 | CHAPTER XI.
AFTER THE MARRIAGE. The Cameron pride, or, Purified by suffering |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
AFTER THE MARRIAGE.
WHY did you invite him to Linwood?” Helen
began. “I am sure we have had city guests
enough. Oh, if Wilford Cameron had only never
come, we should have had Katy now,” and the
sister-love overcame every other feeling, making Helen
cry bitterly as they drove back to the farm-house.
Morris could not comfort her then, and so in silence
he left her and went on his way to Linwood. It was
well for him that there were many sick ones on his list,
for in attending to them he forgot himself in part, so that
the day with him passed faster than at the farm-house,
where life and its interests seemed suddenly to have
stopped. Nothing had power to rouse Helen, who never
realized how much she loved her young sister until now,
when she listlessly put to rights the room which had
been theirs so long, but which was now hers alone. It
was a sad task picking up that disordered chamber, bearing
so many traces of Katy, and Helen's heart ached
terribly as she hung away the little pink calico dressing-gown
in which Katy had looked so prettily, and picked
up from the floor the pile of skirts lying just where they
had been left the previous night; but when it came to
the little half-worn slippers which had been thrown one
here and another there as Katy danced out of them, she
could control herself no longer, and stopping in her work
sobbed bitterly, “Oh, Katy, Katy, how can I live without
you!” But tears could not bring Katy back, and knowing
this, Helen dried her eyes ere long and joined the family
below, who like herself were spiritless and sad.
It was some little solace to them all that day to follow
Katy in her journey, saying, she is at Worcester, or
Framingham, or Newtown, and when at noon they sat
down to their dinner in the tidy kitchen they said, “She
is in Boston,” and the saying so made the time which
had elapsed since the morning seem interminable.
Slowly the hours dragged, and at last, before the sunsetting,
Helen, who could bear the loneliness of home no
longer, stole across the fields to Linwood, hoping in
Morris's companionship to forget her own grief in part.
But Morris was a sorry comforter then. He had ministered
as usual to his patients that day, listening to their
complaints and answering patiently their inquiries; but
amid it all he walked as in a maze, hearing nothing except
the words, “I, Katy, take thee, Wilford, to be my
wedded husband,” and seeing nothing but the airy little
figure which stood up on tiptoe for him to kiss its lips at
parting. His work for the day was over now, and he sat
at sight of his face, and asking if he was ill.
“I have had a hard day's work,” he said. “I am
always tired at night,” and he tried to smile and appear
natural. “Are you very lonely at the farm-house?” he
asked, and then Helen broke out afresh, mourning sometimes
for Katy, and again denouncing Wilford as proud
and heartless.
“Positively, Cousin Morris, he acted all the while he
was in the church as if he were doing something of
which he was ashamed; and then did you notice how
impatient he seemed when the neighbors were shaking
hands with Katy at the depot, and bidding her good-bye?
He looked as if he thought they had no right to touch
her, she was so much their superior, just because she had
married him, and he even hurried her away before Aunt
Betsy had time to kiss her. And yet the people think it
such a splendid match for Katy, because he is so rich
and generous. Gave the clergyman fifty dollars and the
sexton five, so I heard; but that does not help him with
me. I know it's wicked, Morris, but I find myself taking
real comfort in hating Wilford Cameron.”
“That is wrong, Helen, all wrong,” and Morris tried
to reason with her; but his arguments this time were
not very strong, and he finally said to her, inadvertently,
“If I can forgive Wilford Cameron for marrying our
Katy, you surely ought to do so, for he has hurt me the
most.”
“You, Morris! YOU, YOU!” Helen kept repeating,
standing back still further and further from him, while
strange, overwhelming thoughts passed like lightning
through her mind as she marked the pallid face, where
was written since the morning more than one line of
suffering, and saw in the brown eyes a look such as they
were not wont to wear. “Morris, tell me—tell me truly
—did you love my sister Katy?” and with an impetuous
rush Helen knelt beside him, as, laying his head upon
the table he answered,
“Yes, Helen. God forgive me if it were wrong. I
did love your sister Katy, and love her yet, and that is
the hardest to bear.”
All the tender, pitying woman was roused in Helen,
hair, keeping a perfect silence as the strong man, no
longer able to bear up, wept like a very child. For a
time Helen felt as if bereft of reason, while earth and
sky seemed blended in one wild chaos as she thought,
“Oh, why couldn't it have been? Why didn't you tell
her in time?” and at last she said to him, “If Katy had
known it! Oh, Morris, why didn't you tell her? She
never guessed it, never! If she had—if she had,” Helen's
breath came chokingly, “I am very sure—yes, I know it
might have been!”
The saddest are these—it might have been.”
Morris involuntarily thought of these lines, but they
only mocked his sorrow as he answered Helen, “I doubt
if you are right; I hope you are not. Katy loved me as
her brother, nothing more, I am confident. Had she
waited till she was older, God only knows what might
have been, but now she is gone and our Father will help
me to bear, will help us both, if we ask him, as we must.”
And then, as only he could do, Morris talked with
Helen until she felt her hardness towards Wilford giving
way, while she wondered how Morris could speak so
kindly of one who was his rival.
“Not of myself could I do it,” Morris said; “but I
trust in One who says `As thy day shall thy strength be,'
and He, you know, never fails.”
There was a fresh bond of sympathy now between
Morris and Helen, and the latter needed no caution
against repeating what she had discovered. The secret
was safe with her, and by dwelling on what “might have
been” she forgot to think so much of what was, and so
the first days after Katy's departure were more tolerable
than she had thought it possible for them to be. At the
close of the fourth there came a short note from Katy,
who was still in Boston at the Revere, and perfectly
happy, she said, going into ecstasies over her husband,
the best in the world, and certainly the most generous
and indulgent. “Such beautiful things as I am having
made,” she wrote, “when I already had more than I
needed, and so I told him, but he only smiled a queer
them.' I wonder then why he gets me more. Oh, I forgot
to tell you how much I like his cousin, Mrs. Harvey,
who boards at the Revere, and whom Wilford consults
about my dress. I am somewhat afraid of her, too, she
is so grand, but she pets me a great deal and laughs at
my speeches. Mr. Ray is here, and I think him splendid.
“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.
“The steamer sails in three days, and I will write
again before that time, sending it by Mr. Ray, who is to
stop over one train at Linwood. Wilford has just come
in, and says I have written enough for now, but I must
tell you he has bought me a diamond pin and ear-rings,
which Esther, who knows the value of everything, says
never cost less than five hundred dollars.
“Five hundred dollars!” and Aunt Betsy held up her
hands in horror, while Helen sat a long time with the
letter in her hand, cogitating upon its contents, and especially
upon the part referring to herself, and what
Mark Ray had said of her.
Every human heart is susceptible of flattery, and
Helen's was not an exception. Still with her ideas of city
men she could not at once think favorably of Mark Ray,
just for a few complimentary words which might or
might not have been in earnest, and she found herself
would stop at Linwood, and of course call on her, as he
would bring a letter from Katy.
Very sadly to the inmates of the farm-house rose the
morning of the day when Katy was to sail, and as if they
could really see the tall masts of the vessel which was to
bear her away, the eyes of the whole family were turned
often to the eastward with a wistful, anxious gaze, while on
their lips and in their hearts were earnest prayers for the
safety of that ship and the precious freight it bore. But
hours, however sad, will wear themselves away, and so
the day went on, succeeded by the night, until that too
had passed and another day had come, the second of
Katy's ocean life. At the farm-house the work was all
done up, and Helen in her neat gingham dress, with her
bands of brown hair bound about her head, sat sewing,
when she was startled by the sound of wheels, and looking
up saw the boy employed to carry packages from the
express office, driving to their door with a trunk, which
he said had come that morning from Boston.
In some surprise Helen hastened to unlock it with the
key which she found appended to it. The trunk was full,
and over the whole a linen towel was folded, while on the
top of that lay a letter in Katy's hand-writing, directed
to Helen, who, sitting down upon the floor, broke the
seal and read aloud as follows:
“Nearly midnight.
“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.
“You do not know how grand and dignified he is here
in Boston among his own set; he is so different from
what he was in Silverton that I should be afraid of him
if I did not know how much he loves me. He shows
that in every action, and I am perfectly happy, except
on the sea, going away from you all. Here it does not
seem far to Silverton, and I often look towards home,
wondering what you are doing, and if you miss me any.
I wish I could see you once before I go, just to tell you
all how much I love you—more than I ever did before, I
am sure.
“And now I come to the trunk. I know you will be
surprised at its contents, but you cannot be more so
than I was when Wilford said I must pack them up and
send them back—all the dresses you and Marion made.”
“No, oh no!” and Helen felt her strength leave her
wrists in one sudden throb as the letter dropped from
her hand, while she tore off the linen covering and saw
for herself that Katy had written truly.
She could not weep then, but her face was white as
marble as she again took up the letter and commenced
at the point where she had broken off.
“It seems that people traveling in Europe do not
need many things, but what they have must be just right,
and so Mrs. Cameron wrote for Mrs. Harvey to see to
my wardrobe, and if I had not exactly what was proper
she was to procure it. It is very funny that she did not
find a single proper garment among them all, when we
thought them so nice. They were not just the style, she
said, and that was very desirable in Mrs. Wilford Cameron.
Somehow she tries to impress me with the idea
that Mrs. Wilford Cameron is a very different person
from little Katy Lennox, but I can see no difference except
that I am a great deal happier and have Wilford
all the time.
“Well, as I was telling you, I was measured and fitted,
and my figure praised, until my head was nearly
turned, only I did not like the horrid stays they put on
me, squeezing me up and making me feel so stiff. Mrs.
Harvey says no lady does without them, expressing
much surprise that I had never worn them, and so I submit
to the powers that be; but every chance I get here
in my room I take them off and throw them on the floor,
where Wilford has stumbled over them two or three
times.
“This afternoon the dresses came home, and they do
and ribbons, and sashes, and laces or muslins to match
—fashionable people are so particular about these
things. I have tried them on, and except that I think
them too tight, they fit admirably, and do give me a different
air from what Miss Hazelton's did. But I really
believe I like the old ones best, because you helped to
make them; and when Wilford said I must send them
home, I went where he could not see me and cried, because—well,
I hardly know why I cried, unless I feared
you might feel badly. Dearest Helen, don't, will you?
I love you just as much, and shall remember you the
same as if I wore the dresses. Dearest sister, I can fancy
the look that will come on your face, and I wish I
could be present to kiss it away. Imagine me there,
will you? with my arms around your neck, and tell
mother not to mind. Tell her I never loved her so well
as now, and that when I come home from Europe I shall
bring her ever so many things. There is a new black
silk for her in the trunk, and one for each of the aunties,
while for you there is a lovely brown, which Wilford said
was just your style, telling me to select as nice a silk as I
pleased, and this he did, I think, because he guessed I
had been crying. He asked what made my eyes so red,
and when I would not tell him he took me with him to
the silk store and bade me get what I liked. Oh, he
is the dearest, kindest husband, and I love him all the
more because I am the least bit afraid of him.
“And now I must stop, for Wilford says so. Dear
Helen, dear all of you, I can't help crying as I say good-bye.
Remember little Katy, and if she ever did anything
bad, don't lay it up against her. Kiss Morris and
Uncle Ephraim, and say how much I love them. Darling
sister, darling mother, good-bye.”
This was Katy's letter, and it brought a gush of tears
from the four women remembered so lovingly in it, the
mother and the aunts stealing away to weep in secret,
without ever stopping to look at the new dresses sent to
them by Wilford Cameron. They were very soft, very
handsome, especially Helen's rich golden brown, and as
she looked at it she felt a thrill of satisfaction in knowing
it was hers, but this quickly passed as she took out one
wondering when Katy would wear each one and where
she would be.
“She will never wear them, never—they are not fine
enough for her now!” she exclaimed, and as she just
then came upon the little plaid, she laid her head upon
the trunk lid, while her tears dropped like rain in among
the discarded articles condemned by Wilford Cameron.
It seemed to her like Katy's grave, and she was sobbing
bitterly, when a step sounded outside the window,
and a voice called her name. It was Morris, and lifting
up her head Helen said passionately,
“Oh, Morris, look! he has sent back all Katy's clothes,
which you bought and I worked so hard to make. They
were not good enough for his wife to wear, and so he insulted
us. Oh, Katy, I never fully realized till now how
wholly she is lost to us!”
“Helen, Helen,” Morris kept saying, trying to stop her,
for close behind him was Mark Ray, who heard her distinctly,
and glancing in, saw her kneeling before the
trunk, her pale face stained with tears, and her dark
eyes shining with excitement.
Mark Ray understood it at once, feeling indignant at
Wilford for thus unnecessarily wounding the sensitive
girl, whose expression, as she sat there upon the floor,
with her face upturned to Morris, haunted him for
months. Mark was sorry for her—so sorry that his first
impulse was to go quietly away, and so spare her the
mortification of knowing that he had witnessed that little
scene; but it was now too late. As she finished
speaking her eye fell on him, and coloring scarlet she
struggled to her feet, and covering her face with her
hands wept still more violently. Mark was in a dilemma,
and whispered softly to Morris, “I think I will leave.
You can tell her all I had to say;” but Helen heard him,
and mastering her agitation she said to him,
“Please, Mr. Ray, don't go—not yet at least, not till I
have asked you of Katy. Did you see her off? Has she
gone?”
Thus importuned Mark Ray came in, and sitting down
where his boot almost touched the new brown silk, he
very politely began to answer her rapid questions, putting
manner, and making her forget the littered appearance
of the room, as she listened to his praises of her sister,
who, he said, seemed so very happy, and attracted universal
admiration wherever she went. No allusion whatever
was made to the trunk during the time of Mark's
stay, which was not long. If he took the next train to
New York, he had but an hour more to spend, and feeling
that Helen would rather he should spend it at Linwood
he soon arose to go. Offering his hand to Helen,
there passed from his eyes into hers a look which had
over her a strangely quieting influence, and prepared her
for a remark which otherwise might have seemed out of
place.
“I have known Wilford Cameron for years; he is my
best friend, and I respect him as a brother. In some
things he may be peculiar, but he will make your sister a
kind husband. He loves her devotedly, I know, choosing
her from the throng of ladies who would gladly have
taken her place. I hope you will like him for my sake as
well as Katy's.”
His warm hand unclasped from Helen's, and with
another good-bye he was gone, without seeing either
Mrs. Lennox, Aunt Hannah or Aunt Betsy. This was
not the time for extending his acquaintance, he knew,
and he went away with Morris, feeling that the farm-house,
so far as he could judge, was not exactly what
Wilford had pictured it. But then he came for a wife,
and I did not,” he thought, while Helen's face came before
him as it looked up to Morris, and he wondered,
were he obliged to choose between the sisters, which he
should prefer. During the few days passed in Boston he
had become more than half in love with Katy himself,
almost envying his friend the pretty little creature he
had won. She was very beautiful and very fascinating
in her simplicity, but there was something in Helen's
face more attractive than mere beauty, and Mark said to
Morris as they walked along,
“Miss Lennox is not much like her sister.”
“Not much, no; but Helen is a splendid girl—more
strength of character, perhaps, than Katy, who is
younger than her years even. She has always been
sorrow to show what she really is.”
This was Morris's reply, and the two then proceeded
on in silence until they reached the boundary line between
Morris's farm and Uncle Ephraim's, where they
found the deacon mending a bit of broken fence, his coat
lying on a pile of stones, and his wide, blue cotton
trowsers hanging loosely around him. When told who
Mark was, and that he brought news of Katy, he greeted
him cordially, and sitting down upon his fence listened to
all Mark had to say. Between the old and young man
there seemed at once a mutual liking, the former saying
to himself as Mark went on, and he resumed his work,
“I most wish it was this chap with Katy on the sea. I
like his looks the best,” while Mark's thoughts were,
“Will need not be ashamed of that man, though I don't
suppose I should really want him coming suddenly in
among a drawing-room full of guests.”
Morris did not feel much like entertaining Mark, but
Mark was fully competent to entertain himself, and
thought the hour spent at Linwood a very pleasant one,
half wishing for some excuse to tarry longer; but there
was none, and so at the appointed time he bade Morris
good-bye and went on his way to New York.
| CHAPTER XI.
AFTER THE MARRIAGE. The Cameron pride, or, Purified by suffering | |