University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
WHAT THE PAGE DISCLOSED.

I WAS little more than nineteen years of age when
I left Harvard College and went abroad with my
only brother, the John or Jack of whom you have
so often heard. Both himself and wife were in
delicate health, and it was hoped a voyage across the sea
would do them good. For nearly a year we were in various

parts of England, stopping for two months at Brighton,
where, among the visitors, was a widow from the
vicinity of Alnwick, and with her an orphan niece, whose
dazzling beauty attracted my youthful fancy. She was
not happy with her aunt, upon whom she was wholly dependent,
and my sympathies were all enlisted, when, with
the tears shining in her lustrous eyes, she one day accidentally
stumbled upon her trouble and told me how
wretched she was, asking if in America there was not
something for her to do.

“It was at this time that Jamie was born, and Mary,
the girl who went out with us, was married to an Englishman,
making it necessary for Hatty to find some one to
take her place. Hearing of this, Genevra came one day,
and offered herself as half companion, half waiting-maid
to Hatty. Anything was preferable to the life she led,
she said, pleading so hard that Hatty, after an interview
with the old aunt—a purse-proud, vulgar woman, who
seemed glad to be rid of her charge—consented to receive
her, and Genevra became one of our family, an equal
rather than a menial, whom Hatty treated with as much
consideration as if she had been a sister. I wish I could
tell you how beautiful Genevra Lambert was at that
period of her life, with her brilliant English complexion,
her eyes so full of poetry and passion, her perfect features,
and, more than all, the wondrous smile, which would
have made a plain face handsome.

“Of course I came to love her, and loved her all the
more for the opposition I knew my family would throw
in the way of my marrying the daughter of an English
apothecary, and one who was voluntarily filling a servant's
place. But with my mother across the sea, I could
do anything; and when Genevra told me of a base fellow,
who, since she was a child, had sought her for his wife,
and still pursued her with his letters, my passions were
roused, and I offered myself at once. Her answer was a
decided refusal. She knew her position, she said, and
she knew mine, just as she knew the nature of the feeling
which prompted me to act thus toward her. Although
just my age, she was older in judgment and experience,
and she seemed to understand the difference between our
relative positions. I was not indifferent to her, she said,

and were she my equal her answer might be otherwise
than the decided no.

“Madly in love, and fancying I could not live without
her, I besieged her with letters, some of which she returned
unopened, while on others she wrote a few hurried
lines, calling me a boy, who did not know my own
mind, and asking what my friends would say.

“I cared little for friends, and urged my suit the more
vehemently, as we were about going into Scotland, where
our marriage could be celebrated in private at any time.
I did not contemplate making the affair public at once.
That would take from the interest and romance, while,
unknown to myself, there was at heart a fear of my
family.

“But not to dwell too long upon those days, which
seem to me now like a dream, we went to Scotland and
were married privately, for I won her to this at last.

“My brother's failing health, as well as Hatty's, prevented
them from suspecting what was going on, and
when at last we went to Italy they had no idea that Genevra
was my wife. At Rome her beautiful face attracted
much attention from tourists and residents, among whom
were a few young men, who, looking upon her as Jamie's
nurse, or at most a companion for his mother, made no
attempt to disguise their admiration. For this I had no
redress except in an open avowal of the relation in which
I stood to her, and this I could not then do, for the longer
it was deferred the harder I found it to acknowledge her
my wife. I loved her devotedly, and that perhaps was one
great cause of the jealousy which began to spring up and
embitter my life.

“I do not now believe that Genevra was at heart a
coquette. She was very fond of admiration, but when
she saw how much I was disturbed she made an effort to
avoid those who flattered her, but her manner was unfortunate,
while her voice—the sweetest I ever heard—was
calculated to invite rather than repel attention. As the
empress of the world, she would have won and kept the
homage of mankind, from the humblest beggar in the
street to the king upon the throne, and had I been older
I should have been proud of what then was my greatest
annoyance. But I was a mere boy—and I watched her

jealously, until a new element of disquiet was presented
to me in the shape of a ruffianly looking fellow, who was
frequently seen about the premises, and with whom I
once found Genevra in close converse, starting and blushing
guiltily when I came upon her, while her companion
went swiftly from my sight.

“It was an old English acquaintance, who was poor
and asking charity,” she said, when questioned, but her
manner led me to think there was something wrong,
particularly as I saw her with him again, and thought
she held his hand.

“It was evident that my brother would never see
America again, and at his request my mother came to us,
in company with a family from Boston, reaching us two
weeks before he died. From the first she disliked Genevra,
and suspected the liking between us, but never dreaming
of the truth until a week after Jack's death, when in
a fit of anger at Genevra for listening to an English artist,
who had asked to paint her picture, the story of the
marriage came out, and like a child dependent on its
mother for advice, I asked, `What shall I do?'

“You know mother, and can in part understand how
she would scorn a girl who, though born to better things,
was still found in the capacity of a waiting-maid. I never
saw her so moved as she was for a time, after learning
that her only living son, from whom she expected so much,
had thrown himself away, as she expressed it. Sister
Hatty, who loved Genevra, did all she could to heal the
growing difference between us, but I trusted mother
most. I believed that what she said was right, and so
matters grew worse, until one night, the last we spent in
Rome, I missed Genevra from our rooms, and starting in
quest of her, found her, in a little flower garden back of
our dwelling. There, under the deep shadow of a tree,
and partly concealed from view, she stood with her arm
around the neck of the same rough-looking man who had
been there before. She did not see me as I watched her
while she parted with him, suffering him to kiss her hand
and forehead as he said, “Good-bye, my darling.”

“In a tremor of anger and excitement I quitted the
spot, my mind wholly made up with regard to my future.
That there was something wrong about Genevra I did

not doubt, and I would not give her a chance to explain
by telling her what I had seen, but sent her back to England,
giving her ample means for defraying the expenses
of her journey and for living in comfort after her arrival
there. From Rome we went to Naples, and then to
Switzerland, where Hatty died, leaving us alone with
little Jamie. It was at Berne that I received an
anonymous letter from England, the writer stating that
Genevra was with her aunt, that the whole had ended as
he thought it would, that he could readily guess at the
nature of the trouble, and hinting that if a divorce was
desirable on my return to England, all necessary proof
could be obtained by applying to such a number in London,
the writer announcing himself a brother of the man
who had once sought Genevra, and saying he had
always opposed the match, knowing Genevra's family.

“This was the first time the idea of a divorce had
entered my mind, and I shrank from a final separation.
But mother felt differently. It was not a new thought
to her, knowing as she did that the validity of a Scotch
marriage, such as ours, was frequently contested in the
English Courts. Once free from Genevra the world this
side the water would never know of that mistake, and
she set herself steadily to accomplish her purpose. To
tell you all that followed our return to England, and the
steps by which I was brought to sue for a divorce, would
make my story too long, and so I will only state that,
chiefly by the testimony of the anonymous letter-writer,
whose acquaintance we made, a divorce was obtained,
Genevra putting in no defence, but, as I heard afterwards,
settling down into an apathy from which nothing
had power to rouse her until the news of her freedom
from me was carried to her, when, amid a paroxysm of
tears and sobs, she wrote me a few lines, assuring me of
her innocence, refusing to send back her wedding ring,
and saying God would not forgive me for the great
wrong I had done her. I saw her once after that by
appointment, and her face haunted me for years, for, Katy,
Genevra was innocent, as I found after the time was past
when reparation could be made.”

Wilford's voice trembled, and for a moment there was

silence in the room, while he composed himself to go on
with the story:

“She would not live with me again if she could, she
said, denouncing bitterly the Cameron pride, and saying
she was happier to be free; and there we parted, but
not until she told me that her traducer was the old discarded
suitor who had sworn to have revenge, and who,
since the divorce, had dared seek her again. A vague
suspicion of this had crossed my mind once before, but
the die was cast, and even if the man were false, what I
saw myself in Rome still stood against her, and so my
conscience was quieted, while mother was more than
glad to be rid of a daughter-in-law of whose family I
knew nothing. Rumors I did hear of a cousin whose
character was not the best, and of the father who for
some crime had fled the country, and died in a foreign
land, but as that was nothing to me now, I passed it by,
feeling it was best to be released from one of so doubtful
antecedents.

“In the spring of 185- we came back to New York,
where no one had ever heard of the affair, so quietly
had it been managed. I was still an unmarried man to the
world, as no one but my mother knew my secret. With
her I often talked of Genevra, wishing sometimes that I
could hear from her, a wish which was finally gratified.
One day I received a note requesting an interview at a
down town hotel, the writer signing himself as Thomas
Lambert, and adding that I need have no fears, as he came
to perform an act of justice, not of retribution. Three
hours later I was locked in a room with Genevra's father,
the same man whom I had seen in Rome. Detected in forgery
years before, he had fled from England and had
hidden himself in Rome, where he accidentally met his
daughter, and so that stain was removed. He had
heard of the divorce by a letter which Genevra managed
to send him, and braving all difficulties and dangers he
had come back to England and found his child, hearing
from her the story of her wrongs, and as well as he was
able setting himself to discover the author of the calumny.
He was not long in tracing it to Le Roy, Genevra's
former sister, whom he found in a dying condition, and
who with his last breath confessed the falsehood which

was imposed upon me, he said, partly from motives of
revenge, and partly with a hope that free from me,
Genevra would at the last turn to him. As proof that
Mr. Lambert told me truth, he brought the dying man's
confession, written in a cramped, trembling hand,
which I recognized at once. The confession ended
with the solemn assertion, `For aught I know or believe,
Genevra Lambert is as pure and true as any woman
living.'

“I cannot describe the effect this had upon me. I
did not love Genevra then. I had out-lived that affection,
but I felt remorse and pity for having wronged her,
and asked how I could make amends.

“`You cannot,' the old man said, `except in one way,
and that she does not desire. I did not come here with
any wish for you to take her for your wife again. It
was an unequal match which never should have been;
but if you believe her innocent, she will be satisfied.
She wanted you to know it—I wanted you to know it,
and so I crossed the sea to find you,”

The next I heard of her was in the columns of an
English newspaper, which told me she was dead, while
in another place a pencil mark was lightly traced around
a paragraph, which said that `a forger, Thomas Lambert,
who escaped years ago and was supposed to be
dead, had recently reappeared in England, where he was
recognized, but not arrested, for the illness which proved
fatal. He was attended,' the paper said, `by his daughter,
a beautiful young girl, whose modest mien and gentle
manner had done much towards keeping the officers
of justice from her dying father, no one being able to withstand
her pleadings that her father might die in peace.'

“I was grateful for this tribute to Genevra, for I felt that
it was deserved; and I turned again to the notice of her
death, which must have occurred within a short time of
her father's, and was probably induced by past troubles
and recent anxiety for him.

“Genevra Lambert died at Alnwick, aged 22. There
could be no mistake, and with a tear to the memory of
the dead whom I had loved and injured, I burned the
paper, feeling that now there was no clue to the secret I
was as anxious to preserve as was my mother.

“And so the years wore on till I met and married
you, withholding from you that yours was not the first
love which had stirred my heart. I meant to tell you,
Katy, but I could not for the great fear of losing you if
you knew all. And then an error concealed so long is
hard to be confessed. I took you across the sea to
Brighton, where I first met Genevra, and then to Alnwick,
seeking out the grave which made assurance
doubly sure. It was natural that I should make some
inquiries concerning her last days; I questioned the
old sexton who was at work near by. Calling his attention
to the name, I said it was an uncommon one and
asked if he knew the girl.

“`Not by sight, no,' he said. `She was only here a
few days before she died. I've heard she was very winsome
and that there was a scandal of some kind mixed
up with her.'

“I would not ask him any more; and without any
wrong to you, I confess that my tears dropped upon the
turf under which I knew Genevra lay.”

“I am glad they did; I should hate you if you had not
cried,” Katy exclaimed, her voice more natural than it
had been since the great shock came.

“Do you forgive me, Katy? Do you love me as well
as ever?” Wilford asked, stooping down to kiss her, but
Katy drew her face away and would not answer then.

She did not know herself how she felt towards him.
He did not seem just like the husband she had trusted in
so blindly. It would take a long time to forget that another
head than hers had lain upon his bosom, and it would
take longer yet to blot out the memory of complaining
words uttered to his mother. She had never thought he
could do that, never dreamed of such a thing, knowing
that she would sooner have parted with her right hand
than complained of him. Her idol had fallen in more respects
than one, and the heart it had bruised in the fall
refused at once to gather the shattered pieces up and call
them as good as new. She was not so obstinate as Wilford
began to fancy. She was only stunned and could not
rally at his bidding. He confessed the whole, keeping
nothing back, and he felt that Katy was unjust not to acknowledge
his magnanimity and restore him to her favor.

Again he asked forgiveness, and bent down to kiss her,
but Katy answered, “Not yet, Wilford, not till I feel all
right towards you. A wife's kiss should be sincre.”

“As you like,” trembled on Wilford's lips, but he beat
back the words and walked up and down the room,
knowing now that his journey must be deferred till morning,
and wondering if Katy would hold out till then.

It was long past midnight, but to retire was impossible,
and so for one whole hour he paced through the room,
while Katy lay with her eyes closed and her lips moving
occasionally in words of prayer she tried to say, asking
God to help her, and praying that she might in future
lay her treasures up where they could not so suddenly be
swept away. Wearily the hours passed, and the grey
dawn was stealing into the room when Wilford again approached
his wife and said, “You know I was to have left
home last night on business. As I did not go then it is
necessary that I leave this morning. Are you able to
stay alone for three days more? Are you willing?”

“Yes—oh yes,” Katy replied, feeling that to have him
gone while she battled with the pain lying so heavy at
her heart, would be a great relief.

Perhaps he suspected this feeling in part, for he bit his
lip impatiently, and without another word called up the
servant whose duty it was to prepare his breakfast. Cold
and cheerless seemed the dining-room, to which an hour
later he repaired, and tasteless was the breakfast without
Katy there to share it. She had been absent many times
before, but never just as now, with this wide gulf between
them, and as he broke his egg and tried to drink his coffee,
Wilford felt like one from whom every support had
been swept away. He did not like the look on Katy's face
or the sound of her voice, and as he thought upon them,
self began to whisper again that she had no right to stand
out so long when he had confessed everything, and by
the time his breakfast was finished, Wilford Cameron
was, in his own estimation, an abused and injured man,
so that it was with an air of defiance rather than humility
that he went again to Katy. She, too, had been thinking,
and as the result of her thoughts she lifted up her head
as he came in and said, “I can kiss you now, Wilford.”

It was human nature, we suppose—at least it was Wilford's

nature—which for an instant tempted him to decline
the kiss proffered so lovingly; but Katy's face was
more than he could withstand, and when again he left
that room the kiss of pardon was upon his lips and comparative
quiet was in his heart.

“The picture, Wilford,—please bring me the picture,
I want to see it,” Katy called after him, as he was running
down the stairs.

Wilford would not refuse, and hastily unlocking his
private drawer he carried the case to Katy's room, saying
to her, “I would not mind it now. Try and sleep awhile.
You need the rest so much.”

Katy knew she had the whole day before her, and so she
nestled down among her pillows and soon fell into a
quiet sleep, from which Esther at last awakened her, asking
if she should bring her breakfast to her room.

“Yes, do,” Katy replied, adjusting her dress and trying
to arrange the matted curls, which were finally confined
in a net until Esther's more practiced hands were ready
to attack them, then sending Esther from the room Katy
took the picture of Genevra from the table where Wilford
had laid it.