University of Virginia Library

52. CHAPTER LII.
CONCLUSION.

THE scene shifts now to New York, where, one
week after that wedding in Silverton, Mark and
Helen went, together with Morris and Katy.
But not to Madison Square. That house had
been sold, and Katy saw it but once, her tears falling fast
as, driving slowly by with Morris, she gazed at the closed
doors and windows of what was once her home, and
around which lingered no pleasant memories save that it
was the birthplace of baby Cameron. Lieutenant Reynolds
had thought to buy it, but Bell said, “No, it would
not be pleasant for Katy to visit me there, and I mean
to have her with me as much as possible.” So the house
went to strangers, and a less pretentious but quite as
comfortable one was bought for Bell, so far up town that
Juno wondered how her sister would manage to exist so
far from everything, intimating that her visits would be
far between, a threat which Lieutenant Bob took quite
heroically; indeed, it rather enhanced the value of his
pleasant home than otherwise, for Juno was not a favorite,
and his equanimity was not likely to be disturbed if
she never crossed his threshold. She was throwing bait
to Arthur Grey, the man who swore he was fifty to escape
the draft, and who, now that the danger was over, would
gladly take back his oath and be forty, as he really was.
With the most freezing kiss imaginable Juno greeted
Katy, calling her “Mrs. Grant,” and treating Morris as
if he were an entire stranger, instead of the man whom
to get she would once have moved both earth and heaven.
Mrs. Cameron, too, though glad that Katy was married,
and fully approving her choice, threw into her manner
so much reserve that Katy's intercourse with her was
anything but agreeable, and she turned with alacrity to
father Cameron, who received her with open arms, calling
her his daughter, and welcoming Morris as his son,
taken in Wilford's stead. “My boy,” he frequently called

him, showing how willingly he accepted him as the husband
of one whom he loved as his child. Greatly he
wished that they should stay with him while they remained
in New York, but Katy preferred going to Mrs.
Banker's, where she would be more quiet, and avoid the
bustle and confusion attending the preparations for Bell's
wedding. It was to be a grand church affair, and to
take place during Easter week, after which the bridal
pair were going on to Washington, and if possible to
Richmond, where Bob had been a prisoner. Everything
seemed conspiring to make the occasion a joyful one, for
all through the North, from Maine to California, the air
was rife with the songs of victory and the notes of approaching
peace. But alas! He who holds our country's
destiny in his hand changed that song of gladness into a
wail of woe, which, echoing through the land, rose up to
heaven in one mighty sob of anguish, as the whole nation
bemoaned its loss. Our President was dead, and
New York was in mourning, so black, so profound, that
with a shudder Bell Cameron tossed aside the orange
wreath and said to her lover, “We will be married at
home. I cannot now go to the church, when everything
seems like one great funeral.”

And so in Mrs. Cameron's drawing-room there was a
quiet wedding, one pleasant April morning, and Bell's
plain traveling dress was far more in keeping with the
gloom which hung over the great city than her gala robes
would have been, with a long array of carriages and
merry wedding chimes. Westward they went instead of
South, and when our late lamented President was borne
back to the prairies of Illinois, they were there to greet
the noble dead, and mingle their tears with those who
knew and loved him long before the world appreciated
his worth.

Softly the May rain falls on Linwood, where the fresh
green grass is springing and the early spring flowers
blooming, and where Katy stands for a moment in the
bay window of the library, listening to the patter on the
tin roof overhead, and gazing wistfully down the road,
as if watching for some one; then turning, she enters the
dining-room and inspects the supper table, for her mother,

Aunt Hannah, and Aunt Betsy are visiting her this
rainy afternoon, while Morris, on his return from North
Silverton, is to call for Uncle Ephraim and bring him
home to tea.

Linwood is a nice place to visit, and the old ladies
enjoy it vastly, especially Aunt Betsy, who never tires of
telling what they have “over to Katy's,” and whose capeless
shaker hangs often on the hall stand, just as it hangs
now, while she, good soul, sits in the pleasant parlor, and
darns the socks for Morris, taking as much pains as if it
were a network of fine lace she was weaving, instead of
a shocking rent in some luckless heel or toe. Up stairs
there is a pleasant room which Katy calls Aunt Betsy's,
and in it is the feather bed,” which never found its way
to Madison Square. Morris himself did not think much
of feathers, but he made no objections when Aunt Betsy
insisted upon Katy's having the bed kept for so many
years, and only smiled a droll kind of smile when he one
morning met it coming up the walk in the wheelbarrow
which Uncle Ephraim trundled.

Morris and his young wife are very happy together
and Katy finds the hours of his absence very long,
especially when left alone. Even to-day the time drags
heavily, and she looks more than once from the bay window,
until at last Brownie's head is seen over the hill,
and a few moments after Morris's arm is round her
shoulders, and her lips are upturned for the kiss he gives
as he leads her into the house, chiding her for exposing
herself to the rain, and placing in her hand three letters,
which she does not open until the cozy tea is over and
her family friends have gone. Then, while her husband,
looks over his evening paper, she breaks the seals one by
one, reading first the letter from “Mrs. Bob Reynolds,”
who has returned from the West, and who is in the full
glory of her bridal calls.

“I was never so happy in my life as I am now,” she
wrote. “Instead, I did not know that a married woman
could be so happy; but then every woman has not a Bob
for her husband, which makes a vast difference. You
ought to see Juno. I know she envies me, though she
affects the utmost contempt for matrimony, and reminds
me forcibly of the fox and the grapes. You see, Arthur

Grey is a failure, so far as Juno is concerned, he having
withdrawn from the field and laid himself at the feet of
Sybil Grandon, who will be Mrs. Grey, and a bride at
Saratoga the coming summer. Juno intends going too,
as the bridesmaid of the party; but every year her chances
lessen, and I have very little hope that father will
ever call other than Bob his son, always excepting Morris,
of course, whom he has adopted in place of Wilford.
You don't know, Katy, how much father thinks of you,
blessing the day which brought you to us, and saying
that if he is ever saved, he shall in a great measure owe
it to your influence and consistent life after the great
trouble came upon you,”

There were tears in Katy's eyes as she read this letter
from Bell, and with a mental prayer of thanksgiving that
she had been of any use in guiding even one to the Shepherd's
Fold, she took next the letter whose superscription
brought back so vividly to her mind the daisy-covered
grave in Alnwick. Marian, who was now at Annapolis,
caring for the returned prisoners, did not write often,
and her letters were prized the more by Katy, who read
with a beating heart the kind congratulations upon her
recent marriage, sent by Marian Hazelton.

For a long time Katy held this letter in her hand, wondering
if the sorrowful woman whose life was once so
strangely blended with that of Marian Hazelton, could be
the Katy Grant who sat by the evening fire at Linwood,
with the sunshine of perfect happiness resting on her
heart. “Truly He doeth all things well to those who wait
upon Him,” she thought, as she laid down Marian's letter
and took up the third and last, Helen's letter, dated at
Fortress Monroe, whither, with Mark Ray, she had gone
just after Bell Cameron's bridal.

“You cannot imagine,” Helen wrote, “the feelings of
awe and even terror which steal over me the nearer I get to
the seat of war, and the more I realize the bloody strife
we have been engaged in, and which, thank God, has now
nearly ceased. You have heard of John Jennings, the noble
man who saved my dear husband's life, and of Aunt
Bab, who helped in the good work? Both are here, and
I never saw Mark more pleased than when seized around
the neck by two long brawny arms, while a cheery voice
called out: `Hallow, old chap, has you done forgot John
Jennins?' I verily believe Mark cried, and I know I
did, especially when old Bab came up and shook `young
misses' hand.' I kissed her, Katy—all black, and rough,
and uncouth as she was. I wish you could see how grateful
the old creature is for every act of kindness. When we
come home again, both John and Bab will come with us,
though what we shall do with John, is more than I can
tell. Mark says he shall employ him about the office, and
this I know will delight Tom Tubbs, who has again made
friends with Chitty, and who will almost worship John
as having saved Mark's life. Aunt Bab shall have an
honored seat by the kitchen fire, and a pleasant room all
to herself, working only when she likes, and doing as she
pleases.

“Did I tell you that Mattie Tubbs was to be my seamstress?
I am getting together a curious household, you
will say; but I like to have those about me to whom I
can do the greatest amount of good, and as I happen to
know how much Mattie admires `the Lennox girls,' I did
not hesitate to take her.

“We stopped at Annapolis on our way here, and I shall
never forget the pale, worn faces, nor the great sunken

eyes which looked at me so wistfully as I went from cot
to cot, speaking words of cheer to the sufferers, some of
whom were Mark's companions in prison, and whose eyes
lighted up with joy as they recognized him and heard of
his escape. There are several nurses here, but no words
of mine can tell what one of them is to the poor fellows,
or how eagerly they watch for her coming, following her
with greedy glances as she moves about the room, and
holding her hand with a firm clasp, as if they would keep
her with them always. Indeed, more than one heart, as
I am told, has confessed its allegiance to her; but she
answers all the same, `I have no love to give. It died
out long ago, and cannot be recalled.' You can guess
who she is, Katy. The soldiers call her an angel, but
we know her as Marian.”

There were great tear blots upon that letter as Katy
put it aside, and nestling close to Morris, laid her head
upon his knee, where his hand could smooth her golden
curls, while she pondered Helen's closing words, thinking
how much they expressed, and how just a tribute
they were to the noble woman whose life had been one
constant sacrifice of self for another's good—“The soldiers
call her an angel, but we know her as Marian.”