| | 1 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The Cameron pride, or, Purified by suffering  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | UNCLE EPHRAIM BARLOW was an old-fashioned
man, clinging to the old-time customs of his
fathers, and looking with but little toleration upon
what he termed the “new-fangled notions” of the present
generation. Born and reared amid the rocks and hills of
the Bay State, his nature partook largely of the nature of
his surroundings, and he grew into manhood with many
a rough point adhering to his character, which, nevertheless,
taken as a whole, was, like the wild New England
scenery, beautiful and grand. None knew Uncle Ephraim
Barlow but to respect him, and at the church in which
he was a deacon, few would have been missed more than
the tall, muscular man, with the long white hair, who,
Sunday after Sunday, walked slowly up the middle aisle
to his accustomed seat before the altar, and who regularly
passed the contribution box, bowing involuntarily
in token of approbation when a neighbor's gift was larger
than its wont, and gravely dropping in his own ten cents
—never more, never less, always ten cents—his weekly
offering, which he knew amounted in a year to just five
dollars and twenty cents. And still Uncle Ephraim was
not stingy, as the Silverton poor could testify, for many
a load of wood and bag of meal found entrance to the
doors where cold and hunger would have otherwise been,
while to his minister he was literally a holder up of the
weary hands, and a comforter in the time of trouble. “Miss Helen Lennox: Please pardon the liberty I have taken in
inclosing the sum of $500 to be used by you in procuring whatever
Katy may need for present necessities. Presuming that the
country seamstresses have not the best facilities for obtaining the
latest fashions, my mother proposes sending out her own private
dressmaker, Mrs. Ryan. You may look for her the last of the week. Mr. Wilford Cameron: — I give you credit for the kindest of
motives in sending the check which I now return to you, with my
compliments. We are not as poor as you suppose, and would almost
deem it sacrilege to let another than ourselves provide for Katy
so long as she is ours. And furthermore, Mrs. Ryan's services will
not be needed, so it is not worth her while to make a journey here
for nothing. “By the way, Helen, I heard him tell Wilford that you
had one of the best shaped heads he ever saw, and that
he thought you decidedly good looking. I must tell you
now of the only thing which troubles me in the least, and
I shall get used to that, I suppose. It is so strange Wilford
never told me a word until she came. Think of little
Katy Lennox with a waiting-maid, who jabbers French
half the time, for she speaks that language as well as her
own, having been abroad with the family once before.
That is why they sent her to me; they knew her services
would be invaluable in Paris. Her name is Esther, and
she came the day after we did, and brought me such a
beautiful mantilla from Wilford's mother, and the loveliest
dress. Just the pattern was fifty dollars, she said. “My Dear Sister Helen:—I have just come in from
a little party given by one of Mrs. Harvey's friends, and
I am so tired, for you know I am not accustomed to such
late hours. The party was very pleasant indeed, and
everybody was so kind to me, especially Mr. Ray, who
stood by me all the time, and who somehow seemed to
help me, so that I knew just what to do, and was not
awkward at all. I hope not, at least for Wilford's sake. AFTER German Philosophy and Hamilton's Metaphysics,
it is a great relief to have introduced into
the family an entirely new element — a character
the dissection of which is at once a novelty
and a recreation. It is absolutely refreshing, and I find
myself returning to my books with increased vigor after
an encounter with that unsophisticated, innocent-minded
creature, our sister-in-law Mrs. Wilford Cameron. Such
pictures as Juno and I used to draw of the stately personage
who was one day coming to us as Wilford's wife, and of
whom even mother was to stand in awe. Alas, how hath
our idol fallen! And still I rather like the little creature,
who, the very first night, nearly choked mother to death,
giving her lace streamers a most uncomfortable twitch,
and actually kissing father — a thing I have not done
since I can remember. But then the Camerons are all a
set of icicles, encased in a refrigerator at that. If we were
not, we should thaw out, when Katy leans on us so affectionately
and looks up at us so wistfully, as if pleading
for our love. Wilford does wonders; he used to be so
grave, so dignified and silent, that I never supposed he
would bear having a wife meet him at the door with cooing
and kisses, and climbing into his lap right before us
all. Juno says it makes her sick, while mother is dreadfully
shocked; and even Will sometimes seems annoyed,
gently shoving her aside and telling her he is tired. Your sister is very ill. Come as soon as possible. “Your child is dying at Silverton. Come at once. Dear Katy:—I have been suddenly called to leave the city on
business, which will probably detain me for three days or more, and
as I must go on the night train, I wish Esther to have my portmanteau
ready with whatever I may need for the journey. As I proposed
this morning, I shall dine with mother, but come home
immediately after dinner. “Will you be sorry when you read this and find that I am gone,
that you are free from the husband you do not love,—whom, perhaps,
you never loved, though I thought you did. I trusted you
once, and now I do not blame you as much as I ought, for you are
young and easily influenced. You are very susceptible to flattery,
as was proven by your career at Saratoga and Newport. I had no
suspicion of you then, but now that I know you better, I see that it
was not all childish simplicity which made you smile so graciously
upon those who sought your favor. You are a coquette, Katy, and
the greater one because of that semblance of artlessness which is the
perfection of art. This, however, I might forgive, if I had not learned
that another man loved you first and wished to make you his wife,
while you, in your secret heart, wish you had known it sooner. Don't
deny it, Katy; I saw it in your face when I first told you of Dr.
Grant's confession, and I heard it in your voice as well as in your
words when you said `A life at Linwood would be perfect rest
compared with this.' That hurt me cruelly, Katy. I did not deserve
it from one for whom I have done and borne so much, and it was the
final cause of my leaving you, for I am going to Washington to enroll
myself in the service of my country. You will be happier without
me for awhile, and perhaps when I return, Linwood will not look
quite the little paradise it does now. “Married—On Christmas Eve, at St. John's Church, Silverton,
Mass., by the Rev. Mr. Kelly, Capt. Mark Ray, of the —th Regiment,
N. Y. S. Vols., to Miss Helen Lennox, of Silverton.” Your husband cannot live long. Come immediately. “I knew how it would end, when you were in Georgetown,” she
wrote, “and I am glad that it is so, praying daily that you may be
happy with Dr. Grant and remember the sad past only as some dream
from which you have awakened. I thank you for your invitation
to visit Linwood, and when my work is over I may come for a few
weeks and rest in your bird's nest of a home. Thank God the war
is ended; but my boys need me yet, and until the last crutch has left
the hospital, I shall stay where duty lies. What my life will henceforth
be I do not know; but I have sometimes thought that with the
funds you so generously bestowed upon me, I shall open a school for
orphan children, taking charge myself, and so doing some good.
Will you be the Lady Patroness, and occasionally enliven us with the
light of your countenance? I have left the hospital but once since
you were here, and then I went to Wilford's grave. I prayed for you
while there, remembering only that you had been his wife. In a little
box where no eyes but mine ever look, there is a bunch of flowers
plucked from Wilford's grave. They are faded and withered, but something
of their sweet perfume lingers still; and I prize them as my
greatest treasure; for, except the lock of hair severed from his head,
they are all that is remaining to me of the past, which now seems so
far away. It is time to make my nightly round of visits, so I must
bid you good-bye. The Lord lift up the light of his countenance
upon you, and be with you forever. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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