University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
WILFORD'S VISIT.

WILFORD had made the last change of cars, and
when he stopped again it would be at Silverton.
He did not expect any one to meet him, but
as he remembered the man whom he had seen
greeting Katy, he thought it not unlikely that he might
be there now, laughing to himself as he pictured his
mother's horror, could she see him riding along in the
corn-colored vehicle which Uncle Ephraim drove. But
that vehicle was safe at home beneath the shed, while Uncle
Ephraim was laying a stone wall upon the huckleberry
hill, and the handsome carriage waiting at Silverton depot
was certainly unexceptionable; while in the young
man who, as the train stopped and Wilford stepped out
upon the platform, came to meet him, asking if he were
Mr. Cameron, Wilford recognized the true gentleman,
and his spirits rose at once as Morris said to him, “I am
Miss Lennox's cousin, deputed by her to take charge of
you for a time.”

Wilford had heard of Dr. Morris Grant and of his
kindness to poor little Jamie, who died in Paris; he had
heard too that his proud sister Juno had tried her powers
of coquetry in vain upon the grave American; but he

had no suspicion that his new acquaintance was the one
until Morris mentioned having met his family in France
and inquired after their welfare.

After that the conversation became very familiar, and
the ride seemed so short that Wilford was surprised when,
as they turned a corner in the sandy road, Morris pointed
to the farm-house, saying: “We are almost there—that
is the place.”

“That!” and Wilford's voice indicated his disappointment,
for in all his mental pictures of Katy Lennox's
home he had never imagined anything like this.

Large, rambling and weird-like, with something lofty
and imposing, just because it was so ancient, was the
house he had in his mind, and he could not conceal his
chagrin as his eye took in the small, low building, with
its high windows and tiny panes of glass, paintless and
blindless, standing there alone among the hills. Morris
understood it perfectly; but without seeming to notice it,
remarked, “It is the oldest house probably in the country,
and should be invaluable on that account. I think we
Americans are too fond of change and too much inclined
to throw aside all that reminds us of the past. Now I
like the farm-house just because it is old and unpretentious.”

“Yes, certainly,” Wilford answered, looking ruefully
around him at the stone wall, half tumbled down, the
tall well-sweep, and the patch of sun-flowers in the garden,
with Aunt Betsy bending behind them, picking tomatoes
for dinner, and shading her eyes with her hand
to look at him as he drove up.

It was all very rural, no doubt, and very charming to
people who liked it, but Wilford did not like it, and he
was wishing himself safely in New York when a golden
head flashed for an instant before the window and then
disappeared as Katy emerged into view, waiting at the
door to receive him and looking so sweetly in her dress of
white with the scarlet geranium blossoms in her hair that
Wilford forgot the homeliness of the surroundings, thinking
only of her and how soft and warm was the little hand
he held as she led him into the parlor. He did not know
she was so beautiful, he said to himself, and he feasted his
eyes upon her, forgetful for a time of all else. But afterwards,

when Katy left him for a moment, he had time to
observe the well-worn carpet, the six cane-seated chairs,
the large stuffed rocking-chair, the fall-leaf table, with
its plain wool spread, and lastly the really expensive
piano, the only handsome piece of furniture the room contained,
and which he rightly guessed must have come
from Morris.

“What would Juno or Mark say?” he kept repeating
to himself half shuddering as he recalled the bantering
proposition to accompany him made by Mark Ray, the
only young man whom he considered fully his equal in
New York.

Wilford knew these feelings were unworthy of him,
and he tried to shake them off, listlessly turning over the
books upon the table—books which betokened in some
one both taste and talent of no low order.

“Mark's favorite,” he said, lifting up a volume of Schiller;
and turning to the fly-leaf he read, “Helen Lennox,
from Cousin Morris,” just as Katy returned with her sister,
whom she presented to the stranger.

Helen was prepared to like him because Katy did, and
her first thought was that he was very fine looking; but
when she met his cold, proud eyes, and knew how closely
he was scrutinizing her, there arose in her heart a feeling
of dislike which she could never wholly conquer. He was
very polite to her, but something in his manner annoyed
and irritated her, it was so cool, so condescending, as
if he endured her merely because she was Katy's sister,
nothing more.

“Rather pretty, more character than Katy, but odd and
self-willed, with no kind of style,” was Wilford's running
comment on Helen as he took her in from the plain arrangement
of her dark hair to the fit of her French calico
and the cut of her linen collar.

Fashionable dress would improve her very much, he
thought, turning with a feeling of relief to Katy, whom
nothing could disfigure, and who was now watching the
door eagerly for the entrance of her mother. That lady
had spent a good deal of time at her toilet, and she came
in at last, flurried, fidgety, and very red, both from exercise
and the bright-hued ribbons streaming from her cap
and sadly at variance with the color of the dress. Wilford

noticed the discrepancy at once, and noticed too
how little style there was about the nervous woman greeting
him so deferentially, and evidently regarding him as
something infinitely superior to herself. Wilford had
looked with indifference on Helen, but it would take a
stronger word to express his opinion of the mother.
Morris, who remained to dinner, was in the parlor now,
and in his presence Wilford felt more at ease, more as if
he had found an affinity. Uncle Ephraim was not there,
having eaten his bowl of milk and gone back to his stone
wall, so that upon Morris devolved the duties of host, and
he courteously led the way to the little dining room, where
the table was loaded with the good things Aunt Hannah
had prepared, burning and browning her wrinkled face,
which nevertheless smiled pleasantly upon the stranger
presented as Mr. Cameron.

About Aunt Hannah there was something naturally lady
like, and Wilford recognized it at once; but when it came
to Aunt Betsy, of whom he had never heard, he felt for a
moment as if by being there in such promiscuous company
he had somehow fallen from the Camerons' high estate.
By way of pleasing the girls and doing honor to
their guest, Aunt Betsy had donned her very best attire,
wearing the slate-colored pongee dress, bought twenty
years before, and actually sporting a set of Helen's
cast-off hoops, which being too large for the dimensions
of her scanty skirt, gave her anything but the graceful
appearance she intended.

“Oh, auntie!” was Katy's involuntary exclamation,
while Helen bit her lip with vexation, for the hoop had
been an afterthought to Aunt Betsy just before going in
to dinner.

But the good old lady never dreamed of shocking anyone
with her attempts at fashion; and curtsying very
low to Mr. Cameron, she hoped for a better acquaintance,
and then took her seat at the table, just where each movement
could be distinctly seen by Wilford, scanning her so
intently as scarcely to hear the reverent words with which
Morris asked a blessing upon themselves and the food so
abundantly prepared. They could hardly have gotten
through that first dinner without Morris, who adroitly
led the conversation into channels which he knew would

interest Mr. Cameron, and divert his mind from what was
passing around him, and so the dinner proceeded quietly
enough, Wilford discovering, ere its close, that Mrs. Lennox
had really some pretensions to a lady, while Helen's
dress and collar ceased to be obnoxious, as he watched
the play of her fine features and saw her eyes kindle as
she took a modest part in the conversation when it turned
on books and literature.

Meanwhile Katy kept very silent, but when, after dinner
was over and Morris was gone, she went with Wilford
down to the shore of the pond, her tongue was
loosed, and he found again the little fairy who had so
bewitched him a few weeks before. And yet there was a
load upon his heart, a shadow upon his brow, for he
knew now that between Katy's family and his there was
a social gulf which never could be crossed by either
party. He might bear Katy over, it was true, but would
she not look longingly back to her humble home, and
might he not sometimes be greatly chagrined by the sudden
appearing of some one of this low-bred family who
did not seem to realize how ignorant they were, or how far
below him in the social scale? Poor Wilford! he winced
and shivered when he thought of Aunt Betsy, in her
antiquated pongee, and remembered that she was a near
relative of the little maiden sporting so playfully around
him, stealing his heart away in spite of his family pride,
and making him more deeply in love than ever. It was
very pleasant down by the pond, and Wilford kept Katy
there until the sun was going down and they heard
in the distance the tinkle of a bell as the deacon's cows
plodded slowly homeward. Supper was waiting for
them, and with his appetite sharpened by his walk, Wilford
found no cause of complaint against Aunt Hannah's
viands, though he smiled mentally as he accepted the
piece of apple pie Aunt Betsy offered him, saying, by way
of recommendation, that “she made the crust but Catherine
peeled and sliced the apples.”

The deacon had not returned from his work, and Wilford
did not see him until he came suddenly upon him,
seated in the wood-shed door, resting after the labor of
the day. “The young man was welcome to Silverton,”
he said, “but he must excuse him from visitin' much that

night, for the cows was to milk and the chores to do, as
he never kep' no boy.” The “chores” were done at last,
just as the clock pointed to half-past eight, the hour for
family worship. Unaccustomed as Wilford was to such
things, he felt the influence of the deacon's voice as he
read from the word of God, and involuntarily found himself
kneeling when Katy knelt, noticing the deacon's
grammar it is true, but still listening patiently to the
lengthy prayer, which included him together with the
rest of mankind.

There was no chance of seeing Katy alone, that night,
and so full two hours before his usual custom Wilford
retired to the little room to which the deacon conducted
him, saying, as he put down the lamp, “You'll find it
pretty snug quarters, I guess, for such a close, muggy
night as this.”

And truly they were snug quarters, Wilford thought,
as he surveyed the dimensions of the room; but there
was no alternative, and a few moments found him in the
centre of the two feather beds, neither Helen nor Katy
having discovered the addition made by Aunt Betsy, and
which came near being the death of the New York guest.
To sleep was impossible, and never for a moment did
Wilford lose his consciousness or forget to accuse himself
of being an idiot for coming into that heathenish neighborhood
after a wife when in New York there were so
many girls ready and waiting for him.

“I'll go back to-morrow morning,” he said, and striking
a match he consulted his Railway Guide to find when
the first train passed Silverton, feeling comforted to
know that only a few hours intervened between him and
freedom.

But alas for Wilford! He was but a man, subject to
man's caprices, and when next morning he met Katy
Lennox, looking in her light muslin as pure and fair as
the white blossoms twined in her wavy hair, his resolution
began to waver. Perhaps there was a decent hotel
in Silverton; he would inquire of Dr. Grant; at all events
he would not take the first train, though he might the
next; and so he staid, eating fried apples and beefsteak,
but forgetting to criticise, in his appreciation of the rich
thick cream poured into his coffee, and the sweet, golden

butter, which melted in soft waves upon the flaky rolls.
Again Uncle Ephraim was absent, having gone to mill
before Wilford left his room, nor was he visible to the
young man until after dinner, for Wilford did not go
home, but drove instead with Katy in the carriage which
Morris sent round, excusing himself from coming on the
plea of being too busy, but saying he would join them at
tea, if possible. Wilford's mind was not yet fully made
up, so he concluded to remain another day and see more
of Katy's family. Accordingly, after dinner, he bent his
energies to cultivating them all, from Helen down to
Aunt Betsy, who proved the most transparent of the four.
Arrayed again in the pongee, but this time without the
hoop, she came into the parlor, bringing her calico patch-work,
which she informed him was pieced in the “herrin'
bone pattern” and intended for Katy; telling him further,
that the feather bed on which he slept was also a
part of “Catherine's setting out,” and was made from
feathers she picked herself, showing him as proof a mark
upon her arm, left there by the gray goose, which had
proved a little refractory when she tried to draw a stocking
over its head.

Wilford groaned, and Katy's chance for being Mrs.
Cameron was growing constantly less and less as he saw
more and more how vast was the difference between the
Barlows and himself. Helen, he acknowledged, was passable,
though she was not one whom he could ever introduce
into New York society; and he was wondering how
Katy chanced to be so unlike the rest, when Uncle
Ephraim came up from the meadow, and announced himself
as ready now to visit, apologizing for his apparent
neglect, and seeming so absolutely to believe that
his company was desirable, that Wilford felt amused,
wondering again what Juno, or even Mark Ray, would
think of the rough old man, sitting with his chair tipped
back against the wall, and going occasionally to the door
to relieve himself of his tobacco juico, for chewing was
one of the deacon's weaknesses. His pants were faultlessly
clean, and his vest was buttoned nearly up to his
throat, but his coat was hanging on a nail out by the
kitchen door, and, to Katy's distress and Wilford's horror,
he sat among them in his shirt sleeves, all unconscious

of harm or of the disquiet awakened in the bosom of the
young man, who on that point was foolishly fastidious,
and who showed by his face how much he was annoyed.
Not even the presence of Morris, who came about tea
time, was of any avail to lift the cloud from his brow, and
he seemed moody and silent until supper was announced.
This was the first opportunity Morris had had of trying
his powers of persuasion upon the deacon, and now, at a
hint from Katy, he said to him in an aside, as they were
passing into the dining room: “Suppose, Uncle Ephraim,
you put on your coat for once. It is better than coming
to the table so.”

“Pooh,” was Uncle Ephraim's innocent rejoinder,
spoken loudly enough for Wilford to hear, “I shan't catch
cold, for I am used to it; besides that, I never could
stand the racket this hot weather.”

In his simplicity he did not even suspect Morris's motive,
but imputed it wholly to concern for his health.
And so Wilford Cameron found himself seated next to a
man who willfully trampled upon all rules of etiquette,
shocking him in his most sensitive points, and making
him thoroughly disgusted with the country and country
people generally. All but Morris and Katy—he did
make an exception in their favor, leaning most to Morris,
whom he admired more and more, as he became better
acquainted with him, wondering how he could content
himself to settle down quietly in Silverton, when he
would surely die if compelled to live there for a week.
Something like this he said to Dr. Grant, when that evening
they sat together in the handsome parlor at Linwood,
for Morris kindly invited him to spend the night
with him.

“I stay in Silverton, first, because I think I can do more
good here than elsewhere, and secondly, because I really
like the country and the country people; for, strange and
uncouth as they may seem to you, who never lived
among them, they have kinder, truer hearts beating beneath
their rough exteriors, than are often found in the
city.”

This was Morris's reply, and in the conversation which
ensued Wilford Cameron caught glimpses of a nobler,
higher phase of manhood than he had thought existed,

feeling an unbounded respect for one who, because he
believed it to be his duty, was, as it seemed to him,
wasting his life among people who could not appreciate
his character, though they might idolize the man. But
this did not reconcile Wilford one whit the more to
Silverton. Uncle Ephraim had completed the work commenced
by the two feather beds, and at breakfast, next
morning, he announced his intention of returning to New
York that day. To this Morris offered no objection, but
asked to be remembered to the mother and sisters, and
then invited Wilford to stop altogether at Linwood when
he came again to Silverton.

“Thank you; but it is hardly probable that I shall be
here very soon,” Wilford replied, adding, as he met the
peculiar glance of Morris's eye, “I found Miss Katy a
delightful traveling acquaintance, and on my way from
Newport thought I would renew it and see a little of
rustic life.”

Poor Katy! how her heart would have ached could she
have heard those words and understood their meaning,
just as Morris did, feeling a rising indignation for the
man with whom he could not be absolutely angry, he was
so self-possessed, so pleasant and gentlemanly, while better
than all, was he not virtually giving Katy up? and if
he did might she not turn at last to him?

These were Morris's thoughts as he walked with Wilford
across the fields to the farm-house, where Katy
met them with her sunniest smile, singing to them, at
Wilford's request, her sweetest song, and making him
half wish he could revoke his hasty decision and tarry a
little longer. But it was now too late for that, the carriage
which would take him to the depot was already on
its way from Linwood; and when the song was ended
he told her of his intentions to leave on the next train,
feeling a pang when he saw how the blood left her cheek
and lip, and then came surging back as she said timidly,
“Why need you leave so soon?”

“I have already outstayed my time. I thought of
going yesterday, and my partner, Mr. Ray, will be expecting
me,” Wilford replied, laying his hand upon
Katy's hair, while Morris and Helen stole quietly from
the room.

Thus left to himself, Wilford continued, “Maybe I'll
come again sometime. Would you like to have me?”

“Yes,” and Katy's blue eyes were lifted pleadingly
to the young man, who had never loved her so well as at
that very moment when resolving to cast her off.

For a moment Wilford was strongly tempted to throw
all pride aside, and ask that young girl to be his; but
thoughts of his mother, of Juno and Bell, and more than
all, thoughts of Uncle Ephraim and his sister Betsy,
arose in time to prevent it, and so he only kissed her
forehead caressingly as he said good-bye, telling her
that he should not soon forget his visit to Silverton, and
then, as the carriage drove up, going out to where the
remainder of the family were standing together and
commenting upon his sudden departure.

It was not sudden, he said, trying to explain. He
really had thought seriously of going yesterday, and
feeling that he had something to atone for, he tried to
be unusually gracious as he shook their hands, thanking
them for their kindness, but seeming wholly oblivious
to Aunt Betsy's remark that “she hoped to see him
again, if not at Silverton, in New York, where she
wanted dreadfully to visit, but never had on account of
the 'bominable prices charged to the taverns, and she
hadn't no acquaintances there.”

This was Aunt Betsy's parting remark, and, after
Katy, Aunt Betsy liked Wilford Cameron better than
any one of the group which watched him as he drove
from their door. Aunt Hannah thought him too much
stuck up for farmers' folks; Mrs. Lennox, whose ambition
would have accounted him a most desirable match
for her daughter, could not deny that his manner towards
them, though polite in the extreme, was that of a
superior to people greatly beneath him; while Helen,
who saw clearer than the rest, read him aright, and detected
the struggle between his pride and his love for
poor little Katy, whom she found sitting on the floor,
just where Wilford left her standing, her head resting
on the chair and her face hidden in her hands as she
sobbed quietly, hardly knowing why she cried or what
to answer when Helen asked what was the matter.

“It was so queer in him to go so soon,” she said;
“just as if he were offended about something.”

“Never mind, Katy,” Helen said, soothingly. “If he
cares for you he will come back again. He could not
stay here always, of course; and I must say I respect
him for attending to his business, if he has any. He has
been gone from home for weeks, you know.”

This was Helen's reasoning; but it did not comfort
Katy, whose face looked white and sad, as she moved
listlessly about the house, almost crying again when she
heard in the distance the whistle of the train which was
to carry Wilford Cameron away and end his first visit
to Silverton.