The Cameron pride; or, purified by suffering

by Mary Jane Holmes

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 kept her, and she sat down by that basket of socks, while Mark wished her away. Awhile 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 clad in homely garb, with no ornaments save those of her fine mind and the sparkling face turned so fully towards 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, 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. 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 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, and which softened the somewhat too intellectual expression of her face, and made 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 down stairs, 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.

“Early country air is healthful,” he said, “and as I do not often have a chance to try it, I thought I would improve the present opportunity. So I have been down by the pond, and spying these lilies I persevered until I reached them, in spite of mud and mire. There is no blossom I like so well. Were I a young girl I would always wear one in my hair, as your sister did one night at Newport, and I never saw her look better. Just let me try the effect on you;” and selecting a half-opened bud, Mark placed it among Helen’s braids as skillfully as if hair-dressing were one of his accomplishments. “The effect is good,” he continued, turning her blushing face to the glass and asking if it were not.

“Yes,” Helen stammered, seeing more the saucy eyes looking over her head than the lily in her hair. “Yes, good enough, but hardly in keeping with this old dress,” and vanity whispered the wish that the buff had really been worn.

“Your dress is suitable for morning, I am sure,” Mark replied, turning a little more to the right the lily, and noticing as he did so how very white and pretty was the neck and throat seen above the collar.

Mark liked a pretty neck, and he was glad to know that Helen had one, though why he should care was a puzzle. He could hardly have analyzed his feelings then, or told what he did think of Helen. He only knew that by her efforts to repel him she attracted him the more, she was so different from any young ladies he had known—so different from Juno, into whose hair he had never twined a water lily. It would not become her as it did Helen, he thought, as he sat opposite her at the table, admiring his handiwork, which even Aunt Betsy observed, remarking that “Helen was mightily spruced up for morning,” a compliment which Helen acknowledged with a painful blush, while Mark began a disquisition upon the nature of lilies generally, which lasted until breakfast was ended.