University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
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,
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 wax-like complexion. Aunt Betsy's
proximity was wholly unsuspected, both by her and
Helen, who was very handsome, 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 gaze.
Helen was beginning to doubt the story of his engagement
with Juno. 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 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 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
her 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's 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 an 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 staid 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 would 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 over night, 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 the 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 china-ware. But I've larnt a lesson,” and the philosophic
old 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—aye, 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
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 direct 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, who ought to be shut up in
an 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.” Then she told 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 attend 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 a half hour had passed, Aunt Betsy, with her
satchel, umbrella, and cap-box, 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 to the Bowery
to say good-bye, 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's; and as the result of
this suggestion, the carriage, when again it emerged into
Broadway, held Mattie Tubbs, 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, 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's all grand and smart,” Aunt Betsy said,
as she leaned out to look at it, “but I feel best at hum,
where they are used to me.”

And her face did wear a brighter look, when finally
seated in the cars, than it had before since she left Silverton.

“You'll be home in April, and may-be Katy'll come
too,” she whispered as she kissed Helen good-bye, and
shook hands with Mattie Tubbs, charging her again never
to let the folks in Silverton know that “Betsy Barlow had
been seen at a play-house.”

Slowly the cars moved away, and Helen was driven
home, leaving Mattie alone in her glory as she rolled
down the Bowery, enjoying the eclat of her position, but
feeling a little chagrined at not meeting a single acquaintance
by whom to be envied and admired.

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, and Katy
never knew what it was which for many days made Wilford
so nervous and uneasy, starting at every sudden ring,
going often to the window, and looking out into the street
as if expecting some one, 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 watching Wilford,
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 vague conjecture.

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? Such things were not of
rare occurrence, and Wilford actually grew thin 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 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.
Perhaps with Katy not won I might do the same. Yes,
on the whole, I thank you and Helen 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 & 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 and Ray.