University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
LINWOOD.

MORRIS had returned from Spencer, and in his
dressing-gown and slippers was sitting by the
window of his library, looking out upon the
purple sunshine flooding the western sky, and
thinking of the little girl coming so rapidly up the grassy
lane in the rear of the house. He was going over
to see her by and by, he said, and he pictured to himself
how she must look by this time, hoping that he
should not find her greatly changed, for Morris Grant's
memories were very precious of the play-child who
used to tease and worry him so much with her
lessons poorly learned, and the never-ending jokes
played off upon her teacher. He had thought of her so
often when across the sea, and, knowing her love of the
beautiful, he had never looked upon a painting or scene
of rare beauty that he did not wish her by his side sharing
in the pleasure. He had brought her from that far-off
land many little trophies which he thought she would
prize, and which he was going to take with him when he
went to the farm-house. He never dreamed of her coming
there to-night. She would, of course, wait for him,
to call upon her first. How then was he amazed when,
just as the sun was going down and he was watching its
last rays lingering on the brow of the hill across the
pond, the library door was opened wide and the room
suddenly filled with life and joy, as a graceful figure,
with reddish golden hair, bounded across the floor, and
winding its arms around his neck gave him the hearty
kiss which Katy had in her mind when she declined Aunt
Betsy's favorite vegetable.

Morris Grant was not averse to being kissed, and yet
the fact that Katy Lennox had kissed him in such a way
awoke a chill of disappointment, for it said that to her
he was the teacher still, the elder brother, whom, as a
child, she had loaded with caresses.

“Oh, Cousin Morris!” she exclaimed, “why didn't

you come over at noon, you naughty boy! But what a
splendid-looking man you've got to be, though! and
what do you think of me?” she added, blushing for the
first time, as he held her off from him and looked into
the sunny face.

“I think you wholly unchanged,” he answered, so
gravely that Katy began to pout as she said, “And you
are sorry, I know. Pray what did you expect of me, and
what would you have me be?”

“Nothing but what you are—the same Kitty as of
old,” he answered, his own bright smile breaking all over
his sober face.

He saw that his manner repelled her, and he tried to
be natural, succeeding so well that Katy forgot her first
disappointment, and making him sit by her on the sofa,
where she could see him distinctly, she poured forth a
volley of talk, telling him, among other things, how
much afraid of him some of his letters made her—they
were so serious and so like a sermon.

“You wrote me once that you thought of being a minister,”
she added. “Why did you change your mind?
It must be splendid, I think, to be a young clergyman—
invited to so many tea-drinkings, and having all the
girls in the parish after you, as they always are after
unmarried ministers.”

Into Morris Grant's eyes there stole a troubled light
as he thought how little Katy realized what it was to be
a minister of God—to point the people heavenward and
teach them the right way. There was a moment's pause,
and then he tried to explain to her that he hoped he
had not been influenced either by thoughts of tea-drinkings
or having the parish girls after him, but rather by
an honest desire to choose the sphere in which he could
accomplish the most good.

“I did not decide rashly,” he said, “but after weeks
of anxious thought and prayer for guidance I came to
the conclusion that in the practice of medicine I could find
perhaps as broad a field for good as in the church, and
so I decided to go on with my profession—to be a physician
of the poor and suffering, speaking to them of
Him who came to save, and in this way I shall not labor
in vain. Many would seek another place than Silverton

and its vicinity, but something told me that my work
was here, and so I am content to stay, feeling thankful
that my means admit of my waiting for patients, if need
be, and at the same time ministering to the wants of
those who are needy.”

Gradually, as he talked, there came into his face a light,
born only from the peace which passeth understanding,
and the awe-struck Katy crept closer to his side and
grasping his hand in hers, said softly, “Dear cousin, what
a good man you are, and how silly I must seem to you,
thinking you cared for tea-drinkings, or even girls, when,
of course, you do not.”

“Perhaps I do,” the doctor replied, slightly pressing
the warm, fat hand holding his so fast. “A minister's or
a doctor's life would be dreary indeed if there was no one
to share it, and I have had my dreams of the girls, or girl,
who was some day to brighten my home.”

He looked fully at Katy now, but she was thinking of
something else, and her next remark was to ask him rather
abruptly “how old he was?”

“Twenty-six last May,” he answered, while Katy continued,
“You are not old enough to be married yet.
Wilford Cameron is thirty,”

“Where did you meet Wilford Cameron?” Morris
asked, in some surprise, and then the story which Katy
had not told, even to her sister, came out in full, and
Morris tried to listen patiently while Katy explained how,
on the very first day of the examination, Mrs. Woodhull
had come in, and with her the grandest, proudest-looking
man, who the girls said was Mr. Wilford Cameron, from
New York, a fastidious bachelor, whose family were noted
for their wealth and exclusiveness, keeping six servants,
and living in the finest style; that Mrs. Woodhull, who
all through the year had been very kind to Katy, came to
her after school and invited her home to tea; that she
had gone and met Mr. Cameron; that she was very much
afraid of him at first, and was not sure that she was quite
over it now, although he was so polite to her all through
the journey, taking so much pains to have her see the
finest sights, and laughing at her enthusiasm.

“Wilford Cameron with you in your trip?” Morris
asked, a new idea dawning on his mind.

“Yes, let me tell you,” and Katy spoke rapidly. “I
saw him that night, and then Mrs. Woodhull took me to
ride with him in the carriage, and then—well, I rode alone
with him once down by the lake, and he talked to me just
as if he was not a grand man and I a little school-girl.
And when the term closed I staid at Mrs. Woodhull's and
he was there. He liked my playing and liked my singing,
and I guess he liked me—that is, you know—yes, he liked
me some,” and Katy twisted the fringe of her shawl, while
Morris, in spite of the pain tugging at his heart strings,
laughed aloud as he rejoined, “I have no doubt he did;
but go on—what next?”

“He said more about my joining that party than anybody,
and I am very sure he paid the bills.”

“Oh, Katy,” and Morris started as if he had been stung.
“I would rather have given Linwood than have you thus
indebted to Wilford Cameron, or any other man.”

“I could not well help it. I did not mean any harm,”
Katy said timidly, explaining how she had shrunk from
the proposition which Mrs. Woodhull thought was right,
urging it until she had consented, and telling how kind
Mr. Cameron was, and how careful not to remind her of
her indebtedness to him, attending to and anticipating
every want as if she had been his sister.

“You would like Mr. Cameron, Cousin Morris. He
made me think of you a little, only he is prouder,” and
Katy's hand moved up Morris's coat sleeve till it rested
on his shoulder.

“Perhaps so,” Morris answered, feeling a growing resentment
towards one who it seemed to him had done
him some great wrong.

But Wilford was not to blame, he reflected. He could
not help admiring the bright little Katy—and so conquering
all ungenerous feelings, he turned to her at last, and
said,

“Did my little Cousin Kitty like Wilford Cameron?”

Something in Morris's voice startled Katy strangely;
her hand came down from his shoulder, and for an instant
there swept over her an emotion similar to what she had
felt when with Wilford Cameron she rambled along the
shores of Lake George, or sat alone with him on the deck
of the steamer which carried them down Lake Champlain.

But Morris had always been her brother, and she did not
guess that she was more to him than a sister, so she answered
frankly at last, “I guess I did like him a little. I
couldn't help it, Morris. You could not either, or any one.
I believe Mrs. Woodhull was more than half in love with
him herself, and she talked so much of his family; they
must be very grand.”

“Yes, I know those Camerons,” was Morris's quiet remark.

“What! You don't know Wilford?” Katy almost
screamed, and Morris replied, “Not Wilford, no; but the
mother and the sisters were in Paris, and I met them
many times.”

“What were they doing in Paris?” Katy asked, and Morris
replied that he believed the immediate object of their
being there was to obtain the best medical advice for a little
orphan grand-child, a bright, beautiful boy, to whom some
terrible accident had happened in infancy, preventing his
walking entirely, and making him nearly helpless. His
name was Jamie, Morris said, and as he saw that Katy was
interested, he told her how sweet-tempered the little fellow
was, how patient under suffering, and how eagerly he
listened when Morris, who at one time attended him, told
him of the Saviour and his love for little children.

“Did he get well?” Katy asked, her eyes filling with
tears at the picture Morris drew of Jamie Cameron, sitting
all day long in his wheel chair, and trying to comfort
his grand-mother's distress when the torturing instruments
for straightening his poor back were applied.

“No, he died one lovely day in October, and they
buried him beneath the bright skies of France,” Morris
said, and then Katy asked about the mother and sister.
“Were they proud, and did he like them much?”

“They were very proud,” Morris said; “but they were
always civil to him,” and Katy, had she been watching,
might have seen a slight flush on his cheek as he told her
of the stately woman, Wilford's mother, of the haughty
Juno, a beauty and a belle, and lastly of Arabella, whom
the family nicknamed Bluebell, from her excessive fondness
for books, and her contempt for the fashionable
life her mother and sister led.

It was evident that neither of the young ladies were

wholly to Morris's taste, but of the two he preferred
Bluebell, for though imperious and self-willed, she had
some heart, some principle, while Juno had none. This
was Morris's opinion, and it disturbed little Katy, as was
very perceptible from the nervous tapping of her foot
upon the carpet and the working of her hands.

“How would I appear by the side of those ladies?” she
suddenly asked, her countenance changing as Morris replied
that it was almost impossible to think of her as associated
with the Camerons, she was so wholly unlike
them in every respect.

“I don't believe I shocked Wilford so very much,”
Katy rejoined, reproachfully, while again a heavy pain
shot through Morris's heart, for he saw more and more
how Wilford Cameron was mingled with every thought of
the young girl, who continued: “And if he was satisfied,
his mother and sisters will be. Any way, I don't want
you to make me feel how different I am from them.”

There were tears now on Katy's face, and casting aside
all selfishness, Morris wound his arm around her, and
smoothing her golden hair, just as he used to do when
she was a child and came to him to be soothed, he said,
very gently,

“My poor Kitty, you do like Wilford Cameron; tell
me honestly—is it not so?”

“Yes, I guess I do,” and Katy's voice was a half sob.
“I could not help it, either, he was so kind, so—I don't
know what, only I could not help doing what he bade me.
Why, if he had said, `Jump overboard, Katy Lennox,' I
should have done it, I know—that is, if his eyes had been
upon me, they controlled me so absolutely. Can you imagine
what I mean?”

“Yes, I understand. There was the same look in Bell
Cameron's eye, a kind of mesmeric influence which commanded
obedience. They idolize Wilford, and I dare say
he is worthy of their idolatry. One thing at least is in
his favor—the crippled Jamie, for whose opinion I would
give more than all the rest, seemed to worship his Uncle
Will; talking of him continually, and telling how kind he
was, sometimes staying up all night to carry him in his
arms when the pain in his back was more than usually
severe. So there must be a good, kind heart in Wilford

Cameron, and if my Cousin Kitty likes him, as she says
she does, and he likes her as I believe he must, why, I
hope—”

Morris Grant could not finish the sentence, for he did
not hope that Wilford Cameron would win the gem he had
so long coveted as his own.

He might give Kitty up because she loved another best.
He was generous enough to do that, but if he did it, she
must never know how much it cost him, and lest he
should betray himself he could not to-night talk with her
longer of Wilford Cameron. It was time too for Katy
to go home, but she did not seem to remember it until
Morris suggested to her that her mother might be uneasy
if she staid away much longer, and so they went together
across the fields, the shadows all gone from Katy's heart,
but lying so dark and heavy around Morris Grant, who
was glad when he could leave Katy at the farm-house door
and go back alone to the quiet library, where only God
could witness the mighty struggle, it was for him to say,
“Thy will be done.” And while he prayed, Katy, in her
humble bedroom, with her head nestled close to Helen's
neck, was telling her of Wilford Cameron, who, when they
went down the rapids and she had cried with fear, had
put his arm around her trying to quiet her, and who once
again, on the mountain overlooking Lake George, had
held her hand a moment, while he pointed out a splendid
view seen through the opening trees. And Helen, listening,
knew that Katy's heart was lost, and that for Wilford
Cameron to deceive her now would be a cruel thing.