Family Pride; Or, Purified by Suffering

by Mary Jane Holmes

MARK RAY AT SILVERTON.

The last day of summer was dying out in a fierce storm of rain which swept in sheets across the Silverton hills, hiding the pond from view, and beating the windows of the farmhouse, whose inmates were nevertheless unmindful of the storm save as they hoped the morrow would prove bright and fair, such as the day should be which brought them back their Katy. Nearly worn out with constant reference was her letter, the mother catching it up from time to time to read the part referring to herself, the place where Katy had told how blessed it would be "to rest again on mother's bed," just as she had often wished to do, "and hear mother's voice;" the deacon spelling out by his spluttering tallow candle, with its long, smoky wick, what she had said of "darling old Uncle Eph," and the rides into the fields which she should have with him; Aunt Betsy, too, reading mostly from memory the words: "Good old Aunt Betsy, with her skirts so limp and short, tell her she will look handsomer to me than the fairest belle at Newport;" and as often as Aunt Betsy read it she would ejaculate: "The land! what kind of company must the child have kept?" wondering next if Helen had never written of the hoop, for which she had paid a dollar, and which was carefully hung in her closet, waiting for the event of to-morrow, while the hem of her pongee had been let down and one breadth added to accommodate the hoop. On the whole, Aunt Betsy expected to make a stylish appearance before the little lady of whom she stood slightly in awe, always speaking of her to the neighbors as "My niece, Miss Cameron, from New York," and taking good care to report what she had heard of "Miss Cameron's" costly dress and the grandeur of her house, where the furniture of the best chamber cost over fifteen hundred dollars.

"What could it be—gold?" Aunt Betsy had asked in her simplicity, feeling an increased respect for Katy, and consenting the more readily to the change in her pongee, as suggested to her by Helen.

But that was for to-morrow when Katy came; to-night she only wore a dotted brown, whose hem just reached the top of her "bootees," as she stood by the window, wondering, first, if the rain would ever stop, and wondering, secondly, where all them fish worms, squirming on the grass by the back door, did come from. Needn't tell her they crawled out of the ground; she knew better—they rained from the clouds, though she should s'pose that somebody would sometime have catched one on their bunnet or umberill. Dammed if she didn't mean to stand out o' doors some day till she was wet to the skin, and see what would come, and having thus settled a way by which to decide the only question, except that of the "'Piscopal Church and its quirks," on which she was still obstinate, Aunt Betsy went to strain the milk just brought by Uncle Ephraim, while Helen took her position near the window, looking drearily out upon the leaden clouds, and hoping it would brighten before the morrow. Like the others, Helen had read Katy's letter many times, dwelling longest upon the part which said: "I have been so bad, so frivolous and wicked here at Newport, that it will be a relief to make you my confessor, depending, as I do, upon your love to grant me absolution."

From a family at Silverton, who had spent a few days at a private house in Newport, Helen had heard something of her sister's life; the lady had seen her once driving a tandem team, or as Aunt Betsy had it, "driving tanterum," down the avenue, with Wilford at her side giving her instructions. Since then there had been some anxiety felt for her at the farmhouse, and more than Dr. Grant had prayed that she might be kept unspotted from the world; but when her letter came, so full of love and self-reproaches, the burden was lifted, and there was nothing to mar the anticipations of the events for which they had made so many preparations, Uncle Ephraim going to the expense of buying at auction a half-worn, covered buggy, which he fancied would suit Katy better than the corn-colored wagon in which Katy used to ride. To pay for this the deacon had parted with the money set aside for the "greatcoat" he so much needed for the coming winter, his old gray one having done him service for fifteen years. But his comfort was nothing compared with Katy's happiness, and so, with his wrinkled face beaming with delight, he had brought home his buggy, which he designated a carriage, putting it carefully in the barn, and saying no one should ride in it till Katy came, the corn-color was good enough for them, but Katy was different—Katy was Mrs. Cameron, and used to something better. With untiring patience the old man mended up his harness, for what he had heard of Katy's driving had impressed him strongly with her powers of horsemanship, and, truth to tell, raised her somewhat in his respect. Could he have afforded it Uncle Ephraim in his younger days would have been a horse jockey, and even now he liked nothing better than to make Old Whitey run when alone in the strip of woods between the house and the head of the pond.

"Katy inherits her love of horses from me," he said, complacently, and with a view of improving Whitey's style and metal, he took to feeding him on corn and oats, talking to him at times, and telling him who was coming.

Dear, simple-hearted Uncle Ephraim, the days which he must wait seemed long to him as they did to the female portion of his family, to Mrs. Lennox, Aunt Hannah and Aunt Betsy, who each did what she could to make the house attractive. They were ready for Katy at last, or could be early on the morrow, and with the shutting in of night the candles were lighted in the sitting-room, and Helen sat down to her work, wishing it was to-night that Katy was coming. As if in answer to her wish there was the sound of wheels, which stopped before the house, and dropping her work, Helen ran quickly to the door, just as from under the dripping umbrella held by a driver boy, a tall young man, sprang upon the step, nearly upsetting her, but passing an arm around her shoulders in time to keep her from falling.

"I beg pardon for this assault upon you," the stranger said; and then, turning to the boy, he continued: "It's all right, you need not wait."

With a chirrup and a blow the horse started forward, and the mud-bespattered vehicle was rapidly moving down the road ere Helen had recovered her surprise at recognizing Mark Ray, who shook the raindrops from his hair, and offering her his hand said in reply to her involuntary exclamation: "I thought it was Katy." "Shall I infer, then, that I am the less welcome?" and his bright, saucy eyes looked laughingly into hers. "Business had brought him to Southbridge," he said, "and it was his intention to take the cars that afternoon for New York, but having been detained longer than he expected, and not liking the looks of the hotel arrangements, he had decided to presume upon his acquaintance with Dr. Grant and spend the night at Linwood. But," and again his eyes looked straight at Helen, "it rained so hard and the light from your window was so inviting that I ventured to stop, so here I am, claiming your hospitality until morning, if convenient; if not, I will find my way to Linwood."

There was something in this pleasant familiarity which won Uncle Ephraim at once, and he bade the young man stay, as did Aunt Hannah and Mrs. Lennox, who now for the first time were presented to Mark Ray. Always capable of adapting himself to the circumstances around him, Mark did so now with so much ease and courteousness as to astonish Helen, and partly thaw the reserve she had assumed when she found the visitor was from the hated city.