University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.
LITTLE GENEVRA.

MORRIS had telegraphed to New York, receiving
in reply that Wilford was hourly expected home,
and would at once hasten on to Silverton. The
clergyman, Mr. Kelly, had also been seen, but
owing to a funeral which would take him out of town,
he could not be at the farm-house until five in the afternoon,
when, if the child still lived, he would be glad to
officiate as requested. All this Morris had communicated
to Katy, who listened in a kind of stupor, gasping for
breath, when she heard that Wilford would soon be there,
and moaning “that will be too late,” when told that the
baptism could not take place till night. Then kneeling
by the crib where the child was lying, she fastened her
great, sad blue eyes upon the pallid face with an earnestness
as if thus she would hold till nightfall the life flickering
so faintly and seeming so nearly finished. The
wailings had ceased, and they no longer carried it in
their arms, but had placed it in its crib, where it lay perfectly
still, save as its eyes occasionally unclosed and
turned wistfully towards the cups, where it knew was
something which quenched its raging thirst. Once indeed,
as the hours crept on to noon and Katy bent over
it so that her curls swept its face, it seemed to know her,
and the little wasted hand was uplifted and rested on her
cheek with the same caressing motion it had been wont
to use in health. Then hope whispered that it might
live, and with a great cry of joy Katy sobbed, “She
knows me, Morris—mother, see; she knows me. Maybe
she will live!”

But the dull stupor which succeeded swept all hope
away, and again Katy resumed her post, watching first
her dying child, and then the long hands of the clock
which crept on so slowly, pointing to only two when she
thought it must be five. Would that hour never come,
or coming, would it find baby there? None could answer
that last question—they could only wait and pray; and

as they waited the warm September sun neared the western
sky till its yellow beams came stealing through the
window and across the floor to where Katy sat watching
its onward progress, and looking sometimes out upon the
hills where the purplish autumnal haze was lying just as
she once loved to see it. But she did not heed it now,
nor care how bright the day with the flitting shadows
dancing on the grass, the tall flowers growing by the
door, and old Whitey standing by the gate, his head
stretched towards the house in a kind of dreamy, listening
attitude, as if he, too, knew of the great sorrow hastening
on so fast. The others saw all this, and it made
their hearts ache more as they thought of the beautiful
little child going from their midst when they wished so
much to keep her. Katy had only one idea, and that was
of the child, growing very restless now, and throwing up
its arms as if in pain. It was striking five, and with each
stroke the dying baby moaned, while Katy strained her
ear to catch the sound of horses' hoofs hurrying up the
road. The clergyman had come, and the inmates of the
house gathered round in silence, while he made ready to
receive the child into Christ's flock.

Mrs. Lennox had questioned Helen about the name,
and Helen had answered, “Katy knows, I presume. It
does not matter,” but no one had spoken directly to
Katy, who had scarcely given it a thought, caring more
for the rite she had deferred so long.

“He must hasten,” she said to Morris, her eyes fixed
upon the panting child she had lifted to her own lap,
and thus adjured the clergyman failed to make the usual
inquiry concerning the name he was to give.

Calm and white as a marble statue, Marian Hazelton
glided to the back of Katy's chair, and pressing both
her hands upon it, leaned over Katy so that her eyes,
too, were fixed upon the little face, from which they never
turned but once, and that when the clergyman's voice was
heard asking for a name. There was an instant's silence,
and Katy's lips began to move, when one of Marian's
hands was laid upon her head, while the other took in
its own the limp, white baby fingers, and Marian's voice
was very steady in its tone as it said, “Genevra.”

“Yes, Genevra,” Katy whispered, and the solemn

words were heard, “Genevra, I baptize thee in the name
of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

Softly the baptismal waters fell upon the pale forehead,
and at their touch the little Genevra's eyes unclosed, the
waxen fingers withdrew themselves from Marian's grasp,
and again sought the mother's cheek, resting there for an
instant; while a smile broke around the baby's lips, which
tried to say “Mam-ma.” Then the hand fell back, down
upon Marian's, the soft eyes closed, the limbs grew rigid,
the shadow of death grew deeper, and while the prayer
was said, and Marian's tears fell with Katy's upon the
brow where the baptismal waters were not dried, the
angel came, and when the prayer was ended, Morris,
who knew what the rest did not, took the lifeless form
from Katy's lap, and whispered to her gently, “Katy,
your baby is dead!”

An hour later, and the sweet little creature, which had
been a sunbeam in that house for a few happy days, lay
upon the bed where Katy said it must be laid; its form
shrouded in the christening robe which grandma Cameron
had bought, flowers upon its pillow, flowers upon its
bosom, flowers in its hands, which Marian had put there;
for Marian's was the mind which thought of everything
concerning the dead child; and Helen, as she watched
her, wondered at the mighty love which showed itself in
every lineament of her face, the blue veins swelling in
her forehead, her eyes bloodshot, and her lips shut firmly
together, as if it were by mere strength of will that she
kept back the scalding tears as she dressed the little Genevra.
They spoke of that name in the kitchen when
the first great shock was over, and Helen explained why
it had been Katy's choice.

It was Morris's task to comfort poor, stricken Katy,
telling her of the blessed Saviour who loved the little
children while here on the earth, and to whom her darling
had surely gone.

“Safe in His arms, it would not come back if it could,”
he said, “and neither would you have it.”

But Katy was the mother, and human love could not
so soon submit, but went out after the lost one with a
piteous, agonizing wail.

“Oh, I want my baby back. I know she is safe, but I

want her back. She was my life—all I had to love,”
Katy moaned, rocking to and fro in this her first hour of
bereavement, “and Wilford will blame me so much for
bringing my baby here to die. He will say it was my
fault; and that I can't bear. I know I killed my baby;
but I did not mean to. I would give my life for hers, if
like her I was ready,” and into Katy's face there came a
look of fear which Morris failed to understand, not knowing
Wilford as well as Katy knew him.

At nine o'clock next day there came a telegram. Wilford
had reached New York and would be in Silverton
that afternoon, accompanied by Bell. At this last Marian
Hazelton caught as an excuse for what she intended doing.
She could not remain there after Wilford came, nor
was it necessary. Her task was done, or would be when
she had finished the wreath and cross of flowers she was
making for the coffin. Laying them on baby's pillow, Marian
went in quest of Helen, to whom she explained that
as Bell Cameron was coming, and the house would be full,
she had decided upon going to West Silverton, as she
wished to see the old lady with whom she once boarded,
and who had been so kind to her.

“I might stay,” she added, as Helen began to protest,
“but you do not need me. I have done all I can,
and would rather go where I can be quiet for a little.”

To this last argument there could be no demur, and
so the same carriage which at ten o'clock went for Wilford
Cameron carried Marian Hazleton to the village
where she preferred being left.

In much anxiety and distress Wilford Cameron read
the telegram announcing baby's illness.

“At Silverton!” he said. “How can that be when
the child was at New London?” and he glanced again
at the words:

There could be no mistake, and Wilford's face grew
dark, for he guessed the truth, censuring Katy much,
but censuring her family more. They of course had
encouraged her in the plan of taking her child from New
London, where it was doing so well, and this was the
result. Wilford was proud of his daughter now, and

during the few weeks he had been with it, the little thing
had found a strong place in his love. Many times he
had thought of it during his journey West, indulging
in bright anticipations of the coming winter, when he
would have it home again. It would not be in his way
now. On the contrary, it would add much to his luxurious
home, and the young father's heart bounded with
thoughts of the beautiful baby as he had last seen it,
crowing its good-bye to him and trying to lisp his name,
its sweet voice haunting him for weeks, and making him
a softer, better man, who did not frown impatiently
upon the little children in the cars, but who took notice
of them all, even laying his hand once on a little curly
head which reminded him of baby's.

Alas for him! he little dreamed of the great shock in
store for him. The child was undoubtedly very sick,
he said, but that it could die was not possible; and so,
though he made ready to hasten to it, he did not withhold
his opinion of the rashness which had brought it
to such peril.

“Had Katy obeyed me it would not have happened,”
he said, pacing up and down the parlor and preparing
to say more, when Bell came to Katy's aid, and lighting
upon him, asked what he meant by blaming his wife so
much.

“For my part,” she said, “I think there has been too
much fault-finding and dictation from the very day of
the child's birth till now, and if God takes it, I shall
think it a judgment upon you. First you were vexed
with Katy because it was not a boy, as if she were to
blame; then you did not like it because it was not more
promising and fair; next it was in your way, and so you
sent it off, never considering Katy any more than if she
were a more automaton. Then you must needs forbid
her taking it home to her own family, as if they had no
interest in it. I tell you, Will, it is not all Cameron—
there is some Barlow blood in its veins—Aunt Betsy.
Barlow's, too, and you cannot wash it out. Katy had a
right to take her own child where she pleased, and you
are not a man if you censure her for it, as I see in your
eyes you mean to do. Suppose it had staid in New
London and been struck with lightning—you would

have been to blame, of course, according to your own
view of things.”

There was too much truth in Bell's remarks for Wilford
to retort, even had he been disposed, and he contented
himself with a haughty toss of his head as she left the
room to get herself in readiness for the journey she insisted
upon taking. Wilford was glad she was going, as her
presence at Silverton would relieve him of the awkward
embarrassment he always felt when there; and magnanimously
forgiving her for the plainness of her speech,
he was the most attentive of brothers until Silverton was
reached, and he found Dr. Grant awaiting for him.
Something in his face, as he came forward to meet them,
startled both Wilford and Bell, the latter of whom asked
quickly,

“Is the baby better?”

“Baby is dead,” was the brief reply, and Wilford staggered
back against the door-post, where he leaned a
moment for support in that first great shock for which he
was not prepared.

Upon the door-step Bell sat down, crying quietly, for
she had loved the child, and she listened anxiously while
Morris repeated the particulars of its illness and then
spoke of Katy's reproaching herself so bitterly for having
brought it from New London. “She seems entirely
crushed,” he continued, when they were driving towards
the farm-house. “For a few hours I trembled for her
reason, while the fear that you might reproach her added
much to the poignancy of her grief.”

Morris said this very calmly, as if it were not what he
had all the while intended saying, and his eye turned towards
Wilford, whose lips were compressed with the
emotion he was trying to control. It was Bell who spoke
first, Bell who said impulsively, “Poor Katy, I knew she
would feel so, but it is unnecessary, for none but a savage
would reproach her now, even if she were in fault.”

Morris blessed Bell Cameron in his heart, knowing how
much influence her words would have upon her brother,
who brushed away the first tear he had shed, and tried
to say that “of course she was not to blame.”

They were in sight of the farm-house now, and Bell,
with her city ideas, was looking curiously at it, mentally

pronouncing it a nicer, pleasanter place than she had supposed.
It was very quiet about the house, and old
Whitey's neigh as Morris's span of bays came up was the
only sound which greeted them. In the wood-shed door
Uncle Ephraim sat smoking his clay pipe and likening
the feathery waves which curled above his head to the
little soul so recently gone upward, while by his side, upon
a log of wood, holding a pan of the luscious peaches
she was slicing up for tea, sat a woman whom Bell knew
at once for Aunt Betsy Barlow, and who, pan in hand,
came forward to meet her, curtsying very low when introduced
by Morris, and asking to be excused from shaking
hands, inasmuch as hers were not fit to be touched.
Bell's quick eye took her in at a glance, from her clean
spotted gown to her plain muslin cap tied with a black ribbon,
put on that day with a view to mourning, and then
darted off to Uncle Ephraim, who won her heart at once
when she heard how his voice trembled as he took Wilford's
hand and said so pityingly, so father-like, “Young
man, this is a sad day for you, and you have my sympathy,
for I remember well how my heart ached when, on
just such a day as this, my only child lay dead as yours
is lying.”

Every muscle of Wilford's face quivered, but he was too
proud to show all that he felt, and he was glad when Helen
appeared in the door, as that diverted his mind, and
he greeted her cordially, stooping down and kissing her
forehead, a thing he had never done before. But sorrow
is a great softener, and Wilford was very sorry, feeling
his loss more here, where everything was so quiet, so suggestive
of death.

“Where is Katy?” he asked.

“She is sleeping for the first time since the baby died.
She is in here with the child. She will stay nowhere
else,” Helen said, opening the door of the bedroom and
motioning Wilford in.

With hushed breath and a beating heart, Wilford
stepped across the threshold, and Helen closed the
door, leaving him alone with the living and the dead.
Pure and beautiful as some fair blossom, the dead
child lay upon the bed, the curls of golden hair
clustering about its head, and on its lips the smile which

settled there when it tried to say “mamma.” Its dimpled
hands were folded upon its breast, where lay the cross of
flowers which Marian Hazelton had made. There were
flowers upon its pillow, flowers around its head, flowers
upon its shroud, flowers everywhere, and itself the fairest
flower of all, Wilford thought, as he stood gazing at it and
then let his eye move on to where poor, tired, worn-out
Katy had crept up so close beside it that her breath touched
the marble cheek and her own disordered hair rested upon
the pillow of her child. Even in her sleep her tears kept
dropping and the pale lips quivered in a grieved, touching
way. Hard indeed would Wilford have been had he
cherished one bitter thought against the wife so wounded.
He could not when he saw her, but no one ever
knew just what passed through his mind during the half
hour he sat there beside her, scarcely stirring and not
daring to kiss his child lest he should awaken her. He
could hear the ticking of his watch and the beating of his
heart as he waited for the first sound which should herald's
Katy's waking.

Suddenly there was a low, gasping moan, and Katy's
eyes unclosed and rested on her husband. He was bending
over her in an instant, and her arms were round his
neck, while she said to him so sadly,

“Our baby is dead—you've nobody left but me; and
oh! Wilford, you will not blame me for bringing baby here?
I did not think she'd die. I'd give my life for hers if that
would bring her back. Would you rather it was me
lying as baby lies, and she here in your arms?”

“No, Katy,” Wilford answered, and by his voice Katy
knew that she was wholly forgiven, crying on his neck in
a plaintive, piteous way, while Wilford soothed and pitied
and caressed, feeling subdued and humbled, and we must
confess it, feeling too how very good and generous he
was to be thus forbearing, when but for Katy's act of
disobedience they might not now be childless!

With a great gush of tears Bell Cameron bent over the
little form, and then enfolded Katy in a more loving embrace
than she had ever given her before; but whatever

she might have said was prevented by the arrival of the
coffin, and the confusion which followed.

Much Wilford regretted that New York was so far
away, for a city coffin was more suitable, he thought, for
a child of his, than the one which Dr. Grant had ordered.
But that was really of less consequence than the question
where the child should be buried. A costly monument
at Greenwood was in accordance with his ideas, but all
things indicated a contemplated burial there in the
country churchyard, and sorely perplexed, he called on
Bell as the only Cameron at hand, to know what he
should do.

“Do just as Katy prefers,” was Bell's reply, as she
led him to the coffin and pointed to the name: “Little
Genevra Cameron, aged nine months and twenty days.”

“What is it, Wilford—what is the matter?” she asked,
as her brother turned whiter than his child.

Had “Genevra Lambert, aged 22,” met his eye, he
could not have been more startled than he was; but soon
rallying, he said to Morris,

“The child was baptized then?”

“Yes, baptized Genevra. That was Katy's choice, I
understand,” Morris replied, and Wilford bowed his
head, wishing the Genevra across the sea might know
that his child bore her name.

“Perhaps she does,” he thought, and his heart grew
warm with the fancy that possibly in that other world,
whose existence he never really doubted, the Genevra he
had wronged would care for his child, if children there
need care. “She will know it is mine at least,” he said,
and with a thoughtful face he went in quest of Katy,
whom he found sobbing by the side of the mourning
garments just sent in for her inspection.

Wilford was averse to black. It would not become
Katy, he feared, and it would be an unanswerable reason
for her remaining closely home for the entire winter.

“What's this?” he asked, lifting the crape veil and
dropping it again with an impatient gesture as Helen
replied, “It is Katy's mourning veil.”

Contrary to his expectations, black was becoming to
Katy, who looked like a pure white lily, as, leaning on

Wilford's arm next day, she stood by the grave where
they were burying her child.

Wilford had spoken to her of Greenwood, but she had
begged so hard that he had given up that idea, suggesting
next, as more in accordance with city custom, that
she remain at home while he only followed to the grave;
but from this Katy recoiled in such distress that he gave
that up too, and bore, magnanimously as he thought, the
sight of all the Barlows standing around that grave, alike
mourners with himself, and all a right to be there. Wilford
felt his loss deeply, and his heart ached to its very
core as he heard the gravel rattling down upon the coffin-lid
which covered the beautiful child he had loved so
much. But amid it all he never for a moment forgot
that he was Wilford Cameron, and infinitely superior to
the crowd around him—except, indeed, his wife, his sister,
Dr. Grant, and Helen. He could bear to see them
sorry, and feel that by their sorrow they honored the
memory of his child. But for the rest—the village herd,
with the Barlows in their train—he had no affinity, and
his manner was as haughty and distant as ever as he
passed through their midst back to the carriage, which
took him again to the farm-house.