"No, she might go back to-morrow--certainly the day after," Aunt Betsy replied, her voice trembling at this fresh impediment thrown in the way of her seeing Katy.
The quaver in her voice touched Mark's sympathy. "She was old and simple-hearted. She was Helen's aunt," and this, more than aught else, helped him to a decision. "She must be homesick in the Bowery; he should die if compelled to stay there long; he would take her to his mother's and keep her until the morrow, and perhaps until she left for home; telling Helen that night, of course, and then suffering her to act accordingly."
This he proposed to his client; assuring her of his mother's entire willingness to receive her, and urging so many reasons why she should go there, instead of "up to Katy's," where they were in such confusion that Aunt Betsy was at last persuaded, and was soon riding uptown in a Twenty-third Street stage, with Mark Ray her _vis-à-vis_ and Mattie at her right. Why Mattie was there Mark could not conjecture; and perhaps she did not know herself, unless it were that, disappointed in her call on Mrs. Cameron, she vaguely hoped for some redress by calling on Mrs. Banker. How then was she chagrined, when, as the stage left them at a handsome brownstone front, near Fifth Avenue Hotel, Mark said to her, as if she were not of course expected to go in, "Please tell your mother that Miss Barlow is stopping with Mrs. Banker to-day. Has she baggage at your house?--If so, we will send around for it at once. Your number, please?"
His manner was so offhand and yet so polite that Mattie could neither resist him, nor yet be angry, though there was a sad feeling of disappointment at her heart as she gave the required number, and then shook Aunt Betsy's hand, whispering in a choked voice: "You'll come to us again before you go home?"
"Of course I shall," Aunt Betsy answered, feeling that something was wrong, and wondering if she herself were in fault.
With a good-by to Mark, whose bow atoned for a great deal, Mattie walked slowly away, leaving Mark greatly relieved. Aunt Betsy was as much as he cared to have on his hands at once, and as he led her up the steps, he began to wonder more and more what his mother would say to his bringing that stranger into her house, unbidden and unsought.
"I'll tell her just the truth," was his rapid decision, and assuming a manner which warned the servant who answered his ring neither to be curious nor impertinent, he conducted his charge into the parlor, and bringing her a chair before the grate, went in quest of his mother, who he found was out.