The Cameron pride; or, purified by suffering

by Mary Jane Holmes

Surely there is a Providence which watches over all; and Lieutenant Reynolds’s thoughtfulness was not a mere chance, but the answer to the simple trust Aunt Betsy had that God would take her safely to New York. The conductor knew Lieutenant Bob, and attended as faithfully to his wishes as if it had been a born princess instead of Aunt Betsy Barlow whom he led to a street car, ascertaining the number on the Bowery where she wished to stop, and reporting to the conductor, who bowed in acquiescence, after glancing at the woman, and knowing intuitively that she was from the country. Could she have divested herself wholly of the fear that the conductor would forget to put her off at the right place, Aunt Betsy would have enjoyed that ride very much; and as it was, she looked around with interest, thinking New York a mightily cluttered-up place, and wondering if all the folks were in the streets; then, as a lady in flaunting robes took a seat beside her, crowding her into a narrow space, the good old dame thought to show that she did not resent it, by an attempt at sociability, asking if she knew “Miss Peter Tubbs, whose husband kept a store on the Bowery?”

“I have not that honor,” was the haughty reply, the lady drawing up her costly shawl and moving a little away from her interlocutor, who continued, “I thought like enough you might have seen ’Tilda, or Mattie as she calls herself now. She is a right nice girl, and Tom is a very forrard boy.”

To this there was no reply; and as the lady soon left the car, Aunt Betsy did not make another attempt at conversation, except to ask once how far they were from the Bowery, adding, as she received a civil answer, “You don’t know Mr. Peter Tubbs?”

That worthy man was evidently a stranger to the occupants of that car, which stopped at last upon a crossing, the conductor pointing back a few doors to the right, and telling her that was her number.

“I should s’pose he might have driv right up, instead of leaving me here,” she said, looking wistfully after the retreating car. “Coats, and trowsers, and jackets! I wonder if there is nothing else to be seen here,” she continued, as her eye caught the long line of clothing so conspicuously displayed in that part of the Bowery. “’Taint no great shakes,” was the feeling struggling into Aunt Betsy’s mind, as with Tom’s outline map in hand she peered at the numbers of the doors, finding the right one, and ringing the bell with a force which brought Mattie at once to the rescue.

If Mattie was not glad to see her guest, she seemed to be, which answered every purpose for the tired woman, who followed her into the dark, narrow hall, and up the narrow stairs, through a still darker hall, and into the front parlor, which looked out upon the Bowery.

Mrs. Tubbs was glad to see Aunt Betsy. She did not take kindly to city life, and the sight of a familiar face, which brought the country with it, was very welcome to her. Mattie, on the contrary, liked New York, and there was scarcely a street where she had not been, with Tom for a protector; while she was perfectly conversant with all the respectable places of amusement—with their different prices and different grades of patrons. She knew where Wilford Cameron’s office was, and also his house, for she had walked by the latter many a time, admiring the elegant curtains, and feasting her eyes upon the glimpses of inside grandeur, which she occasionally obtained as some one came out or went in. Once she had seen Helen and Katy enter their carriage, which the colored coachman drove away, but she had never ventured to accost them. Katy would not have known her if she had, for the family had come to Silverton while she was at Canandaigua, and as, after her return to Silverton, until her marriage, Mattie had been in one of the Lawrence factories, they had never met. With Helen, however, she had a speaking acquaintance; but she had never presumed upon it in New York, though to some of her young friends she had told how she once sat in the same pew with Mrs. Wilford Cameron’s sister when she went to the “Episcopal meeting,” and the consideration which this fact procured for her from those who had heard of Mrs. Wilford Cameron, of Madison Square, awoke in her the ambition to know more of that lady, and, if possible, gain an entrance to her dwelling. To this end she favored Aunt Betsy’s visit, hoping thus to accomplish her object, for, of course, when Miss Barlow went to Mrs. Cameron’s, she was the proper person to go with her and point the way. This was the secret of Mattie’s letter to Aunt Betsy, and the warmth with which she welcomed her to that tenement on the Bowery, over a clothing store, and so small that it is not strange Aunt Betsy wondered where they all slept, never dreaming of the many devices known to city housekeepers, who can change a handsome parlor into a kitchen or sleeping room, and vice versa, with little or no trouble. But she found it out at last, lifting her hands in speechless amazement, when, as the hour for retiring came, what she had imagined the parlor bookcase was converted into a comfortable bed, on which her first night in New York was passed in comfort if not in perfect quiet.

The next day had been set apart by Mattie for showing their guest the city, and possibly calling on Mrs. Wilford; but the poor old lady, unused to travel and excitement, was too tired to go out, and stayed at home the entire day, watching the crowds of people in the street, and occasionally wishing herself back in the clean, bright kitchen, where the windows looked out upon woods and fields instead of that never-ceasing rush which made her dizzy and faint. On the whole she was as nearly homesick as she well could be, and so when Mattie asked if she would like to go out that evening, she caught eagerly at the idea, as it involved a change, and again the opera came before her mind, in spite of her attempts to thrust it away.

“Did ’Tilda know if Katy went to the opera now? Did she s’pose she would be there to-night? Was it far to the show? What was the price?—and was it a very wicked place?”

To all these queries Mattie answered readily. She presumed Katy would be there, as it was a new opera. It was not so very far. Distance in the city was nothing, and it was not a wicked place; but over the price Mattie faltered. Tickets for Aunt Betsy, herself and Tom, who of course must go with them, would cost more than her father had to give. The theatre was preferable, as that came within their means, and she suggested Wallack’s, but from that Aunt Betsy recoiled as from Pandemonium itself.