempting little supper, served on
silver and Sevres china, the attendant waiting in the hall
instead of in her room, where her presence might embarrass

one unaccustomed to such usages. They were very
kind, and had Mark been her own son he 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
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,” and
with a good-bye 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 first came
to New York, and he met her at the depot.