A NEW LIFE.
NEW YORK, December 16th.
To Miss HELEN LENNOX, Silverton, Mass.:
Your sister is very ill. Come as soon as possible.
W. CAMERON.
This was the purport of a telegram received at the farmhouse 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 worse than useless, and in a half-distracted state Helen made her hasty preparations for the journey on the morrow, and then sent for Morris, hoping he might offer some advice or suggestion for her to carry to that sickroom 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 had 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 something 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 yet very dangerous, my mother hopes; but she kept asking for you, and so my—that is, 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, but drew her, oh, 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 high, so like the Camerons, and so unlike the farmhouse far away, that Helen trembled as she followed Mark into the rooms flooded with light, and seeming to her like fairyland. They were so different from anything she had imagined, so much handsomer than even Katy's vivid 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, as he thought more of the look in her dark eyes as she said to him: "You are very kind, Mr. Ray. I cannot thank you enough," than of all the furs in Broadway. This remark had been wrung from Helen by the feeling of homesickness and desolation 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 at Helen, he continued standing until a step was 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."
This was the most gracious thing he had said; this the nearest approach to friendliness, and Helen felt herself hating him less than she had supposed she should. He was looking very 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 _tête-à-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 farmhouse 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 so glad when he at last 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, feeling that the former would be more welcome, and could more easily conform to their customs.
"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 dressmaker had never been forgiven, and whom she had set down in her mind as rude and ignorant.
She was well suited with Katy now, petting and caressing and talking constantly of her; but it did not follow that she must like the sister, too, and so she checked the impulse which would have prompted Wilford to send for her as Katy so much desired.
"If her coming would do Katy harm she ought not to come," and so Wilford's conscience was partially quieted, white Katy in her darkened room moaned on.
"Send for Sister Helen, please send for Sister Helen."
At last on the fourth day came Mrs. Banker, Mark Ray's mother, 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 again 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 thus to care for Helen, but when it was over and Esther had gone, she seemed so utterly exhausted that Mrs. Cameron did not leave her, but stayed at her bedside, ministering to her 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, while she tried to eat, and only the certainty that Katy 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 still 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 even 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 than 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 as much as Mrs. Cameron wondered at her, trying to decide whether it were ignorance, conceit, 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, so great was her joy.
"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 much she was beloved and had been longed for than did the weak, childish 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 awoke 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 the old garret at home she had dressed rag dolls for the 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, when he saw how she improved, 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 also a study, she seemed to care so little for what others might think of her, evincing no hesitation, no timidity, when told one day, 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 most 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 far more suitable to the sickroom, where she spent her time, and so with a fresh collar and cuffs, and another brush of her rich 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, so like Mark Ray's, rested so kindly on her, and whose pleasant voice had something motherly in its tone, putting her wholly at her ease, and making her appear at her very best.
Mrs. Banker was pleased with Helen, while she felt a kind of pity for the young girl thrown so suddenly among strangers, without even her sister to aid and 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 with me. My carriage is at the door, and I have a few 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, 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 a bustling crowd. He saw them, too, and beckoned to them, while Helen's face grew red as, lifting his hat to her, he came up to the carriage, and at 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 Bowery, the Tombs and Barnum's Museum, when there were so many finer places to be seen.
Helen felt the hot blood pricking the roots of her hair, for the Bowery, 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 quite 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 felt that she should 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, and with two gayly-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 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.
But Helen was a woman, with a woman's nature, and so that ride was not without its annoyance, though her face was very bright as she bade Mrs. Banker and Mark good-by, and then ran up the steps to Katy's home. That night at the dinner, from which Mrs. Cameron was absent, Wilford was unusually gracious, asking "had she enjoyed her ride, and if she did not find Mrs. Banker a very pleasant acquaintance."
The fact was, Wilford felt a little uncomfortable himself for having suffered a stranger to do for Katy's sister what devolved upon 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's. 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 thus early 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 never 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, not awkwardly nor timidly, but 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 as much as Juno—but I shall be always glad to welcome you to my den. You may find something there to interest you."
This was Bell's leave-taking, while Sybil's was, if possible, even more friendly, for aside from really fancying Helen, 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, whom she knew had on one of Katy's cast-off collars, and her 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 eyes, which aroused 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' a little company of thirty or more, and as Mark was present, Juno seized the opportunity for 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 stayed, like Will, to appreciate it fully. I wish you could hear him describe the feather beds in 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 stayed there all night, and have tested that feather bed, but found nothing disparaging to Helen, who was as much a lady in the farmhouse as here in the city."
There was a look of withering scorn on Juno's face as she replied:
"As much a lady as here! That may very well be; but, 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 into 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—it is an excellent match."
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 he 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' parlors, seeing only one face, and that the face of Helen Lennox, with the lily in her hair, just as it looked when she had 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 more brilliant, beautiful woman, a woman more like Juno, with whom he had always been on the best of terms, giving her some reason, it is true, for believing herself the favored one; but ideals change as years go on, and Helen Lennox had more attractions 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 that night, when, after his return from Mrs. Reynolds' 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' 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, and felt that Linwood was one day to be Helen's home.
"But it shall not interfere with my being just as kind to her as before. She will need some attendant here, and Wilford, I know, 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.