Family Pride Or Purified by Suffering Part 34

She was standing before him, her slight figure seeming to expand into a greater height, the features glowing with strong excitement, and her hot breath coming hurriedly through her dilated nostrils, but never opening the pale lips set so firmly together. There was something terrible in her look and att.i.tude, and it startled Wilford, who recoiled a moment from her, scarcely able to recognize the Katy hitherto so gentle and quiet. She had learned his secret, but the facts must have been distorted, he knew, or she had never been so agitated. From beneath his hair the great sweat drops came pouring, as he tried to approach her and take the uplifted hands, motioning him aside with the words: "Not touch me; no, not touch me till you have told me who is Genevra Lambert."

She repeated the question twice, and rallying all his strength Wilford answered her at last: "Genevra Lambert was my wife!"

"I thought so," and the next moment Katy lay in Wilford's arms, dead, as he feared, for there was no motion about the eyelids, no motion that he could perceive about the pulse or heart, as he laid the rigid form upon the bed and then bent every energy to restore her, even though he feared that it was hopeless.

"I must do what I can," he said, thinking once to send for a physician and laying his hand upon the bell rope for the purpose of ringing up a servant; but a faint, gasping sound met his ear, a.s.suring him there yet was life and that Katy was not dead.

If possible he would prefer that no one should intrude upon them now, and he chafed her icy hands and bathed her face until the eyes unclosed again, but with a shudder turned away as they met his. Then as she grew stronger and remembered the past she started up, exclaiming: "If Genevra Lambert is your wife, what then am I? Oh, Wilford, how could you make me not a wife, when I trusted and loved you so much?"

He knew now that she was laboring under a mistake, and he did not wonder at the violence of her emotions if she believed he had wronged her so cruelly, and coming nearer to her he said: "You mistake me; Genevra Lambert was my wife once, but is not now, for she is dead. Do you hear me, Katy? Genevra died years ago, when you were a little girl playing in the fields at home."

By mentioning Silverton he hoped to bring back something of her olden look, in place of the expression which troubled and frightened him. The experiment was successful and great tears gathered in Katy's eyes, was.h.i.+ng out the wild, unnatural gleam, while the lips whispered: "And it was her picture Juno saw. She told me the night I came and I tried to question you. You remember?"

Wilford did remember it and he replied: "Yes, but I did not suppose you knew I had a picture. You have been a good wife, Katy, never to mention it since then;" and he tried to kiss her forehead, but she covered it with her hands, saying, sadly: "Not yet, Wilford, I cannot bear it now.

I must know the whole about Genevra. Why didn't you tell me before? Why have you deceived me so?"

"Katy," and Wilford grew very earnest in his attempts to defend himself, "do you remember that day we sat under the b.u.t.tonwood tree and you promised to be mine? Try and recall the incidents of that hour and see if I did not hint at some things past which I wished had been otherwise--did not offer to show you the blackest page of my whole life and you would not see it. Was that so, Katy?"

"Yes," she answered, and he continued: "You said you were satisfied to take me as I was. You would not hear evil against me and so I acquiesced, bidding you not shrink back if ever the time should come when you must read that page. I was to blame, I know, but there were many extenuating circ.u.mstances, much to excuse me for withholding what you would not hear."

Wilford did not like to be censured, neither did he like to censure himself, and now that Katy was out of danger and comparatively calm, he began to build about himself a fortress of excuses for having kept from her the secret of his life.

"Would not most any man have done just as I did?" he continued. "Can you mention one who would not?"

"Yes, Cousin Morris," Katy answered; "he would never have deceived me thus."

A little vexed at the mention of Dr. Grant, Wilford replied: "I do not pretend to be a saint, and I believe your cousin does; but I doubt whether even he, with all his goodness, would do very differently from what I have done; but tell me how, where did you hear of Genevra?"

Amid sobs and tears Katy told him how she had repented of her decision not to join him at his mother's, coming to the conclusion that she was doing wrong to seclude herself so much and trying her best to look well again in his eyes.

"I meant to surprise you," she said, "and when I heard your mother was out I went into the library to wait, thinking you would come there, but you did not, and I started to go to you when my feet were stopped, for you were talking of me, Wilford, not bad, perhaps, but as you would not have talked had you known that I was there where I heard the words which burned like coals of fire, so that I could have screamed in my distress."

Katy was not weeping now and her face was like that of some accusing angel as she continued: "I thought my heart was broken when I heard you talk so of me and Silverton, but that was nothing compared with what came next, when your mother spoke of Genevra. I thought it was my baby she meant at first, and the tightness around my heart was giving way, for if you did complain of me to your mother, I could forgive that because you were baby's father; but Genevra Lambert! oh, Wilford, I died a thousand deaths in one when I first heard of her and understood why you objected to the name our baby finally bore. You did not wish to be so constantly reminded of the other wife. I could not sit there longer, the room around me grew so black, so I struggled to my feet and reached the door, going into the street and thinking once I would end my wretched life in the distant river; but something turned my steps toward home and I came, thinking it all over and suffering such agony. Oh, Wilford, why did you keep it from me? What was there about it wrong and where is she buried?"

"In Alnwick, at St. Mary's," Wilford answered, determining now to hold nothing back, and by his abruptness wounding Katy afresh.

"In Alnwick, at St. Mary's" Katy cried. "Then I have seen her grave, and that is why you were so anxious to get there, so unwilling to go away.

Oh, if I were lying there instead of Genevra, it would be so much better, so much better."

There was sobbing now, in a moaning, plaintive way which touched Wilford tenderly, and smoothing her tangled hair, he said: "I would not exchange my Katy for all the Genevras in the world. She was never as dear to me as you. I was but a boy, and did not know my mind when I met her. Shall I tell you about her now? Can you bear to hear the story of Genevra?"

There was a nod of a.s.sent, and Katy turned her face to the wall, clasping her hands tightly together, while Wilford drew his chair to her side and began to read the page he should have read to her long before.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

WHAT THE PAGE DISCLOSED.

"I was little more than nineteen years of age when I left Harvard College and went abroad with my only brother, the John or Jack of whom you have so often heard. Both himself and wife were in delicate health, and it was hoped a voyage across the sea would do them good. For nearly a year we were in various parts of England, stopping for two months at Brighton, where, among the visitors, was a widow from the vicinity of Alnwick, and with her an orphan niece whom I often met, and whose dazzling beauty attracted my youthful fancy. She was not happy with her aunt, upon whom she was wholly dependent, and my sympathies were all enlisted, when, with the tears s.h.i.+ning in her l.u.s.trous eyes, she one day accidentally stumbled upon her trouble and told me how wretched she was, asking if in America there was not something for her to do.

"It was at this time that Jamie was born and Mary, the girl who went out with us, was married to an Englishman, making it necessary for Hatty to find some one to take her place. Hearing of this, Genevra came one day, and to my secret delight offered herself as half companion, half waiting-maid to Hatty. Anything was preferable to the life she led, she said, pleading so hard that Hatty, after an interview with the old aunt--a purse-proud, vulgar woman, who seemed glad to be rid of her charge--consented to receive her, and Genevra became one of our family, an equal rather than a menial, whom Hatty treated with as much consideration as if she had been a sister. I wish I could tell you how beautiful Genevra Lambert was at that period of her life. I have her picture, which I will show you by and by, but it will not convey an adequate idea of her as she was then, with her brilliant English complexion, her eyes so full of poetry and pa.s.sion, her perfect features, and, more than all, the wondrous smile, which would have made a plain face handsome. She was full of life and spirits, with enough of coquetry about her to fascinate and turn older heads than mine.

"Of course I came to love her, and loved her all the more for the opposition I knew my family would throw in the way of my marrying the daughter of an English apothecary, and one who was voluntarily filling a servant's place. But with my mother across the sea, I could do anything; and when Genevra told me of a base fellow, as she termed him, who, since she was a child, had sought her for his wife, and still pursued her with his letters, my pa.s.sions all were roused, and I offered myself at once.

I do not think she antic.i.p.ated this when she told me of the letters, as it might seem to you. She was neither designing nor artful, but, on the contrary, wholly open-hearted and truthful, telling me the contents of the letter because I found her weeping over it and insisted upon knowing the cause. Her answer to my offer was a decided refusal. She knew her position, she said, and she knew mine, just as she knew the nature of the feeling which prompted me to act thus toward her. Although just my age, she was older in judgment and experience, and she seemed to understand the difference between our relative positions. I was not indifferent to her, she said, and were she my equal her answer might be otherwise than the decided no.

"Of course this only made me more eager, particularly as during the next two weeks she avoided me as much as possible, never stopping alone with me for a moment or giving me a chance to say a word in private. Madly in love, and fancying I could not live without her, I besieged her with letters, some of which she returned unopened, while on the others she wrote a few hurried lines, calling me a boy, who did not know my own mind, and asking what my friends would say.

"I cared little for friends, urging my suit the more vehemently, as we were about going into Scotland, where our marriage could be celebrated in private at any time. I say in private, for I did not contemplate making the affair public at once. That would take from the interest and romance, while, unknown to myself, there was at heart a fear of my family.

"But not to dwell too long upon those days, which seem to me now so like a dream, we went to Scotland and were married privately, for I won her to this at last. And now comes the part where Jamie is concerned. On the night of our marriage, Genevra, who had obtained permission to be absent on a plea of visiting a friend, had procured some one to take charge of Jamie, a red-faced girl from Edinburgh, who, unused to children, perched the child upon her shoulder, and while in this condition let him fall, injuring his spine and making him a cripple for life. Genevra never forgave herself for that sad accident, which would not have happened had she remained at her post, while to me Jamie has ever since been a sacred thing, his helplessness which he bears so meekly a constant reproach, reminding me of what I would had never been."

"Then you are sorry you married Genevra?" Katy exclaimed, turning partly toward him, and giving the first token she as yet had given that she was listening to the story.

Sometimes Wilford was sorry and sometimes he was not, for there was a world of pleasurable excitement connected with those months of secrecy, those private interviews, those stolen kisses, and little acts of endearment, which so intoxicated and bewildered him that the talking of them now brought something of the olden thrill he had experienced, when for a moment he held Genevra's hand in his or wound his arm around her waist, knowing he had a perfect right to do so. But it was better not to confess this to Katy, and so he evaded the question, and continued:

"My brother's failing health, as well as Hatty's, prevented them from suspecting what was going on, and when at last we went to Italy they had no idea that Genevra was my wife. At Rome her beautiful face attracted much attention from tourists and residents, among whom were a few young men, who, looking upon her as Jamie's nurse, or at most a companion for his mother, made no attempt to disguise their admiration. For this I had no redress except in an open avowal of the relation in which I stood to her, and this I could not then do, for the longer it was deferred the harder I found it to acknowledge her my wife. I loved her devotedly, and that perhaps was one great cause of the jealousy which began to spring up and embitter my life.

"I do not believe that Genevra was at heart a coquette. She was very fond of admiration, but when she saw how much I was disturbed she made an effort to avoid those who flattered her, but her manner was unfortunate, while her voice--the sweetest I ever heard--was calculated to invite rather than repel attention. As the empress of the world, she would have won and kept the homage of mankind, from the humblest beggar in the street to the king upon the throne, and had I been older I should have been proud of what then was my greatest annoyance. But I was young--a mere boy--and so I watched her jealously, until a new element of disquiet was presented to me in the shape of a ruffianly looking fellow, who was frequently seen about the premises, and with whom I once found Genevra in close converse, starting and blus.h.i.+ng guiltily when I came upon her, while her companion went swiftly from my sight.

"'It was an old English acquaintance, who was poor and asking charity,'

she said, when questioned, but her manner led me to think there was something wrong, particularly as I saw her with him again, and thought she held his hand.

"It was evident that my brother would never see America again, and at his request my mother came to us, in company with a family from Boston, reaching us two weeks before he died. From the first, she disliked Genevra, suspecting the liking between us, but never dreaming of the truth until a week after Jack's death, when in a fit of anger at Genevra for listening to an English artist, who had asked to paint her picture, the story of the marriage came out, and like a child dependent on its mother for advice, I asked, 'What shall I do?'

"You know mother, Katy--that is, you know her pride--and can in part understand how she would scorn a girl who, though born to better things, was still found in the capacity of a waiting maid. I never saw her so moved as she was for a time, after learning that her only living son, from whom she expected so much, had thrown himself away, as she expressed it. Sister Hatty, who loved Genevra, did all she could to heal the growing difference between us, but I trusted mother most. I believed that what she said was right, and so matters grew worse, until one night, the last we spent in Rome, I missed Genevra from our rooms, and starting in quest of her, found her in a little flower garden back of our dwelling. There, under the deep shadow of a tree, and partly concealed from view, she stood with her arm around the neck of the same rough-looking man who had been there before. She did not see me as I stood and watched her while she parted with him, suffering him to kiss her hand and forehead as he said, 'Good-by, my darling.'

"In a tremor of anger and excitement I quitted the spot, my mind wholly made up with regard to my future. That there was something wrong about Genevra I did not doubt, and I would not give her a chance to explain by telling her what I had seen, but sent her back to England, giving her ample means for defraying the expenses of her journey and for living in comfort after her arrival there. From Rome we went to Naples, and then to Switzerland, where Hatty died, leaving us alone with little Jamie. It was here at Berne that I received an anonymous letter from England, the writer stating that Genevra was with her aunt, that the whole had ended as he thought it would, that he could readily guess at the nature of the trouble, and hinting that if a divorce was desirable on my return to England, all necessary proof could be obtained by applying to such a number in London, the writer announcing himself a brother of the man who had once sought Genevra, and saying he had always opposed the match, knowing Genevra's family.

"This was the first time the idea of a divorce had entered my mind.

Instead of that the hope that Genevra might in some way be restored to me unspotted, had unconsciously been the daystar of my existence, and I shrank from a final separation. But mother felt differently. It was not a new thought to her, knowing as she did that the validity of a Scotch marriage, such as ours, was frequently contested in the English courts.

Once free from Genevra the world this side the water would never know of that mistake, and she set herself steadily to accomplish her purpose. To tell you all that followed our return to England and the steps by which I was brought to sue for a divorce would make my story too long, and so I will only state that, chiefly by the testimony of the anonymous letter writer, whose acquaintance we made, a divorce was at last obtained, Genevra putting in no defense, but as I heard afterward, settling down to an apathy from which nothing had power to rouse her until the news of her freedom from me was carried to her, when, amid a paroxysm of tears and sobs she wrote me a few lines, a.s.suring me of her innocence, refusing to send back her wedding ring, and saying G.o.d would not forgive me for the great wrong I had done her. I saw her once after that by appointment and her face haunted me for years. Indeed, I sometimes see it in my dreams as it confronted me then, with a look which I now know was a look of deeply injured innocence, for, Katy, Genevra was innocent, as I found after the time was past when reparation could be made."

Wilford's voice trembled now, and for a moment there was silence in the room while he composed himself to go on with the story:

"She would not live with me again if she could, she said, denouncing bitterly the Cameron pride and saying she was happier to be free. I remember I tried to excuse myself, remember saying that if there had been children or a child I should have paused before taking the decisive step, and there we parted, but not until she had told me that her traducer was the old discarded suitor who had sworn to have revenge, and who, since the divorce, had dared seek her again. A vague suspicion of this had crossed my mind once before, but the die was cast, and even if the man were false, what I saw myself in Rome still stood against her and so my conscience was quieted, while mother was more than glad to be rid of a daughter-in-law of whose family I knew nothing. Rumors I did hear of a cousin whose character was not the best, and of the father who for some crime had fled the country, dying in a foreign land, but as that was nothing to me now, I pa.s.sed it by, feeling it was best to be relieved from one of so doubtful antecedents.

"In the spring of 185- we came back to New York, where no one had ever heard of the affair, so quietly and well had it been managed. I was a young man still, no one except my mother sharing in the secret. With her I often talked of Genevra, wis.h.i.+ng sometimes that I could hear from her, a wish which was finally gratified. One day I received a note requesting an interview at a downtown hotel, the writer signing himself as Thomas Lambert, and adding that I need have no fears as he came to perform an act of justice, not of retribution. Three hours later I was locked in a room with Genevra's father, the same man whom I had seen in Rome.

Detected in forgery years before, he had fled from England and had hidden himself in Rome, where he accidentally met his daughter, and so that stain was removed. He had heard of the divorce by a letter which Genevra managed to send him, and braving all difficulties and dangers he had come back to England and found his child, hearing from her the story of her wrongs, and as well as he was able setting himself to discover the author of the calumny. He was not long in tracing it to Le Roy, whom he found in a dying condition, and who with his last breath confessed the falsehood which was imposed upon me, he said, partly from motives of revenge and partly with a hope that free from me Genevra would at the last turn to him. As proof that Mr. Lambert told me the truth, he brought the dying man's confession, written in a cramped, trembling hand, which I recognized at once. The confession ended with the solemn a.s.sertion: 'For aught I know or believe, Genevra Lambert is as pure and true as any woman living.'

"I cannot describe the effect this had upon me. I did not love Genevra then. I had outlived that affection, but I felt remorse and pity for having wronged her so, and asked how I could make amends.

"'You cannot,' the old man said, 'except in one way, and that she does not desire. I did not come here with any wish for you to take her for your wife again. It was an unequal match which never should have been; but if you believe her innocent, she will be satisfied. She wanted you to know it, I wanted you to know it, and so I crossed the sea to find you.'

"I sent a letter by him a.s.suring her she stood acquitted in my mind of all I had suspected her, and asked her pardon for the great wrong I had done her. The next I heard of her was in the columns of an English newspaper, which told me she was dead, while in another place a pencil mark was lightly turned around a paragraph, which said that 'a forger, Thomas Lambert, who escaped years ago and was supposed to be dead, had recently reappeared in England, where he was recognized, but not arrested, for the illness proved fatal.' He was attended, the paper said, by his daughter, 'a beautiful young girl whose modest mien and gentle manner had done much toward keeping the officers of justice from her dying father, no one being able to withstand her pleadings that her father might die in peace.'