“No, nor I never shall,” Helen said, firmly. “I admire him and shall treat him as a good friend when we meet, but that will be the end of it. Whether I cared for him or not, as girls care for young men, is neither here nor there. It is over with.”
“And all simply because he was a little wild at the time your poor brother—”
“Stop!” Helen said; “don't argue the matter. I can only now associate him with the darkest hour of my life. I'm tempted to tell you something, Ida,” and Helen bowed her head for a moment, and then went on in an unsteady voice. “When my poor brother's trunk was brought home, it was my duty to put the things it contained in order. There I found some letters to him, and one dated only two days before Albert's death was from—from Carson Dwight. I read only a portion of it, but it revealed a page in poor Albert's life that I had never read—never dreamed could be possible.”
“But Carson,” Ida Tarpley exclaimed; “what did he have to do with that?”
Helen swallowed the lump in her throat, and with a cold, steely gleam in her eyes she said, bitterly: “He could have held out his hand with the superior strength you think he has and drawn the poor boy back from the brink, but he didn't. The words he wrote about it were light, flippant, and heartless. He treated the whole awful situation as a joke, as if—as if he himself were familiar with such unmentionable things.”
“Ah, I begin to understand it all now!” Ida sighed. “That letter, coupled with Cousin Albert's awful death, was such a terrible shock that you cannot feel the same towards Carson. But oh, Helen, you would pity him if you knew him now as I do. He has never altered in his feelings towards you. In fact, it seems to me that he loves you even more deeply than ever. And, dear, if you had seen his patient efforts to make a better man of himself you'd not harbor such thoughts against him. You will understand Carson some day, but it may then be too late. I don't believe a woman ever has a real sweetheart but once. You may marry the man your aunt wants you to take, but your heart will some day turn back to the other. You will remember, too, and bitterly, that you condemned him for a youthful fault which you ought to have pardoned.”
“Do you think so, Ida?” Helen asked, her soft, brown eyes averted.
“Yes, and you'll remember, too, that while his other friends were trying to help him stick to his resolutions you turned against him. He's going to make a great and good man, Helen. I've known that for some time. He is having his troubles, but even they will help him to be stronger in the end. His greatest trial is going on right now, while folks are saying that you are going to marry another man. Pshaw! you may say what you like about Mr. Sanders' good qualities, but I know I shall not like him,” concluded Ida, with a smile, as she turned to go. “He is a usurper, and I'm dead against him.”
Helen remained on the veranda after her cousin had left till the twilight gathered about her. She was about to go in, as it was near tea-time, when she heard a grumbling voice down the street and saw old Uncle Lewis returning from town, driving his son, the troublesome Peter, before him.
“You go right thoo dat gate on back ter dat house, you black imp er 'straction!” he thundered, “er I'll tek er boa'd en lambast de life out'n you. Here it is night-time en you ain't chop no stove-wood fer de big house kitchen, en been lyin' roun' dem cotton wagons raisin' mo' rows wid dem mountain white men.”