Family Pride; Or, Purified by Suffering

by Mary Jane Holmes

It was a novel position in which Mark found himself that night; an inmate of a humble farmhouse, where he could almost touch the ceiling with his hand, and where his surroundings were so different from what he had been accustomed to; but, unlike Wilford Cameron, he did not wish himself away, nor feel indignant at Aunt Betsy's odd, old-fashioned ways, or Uncle Ephraim's grammar. He noticed Aunt Betsy's oddities, it is true, and noticed Uncle Ephraim's grammar, too; but the sight of Helen sitting there, with so much dignity and self-respect, made him look beyond all else, straight into her open face and clear brown eyes, where there was nothing obnoxious or distasteful. Her grammar was correct, her manner, saving a little stiffness, ladylike and refined; and Mark rather enjoyed his situation as self-invited guest, making himself so agreeable that Uncle Ephraim forgot his hour of retiring, nor discovered his mistake until, with a loud yawn, Aunt Betsy told him that it was half-past nine, and she was "desput sleepy."

Owing to Helen's influence there had been a change of the olden customs, and instead of the long chapter, through which Uncle Ephraim used to plod so wearily, there was now read the Evening Psalms, Aunt Betsy herself joining in the reading, which she mentally classed with the "quirks," but confessed to herself that it "was most as good as the Bible."

As there were only Prayer Books enough for the family, Helen, in distributing them, purposely passed Mark by, thinking he might not care to join them. But he did, and when the verse came around to Helen he quickly drew his chair near to hers, and taking one side of her book, performed his part, while Helen's face grew red as the blossoms in her hair, and her hand so near to Mark's trembled visibly.

"A right nice chap, and not an atom stuck up," was Aunt Betsy's mental comment, and then, as he often will do, Satan followed the saintly woman even to her knees, making her wonder if "Mr. Ray hadn't some notion after Helen." She hoped not, for she meant that Morris should have Helen, "though if 'twas to be it was, and she should not go agin' it;" and while Aunt Betsy thus settled the case, Uncle Ephraim's prayer ended, and the conscience-smitten woman arose from her knees with the conviction that "the evil one had got the better of her once," mentally asking pardon for her wandering thoughts, and promising to do better.

Mark was in no haste to retire, and when Uncle Ephraim offered to conduct him to his room, he frankly answered that he was not sleepy, adding, as he turned to Helen: "Please let me stay until Miss Lennox finishes her socks. There are several pairs yet undarned. I will not detain you, though," he continued, bowing to Uncle Ephraim, who, a little uncertain what to do, finally departed, as did Aunt Hannah and his sister, leaving Helen and her mother to entertain Mark Ray. It had been Mrs. Lennox's first intention to retire also, but a look from Helen detained her, and she sat down by that basket of socks, while Mark wished her away. Still it was proper for her to remain, he knew, and he respected Helen for keeping her, as he knew she did. A while they talked of Katy and New York, Mark laboring to convince Helen that its people were not all heartless and fickle, and at last citing his mother as an instance.

"You would like mother, Miss Lennox. I hope you will know her some time," he said, and then they talked of books, Helen forgetting that Mark was city bred in the interest with which she listened to him, while Mark forgot that the girl who appreciated and understood his views almost before they were expressed was country born, and sitting there before him clad in homely garb, with no ornaments save those of her fine mind and the sparkling face turned so fully toward him.

"Mark Ray is not like Wilford Cameron," Helen said to herself, when as the clock was striking eleven she bade him good-night and went up to her room. "But of course in his heart he feels above us all," and opening her window she leaned her hot cheek against the wet casement, and looked out upon the night, now so beautiful and clear, for the rain was over, and up in the heavens the bright stars were shining, each one bearing some resemblance to Mark's eyes as they kindled and grew bright with his excitement, resting always kindly on her—on Helen, who, leaning thus from the window, felt stealing over her that feeling which, once born, can never be quite forgotten.

Helen did not recognize the feeling, for it was a strange one to her. She was only conscious of a sensation half pleasurable, half sad, of which Mark Ray had been the cause, and which she tried in vain to put aside, wondering what he thought of them all, and if he did not secretly despise them even while making himself so familiar. And then there swept over her a feeling of desolation such as she had never experienced before, a shrinking from living all her life in Silverton, as she fully expected to do, and laying her head upon the little stand, she cried passionately.

"This is weak, this is folly," she suddenly exclaimed, as she became conscious of acting as Helen Lennox was not wont to act, and with a strong effort of the will she dried her tears and crept quietly to bed just as Mark was falling into his first sleep, and dreaming of smothering.

Helen would not have acknowledged it, and yet it was a truth not to be denied, that she stayed next morning a much longer time than usual before her glass, arranging her hair, which was worn more becomingly than on the previous night, softening the somewhat too intellectual expression of her face, and making her seem more womanly and modest. Once she thought to wear the light buff gown in which she looked so well, but the thought was repudiated as soon as formed, and donning the same dark calico she would have worn if Mark had not been there, she finished her simple toilet and went downstairs, just as Mark came in at the side door, his hands full of water lilies and his boots bearing marks of what he had been through to get them.