University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
WILFORD'S SECOND VISIT.

WLFORD CAMERON had tried to forget Katy
Lennox, both for his sake and her own, for he foresaw
that she could not be happy with his family,
and he came to think it might be a wrong to her to
transplant her into a soil so wholly unlike that in which
her habits and affections had taken root.

His father once had abruptly asked him if there was any
truth in the report that he was about to marry and make
a fool of himself, and when Wilford had answered “No,”
he had replied with a significant.

“Umph! Old enough, I should think, if you ever intend
to marry. Wilford,” and the old man faced square
about, “I know nothing of the girl, except what I
gathered from your mother and sisters. You have not
asked my advice. I don't suppose you want it, but if you
do, here it is. If you love the girl and she is respectable,
marry her if she is poor as poverty and the daughter of
a tinker; but if you don't love her, and she's as rich as a
nabob, for thunder's sake keep away from her.”

This was the elder Cameron's counsel, and Katy's cause
rose fifty per cent. in consequence. Still Wilford was
sadly disquieted, so much so that his partner, Mark Ray,
could not fail to observe that something was troubling
him, and at last frankly asked what it was. Wilford
knew he could trust Mark, and he confessed the whole,
telling him far more of Silverton than he had told his
mother, and then asking what his friend would do were
the case his own.

Fond of fun and frolic, Mark laughed immoderately at
Wilford's description of Aunt Betsy bringing her “herrin'-bone”
patch work into the parlor, and telling him it
was a part of Katy's “settin' out,” but when it came to
her hint for an invitation to visit New York, the amused
young man roared with laughter, wishing so much
that he might live to see the day when poor Aunt Betsy
Barlow stood ringing for admittance at No. — Fifth
Avenue.

“Wouldn't it be rich, though, the meeting between
your Aunt Betsy and Juno?” and the tears fairly poured
down the young man's face.

But Wilford was too serious for trifling, and after his
merriment had subsided, Mark talked with him candidly
of Katy Lennox, whose cause he warmly espoused, telling
Wilford that he was far too sensitive with regard to family
and position.

“You are a good fellow on the whole, but too outrageously
proud,” he said. “Of course this Aunt Betsy in
her pongee, whatever that may be, and the uncle in his
shirt sleeves, and this mother whom you describe as weak
and ambitious, are objections which you would rather
should not exist; but if you love the girl, take her, family
and all. Not that you are to transport the whole colony
of Barlows to New York,” he added, as he saw Wilford's
look of horror, “but make up your mind to endure what
cannot be helped, resting yourself upon the fact that your
position is such as cannot well be affected by any marriage
you might make, provided the wife were right.”

This was Mark Ray's advice, and it had great weight
with Wilford, who knew that Mark came, if possible, from
a better line of ancestry than himself. And still Wilford
hesitated, waiting until the winter, was over before he
came to the decision which, when it was reached, was firm
as a granite rock. He had made up his mind at last to
marry Katy Lennox if she would accept him, and he told
his mother so in presence of his sisters, when one evening
they were all kept at home by the rain. There was a
sudden uplifting of Bell's eyelashes, a contemptuous
shrug of her shoulders, and then she went on with the
book she was reading, wondering if Katy was at all inclined
to literature, and thinking if she were that it might
be easier to tolerate her. Juno, who was expected to say
the sharpest things, turned upon him with the exclamation,

“If you can stand those two feather beds, you can do
more than I supposed,” and as one means of showing her
disapproval, she quitted the room, while Bell, who had
taken to writing articles on the follies of the age, soon
followed her sister to elaborate an idea suggested to her
mind by her brother's contemplated marriage.

Thus left alone with her son, Mrs. Cameron tried all
her powers of persuasion upon him. But nothing she
said influenced him in the least, seeing which she suddenly
confronted him with the question, “Shall you tell
her all? A husband should have no secrets of that kind
from his wife.”

Wilford's face was white as ashes, and his voice trembled
as he replied, “Yes, mother, I shall tell her all;
but, oh! you do not know how hard it has been for me
to bring my mind to that, or how sorry I am that we ever
kept that secret—when Genevra died—”

“Hush-h!” came warningly from the mother as Juno
reappeared, the warning indicating that Genevra was a
name never mentioned, except by mother and son.

As Juno remained, the conversation was not resumed,
and the next morning Wilford wrote to Katy Lennox the
letter which carried to her so much of joy, and to Dr.
Grant so much of grief. To wait four weeks, as Katy
said he must, was a terrible trial to Wilford, who counted
every moment which kept him from her side. It was all
owing to Dr. Grant and that perpendicular Helen, he
knew, for Katy in her letter had admitted that the waiting
was wholly their suggestion; and Wilford's thoughts
concerning them were anything but complimentary, until
a new idea was suggested, which drove every other consideration
from his mind.

Wilford was naturally jealous, but that fault had once
led him into so deep a trouble that he had struggled to
overcome it, and now, at its first approach, after he
thought it dead, he tried to shake it off—tried not to believe
that Morris cared especially for Katy. But the
mere possibility was unendurable, and in a most feverish
state of excitement he started again for Silverton.

As before, Morris was at the station, his cordial greeting
and friendly manner disarming him from all anxiety
in that quarter, and making him resolve anew to trample
the demon jealousy under his feet, where it could never
rise again. Katy's life should not be darkened by the
green monster, he thought, and her future would have
been bright indeed had it proved all that he pictured it
as he drove along with Morris in the direction of the
farm-house.

Katy was waiting for him, and he did not hesitate to
kiss her more than once as he kept her for a moment in
his arms, and then held her off to see if her illness had
left any traces upon her. It had not, except it were in
the increased delicacy of her complexion and the short
hair now growing out in silky rings. She was very
pretty in her short hair, but Wilford felt a little impatient
as he saw how childish it made her look, and
thought how long it would take for it to attain its former
length. He was already appropriating her to himself,
and devising ways of improving her. In New York,
with Morris Grant standing before his jealous gaze, he
could see no fault in Katy, and even now, with her beside
him, and the ogre jealousy gone, he saw no fault in
her; it was only her hair, and that would be remedied
in time; otherwise she was perfect, and in his delight at
meeting her again he forgot to criticise the farm-house
and its occupants, as he had done before.

They were very civil to him—the mother overwhelmingly
so, and Wilford could not help detecting her anxiety
that all should be settled this time. Helen, on the
contrary, was unusually cool, confirming him in his opinion
that she was strong-minded and self-willed, and making
him resolve to remove Katy as soon as possible from
her influence. When talking with his mother he had
said that if Katy told him “yes,” he should probably
place her at some fashionable school for a year or two;
but on the way to Silverton he had changed his mind.
He could not wait a year, and if he married Katy at all,
it should be immediately. He would then take her to
Europe, where she could have the best of teachers, besides
the advantage of traveling; and it was a very satisfactory
picture he drew of the woman whom he should
introduce into New York society as his wife, Mrs. Wilford
Cameron. It is true that Katy had not yet said the all-important
word, but she was going to say it, and when
late that afternoon they came from the walk he had asked
her to take, she had listened to his tale of love and was
his promised wife. Katy was no coquette; whatever she
felt she expressed, and she had frankly confessed to
Wilford her love for him, telling him how the fear that he
had forgotten her had haunted her all the long winter;

and then with her clear, truthful blue eyes looking into
his, asking him why he had not sent her some message if,
as he said, he loved her all the time.

For a moment Wilford's lip was compressed and a flush
overspread his face, as, drawing her closer to him, he replied,
“My little Katy will remember that in my first
note I spoke of certain circumstances which had prevented
my writing earlier. I do not know that I asked
her not to seek to know those circumstances; but I ask
it now. Will Katy trust me so far as to believe that all
is right between us, and never allude to these circumstances?”

He was kissing her fondly, and his voice was so winning
that Katy promised, and then came the hardest, the
trying to tell her all, as he had said to his mother he
would. Twice he essayed to speak, and as often something
sealed his lips, until at last he began, “You must
not think me perfect, Katy, for I have faults, and perhaps
if you knew my past life you would wish to revoke your
recent decision and render a different verdict to my suit.
Suppose I unfold the blackest leaf for your inspection?”

“No, no, oh no,” and Katy playfully stopped his
mouth with her hand. “Of course you have some faults,
but I would rather find them out by myself. I could
not hear anything against you now. I am satisfied to
take you as you are.”

Wilford felt his heart throb wildly with the feeling
that he was deceiving the young girl; but if she would
not suffer him to tell her, he was not to be censured if
she remained in ignorance. And so the golden moment
fled, and when he spoke again he said, “If Katy will not
now read the leaf I offered to show her, she must not
shrink in horror, if ever it does meet her eye.”

“I won't, I promise,” Katy answered, a vague feeling
of fear creeping over her as to what the reading of that
mysterious page involved. But this was soon forgotten,
as Wilford, remembering his suspicions of Dr. Grant,
thought to probe her a little by asking if she had ever
loved any one before himself.

“No, never,” she answered. “I never dreamed of
such a thing until I saw you, Mr. Cameron;” and Wilford
believed the trusting girl, whose loving nature shone

in every lineament of her face, upturned to receive the
kisses he pressed upon it, resolving within himself to be
to her what he ought to be.

“By the way,” he continued, “don't call me Mr. Cameron
again, as you did just now. I would rather be your
Wilford. It sounds more familiar;” and then he told her
of his projected tour to Europe, and Katy felt her pulses
quicken as she thought of London, Paris and Rome, as
places which her plain country eyes might yet look upon.
But when it came to their marriage, which Wilford said
must be within a few weeks—she demurred, for this arrangement
was not in accordance with her desires; and
she opposed her lover with all her strength, telling him
she was so young, not eighteen till July, and she knew
so little of housekeeping. He must let her stay at
home until she learned at least the art of making
bread!

Poor, ignorant Katy! Wilford could not forbear a
smile as he thought how different were her views from
his, and tried to explain that the art of bread-making,
though very desirable in most wives, was not an essential
accomplishment for his. Servants would do that; besides
he did not intend to have a house of his own at
once; he should take her first to live with his mother,
where she could learn what was necessary much better
than in Silverton.

Wilford Cameron expected to be obeyed in every important
matter by the happy person who should be his
wife, and as he possessed the faculty of enforcing perfect
obedience without seeming to be severe, so he silenced
Katy's arguments, and when they left the shadow of the
butternut tree she knew that in all human probability
six weeks' time would find her on the broad ocean alone
with Wilford Cameron. So perfect was Katy's faith and
love that she had no fear of Wilford now, but as his affianced
wife walked confidently by his side, feeling fully
his equal, nor once dreaming how great the disparity his
city friends would discover between the fastidious man
of fashion and the unsophisticated country girl. And
Wilford did not seek to enlighten her, but suffered her
to talk of the delight it would be to live in New York,
and how pleasant for mother and Helen to visit her,

especially the latter, who would thus have a chance to
see something of the world.

“When I get a house of my own I mean she shall live
with me all the while,” she said, stooping to gather a tuft
of wild blue-bells growing in a marshy spot.

Wilford winced a little, but he would not so soon tear
down Katy's castles, and so he merely remarked, as she
asked if it would not be nice to have Helen with them,

“Yes, very nice; but do not speak of it to her yet, as
it will probably be some time before she will come to us.”

And so Helen never suspected the honor in store for her
as she stood in the doorway anxiously waiting for her
sister, who she feared would take cold from being out so
long. Something though in Katy's face made her guess
that to her was lost forever the bright little sister whom
she loved so dearly, and fleeing up the narrow stairway
to her room she wept bitterly as she thought of the coming
time when she would occupy that room alone, and
know that never again would a little golden head lie
upon her neck just as it had lain, for there would be a
new love, a new interest between them, a love for the
man whose voice she could hear now talking to her
mother in the peculiar tone he always assumed when
speaking to any one of them excepting Morris or Katy.

“I wish it were not wrong to hate him,” she exclaimed
passionately; “it would be such a relief; but if he is
only kind to Katy, I do not care how much he despises
us,” and bathing her face, Helen sat down by her window,
wondering, if Mr. Cameron took her sister, when
it would probably be. “Not this year or more,” she said,
“for Katy is so young;” but on this point she was soon set
right by Katy herself, who, leaving her lover alone with
her mother, stole up to tell her sister the good news.

“Yes, I know; I guessed as much when you came
back from the meadows,” and Helen's voice was very unsteady
in its tone as she smoothed the soft rings clustering
around her sister's brow.

“Crying, Helen! oh, don't. I shall love you just the
same, and you are coming to live with us,” Katy said, forgetting
Wilford's instructions in her desire to comfort
Helen, who broke down again, while Katy's tears were
mingled with her own.

It was the first time Katy had thought what it would
be to leave forever the good, patient sister, who had been
so kind, treating her like a petted kitten and standing
between her and every hardship.

“Don't cry, Nellie,” she said, “New York is not far
away, and I shall come so often, that is, after we return
from Europe. Did I tell you we are going there first,
and Wilford will not wait, but says we must be married
the 10th of June?—that's his birthday—thirty—and he is
telling mother now.”

“So soon—oh Katy! and you so young!” was all Helen
could say, as with quivering lip she kissed her sister's
hand raised to wipe her tears away.

“Yes, it is soon, and I am young: but Wilford is in
such a hurry; he don't care,” Katy replied, trying to
comfort Helen, and begging of her not to cry so hard.

No, Wilford did not care how much he wrung the
hearts of Katy's family by taking her from them at once,
and by dictating to a certain extent the way in which he
would take her. There must be no invited guests, he
said; no lookers-on, except such as chose to go to the
church where the ceremony would be performed, and
from which place he should go directly to the Boston train.
It was his wish, too, that the matter should be kept as
quiet as possible, and not be generally discussed in the
neighborhood, as he disliked being a subject for gossip.
And Mrs. Lennox, to whom this was said, promised
compliance with everything, or if she ventured to object
she found herself borne down by a stronger will than her
own, and weakly yielded, her manner fully testifying to
her delight at the honor conferred upon her by this high
marriage of her child. Wilford knew just how pleased
she was, and her obsequious manner annoyed him far
more than Helen's blunt straightforwardness, when, after
supper was over, she told him how averse she was to
his taking Katy so soon, adding still further that if it
must be, she saw no harm in inviting a few of their neighbors.
It was customary, it would be expected, she said,
while Mrs. Lennox, emboldened by Helen's boldness,
chimed in, “at least your folks will come; I shall be glad
to meet your mother.”

Wilford was very polite to them both; very good-humored,

but he kept to his first position, and poor Mrs.
Lennox saw fade into airy nothingness all her visions of
roasted fowls and frosted cake trimmed with myrtle and
flowers, with hosts of the Silverton people there to admire
and partake of the marriage feast. It was too bad,
and so Aunt Betsy said, when, after Wilford had gone to
Linwood, the family sat together around the kitchen
stove, talking the matter over.

“Yes, it was too bad, when there was that white henturkey
she could fat up so easy before June, and she
knew how to make 'lection cake that would melt in your
mouth, and was enough sight better than the black stuff
they called weddin' cake. She meant to try what she
could do with Mr. Carmon.”

And next morning when he came again she did try,
holding out as inducements why he should be married
the night before starting for Boston, the “white henturkey,
the 'lection cake, and the gay old times the
young folks would have playing snap-and-catchem; or
if they had a mind, they could dance a bit in the kitchen.
She didn't believe in it, to be sure—none of the Orthodox
did; but as Wilford was a 'Piscopal, and that was a
'Piscopal quirk, it wouldn't harm for once.”

Wilford tried not to show his disgust, and only Helen
suspected how hard it was for him to keep down his
utter contempt. She saw it in his eyes, which resembled
two smouldering volcanoes as they rested upon
Aunt Betsy during her harangue.

“Thank you, madam, for your good intentions, but I
think we will dispense with the turkey and the cake,”
was all he said, though he did smile at the old lady's
definition of dancing, which for once she might allow.

Even Morris, when appealed to, decided with Wilford
against Mrs. Lennox and Aunt Betsy, knowing how unequal
he was to the task which would devolve on him in
case of a bridal party at the farm-house. In comparative
silence he heard from Wilford of his engagement,
offering no objection when told how soon the marriage
would take place, but congratulating him so quietly,
that if Wilford had retained a feeling of jealousy, it
would have disappeared; Morris was so seemingly indifferent
to everything except Katy's happiness. But

Wilford did not observe closely, and failed to detect the
hopeless look in Morris's eyes, or the whiteness which
settled about his mouth as he fulfilled the duties of host
and sought to entertain his guest. Those were dark
hours for Morris Grant, and he was glad when at the
end of the second day Wilford's visit expired, and he
saw him driven from Linwood round to the farm-house,
where he would say his parting words to Katy and then
go back to New York.