University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
TROUBLE IN THE HOUSEHOLD.

AS soon as it was understood that Mrs. Wilford
Cameron was able to go out, there were scores of
pressing invitations from the gay world which had
missed her so much, but Katy declined them all
on the plea that baby needed her care. She was happier
at home, and as a mother it was her place to stay there.
At first Wilford listened quietly, but when he found it
was her fixed determination to abjure society entirely, he
interfered in his cool, decisive way, which always carried
its point.

“It was foolish to take that stand,” he said. “Other
mothers went and why should not she? She had already
staid in too much. She was injuring herself, and”—what
was infinitely worse to Wilford — “she was losing her
good looks.”

As proof of this he led her to the glass, showing her
the pale, thin face and unnaturally large eyes, so distasteful
to him. Wilford Cameron was very proud of his
handsome house,—proud to know that everything there
was in keeping with his position and wealth, but when
Katy was immured in the nursery, the bright picture was
obscured, for it needed her presence to make it perfect,
and he began to grow dissatisfied with his surroundings,
while abroad he missed her quite as much, finding the
opera, the party or the reception, insipid where she was

not, and feeling fully conscious that Wilford Cameron,
without a wife, and that wife Katy, was not a man of half
the consequence he had thought himself to be. Even
Sybil Grandon did not think it worth her while to court
his attention, if Katy were not present, for unless some
one saw and felt her triumph it ceased directly to be one.
On the whole Wilford was not well pleased with society as
he found it this winter, and knowing where the trouble
lay he resolved that Katy should no longer remain at
home, growing pale and faded and losing her good looks.
Wilford would not have confessed it, and perhaps was
not himself aware of the fact, that Katy's beauty was
quite as dear to him as Katy herself. If she lost it her
value was decreased accordingly, and so as a prudent
husband it behooved him to see that what was so very
precious was not unnecessarly thrown away. It did not
take long for Katy to understand that her days of quiet
were at an end,—that neither crib nor cradle could avail
her longer. Mrs. Kirby, selected from a host of applicants,
was wholly competent for Baby Cameron, and
Katy must throw aside the mother which sat so prettily
upon her and become again the belle. It was a sad trial,
but Katy knew that submission was the only alternative,
and so when Mrs. Banker's invitation came, she accepted
it at once, but there was a sad look upon her face as she
kissed her baby for the twentieth time ere going to her
dressing maid.

Never until this night had Helen realized how beautiful
Katy was when in full evening dress, and her exclamations
of delight brought a soft flush to Katy's cheek,
while she felt a thrill of the olden vanity as she saw herself
once more arrayed in all her costly apparel. Helen
did not wonder at Wilford's desire to have Katy with
him, and very proudly she watched her young sister as
Esther twined the flowers in her hair and then brought
out the ermine cloak she was to wear as a protection
against the cold.

Wilford was standing by her, making a few suggestions
and expressing his approbation in a way which
reminded Helen of that night before the marriage, when
Katy's dress had been condemned, and of that sadder,
bitterer time when she had poured her tears like rain

into that trunk returned. All she had thought of Wilford
then was now more than confirmed, but he was kind
to her and very proud of Katy, so she forced back her
feelings of disquiet, which, however, were roused again
when she saw the dark look on his face, as Katy, at the
very last, ran to the nursery to kiss baby good-bye, sucing
this time in waking it, as was proven by the cry
which made Wilford scowl angrily and brought to his
lips a word of rebuke for Katy's childishness.

The party was not so large as that at Sybil Grandon's,
but it was more select, and Helen enjoyed it better, meeting
people who readily appreciated the peculiarities of
her mind, and who would have made her forget all else
around her if she had not been a guest at Mark Ray's
house. It was the first time she had met him away from
home since the night at Mrs. Grandon's, and as if forgetful
of her reserve, he paid her numberless attentions,
which, coming from the master of the house, were the
more to be valued.

With a quiet dignity Helen received them all, the
thought once creeping into her heart that she was preferred,
notwithstanding that engagement. But she
soon repudiated this idea as unworthy of her. She
could not be wholly happy with one who, to win her
hand, had trampled upon the affections of another, even
if that other were Juno Cameron.

And so she kept out of his way as much as possible,
watching her sister admiringly as she moved about with
an easy, assured grace, or floated like a snowflake through
the dance in which Wilford persuaded her to join, looking
after her with a proud, all-absorbing feeling, which
left no room for Sybil Grandon's coquettish advances.

As if the reappearance of Katy had awakened all that
was weak and silly in Sybil's nature, she again put forth
her powers of attraction, but met only with defeat. Katy,
and even Helen, was preferred before her,—both belles
of a different type; but both winning golden laurels
from those who hardly knew which to admire more—
Katy, with her pure, delicate beauty and charming simplicity,
or Helen, with her attractive face, and sober,
quiet manner. But Katy grew tired early. She could
not endure what she once did; and when she came to

Wilford with a weary look upon her face, and asked him
to go home, he did not refuse, though Mark, who was
near, protested against their leaving so soon.

“Surely Miss Lennox might remain; the carriage could
be sent back for her; and he had hardly seen her at all.”
But Miss Lennox chose to go; and after her white cloak
and hood had passed through the door into the street,
there was nothing attractive for Mark in his crowded
parlors, and he was glad when the last guest had departed,
and he was left alone with his mother.

Operas, parties, receptions, dinners, matinées, morning
calls, drives, visits, and shopping; how fast one crowded
upon the other, leaving scarcely an hour of leisure to the
devotee of fashion who attended to them all. How astonished
Helen was to find what high life in New York implied,
and she ceased to wonder that so many of the young
girls grew haggard and old before their time, or that the
dowagers grew selfish and hard and scheming. She should
die outright, she thought, and she pitied poor little
Katy, who, having once returned to the world, seemed
destined to remain there, in spite of her entreaties and
the excuses she made for declining the invitations which
poured in so fast.

“Baby was not well—Baby needed her,” was the plea
with which she met Wilford's arguments, until the mention
of his child was sure to bring a scowl upon his face,
and it became a question in Helen's mind whether he
would not be happier if Baby had never come between
him and his ambition.

To hear Katy's charms extolled, and know that he was
envied the possession of so rare a gem, feeling all the
while sure of her faith, was Wilford's great delight, and
it is not strange that, without any very strong fatherly
feeling or principle of right in that respect, he should
be irritated by the little life so constantly interfering
with his pleasure and so surely undermining Katy's
health. For Katy did not improve, as Wilford hoped
she might; and with his two hands he could span her
slender waist, while the beautiful neck and shoulders were

no longer worn uncovered, for Katy would not display
her bones, whatever the fashion might be. In this dilemma
Wilford sought his mother, and the result of that
consultation brought a more satisfied look to his face
than it had worn for many a day.

“Strange he had never thought of it, when it was
what so many people did,” he said to himself as he hurried
home. “It was the very best thing both for Katy
and the child, and would obviate every difficulty.”

Next morning as she sometimes did when more than
usually fatigued, Katy breakfasted in bed; while Wilford's
face, as he sat opposite Helen at the table, had on
it a look of quiet determination, such as she had rarely
seen there before. In a measure, accustomed to his
moods, she felt that something was wrong, and never
dreaming that he intended honoring her with his confidence,
she was wishing he would finish his coffee and
leave, when, motioning the servant from the room, he
said abruptly, and in a tone which roused Helen's antagonistic
powers at once, it was so cool, so decided, “I believe
you have more influence over your sister than I
have; at least, she has latterly shown a willfulness in disregarding
me and a willingness to listen to you, which
confirms me in this conclusion—”

“Well,” and Helen twisted her napkin ring nervously,
waiting for him to say more; but her manner disconcerted
him, making him a little uncertain as to what might
be hidden behind that rigid face, and a little doubtful as to
the expression it would put on when he had said all he
meant to say.

He did not expect it to wear a look as frightened and
hopeless as Katy's did when he last saw it upon the pillow,
for he knew how different the two sisters were, and
much as he had affected to despise Helen Lennox, he
was afraid of her now. It had never occurred to him
before that he was somewhat uncomfortable in her presence—that
her searching brown eyes often held him in
check; but it came to him now, that his wife's sister had
a will almost as firm as his own, and she was sure to
take Katy's part. He saw it in her face, even though
she had no idea of what he meant to say.

He must explain sometime, and so at last he continued:

“You must have seen how opposed Katy is to complying
with my wishes, setting them at naught, when she knows
how much pleasure she would give me by yielding as she
used to do.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Helen replied, “unless
it is her aversion to going out, as that, I think, is
the only point where her obedience has not been absolute.”

Wilford did not like the words obedience and absolute;
that is, he did not like the sound. Their definition suited
him, but Helen's enunciation was at fault, and he answered
quickly, “I do not require absolute obedience
from Katy. I never did; but in this matter to which
you refer, I think she might consult my wishes as well as
her own. There is no reason for her secluding herself in
the nursery as she does. Do you think there is?”

He put the question direct, and Helen answered it.

“I do not believe Katy means to displease you, but
she has conceived a strong aversion for festive scenes,
and besides baby is not healthy, you know, and like all
young mothers, she may be over-anxious, while I fancy
she has not the fullest confidence in the nurse, and this
may account for her unwillingness to leave the child
with her.”

“Kirby was all that was desirable,” Wilford replied.
“His mother had taken her from a genteel, respectable
house in Bond street, and he paid her an enormous price,
consequently she must be right;” and then came the
story that his mother had decided that neither Katy nor
baby would improve so long as they remained together;
that for both a separation was desirable; that she had
recommended sending the child into the country, where
it would be better cared for than it could be at home
with Katy constantly undoing all Mrs. Kirby had done,
waking it from sleep whenever the fancy took her, and in
short treating it much as she probably did her doll when
she was a little girl. With the child away there would
be nothing to prevent Katy's going out again and getting
back her good looks, which were somewhat impaired.

“Why, she looks older than you do,” Wilford said,
thinking thus to conciliate Helen, who quietly replied,

“There is not two years difference between us, and I

have always been well, and kept regular hours until I
came here.”

Wilford's compliment had failed, and more annoyed
than before, he asked, not what Helen thought of the
arrangement, but if she would influence Katy to act and
think rationally upon it; “at least you will not make it
worse,” he said, and this time there was something deferential
and pleading in his manner.

Helen knew the matter was fixed,—that neither Katy's
tears nor entreaties would avail to revoke the decision,
and so, though her whole soul rose in indignation against
a man who would deliberately send his nursing baby from
his roof because it was in his way, and was robbing his
bride's cheek of its girlish bloom, she answered composedly,

“I will do what I can, but I must confess it seems to
me an unnatural thing. I had supposed parents less
selfish than that.”

Wilford did not care what Helen had supposed, and
her opposition only made him more resolved. Still he
did not say so, and he tried to smile as he quitted the
table and remarked to her,

“I hope to find Katy reconciled when I come home.
I think I had better not go up to her again, so tell her I
send a good-bye kiss by you. I leave her case in your
hands.”

It was a far more difficult case than either he or Helen
imagined, and the latter started back in alarm from the
white face which greeted her view as she entered Katy's
room, and then with a moan hid itself in the pillow.

“Wilford thought he would not come up, but he sent
a kiss by me,” Helen said, softly touching the bright, disordered
hair, all she could see of her sister.

“It does not matter,” Katy gasped. “Kisses cannot
help me if they take baby away. Did he tell you?” and
she turned now partly towards Helen, who nodded affirmatively,
while Katy continued, “Had he taken a knife
and cut a cruel gash it would not have hurt me half so
badly. I could bear that, but my baby—oh, Helen, do
you think they will take her away?”

She was looking straight at Helen, who shivered as she
met an expression so unlike Katy, and so like to that a

hunted deer might wear if its offspring were in danger.

“Say, do you think they will?” she continued, shedding
back with her thin hand the mass of tangled curls
which had fallen about her eyes.

“Whom do you mean by they?” Helen asked, coming
near to her, and sitting down upon the bed.

There was a resentful gleam in the blue eyes usually
so gentle, as Katy answered,

“Whom do I mean? His folks, of course! They have
been the instigators of every sorrow I have known since
I left Silverton. Oh, Helen! never, never marry anybody
who has folks, if you wish to be happy.”

Helen could not repress a smile, though she pitied her
sister, who continued,

“I don't mean father Cameron, nor Bell, for I believe
they love me. Father does, I know, and Bell has helped
me so often; but Mrs. Cameron and Juno, oh, Helen,
you will never know what they have been to me.”

Since Helen came to New York there had been so
much else to talk about that Katy had said comparatively
little of the Camerons. Now, however, there was no
holding back on Katy's part, and beginning with the first
night of her arrival in New York she told what is already
known to the reader, exonerating Wilford in word, but
dealing out full justice to his mother and Juno, the former
of whom controlled him so completely.

“I tried so hard to love her,” Katy said, “and if she
had given me ever so little in return I would have been
satisfied; but she never did—that is, when I hungered
for it most, missing you at home, and the loving care
which sheltered me in childhood. After the world took
me into favor she began to caress me, but I was wicked
enough to think it all came of selfishness. I know I am
hard and bad, for when I was sick Mrs. Cameron was
really very kind, and I began to like her; but if she takes
baby away I shall surely die.”

“Where is baby to be sent?” Helen asked, and Katy
answered,

“Up the river, to a house which Father Cameron
owns, and which is kept by a farmer's family. I can't
trust Kirby. I do not like her. She keeps baby asleep

too long, and acts so cross if I try to wake her, or hint that
she looks unnatural. I cannot give baby to her care, with
no one to look after her, though Wilford says I must.”

Katy had never offered so violent opposition to any
plan as she did now to that of sending her child away.

“I can't, I can't,” she repeated constantly, and Mrs.
Cameron's call, made that afternoon with a view to reconcile
the matter, only made it worse, so that Wilford,
on his return at night, felt a pang of self-reproach as he
saw the drooping figure holding his child upon its lap
and singing its lullaby in a plaintive voice, which told
how sore was its heart.

Wilford did not mean to be either a savage or a brute.
On the contrary, he had made himself believe that he
was acting only for the good of both mother and child;
but the sight of Katy touched him, and he might have
given up the contest had not Helen unfortunately taken
up the cudgels in Katy's defence, neglecting to conceal
the weapons, and so defeating her purpose. It was at
the dinner from which Katy was absent that she ventured
to speak, not asking that the plan be given up, but
speaking of it as an unnatural one, which seemed to her
not only useless but cruel.

Wilford did not tell her that her opinion was not desired,
but his manner implied as much, and Helen felt
the angry blood prickling through her veins as she listened
to his reply, that it was neither unnatural nor
cruel; that many people did it, and his would not be an
isolated case.

“Then if it must be,” Helen said, “pray let it go to
Silverton, and I will be its nurse. Katy will not object
to that.”

In a very ironical tone Wilford thanked her for her
offer, which he begged leave to decline, intimating a preference
for settling his own matters according to his own
ideas. Helen knew that further argument was useless,
and wished herself at home, where there were no wills
like this, which, ignoring Katy's tears and Katy's pleading
face, would not retract one iota, or even stoop to reason
with the suffering mother, except to reiterate, “It
is only for your good, and every one with common sense
will say so.”

Next morning Helen was surprised at Katy's proposition
to drive round to Fourth street, and call on Marian.

“I have a strong presentiment that she can do me
good,” Katy said.

“Shall you tell her?” Helen asked in some surprise;
and Katy replied, “Perhaps I may, I'll see.”

An hour later, and Katy, up in Marian's room, sat
listening intently while Marian spoke of a letter received
a few days since from an old friend who had worked
with her at Madam —'s, and to whom she had been
strongly attached, keeping up a correspondence with her
after her marriage and removal to New London, in Connecticut,
and whose little child had borne Marian's
name. That child, born two months before Katy's, was
dead, and the mother, finding her home so desolate, had
written, beseeching Marian to come to her for the remainder
of the winter.

There was an eager look in Katy's face, and her eyes
danced with the new idea which had suddenly taken
possession of her. She could not trust baby with Kirby up
the river, but she could trust her in New London with
Mrs. Hubbell if Marian was there, and grasping the latter's
arm she exclaimed, “Is Mrs. Hubbell poor? Would
she do something for money, a great deal of money, I
mean?”

In a few moments Marian had heard Katy's trouble,
and Katy's wish that Mrs. Hubbell should take her child
in place of the little one dead. “Perhaps she would not
harbor the thought for a moment, but she misses her own
so much, it made me think she might take mine. Write
to her, Marian,—write to-day,—now, before I go,” Katy
continued, clasping Marian's hand, with an expression
which, more than aught else, won Marian Hazleton's consent
to a plan which seemed so strange.

“Yes, I will write,” she answered; “I will tell Amelia
what you desire.”

“But, Marian, you too must go, if baby does—I'll trust
baby with you. Say, Marian, will you go with my darling?”

It was hard to refuse, with those great, wistful, pleading
eyes, looking so earnestly into hers; but Marian must
have time to consider. She had thought of going to New

London to open a shop, and if she did she should board
with Mrs. Hubbell, and so be with the child. She would
decide when the answer came to the letter.

This was all the encouragement she would give; but it
was enough to change the whole nature of Katy's feelings,
and her face looked bright and cheerful as she tripped
down the stairway, talking to Helen of what seemed to
both like a direct interposition of Providence, and what
she was sure would please Wilford quite as well as the
farm-house up the river.

“Surely he will yield to me in this,” she said. Nor
was she wrong; for glad of an opportunity to make some
concessions, and still in the main have his own way, Wilford
raised no objection to the plan as communicated to
him by Katy, when, at an earlier hour than usual, he
came home to dinner, and with the harmony of his household
once more restored, felt himself a model husband,
as he listened to Katy's plan of sending baby to New
London. On the whole, it might be better even than the
farm-house up the river, he thought, for it was further
away, and Katy could not be tiring herself with driving
out every few days, and keeping herself constantly uneasy
and excited. The distance between New York and New
London was the best feature of the whole; and he wondered
Katy had not thought of it as an objection. But
she had not, and but for the pain when she remembered
the coming separation, she would have been very happy
that evening, listening with Wilford and Helen to a
new opera brought out for the first time in New York.

Very differently from this was Marian's evening passed,
and on her face there was a look such as Katy's had
never worn, as she asked for guidance to choose the right,
to lay all self aside, and if it were her duty, to care for the
child she had never seen, but whose birth had stirred
the pulsations of her heart and made the old wound
bleed and throb with bitter anguish. And as she prayed
there crept into her face a look which told that self was
sacrificed at last, and Katy Cameron was safe with her.

Mrs Hubbell was willing—aye, more than that—was
glad to take the child, and the generous remuneration
offered would make them so comfortable in their little

cottage, she wrote to Marian, who hastened to confer by
note with Katy, adding in a postscript, “Is it still your
wish that I should go? If so, I am at your disposal.”

It was Katy's wish, and she replied at once, going next
to the nursery to talk with Mrs. Kirby. Dark were the
frowns and dire the displeasure of that lady when told
that instead of going up the river, as she had hoped, she
was free to return to the “genteel and highly respectable
home on Bond Street,” where Mrs. Cameron had found
her.

“Wait till the Madam comes and then we'll see,” she
thought, referring to Mrs. Cameron, and feeling delighted,
when that very day she heard that lady's voice in the
parlor.

But Mrs. Cameron, though a little anxious with regard
to both Mrs. Hubbell's and Marian's antecedents, saw
that Wilford was in favor of New London and so voted
accordingly, only asking that she might write to New
London with regard to Mrs. Hubbell and her fitness to
take charge of a child in whose veins Cameron blood was
flowing. To this Katy assented, and as the answer returned
to Mrs. Cameron's letter was altogether favorable,
it was decided that Mrs. Hubbell should come to the city
at once for her little charge.

In a week's time she arrived, seeming everything Katy
could ask for, and as Mrs. Cameron, too, approved her
heartily as a modest, well spoken young woman, who
knew her place, it was arranged that she should return
home with her little charge on Saturday, thus giving
Katy the benefit of Sunday in which “to get over it
and recover her usual spirits,” Mrs. Cameron said.
The fact that Marian was going to New London within
a week after baby went, reconciled Katy to the plan, making
her even cheerful during the last day of baby's stay
at home. But as the daylight waned and the night came
on, a shadow began to steal across her face, and her
step was slower as she went up the stairs to the nursery,
while only herself that night could disrobe the little
creature and hush it into sleep.

“Tis the last time, you know,” she said to Kirby, who
went out, leaving the young mother and child alone.

Mournfully sad and sweet was the lullaby Katy sang,

and Helen who, in the hall, was listening to the low, sad
moaning,—half prayer, half benediction,—likened it to a
farewell between the living and dead. Half an hour later,
when she glanced into the room, lighted only by the moonbeams,
baby was sleeping in her crib, whilst Katy knelt
beside, her face buried in her hands, and her form quivering
with the sobs she tried to smother as she softly
prayed that her darling might come back again; that
God would keep the little child and forgive the erring
mother who had sinned so deeply since the time she
used to pray in her home among the hills of Massachusetts.
She was very white next morning, and to Helen
she seemed to be expanding into something more womanly,
more mature, as she disciplined herself to bear the
pain welling up so constantly from her heart, and at last
overflowing in a flood of tears when Mrs. Hubbell was
announced as in the parlor below waiting for her charge.

It was Katy who made her baby ready, trusting her to
no one else, and repelling with a kind of fierce decision
all offers of assistance made either by Helen, Mrs. Cameron,
Bell, or the nurse, who were present, while Katy's
hands drew on the little bright, soft socks of wool, tied
the hood of satin and lace, and fastened the scarlet
cloak, her tears falling fast as she met the loving, knowing
look the baby was just learning to give her, half
smiling, half cooing, as she bent her face down to it.

“Please all of you go out,” she said, when baby was
ready—“Wilford and all. I would rather be alone.”

They granted her request, but Wilford stood beside
the open door, listening while the mother bade farewell
to her baby.

“Darling,” she murmured, “what will poor Katy do
when you are gone, or what will comfort her as you
have done? Precious baby, my heart is breaking to
give you up; but will the Father in Heaven, who knows
how much you are to me, keep you from harm and bring
you back again? I'd give the world to keep you, but I
cannot do it, for Wilford says that you must go, and
Wilford is your father.”

At that moment Wilford Cameron would have given
half his fortune to have kept his child for Katy's sake,
but it was now too late; the carriage was at the door,

and Mrs. Hubbell was waiting in the hall for the little
procession filing down the stairs. Mrs. Cameron and
Bell, Wilford and Katy, who carried the baby herself,
her face bent over it and her tears still dropping like
rain. But it was Wilford who took the baby to the carriage,
going with it to the train and seeing Mrs. Hubbell
off; then, on his way back he drove round to his own
house which even to him seemed lonely, with all the
paraphernalia of babyhood removed. Still, now that
the worst was over, he rather enjoyed it, for Katy was
free from care; there was nothing to hinder her gratifying
his every wish, and with his spirits greatly enlivened
as he reflected how satisfactory everything had
been managed at the last, he proposed taking both
Helen and Katy to the theatre that night. But Katy
answered “No, Wilford, not to-night; it seems too much
like baby's funeral. I'll go next week, but not to-night.”

So Katy had her way, and among the worshipers
who next day knelt in Grace Church with words of
prayer upon their lips, there was not one more in earnest
than she whose only theme was, “My child, my darling
child.”

She did not get over it by Monday, as Mrs. Cameron
had predicted. She did not get over it at all, though
she went without a word where Wilford willed that she
should go, and was ere long a belle again, but nothing
had power to draw one look from her blue eyes, the
look which many observed, and which Helen knew
sprang from the mother love, hungering for its child.
Only once before had Helen seen a look like this, and
that had come to Morris's face on the sad night when
she said to him, “It might have been.” It had been
there ever since, and Helen felt that by the pangs with
which that look was born he was a better man, just as
Katy was growing better for that hunger in her heart.
God was taking his own way to purify them both, and
Helen watched intently, wondering what the end would
be.