From a family in 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 down the avenue, with Wilford at her side giving her instructions. Since then there had been some anxiety felt for her at the farm-house, 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 event 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 she used to ride. To pay for this the deacon had parted with the money set aside for the “great coat” he so much needed for the coming winter, his old gray 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, putting it carefully in the barn, and saying no one should ride in it till Katy came. 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 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 his 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 mettle, he took to feeding him on 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 other members of his family. But they were all gone now,—Katy would be home 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 moving down the road ere Helen had recovered her surprise at recognizing Mark Ray, who shook the rain-drops 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 was 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.
“Are you expecting Mrs. Cameron?” he asked, adding, as Helen explained that she was coming to-morrow, “That is strange. Wilford wrote decidedly that he should be in New York to-morrow. Possibly, though, he does not intend himself to stop.”
“I presume not,” Helen replied, a weight suddenly lifting from her heart at the prospect of not having to entertain the formidable brother-in-law who, if he stayed long, would spoil all her pleasure.
Thus at her ease on this point, she grew more talkative, half wishing that her dress was not a shilling-calico, or her hair combed back quite so straight, giving her that severe look which Morris had said was unbecoming. It was very smooth and glossy, and Sybil Grandon would have given her best diamond to have had in her own natural right the heavy coil of hair bound so many times around the back of Helen’s head, and ornamented with neither ribbon, comb, nor bow. Only a single geranium leaf, with a white and scarlet blossom, was fastened just below the ear, and on the side where Mark could see it best, admiring its effect and forgetting the arrangement of the hair in his admiration of the well-shaped head, bending so industriously over the work which Helen had resumed—not crocheting, nor yet embroidery, but the very homely work of darning Uncle Ephraim’s socks, a task which Helen always did, and on that particular night. Helen knew it was not delicate employment, and there was a moment’s hesitancy as she wondered what Mark would think—then, with a grim delight in letting him see that she did not care, she resumed her darning-needle, and as a kind of penance for the flash of pride in which she had indulged, selected from the basket the very coarsest, ugliest sock she could find, stretching out the huge fracture at the heel to its utmost extent, and attacking it with a right good will, while Mark, with a comical look on his face, sat watching her. She knew he was looking at her, and her cheeks were growing very red, while her hatred of him was increasing, when he said, abruptly: “You follow my mother’s custom, I see. She used to mend my socks on Tuesday nights.”
“Your mother mend socks!” and Helen started so suddenly as to run the point of her darning-needle a long way into her thumb, the wound bringing a stream of blood which she tried to wipe away with her handkerchief.