Part 22 (1/2)
If Helen had been on the watch for equivocations she would not have placed as much stress as she did on Mrs. Cameron's words, for that lady did not say positively ”They are engaged.” She could not quite bring herself to a deliberate falsehood, which, if detected, would reflect upon her character as a lady, but she could mislead Helen, and she did so effectually, as was evinced by the red spot which burned on her cheeks, and by her uncertain way of replying to a gentleman who stood by her for a moment, addressing to her some casual remark and departing with the impression that Miss Lennox was very timid and shy. After he was gone, Mrs. Cameron continued, ”It is not like us to bruit our affairs abroad, and were my daughter ten times engaged, the world would be none the wiser. I doubt if even Katy suspects what I have admitted; but knowing how fascinating Mark can be, and that just at present he seems to be pleased with you, I have acted as I should wish a friend to act toward my own child. Were it not that you are one of our family, I might not have interfered, and I trust you not to repeat even to Katy what I have said.”
Helen nodded a.s.sent, while in her heart was a wild tumult of feelings--flattered pride, disappointment, indignation and mortification all struggling for the mastery---mortification to feel that she who had quietly ignored such a pa.s.sion as love when connected with herself, had, nevertheless, been pleased with the attentions of one who was only amusing himself with her, as a child amuses itself with some new toy soon to be thrown aside--indignation at him for vexing Juno at her expense--disappointment that he should care for such as Juno, and flattered pride that Mrs. Cameron should include her in ”our family.”
Helen had as few weak points as most young ladies, but she was not free from them all, and the fact that Mrs. Cameron had taken her into a confidence which even Katy did not share, was soothing to her ruffled spirits, particularly as after that confidence Mrs. Cameron was excessively gracious to her, introducing her to many whom she did not know before, and paying her numberless little attentions, which made Juno stare, while the clearer-seeing Bell arched her eyebrows, and wondered for what Helen was to be made a catspaw by her clever mother.
Whatever it was, it did not appear, save as it showed itself in Helen's slightly changed demeanor when Mark again sought her society, and tried to bring back to her face the look he had left there. But something evidently had come between them, and the young man racked his brain to find the cause of this sudden indifference in one who had been pleased with him only a short half hour before.
”It's that confounded waltzing which disgusted her,” he said, ”and no wonder, for if ever a man looks like an idiot, it is when he is kicking up his heels to the sound of a viol, and wheeling around some woman whose skirts sweep everything within the circle of a rod, and whose face wears that die-away expression I have so often noticed. I've half a mind to swear I'll never dance again.”
But Mark was too fond of dancing to quit it at once, and finding Helen still indifferent, he yielded to circ.u.mstances, and the last she saw of him, as at a comparatively early hour she left the gay scene, he was dancing again with Juno, whose face beamed with a triumphant look, as if she in some way guessed the aching heart her rival carried home. It was a heavy blow to Helen, for she had become greatly interested in Mark Ray, whose attentions had made her stay in New York so pleasant. But these were over now--at least the excitement they brought was over, and Helen, as she sat in her dressing-room at home, and thought of the future as well as the past, felt stealing over her a sense of desolation and loneliness such as she had experienced but once before, and that on the night when leaning from her window at the farmhouse where Mark Ray was stopping she had shuddered and shrank from living all her days among the rugged hills of Silverton. New York had opened an entirely new world to her, showing her much that was vain and frivolous, with much too, that was desirable and good; and if there had crept into her heart the vague thought that a life with such people as Mrs. Banker and those who frequented her house would be preferable to a life in Silverton, where only Morris understood her, it was but the natural result of daily intercourse with one who had studied to please and interest as Mark Ray had done. But Helen had too much good sense and strength of will long to indulge in what she would have called ”love-sick regrets” in others, and she began to devise the best course for her to adopt hereafter, concluding finally to treat him much as she had done, lest he should suspect how deeply she had been wounded. Now that she knew of his engagement, it would be an easy matter, she thought, so to demean herself as neither to annoy Juno nor really to vex him. Thoroughly now she understood why Juno Cameron had seemed to dislike her so much.
”It is natural,” she said, ”and yet I honestly believe I like her better for knowing what I do. There must be some good beneath that proud exterior, or Mark would never seek her.”
Still, look at it from any point she chose, it seemed a strange, unsuitable match, and Helen's heart ached sadly as she finally retired to rest, thinking what might have been had Juno Cameron found some other lover more like her than Mark could ever be.
CHAPTER XXIII.
GENEVRA.
Far more elated with her sister's success than Helen herself, Katy could talk of little else next morning, telling Helen how many complimentary things Wilford had said of her, and how much he had heard others say, while Mark Ray had seemed perfectly fascinated.
”I never thought till last night how nice it would be for you to marry Mark and settle in New York,” Katy said, never dreaming how she was wounding Helen, who, but for Mrs. Cameron's charge, would have proclaimed Mark's engagement with Juno.
As it was, she felt the words struggling against her lips; but she forced them back, and tried to laugh at Katy's castles in the air, as she called them.
”You looked beautiful, Wilford said,” Katy continued, ”and I am so glad, only,” and Katy's voice fell, while her eyes rested upon the crib where the baby was sleeping, ”only I think Wilford is more anxious than ever for me to go again into society. He will not hear of my staying home for the entire season, as I wish to do, for baby is better to me than all the parties in the world. I am so tired of it all, and have been ever since I was at Newport. I was so vain and silly there, and I have been so sorry since. But that summer cured me entirely, and you don't know how I loathe the very thought of entering society again. For your sake I should be willing to go sometimes, if there were no one else. But Mrs.
Banker has kindly offered to take you under her charge, and so there is no necessity for me to matronize you.”
Helen laughed merrily at the idea of being matronized by the little girlish creature not yet twenty years of age, kissing fondly the white, thin cheek so much whiter and thinner than it used to be.
”You are confining yourself too much,” she said. ”You are losing all your color. Fresh air will do you good, even if parties will not.
Suppose we drive this afternoon to Marian Hazelton's and show her the baby.”
Nothing could please Katy better. Several times since baby's birth she sent a message to Fourth Street, begging of Marian to come and see her treasure, and once, urged by her entreaties, Wilford himself had written a brief note asking that Miss Hazleton would call if perfectly convenient. But there had always been some excuse, some plea of work, some putting off the coming, until Katy feared that something might he wrong, and entered heartily into Helen's propositions. It was a pleasant winter's day, and toward the middle of the afternoon the Cameron carriage stopped before the humble dwelling where Marian Hazleton was living.
”You needn't go up,” Katy said to the nurse, feeling that she would rather meet Marian without the presence of a stranger. ”Miss Lennox will carry baby and you can wait here. It is not cold,” she added, as the nurse showed signs of remonstrance, ”and if it is, John can drive you around a square or two.”
After this there was no further demur, and Katy soon stood with Helen at the door of Marian's room. She was at home, uttering an exclamation of astonishment when she saw who her visitors were, and turning white as ashes, when Katy, taking her baby from Helen's arms, placed it in her lap, saying,
”You would not come to see it and so I brought it to you. Isn't she a beauty?”
There was a blur before Marian's eyes, a pressure about her heart which seemed congealing into stone, but she tried to stammer out something, bending over the tiny thing. Wilford Cameron's child, which she could not see for the thick blackness around her. Tears and bitter pangs of grief had the news of that child's birth wrung from Marian, bringing back all the dreadful past, and making her hear again as if it were but yesterday, the cold, decisive words:
”If there were a child it would of course be different.”
There was a child now, and it lay in Marian's lap, clad in the garments she had made, the cambric and the lace, the flannel and the merino, which nevertheless could not take from it that look of sickly infancy, or make it beautiful to others beside the mother. But it was Wilford's child, and so when for a moment both Helen and Katy turned to examine a rosebush just in bloom, Marian Hazleton hugged the little creature to her bosom, whispering over it a blessing which, coming from one so wronged, was doubly valuable. There was a tear, one of Marian's, on its face, when Katy came back to it, and there were more in Marian's eyes, falling like rain, as Katy asked, ”What makes you cry?”
”I was thinking of what might have been,” came struggling from Marian's pale lips, and Helen felt a throb of pain as she remembered Dr. Grant, and then thought of herself in connection with this sad ”Might have been.”