University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE CONFESSION.

GRADUALLY, the noise in the streets died away;
the tread of feet, the rumbling wheels, and the
tinkle of car bells ceased, and not a sound was
heard, save as the distant fire bells pealed forth
their warning voices, or some watchman went hurrying
by. The great city was asleep, and to Morris the silence
brooding over the countless throng was deeper, more
solemn, than the silence of the country, where nature
gives out her own mysterious notes and lullabies for her
sleeping children. Slowly the minutes went by, and
Morris became at last aware that Wilford's eyes, instead

of resting on the pallid face, which seemed to grow
each moment more pallid and ghastly, were fixed on
him with an expression which made him drop the pale
hand he was holding between his own, pooring it occasionally,
as a mother might poor and pity the hand of
her dying baby.

Before his marriage, a jealous thought of Morris Grant,
had found a lodgment in Wilford's breast; but he had
tried to drive it out, and fancied that he had succeeded,
experiencing a sudden shock when he felt it lifting its
green head, and poisoning his mind against the man
who was doing for Katy only what a brother might do.
He forgot that it was his own entreaties which kept
Morris there, away from his Silverton patients, who were
missing him so much, and complaining of his absence.
Jealous men never reason clearly, and in this case, Wilford
did not reason at all, but jumped readily at his conclusion,
calling to his aid as proof all that he had ever seen
pass between Katy and her cousin. That Morris Grant
loved Katy was, after a few moments' reflection, as fixed
a fact in his mind, as that she lay there between them,
moaning feebly, as if about to speak. Years before, jealousy
had made Wilford almost a madman, and it now
held him again in its powerful grasp, whispering suggestions
he would have spurned in a calm frame of mind.
There was a clenching of his fist, a knitting of his brows,
and a gathering blackness in his eyes as he listened while
Katy, rousing partially from her lethargy, talked of the
days when she was a little girl, and Morris had built the
play-house for her by the brook, where the thorn-apples
grew and the waters fell over the smooth, white rocks.

“Take me back there,” she said, “and let me lie on
the grass again. It is so long since I was there, and I've
suffered so much since then. Wilford meant to be kind,
but he did not understand or know how I loved the
country with its birds and flowers and the grass by the
well, where the shadows come and go. I used to wonder
where they were going, and one day when I watched
them I was waiting for Wilford and wondering if he
would ever come again. Would it have been better if
he never had?”

Wilford's body shook as he bent forward to listen,
while Katy continued:

“Were there no Genevra, I should not think so, but
there is, and yet Morris said that made no difference
when I telegraphed for him to come and take me away.”

Morris felt keenly the awkwardness of his position,
but he could offer no explanation then. He could not
speak with those fiery eyes upon him, and he sat erect
in his chair, while Katy talked of Silverton, until her
voice grew very faint, ceasing at last as she fell into a
second sleep, heavier, more deathlike, than the first.
Something in her face alarmed Morris, and in spite of
the eyes watching him he bent every energy to retain
the feeble pulse, and the breath which grew shorter with
each respiration.

“Do you think her dying?” Wilford asked, and Morris
replied, “The look about the mouth and nose is like
the look which so often precedes death.”

And that was all they said until another hour went
by, when Morris's hand was laid upon the forehead and
moved up under the golden hair where there were drops
of perspiration.

“She is saved! thank God, Katy is saved!” was his
joyful exclamation, and burying his face in his hands,
he wept for a moment like a child.

On Wilford's face there was no trace of tears. On the
contrary, he seemed hardening into stone, and in his
heart fierce passions were contending for the mastery.
What did Katy mean by sending for Morris to take her
away? Did she send for him, and was that the cause of
his being there? If so, there was something between
the cousins more than mere friendship. The thought
was a maddening one. And, rising slowly at last, Wilford
came round to Morris's side, and grasping his
shoulder, said,

“Morris Grant, you love Katy Cameron.”

Like the peal of a bell on the frosty air the words rang
through the room, starting Morris from his bowed attitude,
and for an instant curdling the blood in his veins,
for he understood now the meaning of the look which
had so puzzled him. In Morris's heart there was a moment's
hesitancy to know just what to answer—an ejaculatory

prayer for guidance—and then lifting up his head,
his calm blue eyes met the eyes of black unflinchingly
as he replied,

“I have loved her always.”

A blaze like sheet lightning shot from beneath Wilford's
eyelashes, and a taunting sneer curled his lip as
he said,

“You, a saint, confess to this?”

It was in keeping with human nature for Wilford to
thrust Morris's religion in his face, forgetting that never
on this side the eternal world can man cease wholly to
sin; that so long as flesh and blood remain, there will be
temptation, error, and wrong, even among God's children.
Morris felt the sneer keenly; but the consciousness
of peace with his Maker sustained him in the shock,
and with the same tone he had at first assumed, he
said,

“Should my being what you call a saint prevent my
confessing what I did?”

“No, not the confession, but the fact,” Wilford answered,
savagely. “How do you reconcile your acknowledged
love for Katy with the injunctions of the
Bible whose doctrines you indorse?”

“A man cannot always control his feelings, but he
can strive to overcome them and put them aside. One
does not sin in being tempted, but in listening to the temptation.”

“Then according to your own reasoning you have
sinned, for you not only have been tempted but have
yielded to the temptation,” Wilford retorted, with a sinister
look of exultation in his black eyes.”

For a moment Morris was silent, while a struggle of
some kind seemed going on in his mind, and then he
said,

“I never thought to lay open to you a secret which,
after myself, is, I believe, known to only one living
being.”

“And that one—is—is Katy?” Wilford exclaimed, his
voice hoarse with passion, and his eyes flashing with
fire.

“No, not Katy. She has no suspicion of the pain
which, since I saw her made another's, has eaten into

my heart, making me grow old so fast, and blighting my
early manhood.”

Something in Morris's tone and manner made Wilford
relax his grasp upon the arm, and sent him back
to his chair while Morris continued,

“Most men would shrink from talking to a husband
of the love they bore his wife, and an hour ago I
should have shrunk from it too, but you have forced me
to it, and now you must listen while I tell you of my love
for Katy. It began longer ago than she can remember
—began when she was my baby sister, and I hushed her
in my arms to sleep, kneeling by her cradle and watching
her with a feeling I have never been able to define.
She was in all my thoughts, her face upon the printed
page of every book I studied, and her voice in every
strain of music I ever heard. Then when she grew older,
I used to watch the frolicsome child by the hour, building
castles of the future, when she would be a woman,
and I a man, with a man's right to win her. I know
that she shielded me from many a snare into which
young men are apt to fall, for when the temptation was
greatest, and I was at its verge, a thought of her was
sufficient to lead me back to virtue. I carried her in my
heart across the sea, and said when I go back I will ask
her to be mine. I went back, but at my first meeting
with Katy after her return from Canandaigua, she told
me of you, and I knew then that hope for me was gone.
God grant that you may never experience what I experienced
on that day which made her your wife, and I saw
her go away. It seemed almost as if God had forgotten
me as the night after the bridal I sat alone at home, and
met that dark hour of sorrow. In the midst of it Helen
came, discovering my secret, and sympathizing with me
until the pain at my heart grew less, and I could pray
that God would grant me a feeling for Katy which should
not be sinful. And He did at last, so I could think of
her without a wish that she was mine. Times there
were when the old love would burst forth with fearful
power, and then I wished that I might die. These were
my moments of temptation which I struggled to overcome.
Sometimes a song, a strain of music, or a ray of
moonlight on the floor would bring the past to me so

vividly that I would stagger beneath the burden, and feel
that it was greater than I could bear. But God was
very merciful, and sent me work which took up all my
time, and drove me away from my own pain to soothe
the pain of others. When Katy came to us last summer
there was an hour of trial, when faith in God grew weak,
and I was tempted to question the justice of His dealing
with me. But that too passed, and in my love for
your child I forgot the mother in part, looking upon
her as a sister rather than the Katy I had loved so well.
I would have given my life to have saved that child for
her, even though it was a bar between us, something
which separated her from me more than the words she
spoke at the altar. Though dead, that baby is still a
bar, and Katy is not the same to me she was before that
little life came into being. It is not wrong to love her
as I do now. I feel no pang of conscience save when
something unexpected carries me back to the old ground
where I have fought so many battles.”

Morris paused a moment, while Wilford said, “She
spoke of telegraphing for you. Why was that, and
when?”

Thus interrogated, Morris told of the message which
had brought him to New York, and narrated as cautiously
as possible the particulars of the interview which
followed.

Morris's manner was that of a man who spoke with
perfect sincerity, and it carried conviction to Wilford's
heart, disarming him for a time of the fierce anger and
resentment he had felt while listening to Morris's story.
Acting upon the good impulse of the moment, he arose,
and offering his hand to Morris, said,

“Forgive me that I ever doubted you. It was natural
that you should come, but foolish in Katy to send or
think Genevra is living. I have seen her grave myself.
I know that she is dead. Did Katy name any one whom
she believed to be Genevra?”

“No one. She merely said she had seen the original
of the picture,” Morris replied.

“A fancy,—a mere whim,” Wilford muttered to himself,
as, greatly disquieted and terribly humbled, he paced
the room moodily, trying not to think hard thoughts

either against his wife or Dr. Grant, who, feeling that it
would be pleasanter for Wilford if he were gone, suggested
returning to Silverton at once, inasmuch as the
crisis was past and Katy out of danger. There was a
struggle in Wilford's mind as to the answer he should
make to this suggestion, but at last he signified his willingness
for the doctor to leave when he thought best.

It was broad day when Katy woke, so weak as to be
unable to turn her head upon the pillow, but in her eyes
the light of reason was shining, and she glanced wonderingly,
first at Helen, who had come in, and then at
Wilford, as if trying to comprehend what had happened.

“Have I been sick?” she asked in a whisper, and Wilford,
bending over her, replied, “Yes, very sick for nearly
two whole weeks—ever since I left home that morning,
you know?”

“Yes,” and Katy shivered a little. “Yes, I know.
But where is Morris? He was here the last I can remember.”

Wilford's face grew dark at once, and stepping back as
Morris came in, he said, “She asks for you.” Then with
a rising feeling of resentment he watched them, while
Morris spoke to Katy, telling her she must not allow herself
in any way to be excited.

“Have I been crazy? Have I talked much?” she
asked; and when Morris replied in the affirmative, she
said, “Of whom have I talked most?”

“Of Genevra,” was the answer, and Katy continued,

“Did I mention any one else?”

Morris guessed of whom she was thinking, and answered
indifferently, “You spoke of Miss Hazleton in
connection with baby, but that was all.”

Katy was satisfied, and closing her eyes fell away to
sleep again, while Morris made his preparations for leaving.
It hardly seemed right for him to go just then, but
the only one who could have kept him maintained a frigid
silence with regard to a longer stay, and so the first train
which left New York for Springfield carried Dr. Grant,
and Katy was without a physician.

Wilford had hoped that Mrs. Lennox, too, would see
the propriety of accompanying Morris, but she would not
leave Katy, and Wilford was fain to submit to what he

could not help. No explanation whatever had he given
to Mrs. Lennox or Helen with regard to Genevra. He
was too proud for that, but his mother had deemed it
wise to smooth the matter over as much as possible, and
enjoin upon them both the necessity of secrecy.

“When I tell you that neither my husband nor daughters
know it, you will understand that I am greatly in
earnest in wishing it kept,” she said. “It was a most
unfortunate affair, and though the divorce is, of course,
to be lamented, it is better that she died. We never
could have received her as our equal.”

“Was anything the matter, except that she was poor?”
Mrs. Lennox asked, with as much dignity as was in her
nature to assume.

“Well, no. She had a good education, I believe, and
was very pretty; but it makes trouble always where there
is a great inequality between a husband's family and that
of his wife.”

Poor Mrs. Lennox understood this perfectly, but she
was too much afraid of the great lady to venture a reply,
and a tear rolled down her cheek as she wet the napkin
for Katy's head, and wished she had back again the
daughter whose family the Camerons despised. The atmosphere
of Madison Square did not suit Mrs Lennox,
especially when, as the days went by and Katy began to
amend, troops of gay ladies called, mistaking her for the
nurse, and staring a little curiously when told she was
Mrs. Cameron's mother. Of course Wilford chafed and
fretted at what he could not help, making himself so generally
disagreeable that Helen at last suggested returning
home. There was a faint remonstrance on his part, but
Helen did not waver in her decision, and the next day
was fixed upon for her departure.

“You don't know how I dread your going, or how
wretched I shall be without you,” Katy said, when for a
few moments they were alone. “Everything which once
made me happy has been removed or changed. Baby is
dead, and Wilford, oh! Helen, I sometimes wish I had
not heard of Genevra, for I am afraid it can never be
with us as it was once; I have not the same trust in him,
and he seems so changed.”

As well as she could, Helen comforted her sister, and

commending her to One who would care for her far more
than earthly friends could do, she bade her good-bye,
and with her mother went back to Silverton.