University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
MARIAN HAZLETON.

THE last days of June had come, and Wilford was
beginning to make arrangements for removing
Katy from the city before the warmer weather.
To this he had been urged by Mark Ray's remarking
that Katy was not looking as well as when he first
saw her, one year ago. “She has grown thin and pale,”
he said. “Had Wilford remarked it?”

Wilford had not. She complained much of headache,
but that was only natural. Still he wrote to the Mountain
House that afternoon to secure rooms for himself
and wife, and then at an earlier hour than usual went
home to tell her of the arrangement. Katy was out
shopping, Esther said, and had not yet returned, adding,
“There is a note for her up stairs, left by a woman who
I guess came for work.”

That a woman should come for work was not strange,
but that she should leave a note seemed rather too familiar;
and when on going to the library he saw it upon
the table, he took it in his hand and examined the superscription
closely, holding it up to the light and forgetting
to open it in his perplexity and the train of thought it
awakened.

“They are singularly alike,” he said, and still holding
the note in his hand he opened a drawer of his writing
desk, which was always kept locked, and took from it a
picture and a bit of soiled paper, on which was written,
“I am not guilty, Wilford, and God will never forgive the
wrong you have done to me.”

There was no name or date, but Wilford knew whose
hand had penned those lines, and he sat comparing them
with the “Mrs. Wilford Cameron” which the strange woman
had written. Then opening the note, he read that,
having returned to New York, and wishing employment
either as seamstress or dressmaker, Marian Hazelton had
ventured to call upon Mrs. Cameron, remembering her
promise to give her work if she should desire it.

“Who is Marian Hazelton?” Wilford asked himself as
he threw down the missive. “Some of Katy's country
friends, I dare say. Seems to me I have heard that name.
She certainly writes as Genevra did, except that this Hazelton's
is more decided and firm. Poor Genevra!”

There was a pallor about Wilford's lips as he said this,
and taking up the picture he gazed for a long time upon
the handsome, girlish face, whose dark eyes seemed to
look reproachfully upon him, just as they must have
looked when the words were penned, “God will never
forgive the wrong you have done to me.”

“Genevra was mistaken,” he said. “At least if God
has not forgiven, he has prospered me, which amounts
to the same thing;” and without a single throb of gratitude
to Him who had thus prospered him, Wilford laid
Genevra's picture and Genevra's note back with the withered
grass and flowers plucked from Genevra's grave,
just as Katy's ring was heard and Katy herself came in.

As thoughts of Genevra always made Wilford kinder
towards his wife, so now he kissed her white cheek, noticing
that, as Mark had said, it was whiter than last
year in June. But mountain air would bring back the
roses, he thought, as he handed her the note.

“Oh, yes, from Marian Hazelton,” Katy said, glancing
first at the name and then hastily reading it through.

“Who is Marian Hazleton?” Wilford asked, and Katy
replied by repeating all she knew of Marian, and how she
chanced to know her at all. “Don't you remember Helen
wrote that she fainted at our wedding, and I was so
sorry, fearing I might have overworked her?”

Wilford did remember something about it, and then
dismissing Marian from his mind, he told Katy of his
plan for taking her to the Mountain House a few weeks
before going to Saratoga.

“Would you not like it?” he asked, as she continued
silent, with her eyes fixed upon the window opposite.

“Yes,” and Katy drew a long and weary breath. I
shall like any place where there are birds, and rocks, and
trees, and real grass, such as grows of itself in the country;
but Wilford,” and Katy crept close to him now, “if
I might go to Silverton, I should get strong so fast! You
don't know how I long to see home once more. I dream

about it nights and think about it days, knowing just
how pleasant it is there, with the roses in bloom and the
meadows so fresh and green. May I go, Wilford? May
I go home to mother?”

Had Katy asked for half his fortune, just as she asked
to go home, Wilford would have given it to her; but
Silverton had a power to lock all the softer avenues of
his heart, and so he answered that the Mountain House
was preferable, that the rooms were engaged, and that as
he should enjoy it so much better he thought they would
make no change.

Katy did not cry, nor utter a word of remonstrance;
she was learning that quiet submission was better than
useless opposition, and so Silverton was again given up.
But there was one consolation. Seeing Marian Hazelton
would be almost as good as going home, for had she not
recently come from that neighborhood, bringing with her
the odor from the hills and freshness from the woods?
Perhaps, too, she had lately seen Helen or Morris at
church, and had heard the music of the organ which
Helen played, and the singing of the children just as it
sometimes came to Katy in her dreams, making her start
in her sleep and murmur snatches of the sacred songs
which Dr. Morris had taught. Yes, Marian could tell
her of all this, and very impatiently Katy waited for the
morning when she started for No. — Fourth Street, with
the piles of sewing intended for Marian.

It was a fault of Marian's not to remain long contented
in any place. Tiring of the country, she had returned to
the city, and thinking she might succeed better alone, had
hired a room far up the narrow stairway of a high, sombre-looking
building, and then from her old acquaintances,
of whom she had several in the city, she had solicited
work. More than once she had passed the handsome
house on Madison Square where Katy lived, walking
slowly, and contrasting it with her one room, which was
not wholly uninviting, for where Marian went there was
always an air of comfort; and Katy, as she crossed the
threshold, uttered an exclamation of delight at the cheerful,
airy aspect of the apartment, with its bright ingrain
carpet, its simple shades of white, its chintz-covered

lounge, its one rocking-chair, its small parlor stove, and
its pots of flowers upon the broad window sill.

“Oh Marian,” she exclaimed, tripping across the floor,
and impulsively throwing her arms around Miss Hazelton's
neck, “I am so glad to meet some one from home.
It seems almost like Helen I am kissing,” and her lips
again met those of Marian Hazelton, amid her joy at
finding Katy unchanged, wondered what the Camerons
would say to see their Mrs. Wilford kissing a poor seamstress
whom they would have spurned.

But Katy did not care for Camerons then, or even
think of them, as in her rich basquine and pretty hat,
with emeralds and diamonds sparkling on her fingers,
she sat down by Marian.

“Tell me of Silverton; you don't know how I want to
go there; but Wilford does not think it best, at present.
Next fall I am surely going, and I picture to myself just
how it will look: Morris's garden, full of the autumnal
flowers—the ripe peaches in our orchard, the grapes
ripening on the wall, and the long shadows on the grass,
just as I used to watch them, wondering what made
them move so fast, and where they could be going. Will
it be unchanged, Marian? Do places seem the same
when once we have left them?” and Katy's eager eyes
looked wistfully at Marian, who replied, “Not always—
not often, in fact; but in your case they may. You have
not been long away.”

“Only a year,” Katy said. “I was as long as that in
Canandaigua; but this past year is different. I have
seen so much, and lived so much, that I feel ten years
older than I did last spring, when you and Helen made
my wedding dress. Darling Helen! When did you see
her last?”

“I was there five weeks ago,” Marian replied; “I saw
them all, and told them I was coming to New York.”

“Do they miss me any? Do they talk of me? Do
they wish me back again?” Katy asked, and Marian
replied, “They talked of little else, that is your own
family. Dr. Morris, I think, did not mention your name.
He has grown very silent and reserved,” and Marian's
eyes were fixed inquiringly upon Katy, as if to ascertain
how much she knew of the cause for Morris's reserve.

But Katy had no suspicion, and only replied, “Perhaps
he is vexed that I do not write to him oftener, but
I can't. I think of him a great deal, and respect him
more than any living man, except, of course, Wilford;
but when I try to write, something comes in between me
and what I wish to say, for I want to convince him that
I am not as frivolous as he thinks I am. I have not forgotten
the Sunday school, nor the church service; but in
the city it is so hard to be good, and the service and
music seem all for show, and I feel so hateful when I see
Juno and Wilford's mother putting their heads down on
velvet cushions, knowing as I do that they both are
thinking either of their own bonnets or those just in
front.”

“Are you not a little uncharitable?” Marian asked,
laughing in spite of herself at the picture Katy drew of
fashion trying to imitate religion in its humility.

“Perhaps so,” Katy answered. “I grow bad from
looking behind the scenes, and the worst is that I do not
care, and then Katy went back again to the farmhouse,
asking numberless questions and reaching finally the
business which had brought her to Marian's room.

There were spots on Marian's neck, and her lips were
white, as she grasped the bundles tossed into her lap—
the yards and yards of lace and embroidery, linen, and
cambric, which she was expected to make for the wife of
Wilford Cameron; and her voice was husky as she asked
directions or made suggestions of her own.

“It's because she has no such joy in expectation. I
should feel so, too, if I were thirty and unmarried,” Katy
thought, as she noticed Marian's agitation, and tried to
divert her mind by talking of Europe and the places she
had visited.

“By the way, you were born in England? Were you
ever at Alnwick?” Katy asked, and Marian replied,
“Once, yes. I've seen the castle and the church. Did
you go there—to St. Mary's, I mean?”

“Oh, yes, and I was never tired of that old churchyard.
Wilford liked it, too, and we wandered by the hour
among the sunken graves and quaint headstones.”

“Do you remember any of the names upon the stones?
Perhaps I may know them?” Marian asked; but Katy

did not remember any, or if she did, it was not “Genevra
Lampert, aged 22.” And so Marian asked her no more
questions concerning Alnwick, but talked instead of
London and other places, until three hours went by, and
down in the street the coachman chafed and fretted at
the long delay, wondering what kept his mistress in that
neighborhood so long. Had she friends, or had she
come on some errand of mercy? The latter most likely,
he concluded, and so his face was not quite so cross
when Katy at last appeared, looking at her watch and
exclaiming at the lateness of the hour.

Katy was very happy that morning, for seeing Marian
had brought Silverton near to her, and airy as a bird she
ran up the steps of her own dwelling, where the door
opened as by magic, and Wilford himself confronted her,
asking, with the tone which always made her heart beat,
where she had been, and he waiting for her two whole
hours. “Surely it was not necessary to stop so long with
a seamstress,” he continued when she tried to explain.
“Ten minutes would suffice for directions,” and he could
not imagine what attraction there was in Miss Hazelton
to keep her there three hours, and then the real cause of
his vexation came out. He had come expressly for the
carriage to take her and Sybil Grandon to a picnic up
the river, whither his mother, Juno and Bell, had already
gone. Mrs. Grandon must wonder why he staid so long,
and perhaps give up going. Could Katy be ready soon?
and Wilford walked rapidly up and down the parlor with
a restless motion of his hands which always betokened
impatience. Poor Katy! how the brightness of the
morning faded, and how averse she felt to joining that
picnic, which she knew had been in prospect for some
time, and had fancied she should enjoy! But not to-day,
with that look on Wilford's face, and the feeling that he
was vexed. Still she could think of no reasonable excuse,
and so an hour later found her driving into the country
with Sybil Grandon, who received her apologies with as
much good-natured grace as if she too had not worked
herself into a passion at the delay, for Sybil had been
very cross and impatient; but all this vanished when
she met Wilford and saw that he was disturbed and irritated.
Soft, and sweet, and smooth was she both in

word and manner, so that by the time the grove was
reached Wilford's ruffled spirits had been soothed, and
he was himself again, ready to enjoy the pleasures of the
day as keenly as if no harsh word had been said to Katy,
who, silent and unhappy, listened to the graceful badinage
between Sybil and her husband, thinking how differently
his voice had sounded when addressing her only
a little while before.

“Pray put some animation into your face, or Mrs.
Grandon will think we have been quarreling,” Wilford
whispered, as he lifted his wife from the carriage, and
with a great effort Katy tried to be gay and natural.

But all the while she was fighting back her tears and
wishing she were away. Even Marian's room, looking into
the dingy court, was preferable to that place, and she
was glad when the long day came to an end, and with
a fearful headache she was riding back to the city.

The next morning was dark and rainy; but in spite of
the weather Katy found her way to Marian's room, this
time taking the — avenue cars, which left her independent
as regarded the length of her stay. About Marian
there was something more congenial than about her city
friends, and day after day found her there, watching
while Marian fashioned into shape the beautiful little
garments, the sight of which had a strangely quieting
influence upon Katy, sobering her down, and maturing
her more than all the years of her life had done. Those
were happy hours spent with Marian Hazelton, and Katy
felt it keenly when Wilford at last interfered, telling her
she was growing quite too familiar with that sewing
woman, and her calls must be discontinued, except,
indeed, such as were necessary to the work in progress.

With one great gush of tears, when there was no one
to see her, Katy gave Marian up, writing her a note, in
which were sundry directions for the work, which would
go on even after she had left for the Mountain House,
as she intended doing the last of June. And Marian
guessed at more than Katy meant she should, and with a
bitter sigh laid it in her basket, and then resumed the
work, which seemed doubly monotonous now that there
was no more listening for the little feet tripping up the
stairs, or for the bird-like voice which had brought so
much of music and sunshine to her lonely room.