“It is nice of you to look at it that way, Helen,” he said, “after the gay time you have had in Augusta and other cities.”
“At least it is honest and sincere here at home,” she answered, “while down there it is—well, full of strife, social competition, and jealousies. I really; got homesick and simply had to come back.”
“We are simply delighted to have you again,” he said, almost fearing to look upon her, for in her exquisite evening gown and the proud poise of her head she seemed more beautiful and imperious, and farther removed from his hopes than he had thought her even in the darkest hours of her first refusal to condone his fatal offence.
She was looking straight into his eyes with a thoughtful, questioning stare, when she said: “They all seem the same, Carson, except you. Bob Smith, Keith, and even Mr. Garner are just like I left them, but somehow you are altered. You look so much older, so much more serious. Is it politics that is weighing you down—making you worry?”
“Well,” he laughed, evasively, “politics is not exactly the easiest game in the world, and the bare fear that I may not succeed, after all, is enough to make a fellow of my temperament worry. It seems to be my last throw of the dice, Helen. My father will lose all faith in me if this does not go through.”
“Yes, I know it is serious,” the girl said. “Keith and Mr. Garner have talked to me about it. They say they have never seen you so much absorbed in anything before. You really must win, Carson—you simply must!”
“But this is no time to talk over sordid politics,” he said, with a smile. “This is your party and it must be made delightful.”
“Oh, I have my worries, too,” she said, gravely. “I felt a queer twinge of conscience to-night when all the servants came to see me before I left home. They were all so happy except Mam' Linda. She tried to act like the rest, but, Carson, her trouble about that worthless boy is actually killing the dear old woman. She has her pride, too, and it has been wounded to the quick. She was always proud of the fact that my father never had whipped one of his slaves. I've heard her boast of it a hundred times; and now that she no longer belongs to us in reality, and her only child was beaten so cruelly, she simply can't get over it.”
“I knew she felt that way,” Dwight said, sympathetically.
Helen's hand tightened unconsciously on his arm as they were passing by the corner containing the orchestra. “Do you know,” she said, “Mam' Linda told me that of all the people who had been to see her since then that you had been the kindest, most thoughtful, the most helpful? Carson, that was very, very sweet of you.”