Family Pride Or Purified by Suffering Part 31

"Surely an angel's countenance cannot be fairer, purer than hers," he thought, listening while she talked of the only thing which had a power to separate her from him, making her seem as a friend, or at most as a beloved sister.

A long time they talked together, and the sun was setting ere Morris rose, suggesting that she go home, as the night dew would soon be falling.

"And you are not as strong as you once were," he added, pulling her shawl around her shoulders with careful solicitude, and thinking how slender she had become.

From the back parlor Helen saw them coming up the path, detecting the changed expression of Morris' face, and feeling a pang of fear when as he left them after nine o'clock she heard her mother say that he had not appeared so natural since Katy went away as he had done that night.

Knowing what she did, Helen trembled for Morris, with this terrible temptation before him, and Morris trembled for himself as he went back the lonely path, and stopped again beneath the chestnut tree where he had so lately sat with Katy. There was a great fear at his heart, and it found utterance in words as kneeling by the rustic bench with only the lonely night around him and the green boughs overhead, he asked that he might be kept from sin, both in thought and deed, and be to Katy Cameron just what she took him for, her friend and elder brother. And G.o.d, who knew the sincerity of the heart thus pleading before him, heard and answered the prayer, so that after that first night of trial Morris could look on Katy without a wish that she were otherwise than Wilford Cameron's wife and the mother of his child. He was happier because of her being at the farmhouse, though he did not go there one-half as often as she came to him. She seemed to prefer Linwood to the farmhouse, staying there hours, both when he was at home and when he was away, strolling through his garden, or sitting quietly in the pleasant summer-house which looked out upon the pond.

Those September days were happy ones to Katy, who, freed from all restraint, became a child again--a petted, spoiled child, whom every one caressed and suffered to have her way. To Uncle Ephraim it was as if some bright angel had suddenly dropped into his path, flooding it with suns.h.i.+ne, and making him so glad to have back his "Katy-did," who went with him to the fields, waiting patiently till his work was done, and telling him of all the wondrous things she saw abroad, but speaking little of her city life. That was something she did not care to talk about, and but for Wilford's letters, and the frequent mention of baby, the deacon could easily have imagined that Katy had never left him. But these were barriers between the old life and the present, these were the insignia of Mrs. Wilford Cameron, who was watched and envied by the curious Silvertonians, and p.r.o.nounced charming by them all. Still there was one drawback to Katy's happiness. She missed her child, mourning for it so much that her family, quite as anxious as herself to see it, suggested her sending for it. It would surely take no harm with them, and Marian would come with it. To this plan Katy listened more willingly from the fact that Wilford had gone West, and the greater the distance between them the more she dared to do. And so Marian Hazelton was one day startled at the sudden appearance at the cottage of Katy, who had come to take her and baby to Silverton.

There was no resisting the vehemence of Katy's arguments, and before the next day's sunsetting, the farmhouse, usually so quiet and orderly, had been turned into one general nursery, where Baby Cameron reigned supreme, screaming with delight at the tinware which Aunt Betsy brought out from the cake cutter to the dipper, the little creature beating a noisy tattoo upon the latter with an iron spoon, and then for diversion burying its fat dimpled hands in Uncle Ephraim's long white hair, for the old man went down upon all fours to do his great-grand niece homage.

That night Morris came up, stopping suddenly as a loud baby laugh reached him, even across the orchard, and leaning for a moment against the wall, while he tried to prepare himself for the shock it would be to see Katy's child, and hold it in his arms, as he knew he must, or the mother be aggrieved.

He had supposed it was pretty, but he was not prepared for the beautiful little cherub which in its short white dress, with its soft curls of golden brown cl.u.s.tering about its head, stood holding to a chair, pus.h.i.+ng it occasionally, and venturing now and then to take a step, while its infantile laugh mingled with the screams of its delighted auditors, watching it with so much interest.

There was one great, bitter, burning pang, a blur before his eyes, and then, folding his arms composedly upon the window sill, Dr. Grant stood looking in upon the occupants of the room, whistling at last to baby, as he was accustomed to whistle to the children of his patients.

"Oh, Morris," Katy cried, "baby can almost walk, Marian has taken so much pains, and she can say 'papa.' Isn't she a beauty?"

Baby had turned her head by this time, her ear caught by the whistle and her eye arrested by something in Morris which fascinated her gaze.

Perhaps she thought of Wilford, of whom she had been very fond, for she pushed her chair toward him and then held up her fat, creasy arms for him to take her. Morris was fond of children and took the infant at once, strained it to his bosom with a pa.s.sionate caress, which seemed to have in it something of the love he bore the mother, who went off into ecstasies of joy when baby, attacking Morris' hair and patting softly his cheek, tried to kiss him as it had been taught by Marian. Never was mother prouder, happier than Katy during the first few days succeeding baby's arrival, while the family seemed to tread on air, so swiftly the time went by with that active little life in their midst, stirring them up so constantly, putting to rout all their rules of order and keeping their house in a state of delightful confusion.

It was wonderful how rapidly the child improved with so many teachers, learning to lisp its mother's name and taught by her attempting to say "Doctor." From the very first the child took to Morris, crying after him whenever he went away, and hailing his arrival with a crow of joy and an eager attempt to reach him.

"It was altogether too forward for this world," Aunt Betsy often said, shaking her head ominously, but not really meaning what she predicted, even when for a few days it did not seem as bright as usual, but lay quietly in Katy's lap, a blue look about the mouth and a flush upon its cheeks, which neither Morris nor Marian liked.

More accustomed to children than the other members of the family, they both watched it closely, Morris coming over twice one day, and the last time he came regarding Katy with a look as if he would fain ward off from her some evil-which he feared.

"What is it, Morris?" she asked. "Is baby going to be very sick?" and a great crus.h.i.+ng fear came upon her as she waited for his answer.

"I hope not," he said; "I cannot tell as yet; the symptoms are like cholera infantum, of which I have several cases, but if taken in time I apprehend no danger."

There was a low shriek and baby opened its heavy lids and moaned, while Helen came at once to Katy, holding her hand upon her heart as if the pain had entered there. To Marian it was no news, for ever since the early morning she had suspected the nature of the disease stealing over the little child, so suddenly stricken down, and looking by the lamplight so pale and sick. All night the light burned in the farmhouse, where there were anxious, troubled faces, Katy bending constantly over her darling, and even amid her terrible anxiety dreading Wilford's displeasure when he should hear what she had done and its possible result. She did not believe as yet that her child would die; but she suffered acutely, watching for the early dawn when Morris had said he would be there, and when at last he came, begging of him to stay, to leave his other patients and care only for baby.

"Would that be right?" Morris asked, and Katy blushed for her selfishness when she heard how many were sick and dying around them. "I will spend every leisure moment here," he said, leaving his directions with Marian and then hurrying away without a word of hope for the child, growing worse so fast that when the night shut down again it lay upon a pillow, its blue eyes closed and its head thrown back, while its sad moanings could only be hushed by carrying it in one's arms about the room, a task which Katy could not do.

She had tried it once, refusing all their offers with the reply: "Baby is mine and shall I not carry her?"

But the feeble strength gave out, the limbs began to totter, and staggering backward she cried: "Somebody must take her."

It was Marian who went forward, Marian, whose face was a puzzle as she took the infant in her stronger arms, her stony eyes, which had not wept as yet, fastening themselves upon the face of Wilford Cameron's child with a look which seemed to say: "Retribution, retribution."

But only when she remembered the father, now so proud of his daughter, was that word in her heart. She could not harbor it when she glanced at the mother, and her lips moved in earnest prayer that, if possible, G.o.d would not leave her so desolate. An hour later and Morris came, relieving Marian of her burden which he carried in his own arms, while he strove to comfort Katy, who, crouching by the empty crib, was sitting motionless in a kind of dumb despair, all hope crushed out by his answer to her entreaties that he would tell her the truth, keeping nothing back.

"I think your baby will die," he had said to her very gently, pausing a moment in awe of the white face, whose expression terrified and shocked him, it was so full of agony.

Bowing her head upon her hands, poor Katy whispered sadly: "G.o.d must not take my baby. Oh, Morris, please pray that he will not. He will hear and answer you, while I have been so bad I cannot pray. But I'm not going to be bad again. If he will let me keep my darling I will begin a new life.

I will try to serve him. Dear Lord, hear and answer, and not let baby die."

She was praying herself now, and Morris' broad chest heaved as he glanced at her kneeling figure, and then at the death-like face upon the pillow, with the pinched look about the nose and lips, which to his practiced eye was a harbinger of death.

"Its father should be here," he thought, and when Katy lifted up her head again he asked if she was sure her husband had not yet returned from Minnesota.

"Yes, sure--that is, I think he has not," was Katy's answer, a chill creeping over her at the thought of meeting Wilford, and giving him his daughter dead.

"I shall telegraph in the morning at all events," Morris continued, "and if he is not in New York, it will be forwarded."

"Yes, that will be best," was the reply, spoken so mournfully that Morris stopped in front of Katy, trying to reason with her.

But Katy would not listen, only answering to him that he did not know, he could not feel, he never had been tried.

"Perhaps not," Morris said; "but Heaven is my witness, Katy, that if I could save you this pain by giving up my life for baby's, I would do it willingly; but G.o.d does not give us our choice. He knoweth what is best, and baby is better with Him than us."

For a moment Katy was silent, then, as a new idea took possession of her mind, she sprang to Morris' side and seizing his arm, demanded: "Can an unbaptized child be saved?"

"We nowhere read that baptism is a saving ordinance," was Morris'

answer; while Katy continued: "But do you believe they will be saved?"

"Yes, I do," was the decided response, which, however, did not ease Katy's mind, and she moaned on: "A child of heathen parents may, but I knew better, I knew it was my duty to give the child to G.o.d, and for a foolish fancy withheld the gift until it is too late, and G.o.d will take it without the mark upon its forehead, the water on its brow. Oh, baby, baby, if she should be lost--no name, no mark, no baptismal sign."

"Not water, but the blood of Jesus cleanseth from all sin," Morris said, "and as sure as he died so sure this little one is safe. Besides that, there may be time for the baptism yet--that is, to-morrow. Baby will not die to-night, and if you like, it still shall have a name."

Eagerly Katy seized upon that idea, thinking more of the sign, the water, than the name, which scarcely occupied her thoughts at all. It did not matter what the child was called, so that it became one of the little ones in glory, and with a calmer, quieter demeanor than she had shown that day she saw Morris depart at a late hour; and then turning to the child which Uncle Ephraim now was holding, kissed it lovingly, whispering as she did so: "Baby shall be baptized--baby shall have the sign."

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

LITTLE GENEVRA.

Morris had telegraphed to New York, receiving in reply that Wilford was hourly expected home, and would at once hasten on to Silverton. The clergyman, Mr. Kelly, had also been seen, but owing to a funeral which would take him out of town, he could not be at the farmhouse until five in the afternoon, when, if the child still lived, he would be glad to officiate as requested. All this Morris had communicated to Katy, who listened in a kind of stupor, gasping for breath, when she heard that Wilford would so soon be there, and moaning "that will be too late,"

when told that the baptism could not take place till night. Then, kneeling by the crib where the child was lying, she fastened her great, sad blue eyes upon the pallid face with an earnestness as if thus she would hold till nightfall the life flickering so faintly and seeming so nearly finished. The wailings had ceased, and they no longer carried it within their arms, but had placed it in its crib, where it lay perfectly still, save as its eyes occasionally unclosed and turned wistfully toward the cups, where it knew was something which quenched its raging thirst. Once, indeed, as the hours crept on to noon and Katy bent over it so that her curls swept its face, it seemed to know her, and the little wasted hand was for a moment uplifted and rested on her cheek with the same caressing motion it had been wont to use in health. Then hope whispered that it might live, and with a great cry of joy Katy sobbed: "She knows me, Morris--mother, see; she knows me. Maybe she will live."

But the dull stupor which succeeded to that act swept all hope away, and again Katy resumed her post, watching first her dying child, and then the long hands of the clock which crept on so slowly, pointing to only two when she thought it must be five. Would that hour never come, or coming, would it find baby there? None could answer that last question--they could only wait and pray, and as they waited thus the warm September sun neared the western sky till its yellow beams came stealing through the window and across the floor to where Katy sat watching its onward progress and looking sometimes out upon the hills where the purplish autumnal haze was lying just as she once loved to see it; but she did not heed it now, or care how bright the day with the flitting shadows dancing on the gra.s.s, the tall flowers growing by the door and old Whitey standing by the gate, his head stretched toward the house in a kind of dreamy, listening att.i.tude, as if he, too, knew of the great sorrow hastening on so fast. The others saw all this, and it made their hearts ache more as they thought of the beautiful little child, so much fairer than sky or day or flowers could be, going from their midst when they wished so much to keep her. But Katy had only one idea, and that was of the child growing very restless now and throwing up its arms as if in pain. It is striking five, and with each stroke the dying baby moans, while Katy strains her ear to catch another sound, the sound of horses' hoofs hurrying up the road. The clergyman has come and anon the inmates of the house gather around in silence, while he makes ready to receive the child into Christ's flock, where it so soon will really be.

Mrs. Lennox had questioned Helen about the name and Helen had answered: "Katy knows, I presume. It does not matter," but no one had spoken directly to Katy, who had scarcely given it a thought, caring more for the rite she had deferred so long.

"He must hasten," she said to Morris, her eyes fixed upon the panting child she had lifted to her own lap, and thus abjured the clergyman failed to make the usual inquiry concerning the name he was to give.

Calm and white as a marble statue, Marian Hazelton glided to the back of Katy's chair, pressing both her hands upon it, and leaning over Katy so that her eyes too were fixed upon the little face, from which they never turned but once, and that when the clergyman's voice was heard asking for a name. There was an instant's silence, and Katy's lips began to move, when one of Marian's hands was laid upon her head, while the other took in its own the limp, while baby fingers, and Marian's voice was very steady in its tone as it said: "Genevra."

"Yes, Genevra," Katy whispered, and then the solemn words were heard: "Genevra, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost."

Softly the baptismal waters fell upon the pale forehead, and at their touch the little Genevra's eyes unclosed, the waxen fingers withdrew themselves from Marian's grasp, and again sought the mother's cheek, resting there for an instant; while a smile broke around the baby lips, which tried to say "Mam-ma." Then the hand fell back, down upon Marian's, the soft eyes closed, the limbs grew rigid, the shadow of death grew deeper, and while the prayer was said, and Marian's tears fell with Katy's upon the brow where the baptismal waters were not dried, the angel came, and when the prayer was ended, Morris, who knew what the rest did not, took the lifeless form from Katy's lap, and whispered to her gently: "Katy, your baby is dead!"