University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
FIRST MONTHS OF MARRIED LIFE.

IF Katy's letters, written, one on board the
steamer and another from London, were to be
trusted, she was as nearly perfectly happy as a
young bride well can be, and the people at the
farm-house felt themselves more and more kindly disposed
towards Wilford Cameron with each letter received.
They were going soon into the northern part of England,
and from thence into Scotland, Katy wrote from London,
and two weeks after found them comfortably settled at

the inn at Alnwick, near to Alnwick Castle. Wilford had
seemed very anxious to get there, leaving London before
Katy was quite ready, and hurrying across the country
until Alnwick was reached. He had been there before,
years ago, he said, but no one seemed to recognize him,
though all paid due respect to the distinguished looking
American and his beautiful young wife. An entrance into
Alnwick Castle was easily obtained, and Katy felt that
all her girlish dreams of grandeur and magnificence were
more than relized here in this home of the Percys, where
ancient and modern styles of architecture and furnishing
were so blended together. She would never tire of that
place, she thought, but Wilford's taste led him elsewhere,
and he took more delight in wandering around St.
Mary's church, which stood upon a hill commanding a
view of the castle and of the surrounding country for
miles away. Here Katy also came, rambling with him
through the village grave-yard where slept the dust of
centuries, the grey, mossy tomb-stones bearing date
backward for more than a hundred years, their quaint
inscriptions both puzzling and amusing Katy, who studied
them by the hour.

One quiet summer morning, however, when the heat
was unusually great, she felt too listless to wander about,
and so sat upon the grass, listening to the birds as they
sang above her head, while Wilford, at some distance
from her, stood leaning against a tree and thinking sad,
regretful thoughts, as his eye rested upon the rough
headstone at his feet.

“Genevra Lambert, aged 22,” was the lettering upon
it, and as he read it a feeling of reproach was in his heart,
while he said, “I hope I am not glad to know that she is
dead.”

He had come to Alnwick for the sole purpose of finding
that humble grave—of assuring himself that after life's
fitful fever, Genevra Lambert slept quietly, forgetful
of the wrong once done to her by him. It is true he had
not doubted her death before, but as seeing was believing,
so now he felt sure of it, and plucking from the turf
above her a little flower growing there, he went back to
Katy and sitting down beside her with his arm around
her waist, tried to devise some way of telling her what

he had promised himself he would tell her there in that
very yard, where Genevra was buried. But the task was
harder now than before. Katy was so happy with him,
trusting his love so fully that he dared not lift the veil
and read to her that page hinted at once in Silverton,
when they sat beneath the butternut tree, with the
fresh young grass springing around them. Then she
was not his wife, and the fear that she would not be if he
told her all had kept him silent, but now she was his
alone; nothing could undo that, and there, in the shadow
of the grey old church through whose aisles Genevra had
been borne out to where the rude headstone was gleaming
in the English sunlight, it seemed meet that he
should tell the sad story. And Katy would have forgiven
him then, for not a shadow of regret had darkened
her life since it was linked with his, and in her perfect
love she could have pardoned much. But Wilford did
not tell. It was not needful, he made himself believe—
not necessary for her ever to know that once he met a
maiden called Genevra, almost as beautiful as she, but
never so beloved. No, never. Wilford said that truly,
when that night he bent over his sleeping Katy, comparing
her face with Genevra's, and his love for her with his
love for Genevra.

Wilford was very fond of his girlish wife, and very
proud of her, too, when strangers paused, as they often
did, to look back after her. Thus far nothing had arisen
to mar the happiness of his first weeks of married life,
except the letters from Silverton, over which Katy always
cried, until he sometimes wished that the family could
not write. But they could and they did; even Aunt
Betsy inclosed in Helen's letter a note, wonderful both
in orthography and composition, and concluding with
the remark that “she would be glad when Catherine returned
and was settled in a home of her own, as she
would then have a new place to visit.”

There was a dark frown on Wilford's face, and for a
moment he felt tempted to withhold the note from Katy,
but this he could not do then, so he gave it into her
hands, watching her as with burning cheeks, she read it
through, and asking her at its close why she looked so
red.

“Oh, Wilford,” and she crept closely to him, “Aunt
Betsy spells so queerly, that I was wishing you would
not always open my letters first. Do all husbands do
so?”

It was the only time Katy had ventured to question a
single act of his, submitting without a word to whatever
was his will. Wilford knew that his father would never
have presumed to break a seal belonging to his mother,
but he had broken Katy's, and he should continue breaking
them, so he answered, laughingly,

“Why, yes, I guess they do. My little wife has surely
no secrets to hide from me?”

“No secrets,” Katy answered, “only I did not want
you to see Aunt Betsy's letter, that's all.”

“I did not marry Aunt Betsy—I married you,” was
Wilford's reply, which meant far more than Katy guessed.

With three thousand miles between him and his wife's
relatives, Wilford could endure to think of them; but
whenever letters came to Katy bearing the Silverton
postmark, he was conscious of a far different sensation
from what he experienced when the postmark was New
York and the handwriting that of his own family. But
not in any way did this feeling manifest itself to Katy,
who, as she always wrote to Helen, was very, very happy,
and never more so, perhaps, than while they were at Alnwick,
where, as if he had something for which to atone,
he was unusually kind and indulgent, caressing her with
unwonted tenderness, and making her ask him once if he
loved her a great deal more now than when they were
first married.

“Yes, darling, a great deal more,” was Wilford's answer,
as he kissed her upturned face, and then went for the
last time to Genevra's grave; for on the morrow they
were to leave the neighborhood of Alnwick for the
heather blooms of Scotland.

There was a trip to Edinburgh, a stormy passage
across the Straits of Dover, a two months' sojourn in
Paris, and then they went to Rome, where Wilford intended
to pass the winter, journeying in the spring
through different parts of Europe. He was in no haste
to return to America; he would rather stay where he
could have Katy all to himself, away from her family and

his own. But it was not so to be, and not very long
after his arrival at Rome there came a letter from his
mother apprising him of his father's dangerous illness,
and asking him to come home at once. The elder Cameron
had not been well since Wilford left the country,
and the physician was fearful that the disease had assumed
a consumptive form, Mrs. Cameron wrote, adding that
her husband's only anxiety was to see his son again. To
this there was no demur, and about the first of December,
six months from the time he had sailed, Wilford arrived
in Boston, having taken a steamer for that city. His
first act was to telegraph for news of his father, receiving
in reply that he was better; the alarming symptoms
had disappeared, and there was now great hope of his
recovery.

“We might have stayed longer in Europe,” Katy said,
feeling a little chill of disappointment—not that her
father-in-law was better, but at being called home for
nothing, when her life abroad was so happy and free
from care.

Somehow the atmosphere of America seemed different
from what it used to be. It was colder, bluer, the little
lady said, tapping her foot uneasily and looking from her
windows at the Revere out upon the snowy streets,
through which the wintry wind was blowing in heavy
gales.

“Yes, it is a heap colder,” she sighed, as she returned
to the large chair which Esther had drawn for her before
the cheerful fire, charging her disquiet to the weather,
but never dreaming of imputing it to her husband, who
was far more its cause than was the December cold.

He, too, though glad of his father's improvement, was
sorry to have been recalled for nothing to a country
which brought his old life back again, with all its forms
and ceremonies, and revived his dread lest Katy should
not acquit herself as was becoming Mrs. Wilford Cameron.
In his selfishness he had kept her almost wholly to
himself, so that the polish she was to acquire from her
travels abroad was not as perceptible as he could desire.
Katy was Katy still, in spite of London, Paris, or Rome.
To be sure there was about her a little more maturity
and self-assurance, but in all essential points she was

the same: and Wilford winced as he thought how the
free, impulsive manner which, among the Scottish hills,
where there was no one to criticise, had been so charming
to him, would shock his lady mother and sister Juno.
And this it was which made him moody and silent, replying
hastily to Katy when she said to him, “Please, Wilford,
telegraph to Helen to be with mother at the West
depot when we pass there to-morrow. The train stops
five minutes, you know, and I want to see them so much.
Will you, Wilford?”

She had come up to him now, and was standing behind
him, with her hands upon his shoulder; so she did
not see the expression of his face as he answered quickly,

“Yes, yes.”

A moment after he quitted the room, and it was then
that Katy, standing before the window, charged the day
with what was strictly Wilford's fault. Returning at
last to her chair she went off into a reverie as to the new
home to which she was going and the new friends she
was to meet, wondering what they would think of her,
and if they would like her. Once she had said to Wilford,

“Which of your sisters shall I like best?”

And Wilford had answered her by asking,

“Which do you like best, books or going to parties in
full dress?”

“Oh, parties and dress,” Katy had said, and Wilford
had then rejoined,

“You will like Juno best, for she is all fashion and
gayety, while Blue-Bell prefers her books and the quiet
of her own room.”

Katy felt afraid of Bell, and in fact, now that they
were so near, she felt afraid of them all, notwithstanding
Esther's assurances that they could not help loving her.
During the six months they had been together Esther
had learned to feel for her young lady that strong affection
which sometimes exists between mistress and servant.
Everything which she could do for her she did,
smoothing as much as possible the meeting which she
also dreaded, for though the Camerons were too proud
to express before her their opinion of Wilford's choice,
she had guessed it readily, and pitied the young wife

brought up with ideas so different from those of her
husband's family. More accustomed to Wilford's moods
than Katy, she saw that something was the matter, and
it prompted her to unusual attentions, stirring the fire
into a cheerful blaze and bringing a stool for Katy, who,
in blissful ignorance of her husband's real feelings, sat
waiting his return from the telegraph office whither she
supposed he had gone, and building pleasant pictures of
to-morrow's meeting with her mother and Helen, and
possibly Dr. Morris, if not Uncle Ephraim himself.

So absorbed was she in her reverie as not to hear
Wilford's step as he came in, but when he stood behind
her and took her head playfully between his hands, she
started up, feeling that the weather had changed; it was
not as cold and dreary in Boston as she imagined, and
laying her head on Wilford's shoulder, she said,

“You went out to telegraph, didn't you?”

He had gone out with the intention of telegraphing as
she desired, but in the hall below he had met with an
old acquaintance who talked with him so long that he
entirely forgot his errand until Katy recalled it to his
mind, making him feel very uncomfortable as he frankly
told her of his forgetfulness.

“It is too late now,” he added; “besides you could
only see them for a moment, just long enough to make
you cry—a thing I do not greatly desire, inasmuch as I
wish my wife to look her best when I present her to my
family, and with red eyes she couldn't, you know.”

Katy knew it was settled, and choking back the tears,
she tried to listen, while Wilford, having fairly broken
the ice with regard to his family, told her how anxious
he was that she should make a good first impression
upon his mother. Did Katy remember that Mrs. Morey
whom they met at Paris, and could she not throw a little
of her air into her manner, that is, could she not drop
her girlishness when in the presence of others and be a
little more dignified? When alone with him he liked to
have her just what she was, a loving, affectionate little
wife, but the world looked on such things differently.
Would Katy try?

Wilford when he commenced had no definite idea as

to what he should say, and without meaning it he made
Katy moan piteously.

“I don't know what you mean. I would do anything
if I knew how. Tell me, how shall I be dignified?”

She was crying so hard that Wilford, while mentally
calling himself a fool and a brute, could only try to comfort
her, telling her she need not be anything but what
she was—that his mother and sisters would love her just
as he did—and that daily association with them would
teach her all that was necessary.

Katy's tears were stopped at last; but the frightened,
anxious look did not leave her face, even though Wilford
tried his best to divert her mind. A nervous terror of
her new relations had gained possession of her heart,
and nearly the entire night she lay awake, pondering in
her mind what Wilford had said, and thinking how terrible
it would be if he should be disappointed in her
after all. The consequence of this was that a very white
tired face sat opposite Wilford next morning at the breakfast
served in their private parlor; nor did it look much
fresher even after they were in the cars and rolling out of
Boston. But when Worcester was reached, and the old
home way-marks began to grow familiar, the color came
stealing back, until the cheeks burned with an unnatural
red, and the blue eyes fairly danced as they rested on the
hills of Silverton.

“Only three miles from mother and Helen! Oh, if I
could go there!” Katy thought, working her fingers nervously;
but the express train did not pause there, and it
went so swiftly by the depot that Katy could hardly distinguish
who was standing there, whether friend or stranger.

But when at last they came to West Silverton, and the
long train slowly stopped, the first object she saw was
Dr. Morris, driving down from the village. He had no
intention of going to the depot, and only checked his
horse a moment, lest it should prove restive if too near
the engine; but when a clear young voice called from the
window, “Morris! oh, Cousin Morris! I've come!” his
heart gave a great throb, for he knew whose voice it was
and whose the little hand beckoning to him. He had
supposed her far away beneath Italian skies, for at the
farm-house no intelligence had been received of her intended

return, and in much surprise he reined up to the
rear door, and throwing his lines to a boy, went forward
to where Katy stood, her face glowing with delight as
she flew into his arms, wholly forgetful of the last night's
lecture on dignity, and also forgetful of Wilford, standing
close beside her. He had not tried to hold her back
when, at the sight of Morris, she sprang away from him;
but he followed after, biting his lip, and wishing she had
a little more discretion. Surely it was not necessary to
half strangle Dr. Grant as she was doing, kissing his
hand after she had kissed his face a full half dozen times,
and all the people looking on. But Katy did not care
for people. She only knew that Morris was there—the
Morris whom, in her great happiness abroad, she had
perhaps slighted by not writing directly to him but once.
In Wilford's sheltering care she had not felt the need of
this good cousin, as she used to do; but she was so glad
to see him, wondering why he looked so thin and sad.
Was he sick? she asked, with a pitying look, which made
him shiver as he answered,

“No, not sick, though tired, perhaps, as I have at
present an unusual amount of work to do.”

And this was true—he was unusually busy. But that
was not the cause of his thin face, which others than
Katy remarked. Helen's words, “It might have been,”
spoken to him on the night of Katy's bridal, had
never left his mind, much as he had tried to dislodge
them. Some men can love a dozen times; but it was not
so with Morris. He could overcome his love so that it
should not be a sin, but no other could ever fill the place
where Katy had been; and as he looked along the road
through life he felt that he must travel it alone. Truly,
if Katy were not yet passing through the fire, he was,
and it had left its mark upon him, purifying as it burned,
and bringing his every act into closer submission to his
God. Only Helen and Marian Hazelton interpreted
aright that look upon his face, and knew it came from the
hunger of his heart, but they kept silence; while others
said that he was working far too hard, urging him to
abate his unwearied labors, for they would not lose their
young physician yet. But Morris smiled his patient,
kindly smile on all their fears and went his way, doing

his work as one who knew he must render strict account
for the popularity he was daily gaining, both in his
own town and those around. He could think of Katy
now without a sin, but he was not thinking of her when
she came so unexpectedly upon him, and for an instant
she almost bore his breath away in her vehement joy.

Quick to note a change in those he knew, he saw that
her form was not quite so full, nor her cheeks so round;
but she was weary with the voyage, and knowing how
sea-sickness will wear upon one's strength, Morris imputed
it wholly to that, and believed she was, as she professed
to be, perfectly happy.

“Come, Katy, we must go now,” Wilford said, as the
bell rang its first alarm, and the passengers, some with
sandwiches and some with fried cakes in their hands, ran
back to find their seats.

“Yes, I know, but I have not asked half I meant to.
Oh, how I want to go home with you, Morris,” Katy exclaimed,
again throwing her arms around the doctor's
neck as she bade him good bye, and sent fresh messages
of love to the friends at home, who, had they known she
was to be there at that time, would have walked the
entire distance for the sake of looking once more into
her dear face.

“I intended to have brought them heaps of things,”
she said, “but we came home so suddenly I had no time.
Here, take Helen this. Tell her it is real,” and the impulsive
creature drew from her finger a small diamond
set in black enamel, which Wilford had bought in Paris.

“She did not need it; she had two more, and she was
sure Wilford would not mind,” she said, turning to him
for his approbation.

But Wilford did mind, and his face indicated as much,
although he tried to be natural as he replied, “Certainly,
send it if you like.”

In her excitement Katy did not observe it, but Morris
did, and he at first declined taking it, saying Helen had
no use for it, and would be better pleased with something
not half as valuable. Katy, however, insisted, appealing
to Wilford, who, ashamed of his first emotion, now
seemed quite as anxious as Katy herself, until Morris
placed the ring in his purse, and then bade Katy hasten

or she would certainly be left. One more wave of the
hand, one more kiss thrown from the window, and the
train moved on, Katy feeling like a different creature for
having seen some one from home.

“I am so glad I saw him — so glad I sent the ring, for
now they will know I am the same Katy Lennox, and
I think Helen sometimes feared I might get proud with
you,” she said, while Wilford pulled her rich fur around
her, smiling to see how bright and pretty she was looking
since that meeting with Dr. Grant. “It was better
than medicine,” Katy said, when beyond Springfield he
referred to it a second time, and leaning her head upon
his shoulder she fell into a refreshing sleep, from which
she did not waken until New York was reached, and Wilford,
lifting her gently up, whispered to her, “Come,
darling, we are home at last.”