Family Pride Or Purified by Suffering Part 35

"I was grateful for this tribute, to Genevra, and I felt that it was deserved; turning again to the notice of her death, which must have occurred within a short time of her father's, and was probably induced by past troubles and recent anxiety for him.

"'Genevra Lambert died at Alnwick, aged twenty-two.' There could be no mistake, and with a tear to the memory of the dead whom I had loved and injured, I burned the paper, feeling that now there was no clew to the secret I was as anxious to preserve as was my mother.

"And so the years wore on till I met and married you, withholding from you that yours was not the first love which had stirred my heart, nor yours the first head which had slept upon my arm. I meant to tell you, Katy, but I could not for the great fear of losing you if you knew all.

And then an error concealed so long is hard to be confessed. I took you across the sea to Brighton, where I first met Genevra, and then to Alnwick, seeking out the grave which made a.s.surance doubly sure. It was that one in the far corner of St. Mary's where I went so often and where once you came, sitting upon the very mound whose headstone bore Genevra's name. I drew my breath quickly as if the dead were thus dishonored, but I knew you meant no harm, and as soon as possible I hurried you away. It was natural that I should make some inquiries concerning her last days, but lest it should all come out kept me back, so that I only questioned the old s.e.xton who once was at work nearby.

Calling his attention to the name, I said it was an uncommon one and asked if he knew the girl.

"'Not by sight, no,' he said. 'She was only here a few days before she died. I've heard she was very winsome and that there was a scandal of some kind mixed up with her.'

"I would not ask him any more; and without any wrong to you, my wife, I confess that my tears dropped upon the turf under which I knew Genevra lay."

"I am glad they did; I should hate you if you had not cried," Katie exclaimed, her voice more natural than it had been since the great shock came, and her own tears falling fast to the memory of Genevra, whose grave she had sat upon with Wilford standing near.

A buried wife was not so dreadful to contemplate as a wife divorced but living still, and Katy's heart did not beat with quite so heavy throbs of fear and shame as it had at first. But it was very sore with the feeling that to her almost as great a wrong had been done as to Genevra, for had he not deceived her from the very first, he and his mother, who had been the terror of Genevra's life as she was the bane of Katy's.

"Do you forgive me, Katy? Do you love me as well as ever?" Wilford asked, stooping down to kiss her, but Katy drew her face away and did not answer then.

She did not know herself just how she felt toward him. He did not seem just like the husband she had trusted in so blindly. It would take a long time to forget that another head than hers had lain upon his bosom, and it would take longer yet to blot out the memory of the complaining words uttered to his mother. She had never thought he could do that, never dreamed of such a thing, knowing that she would sooner have parted with her right hand than have complained of him. Her idol had fallen in more respects than one, and the heart it had bruised in the fall refused at once to gather the shattered pieces up and call them good as new. She was not obstinate, she was not sulky, as Wilford began to fancy. She was only stunned and could not rally at his bidding. He had confessed the whole, keeping nothing back, and he felt that Katy was unjust not to acknowledge his magnanimity and restore him to her favor. Again he asked forgiveness, again bent down to kiss her, but Katy answered: "Not yet, Wilford, not till I feel all right toward you. A wife's kiss should be sincere."

"As you like," trembled on Wilford's lips, but he beat back the words and walked up and down the room, knowing now that his journey must be deferred till morning, and wondering if Katy would hold out till then.

It was long past midnight, but to retire was impossible, and so for one whole hour he paced through the room, while Katy lay with her eyes closed and her lips moving occasionally in the words of prayer she tried to say, asking G.o.d to help her, and praying that she might in future lay her treasures up where they could not so suddenly be swept away. Wearily the hours pa.s.sed, and the gray dawn was stealing into the room when Wilford again approached his wife and said, "You know I was to have left home last night on business. As I did not go then, it is necessary that I leave this morning. Are you able to stay alone for three days or more?

Are you willing?"

"Yes--oh, yes," Katy replied, feeling that to have him gone while she battled with the pain lying so heavy at her heart would be a great relief.

Perhaps he suspected this feeling in part, for he bit his lip impatiently, and without another word called up the servant whose duty it was to prepare his early breakfast. Cold and cheerless seemed the dining-room, to which an hour later he repaired, and tasteless was the breakfast without Katy there to share it. She had been absent many times before, but never just as now, with this wide gulf between them, and as he broke his egg and tried to drink his coffee, Wilford felt like one from whom every support had been swept away, leaving him tottering and giddy. He did not like the look of Katy's face or the sound of her voice, and as he thought upon them, self began to whisper again that she had no right to stand out so long when he had confessed everything, and by the time his breakfast was finished Wilford Cameron was, in his own estimation, an abused an injured man, so that it was with an air of defiance rather than humility that he went again to Katy. She, too, had been thinking, and as the result of her thoughts she lifted up her head as he came in and said, "I can kiss you now, Wilford."

It was human nature, we suppose--at least it was Wilford's nature--which for an instant tempted him to decline the kiss proffered so lovingly; but Katy's face was more than he could withstand, and when again he left that room the kiss of pardon was upon his lips and comparative quiet was in his heart.

"The picture, Wilford--you have forgotten that," Katy called after him, as he was running down the stairs.

Wilford would rather have been with her when she first looked upon Genevra, but there was not time for that, and hastily unlocking his private drawer he carried the case to Katy's room, laying it upon the bureau and saying to her: "I would not mind it now, until it is fully light. Try and sleep a while. You need the rest so much."

Katy knew she had the whole day before her in which to investigate the face of one who once had filled her place, and so she nestled down among her pillows, and soon fell into a quiet sleep, from which Esther, who looked in upon her several times, at last awakened her, asking if she should bring her breakfast to her room.

"Yes, do," Katy replied, adjusting her dress and trying to arrange the matted curls, which were finally confined in a net until Esther's more practiced hands were ready to attack them.

And all this while the picture lay upon the bureau--the square, old-fas.h.i.+oned daguerreotype, which Katy shrank from opening.

"I'll wait till after breakfast," she said; then as the thought came over her that if the face proved as beautiful as Wilford had described, she in her present forlorn condition would feel the contrast deeply, she said, "I'll wait till Esther has fixed my hair; then I will look at Genevra."

Breakfasting did not occupy her long, and Esther soon was busy with her toilet, combing out and looping-back her curls, and bringing a plain dress of rich bombazine, with fresh bands of white c.r.a.pe, as had been worn the previous day. Katy's toilet was complete at last, and as Esther closed the door behind her, Katy, with a trembling hand, took from the drawer, where she had hid it from Esther's eyes, the picture of Genevra Lambert.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

THE EFFECT.

With a s.h.i.+ver Katy held it a moment in her lap, noticing how old and worn it looked--noticing, too, the foreign mark upon it, and that one hinge was broken, wondering if all this wear had come from frequent use.

Had Wilford looked often at that picture?--and if so, what were his feelings as he looked? Was he sorry that Genevra died? Did he sometimes wish her there, instead of Katy Lennox, of Barlow origin? Did he contrast their faces one with the other, giving the preference to Genevra, or was Katy's liked the best? All these questions Katy asked herself, while her fingers fluttered about the clasp, which she half dreaded to unfasten.

Cautiously, very cautiously, at last the lid was opened, and a lock of soft brown hair fell out, clinging to Katy's hand as if it had been a living thing, and making her shudder with fear as she shook off the silken tress and remembered that the head it once adorned was lying in St. Mary's churchyard, where the English daisies grew.

"She had pretty hair," she thought; "darker, richer than mine," and into Katy's heart there crept a feeling akin to jealousy, lest Genevra had been fairer than herself, as well as better loved. "I won't be foolish any longer," she said, and turning resolutely to the light she opened the lid again and saw Genevra Lambert, starting quickly, then looking again more closely--then, with a gasp, panting for breath, while like lightning flashes the past came rus.h.i.+ng over her, as, with her eyes fixed upon that picture, she tried to whisper, "It is--it is!"

She could not then say whom, for if she were right in her belief, Genevra was not dead. There were no daisies growing on her grave, for she still walked the earth a living woman, whom Katy knew so well--Marian Hazelton. That was the name Katy could not speak, as, with the blood curdling in her veins and freezing about her heart, she sat comparing the face she remembered so well with the one before her. In some points they were unlike, for thirteen years had slightly marred the youthful contour of the face she knew--had sharpened the features and thinned the abundant hair; but still there could be no mistake. The eyes, the brow, the smile, the nose, all were the same, and with a pang bitterer than she yet had felt, poor Katy fell upon her face and asked that she might die. In her utter ignorance of law, she fancied that if Genevra were alive, she had no right to Wilford's name--no right to be his wife--especially as the sin for which Genevra was divorced had by her never been committed, and burning tears of bitter shame ran down her cheeks as she whispered, "'What G.o.d hath joined together let no man put asunder.' Those are G.o.d's words, and how dare the world act otherwise?

She is his wife, and I--oh! I don't know what I am!" and on the carpet where she was kneeling Katy writhed in agony as she tried to think what she must do. Not stay there--she could not do that now--not, at least, until she knew for sure that she was Wilford's wife, in spite of Genevra's living. Maybe she was; there was a Mrs. Grainier in the city divorced from her first husband and living with her second; but then the man was a profligate, a most abandoned wretch, who had not been proved innocent, as Genevra had, and that must make a difference. "Oh, if there was only some one to advise me--some one who knew and would tell me what was right," Katy moaned, feeling herself inadequate to meet the dark hour alone.

But to whom should she go? To Father Cameron? No, nor to his mother.

They might counsel wrong for the sake of secrecy. Would Mark Ray or Mrs.

Banker know? Perhaps; but they were strangers--her trouble must not be told to them, and then with a great bound her heart turned at last to Morris. He knew everything. He would not sanction a wrong. He would tell her just what was right, and she could trust him fully in everything.

There was no other person whom she could believe just as she could him.

Uncle Ephraim was equally as good and conscientious, but he did not know as much as Morris--he did not understand everything. Morris was her refuge, and to him she would go that very day, leaving a note for Wilford in case she never came back, as possibly she might not. And then, like an imprisoned bird, which sees its cage door opened at last, but dreads the freedom offered, Katy drew her bleeding wings close to her side and shrank from the cold world which lay outside that home of luxury. But when she remembered that possibly she had no right to stay there, she grew strong again, and, seizing her pen, dashed off a wild, impa.s.sioned letter, which, if her husband did not find her there on his return, would tell him where she was and why she had gone. This she left in a drawer appropriated to Wilford's use, and where he could not fail to find it; but the picture she put in her own pocket, not caring to part with that. Had Marian been in the city she would have gone to her at once, but Marian was where long rows of cots are ranged against the hospital walls, each holding a maimed and suffering soldier, to whom she ministered so tenderly, the brightness of her smile and the beauty of her face deluding the delirious ones into the belief that the journey of life for them was ended and heaven reached at last, where an angel in woman's garb attended upon them. Marian was impossible, and Dr. Grant was the only alternative left.

Summoning Esther, Katy told her, in as calm a voice as she could command, that, feeling very lonely, she was going out to spend the day, and probably the night. At all events the servants were not to expect her until she came.

"Yes, ma'am--going to Mr. Cameron's, I suppose?" Esther said, and as Katy made no answer the impression in Esther's mind was that she would spend the day and night at the elder Cameron's, as she had done once before when Wilford was away.

And this was the intelligence carried to the servants, who wondered that their mistress did not order the carriage, but started off on foot, her face looking ghastly white beneath the folds of her c.r.a.pe veil as she closed the door behind and looked back at the home she might be leaving forever. The carriage, she knew, would lead to detection, and as it was not far to the New Haven depot, she kept on her way until the train was reached, and she in a seat by herself was looking with eyes which could not weep over the city she was so fast leaving behind. Had she for one moment suspected Morris's love, all her womanly instincts would have kept her from seeking him then, but she had no such suspicion. Morris was her elder brother, and like a stricken sister she was going to him with her grief, sure of sympathy and sure of counsel for the right.

The afternoon was cold and stormy, so that it was late in the evening when the long train reached West Silverton, where Katy was to stop.

Owing to the storm but few were at the depot, and among them none who recognized Katy Cameron beneath the heavy veil she kept so closely over her face, even while asking for a conveyance out to Linwood. It was a comparative boy who volunteered his services, and as he had recently come to Silverton he knew nothing of Katy or of Dr. Grant, so that she was saved from all embarra.s.sment upon that point; her driver never addressing her except to ask the way, which was not wholly familiar to him.

"Turn here. Yes, that is right," she said, when they reached the road which led to Linwood, and a feeling like guilt crept over her as through the leafless trees and across the meadow land she spied the farmhouse light s.h.i.+ning through the drifting snow as if beckoning her to come.

"Not yet--not now. I must see Morris first," she answered mentally to that silent invitation, and drawing the buffalo skin around her with a s.h.i.+ver. She did not look again toward the farmhouse, but onward to where the lights of Linwood shone through the wintry darkness. "This is the place," she said, and in a moment she stood upon the broad stone steps, shaking the snow from her cloak, while the boy waited a moment, hoping to be invited to share the warmth he felt there was within that handsome building.

Katy would rather he should not stop, but when she saw how cold he was she began to relent, and telling him where to shelter his horse, pointed to the bas.e.m.e.nt bidding him go in there. Then, with a hesitating step on she began to wonder what Morris would say, she crossed the wide piazza and softly turning the door k.n.o.b, stood in the hall at Linwood.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

THE INTERVIEW.

Dr. Morris was very tired, for his labors that day had been unusually severe, and it was with a feeling of comfort and relief that he had turned his steps homeward just as the night was closing in, finding a bright fire waiting for him in the library, where his supper was soon brought by the housekeeper, Mrs. Hull, the other servants having gone to an adjoining town to attend the wedding party of a former a.s.sociate. It was very pleasant in that cozy library of oak and green, with the bright fire on the hearth, the heavy curtains shutting out all traces of the storm, and the smoking supper set so temptingly before him. And Morris felt the comfort of his home, thanking the G.o.d who had given him all this, and chiding his wayward heart that it had ever dared to repine. He was not repining to-night; he had not repined for many a day, though he never sat down at home after his day's labor in slippers and dressing-gown, with a new book beside him on the table, that there was not a sense of something wanting, a glancing at the empty chair across the hearth, a thought perhaps of Katy, who could squeeze the whole of her slight form into that chair. But he was not thinking of her now, as with his hands crossed upon his head he sat looking into the fire and watching the bits of glowing anthracite dropping into the pan. He was thinking of the sickbed which he had visited last, and how a faith in Jesus can make the humblest room like the gate of heaven; thinking how the woman's eyes had sparkled when she told him of the other world, where she would never know pain, or hunger, or cold again, and how quickly their l.u.s.ter was dimmed when she spoke of her absent husband, the soldier to whom the news of her death with the child he had never seen would be a crus.h.i.+ng blow.

"They who have neither wife nor child are the happier perhaps," he said, and then the thought of Katy and her great sorrow when baby died, wondering if to spare herself that pain she would rather baby had never been. "No--oh, no," he answered to his own inquiry. "She would not lose the memory which comes from that little grave for all the world contains. It is better once to love and lose than not to love at all. In heaven we shall see and know why these things were permitted, and marvel at the poor human nature which rebelled against them."

Just at this point of his soliloquy the door opened, so softly that he did not hear it turn upon its hinges, nor hear the light footstep on the carpet as Katy came in. But when she coughed he started up in wonder at the apparition standing so still before him.

"Morris, oh, Morris," Katy cried, throwing back her veil and revealing a face which Morris could not believe was hers for the lines of suffering and distress stamped so legibly upon it.

But it was Katy, as the voice implied, and, seizing her cold hands, Morris asked: "Katy, why are you here to-night, and why are you alone?