 | CHAPTER XLVII.
DOCTOR GRANT. The Cameron pride, or, Purified by suffering |  |
47. CHAPTER XLVII.
DOCTOR GRANT.
MORRIS had served out his time as surgeon in
the army, had added to it an extra six months;
and by his humanity, his skill, and Christian
kindness, made for himself a name which would
be long remembered by the living to whom he had ministered
blessed him for pointing out the way which leadeth to
the life everlasting; and in many a mourning family
his name was a household word, for the good he had
done to a dying son and brother. But Morris's hospital
work was over. He had gone a little too far, and incurred
too much risk, until his own strength had failed; and
now, in the month of June, when Linwood was bright
with the early summer blossoms, he was coming back
with health greatly impaired, and a dark cloud before
his vision, so that he could not see how beautiful his
home was looking, or gaze into the faces of those who
waited so anxiously to welcome their beloved physician.
Blind some said he was; but the few lines sent to
Helen, announcing the day of his arrival, contradicted
that report. His eyes were very much diseased, his
amanuensis wrote; but he trusted that the pure air of his
native hills, and the influence of old scenes and associations
would soon effect a cure. “If not too much trouble,”
he added, “please see that the house is made comfortable,
and have John meet me on Friday at the station.”
Helen was glad Morris was coming home, for he always
did her good; he could comfort her better than any
one else, unless it were Katy, whose loving, gentle words
of hope were very soothing to her.
“Poor Morris!” she sighed, as she finished his letter,
and then took it to the family, who were sitting upon the
pleasant piazza, which, at Katy's expense and her own,
had been added to the house, and overlooked Fairy Pond
and the pleasant hills beyond.
“Morris is coming home,” she said. “He will be here
on Friday, and he wishes us to see that all things are in
order at Linwood for his reception. His eyes are badly
diseased, but he hopes that coming back to us will cure
him,” she added, glancing at Katy, who sat upon a step
of the piazza, her hands folded together upon her lap, and
her blue eyes looking far off into the fading sunset.
When she heard Morris's name, she turned her head
a little, so that the ripple of her golden hair was more
distinctly visible beneath the silken net she wore; but she
made no comment nor showed by any sign that she heard
what they were saying. Katy was very lovely and consistent
gossip had the Silvertonians coupled with her name since
she came to them, leaving her husband in Greenwood.
There had been no parading of her grief before the
public, or assumption of greater sorrow than many others
had known; but the soberness of her demeanor, and the
calm, subdued expression of her face, attested to what she
had suffered. Sixteen months had passed since Wilford
died, and she still wore her deep mourning weeds, except
the widow's cap, which, at her mother's and Aunt Betsy's
earnest solicitations, she had laid aside, substituting in
its place a simple net, which confined her waving hair
and kept it from breaking out in flowing curls, as it was
disposed to do.
Katy had never been prettier than she was now, in her
mature womanhood, and to the poor and sorrowful whose
homes she cheered so often she was an angel of goodness.
Truly she had been purified by suffering; the dross
had been burned out, and only the gold remained, shedding
its brightness on all with which it came in contact.
They would miss her at the farm-house now more than
they did when she first went away, for she made the sunshine
of their home, filling Helen's place when she was
in New York, and when she came back proving to her a
stay and comforter. Indeed, but for Katy's presence
Helen often felt that she could not endure the sickening
suspense and doubt which hung so darkly over her husband's
fate.
“He is alive; he will come back,” Katy always said,
and from her perfect faith Helen, too, caught a glimpse
of hope.
Could they have forgotten Mark they would have been
very happy at the farm-house now, for with the budding
spring and blossoming summer Katy's spirits had returned,
and her old musical laugh rang through the
house just as it used to do in the happy days of girlhood,
while the same silvery voice which led the choir
in the brick church, and sang with the little children
their Sunday hymns, often broke forth into snatches of
songs, which made even the robins listen, as they built
their nests in the trees.
If Katy thought of Morris, she never spoke of him
when she could help it. It was a morbid fancy to which
she clung, that duty to Wilford's memory required her
to avoid the man who had so innocently come between
them; and when she heard he was coming home she felt
more pain than pleasure, though for an instant the blood
throbbed through her veins as she thought of Morris at
Linwood, just as he used to be.
The day of his return was balmy and beautiful, and at
an early hour Helen went over to Linwood to see that
everything was in order for his arrival, while Katy followed
at a later hour, wondering if Wilford would object
if he knew she was going to welcome Morris, who might
misconstrue her motives if she staid away.
There was very little for her to do, Helen and Mrs.
Hull having done all that was necessary, but she went
from room to room, lingering longest in Morris's own
apartment, where she made some alterations in the arrangement
of the furniture, putting one chair a little
more to the right, and pushing a stand or table to the
left, just as her artistic eye dictated. By some oversight
no flowers had been put in there, but Katy gathered a
bouquet and left it on the mantel, just where she remembered
to have seen flowers when Morris was at home.
“He will be tired,” she said. “He will lie down after
dinner,” and she laid a few sweet English violets upon
his pillow, thinking their perfume might be grateful to
him after the pent-up air of the hospital and cars. “He
will think Helen put them there, or Mrs. Hull,” she
thought, as she stole softly out and shut the door behind
her, glancing next at the clock, and feeling a little impatient
that a whole hour must elapse before they could expect
him.
Poor Morris! he did not dream how anxiously he was
waited for at home, nor of the crowd assembled at the
depot to welcome back the loved physician, whose name
they had so often heard coupled with praise as a true
hero, even though his post was not in the front of the
battle. Thousands had been cared for by him, their gaping
wounds dressed skillfully, their aching heads soothed
tenderly, and their last moments made happier by the
words he spoke to them of the world to which they were
blood. In the churchyard at Silverton there were three
soldiers' graves, whose pale occupants had died with
Dr. Grant's hand held tightly in theirs, as if afraid
that he would leave them before the dark river was
crossed, while in more than one Silverton home there was
a wasted soldier, who never tired of telling Dr. Morris's
praise and dwelling on his goodness. But Dr. Morris
was not thinking of this as, faint and sick, with the
green shade before his eyes, he leaned against the pile
of shawls his companion had placed for his back, and
wondered if they were almost there.
“I smell the pond lilies; we must be near Silverton,”
he said, and a sigh escaped him as he thought of coming
home and not being able to see it or the woods and fields
around it. “Thy will be done,” he had said many times
since the fear first crept into his heart that for him the
light had faded.
But now, when home was almost reached, and he began
to breathe the air from the New England hills and
the perfume of the New England lilies, the flesh rebelled
again, and he cried out within himself, “Oh, I cannot be
blind! God will not deal thus by me!” while keen as
the cut of a sharpened knife was the pang with which he
thought of Katy, and wondered would she care if he were
blind.
Just then the long train stopped at Silverton, and, led
by his attendant, he stepped feebly into the crowd, which
sent up deafening cheers for Dr. Grant come home again.
At the sight of his helplessness, however, a feeling of awe
fell upon them, and whispering to each other, “I did not
suppose he was so bad,” they pressed around him, offering
their hands and inquiring anxiously how he was.
“I have been sick, but I shall get better now. The
very sound of your friendly voices does me good,” he
said, as he went slowly to his carriage, led by Uncle
Ephraim, who could not keep back his tears when he
saw how weak Morris was, and how he panted for breath
as he leaned back among the cushions.
It was very pleasant that afternoon, and Morris enjoyed
the drive so much, assuring Uncle Ephraim, that he
was growing better every moment. He did seem stronger
up the steps where Helen Katy, and Mrs. Hull were
waiting for him. He could not by sight distinguish one
from the other, but without the aid of her voice he would
have known when Katy's hand was put in his, it was so
small, so soft, and trembled so as he held it. She forgot
Wilford in her excitement. Pity was the strongest feeling
of which she was conscious, and it manifested itself
in various ways.
Let me lead you, Cousin Morris,” she said, as she saw
him groping his way to his room, and without waiting for
his reply, she held his hand again in hers and led him
to his room, where the English violets were.
“I used to lead you,” Morris said, as he took his seat
by the window, “and I little thought then that you would
one day return the compliment. It is very hard to be
blind.”
The tone of his voice was inexpressibly sad, but his
smile was as cheerful as ever as his face turned towards
Katy, who could not answer for her tears. It seemed so
terrible to see a strong man so stricken, and that strong
man Morris—terrible to watch him in his helplessness,
trying to appear as of old, so as to cast on others no part
of the shadow resting so darkly on himself. When dinner
was over and the sun began to decline, many of his former
friends came in; but he looked so pale and weary
that they did not tarry long, and when the last one was
gone, Morris was led back to his room, which he did not
leave again until the summer was over, and the luscious
fruits of September were ripening upon the trees.
Towards the middle of July, Helen, whose health was
suffering from her anxiety concerning Mark, was taken
by Mrs. Banker to Nahant, where Mark's sister, Mrs.
Ernst, was spending the summer, and thus on Katy fell
the duty of paying to Morris those acts of sisterly attention
such as no other member of the family knew how to
pay. In the room where he lay so helpless Katy was not
afraid of him, nor did she deem herself faithless to Wilford's
memory, because each day found her at Linwood,
sometimes bathing Morris's inflamed eyes, sometimes
bringing him the cooling drink, and again reading to him
by the hour, until, soothed by the music of her voice, he
sing.
“My eyes are getting better,” he said to her one day toward
the latter part of August, when she came as usual
to his room. “I knew last night that Mrs. Hull's dress
was blue, and I saw the sun shine through the shutters.
Very soon, I hope to see you, Katy, and know if you
have changed.”
She was standing close by him, and as he talked he
raised his hand to rest it on her head, but, with a sudden
movement, Katy eluded the touch, and stepped a little
further from him.
When next she went to Linwood there was in her maner
a shade of dignity, which both amused and interested
Morris. He did not know for certain that Wilford had
told Katy of the confession made that memorable night
when her recovery seemed so doubtful, but he more than
half suspected it from the shyness of her manner, and
from the various excuses she began to make for not coming
to Linwood as often as she had heretofore done.
In his great pity for Katy when she was first a widow,
Morris had scarcely remembered that she was free, or if
it did flash upon his mind, he thrust the thought aside
as injustice to the dead; but as the months and the year
went by, and he heard constantly from Helen of Katy's
increasing cheerfulness, it was not in his nature never to
think of what might be, and more than once he had
prayed, that if consistent with his Father's will, the
woman he had loved so well, should yet be his. If not,
he could go his way alone, just as he had always done,
knowing that it was right.
Such was the state of Morris's mind when he returned
from Washington, but now it was somewhat different.
The weary weeks of sickness, during which Katy had
ministered to him so kindly, had not been without their
effect, and if Morris had loved the frolicsome, child-like
Katy Lennox, he loved far more the gentle, beautiful
woman, whose character had been so wonderfully developed
by suffering, and who was more worthy of his
love than in her early girlhood.
“I cannot lose her now,” was the thought constantly in
Morris's mind, as he experienced more and more how desolate
“It is twenty months since Wilford died,” he said to
himself one wet October afternoon, when he sat listening
dreamily to the patter of the rain falling upon the windows,
and looking occasionally across the fields to the
farm-house, in the hope of spying in the distance the
little airy form, which, in its water-proof and cloud,
had braved worse storms than this at the time he was so
ill.
But no such figure appeared. He hardly expected it
would; but he watched the pathway just the same, and
the smoke-wreaths rising so high above the farm-house.
The deacon burned out his chimney that day, and Morris,
whose sight had greatly improved of late, knew it by the
dense, black volume of smoke, mingled with rings of fire,
which rose above the roof, remembering so well another
rainy day, twenty years ago, when the deacon's chimney
was cleaned, and a little toddling girl, in scarlet gown
and white pinafore, had amused herself with throwing
into the blazing fire upon the hearth a straw at a time,
almost upsetting herself with standing so far back, and
making such efforts to reach the flames. A great deal
had passed since then. The little girl in the pinafore had
been both wife and mother. She was a widow now, and
Morris glanced across his hearth toward the empty chair
he had never seen in imagination filled by any but herself.
“Surely, she would some day be his own,” and leaning
his head upon the cane he carried, he prayed earnestly
for the good he coveted, keeping his head down so long
that, until it had left the strip of woods and emerged into
the open fields, he did not see the figure wrapped in
water-proof and hood, with a huge umbrella over its
head and a basket upon its arm, which came picking its
way daintily toward the house, stopping occasionally,
and lifting up the little high-heeled Balmoral, which the
mud was ruining so completely. Katy was coming to
Linwood. It had been baking-day at the farm-house,
and remembering how much Morris used to love her
custards, Aunt Betsy had prepared him some, and asked
Katy to take them over, so he could have them for tea.
“The rain won't hurt you an atom,” she said as Katy
can wear your water-proof boots and my shaker, if you
like, and I do so want Morris to have them to-night.”
Thus importuned, Katy consented to go, but declined
the loan of Aunt Betsy's shaker, which being large of the
kind, and capeless, too, was not the most becoming head-gear
a woman could wear. With the basket of custards,
and cup of jelly, Katy finally started, Aunt Betsy saying
to her, as she stopped to take up her dress, “It must be
dretful lonesome for Morris to-day. S'posin' you stay to
supper with him, and when it's growin' dark I'll come
over for you. You'll find the custards fust rate.”
Katy made no reply, and walked away, while Aunt
Betsy went back to the coat she was patching for her
brother, saying to herself,
“I'm bound to fetch that round. It's a shame for two
young folks, just fitted to each other, to live apart when
they might be so happy, with Hannah, and Lucy, and me,
close by, to see to 'em, and allus make their soap, and
see to the butcherin', besides savin' peneryle and catnip
for the children, if there was any.”
Aunt Betsy had turned match-maker in her old age,
and day and night she planned how to bring about the
match between Morris and Katy. That they were made
for each other, she had no doubt. From something
which Helen inadvertently let fall, she had guessed that
Morris loved Katy prior to her marriage with Wilford.
She had suspected as much before; she was sure of it
now, and straightway put her wits to work “to make it
go,” as she expressed it. But Katy was too shy to suit
her, and since Morris's convalescence, had staid too much
from Linwood. To-day, however, Aunt Betsy “felt it in
her bones,” that if properly managed something would
happen, and the custards were but the means to the desired
end. With no suspicion whatever of the good
dame's intentions, Katy picked her way to Linwood, and
leaving her damp garments in the hall, went at once into
the library, where Morris was sitting near to a large
chair kept sacred for her, his face looking unusually cheerful,
and the room unusually pleasant, with the bright
wood fire on the hearth.
“I have been so lonely, with no company but the rain,”
her sit near the fire, where she could dry her feet.
Katy obeyed, and sat down so near to him that had he
chosen he might have touched the golden hair, fastened
in heavy coils low on her neck, and giving to her a very
girlish appearance, as Morris thought, for he could see
her now, and while she dried her feet he looked at her
eagerly, wondering that the fierce storm she had encountered
had left so few traces upon her face. Just about
the mouth there was a deep cut line, but this was all; the
remainder of the face was fair and smooth as in her early
girlhood, and far more beautiful, just as her character
was lovelier, and more to be admired.
Morris had done well to wait if he could win her now.
Perhaps he thought so, too, and this was why his spirits
became so gay as he kept talking to her, suggesting at
last that she should stay to tea. The rain was falling in
torrents when he made the proposition. She could not
go then, even had she wished it, and though it was earlier
than his usual time, Morris at once rang for Mrs. Hull,
and ordered that tea be served as soon possible.
“I ought not to stay. It is not proper,” Katy kept
thinking, as she fidgeted in her chair, and watched the
girl setting the table for two, and occasionally deferring
some debatable point to her as if she were mistress there.
“You can go now, Reekie,” Morris said, when the
boiling water was poured into the silver kettle, and tea
was on the table. “If we need you we will ring.”
With a vague wonder as to who would toast the doctor's
bread, and butter it, Reekie departed, and the two
were left together. It was Katy who toasted the bread,
kneeling upon the hearth, burning her face and scorching
the bread in her nervousness at the novel position in
which she so unexpectedly found herself. It was Katy,
too, who prepared Morris's tea, and tried to eat, but
could not. She was not hungry, she said, and the custard
was the only thing she tasted, besides the tea, which
she sipped at frequent intervals so as to make Morris
think she was eating more than she was. But Morris
was not deceived, nor disheartened. Possibly she suspected
his intention, and if so, the sooner he reached the
point the better. So when the tea equipage was put
said,
“No, Katy, you can't go yet, till I have said what's in
my mind to say,” and laying his hand upon her shoulder
he made her sit down beside him and listen while he told
her of the love he had borne for her long before she knew
the meaning of that word as she knew it now—of the
struggle to keep that love in bounds after its indulgence
was a sin; of his temptations and victories, of his sincere
regret for Wilford, and of his deep respect for her
grief, which made her for a time as a sister to him. But
that time had passed. She was not his sister now, nor
ever could be again. She was Katy, dearer, more precious,
more desired even than before another called her
wife, and he asked her to be his, to come up there to
Linwood and live with him, making the rainy days
brighter, balmier, than the sunniest had ever been, and
helping him in his work of caring for the poor and sick
around them.
“Will Katy come? Will she be the wife of Cousin
Morris?”
There was a world of pathos and pleading in the voice
which asked this question, just as there was a world of
tenderness in the manner with which Morris caressed
and fondled the bowed head resting on the chair arm.
And Katy felt it all, understanding what it was to be
offered such a love as Morris offered, but only comprehending
in part what it would be to refuse that love.
For her blinded judgment said she must refuse it.
Had there been no sad memories springing from that
grave in Greenwood, no bitter reminiscences connected
with her married life—had Wilford never heard of Morris's
love and taunted her with it, she might perhaps
consent, for she craved the rest there would be with
Morris to lean upon. But the happiness was too great
for her to accept. It would seem too much like faithlessness
to Wilford, too much as if he had been right,
when he charged her with preferring Morris to himself.
“It cannot be;—oh, Morris, it cannot be,” she sobbed,
when he pressed her for an answer. “Don't ask me
why—don't ever mention it again, for I tell you it cannot
for you, so sorry! I wish you had never loved me, for
it cannot be.”
She writhed herself from the arms which tried to detain
her, and rising to her feet left the room suddenly,
and throwing on her wrappings quitted the house without
another word, leaving basket and umbrella behind,
and never knowing she had left them, or how the rain
was pouring down upon her unsheltered person, until, as
she entered the narrow strip of woodland, she was met
by Aunt Betsy, who exclaimed at seeing her, and asked,
“What has become of your umberell? Your silk one
too. It's hopeful you haven't lost it. What has happened
you?” and coming closer to Katy, Aunt Betsy
looked searchingly in her face. It was not so dark that
she could not see the traces of recent tears, and instinctively
suspecting their nature she continued, “Catherine,
have you gin Morris the mitten?”
“Aunt Betsy, is it possible that you and Morris contrived
this plan?” Katy asked, half indignantly, as she
began in part to understand her aunt's great anxiety
for her to visit Linwood that afternoon.
“Morris had nothing to do with it,” Aunt Betsy replied.
“It was my doin's wholly, and this is the thanks
I git. You quarrel with him and git mad at me, who
thought only of your good. Catherine, you know you
like Morris Grant, and if he asked you to have him why
don't you?”
“I can't, Aunt Betsy. I can't, after all that has
passed. It would be unjust to Wilford.”
“Unjust to Wilford—fiddlesticks!” was Aunt Betsy's
expressive reply, as she started on toward Linwood, saying,
“she was going after the umberell before it got
lost, with nobody there to tend to things as they should
be tended to. Have you any word to send?” she asked,
hoping Katy had relented.
But Katy had not; and with a toss of her head, which
shook the rain drops from her capeless shaker, Aunt
Betsy went on her way, and was soon confronting Morris,
sitting just where Katy had left him, and looking
very pale and sad.
He was not glad to see Aunt Betsy. He would rather
still his throbbing heart. But with his usual affability,
he bade Aunt Betsy sit down, shivering a little when he
saw her in the chair where Katy had sat, her thin,
angular body presenting a striking contrast to the graceful,
girlish figure which had sat there an hour since, and
the huge India rubbers she held up to the fire, as unlike
as possible to the boot of fairy dimensions he had admired
so much when it was drying on the hearth.
“I met Catherine,” Aunt Betsy began, “and mistrusted
at once that something was to pay, for a girl don't
leave her umberell in such a rain and go cryin' home
for nothin'.”
Morris colored, resenting for an instant this interference
by a third party; but Aunt Betsy was so honest
and simple-hearted, that he could not be angry long,
and he listened calmly, while she continued,
“I have not lived sixty odd years for nothing, and I
know the signs pretty well. I've been through the mill
myself.”
Here Aunt Betsy's voice grew lower in its tone, and
Morris looked up with real interest, while she went on,
“There's Joel Upham—you know Joel—keeps a tin-shop
now, and seats the folks in meetin'. He asked me
once for my company, and to be smart I told him no,
when all the time I meant yes, thinkin' he would ask
agin; but he didn't, and the next I knew he was keepin'
company with Patty Adams, now his wife. I remembered
I sniveled a little at being taken at my word, but
it served me right, for saying one thing when I meant
another. However, it don't matter now. Joel is as
clever as the day is long, but he is a shiftless critter,
never splits his kindlins till jest bedtime, and Patty is
pestered to death for wood, while his snorin' nights she
says is awful, and that I never could abide; so, on the
whole, I'm better off than Patty.”
Morris laughed a loud, hearty laugh, which emboldened
his visitor to say more than she had intended saying.
“You just ask her agin. Once ain't nothing at all,
and she'll come to. She likes you; 'taint that which
made her say no. It's some foolish idea about faithfulness
faithful. They never orto have had one another,—never;
and now that he is well in Heaven, as I do suppose he
is, it ain't I who hanker for him to come back. Neither
does Katy, and all she needs is a little urging, to tell
you yes. So ask her again, will you?”
“I think it very doubtful. Katy knew what she
was doing, and meant what she said,” Morris replied;
and with the consoling remark that if young
folks would be fools it was none of her business to bother
with them, Aunt Betsy pinned her shawl across her
chest, and hunting up both basket and umbrella, bade
Morris good night, and went back across the fields to
the farm-house, hearing from Mrs. Lennox that Katy had
gone to bed with a racking headache.
| CHAPTER XLVII.
DOCTOR GRANT. The Cameron pride, or, Purified by suffering | |