LINWOOD.
Morris had returned from Spencer, and in his dressing-gown and slippers
was sitting by the window of his library, looking out upon the purple
sunshine flooding the western sky, and thinking of the little girl
coming so rapidly up the grassy lane in the rear of the house. He was
going over to see her by and by, he said, and he pictured to himself how
she must look by this time, hoping that he should not find her greatly
changed, for Morris Grant’s memories were very precious of the
play-child who used to tease and worry him so much with her lessons
poorly learned, and the never-ending jokes played off upon her teacher.
He had thought of her so often when across the sea, and, knowing her
love of the beautiful, he had never looked upon a painting or scene of
rare beauty that he did not wish her by his side sharing in the
pleasure. He had brought her from that far-off land many little trophies
which he thought she would prize, and which he was going to take with
him when he went to the farm-house. He never dreamed of her coming there
to-night. She would, of course, wait for him, to call upon her first.
How then was he amazed when, just as the sun was going down and he was
watching its last rays lingering on the brow of the hill across the
pond, the library door was opened wide and the room suddenly filled with
life and joy, as a graceful figure, with reddish golden hair, bounded
across the floor, and winding its arms around his neck gave him the
hearty kiss which Katy had in her mind when she declined Aunt Betsy’s
favorite vegetable.
Morris Grant was not averse to being kissed, and yet the fact that Katy
Lennox had kissed him in such a way awoke a chill of disappointment, for
it said that to her he was the teacher still, the elder brother, whom,
as a child, she had loaded with caresses.
“Oh, Cousin Morris!” she exclaimed, “why didn’t you come over at noon,
you naughty boy! But what a splendid-looking man you’ve got to be,
though! and what do you think of me?” she added, blushing for the first
time, as he held her off from him and looked into the sunny face.
“I think you wholly unchanged,” he answered, so gravely that Katy began
to pout as she said, “And you are sorry, I know. Pray what did you
expect of me, and what would you have me be?”
“Nothing but what you are—the same Kitty as of old,” he answered, his
own bright smile breaking all over his sober face.
He saw that his manner repelled her, and he tried to be natural,
succeeding so well that Katy forgot her first disappointment, and making
him sit by her on the sofa, where she could see him distinctly, she
poured forth a volley of talk, telling him, among other things, how much
afraid of him some of his letters made her—they were so serious and so
like a sermon.
“You wrote me once that you thought of being a minister,” she added.
“Why did you change your mind? It must be splendid, I think, to be a
young clergyman—invited to so many tea-drinkings, and having all the
girls in the parish after you, as they always are after unmarried
ministers.”
Into Morris Grant’s eyes there stole a troubled light as he thought how
little Katy realized what it was to be a minister of God—to point the
people heavenward and teach them the right way. There was a moment’s
pause, and then he tried to explain to her that he hoped he had not been
influenced either by thoughts of tea-drinkings or having the parish
girls after him, but rather by an honest desire to choose the sphere in
which he could accomplish the most good.
“I did not decide rashly,” he said, “but after weeks of anxious thought
and prayer for guidance I came to the conclusion that in the practice of
medicine I could find perhaps as broad a field for good as in the
church, and so I decided to go on with my profession—to be a physician
of the poor and suffering, speaking to them of Him who came to save, and
in this way I shall not labor in vain. Many would seek another place
than Silverton and its vicinity, but something told me that my work was
here, and so I am content to stay, feeling thankful that my means admit
of my waiting for patients, if need be, and at the same time ministering
to the wants of those who are needy.”
Gradually, as he talked, there came into his face a light born only from
the peace which passeth understanding, and the awe-struck Katy crept
closer to his side and grasping his hand in hers, said softly, “Dear
cousin, what a good man you are, and how silly I must seem to you,
thinking you cared for tea-drinkings, or even girls, when, of course,
you do not.”
“Perhaps I do,” the doctor replied, slightly pressing the warm, fat hand
holding his so fast. “A minister’s or a doctor’s life would be dreary
indeed if there was no one to share it, and I have had my dreams of the
girls, or girl, who was some day to brighten my home.”
He looked fully at Katy now, but she was thinking of something else, and
her next remark was to ask him rather abruptly “how old he was?”
“Twenty-six last May,” he answered, while Katy continued, “You are not
old enough to be married yet. Wilford Cameron is thirty.”
“Where did _you_ meet Wilford Cameron?” Morris asked, in some surprise,
and then the story which Katy had not told, even to her sister, came out
in full, and Morris tried to listen patiently while Katy explained how,
on the very first day of the examination, Mrs. Woodhull had come in, and
with her the grandest, proudest-looking man, who the girls said was Mr.
Wilford Cameron, from New York, a fastidious bachelor, whose family were
noted for their wealth and exclusiveness, keeping six servants, and
living in the finest style; that Mrs. Woodhull, who all through the year
had been very kind to Katy, came to her after school and invited her
home to tea; that she had gone and met Mr. Cameron; that she was very
much afraid of him at first, and was not sure that she was quite over it
now, although he was so polite to her all through the journey, taking so
much pains to have her see the finest sights, and laughing at her
enthusiasm.
“Wilford Cameron with you in your trip?” Morris asked, a new idea
dawning on his mind.
“Yes, let me tell you,” and Katy spoke rapidly. “I saw him that night,
and then Mrs. Woodhull took me to ride with him in the carriage, and
then—well, I rode alone with him once down by the lake, and he talked to
me just as if he was not a grand man and I a little school-girl. And
when the term closed I stayed at Mrs. Woodhull’s and he was there. He
liked my playing and liked my singing, and I guess he liked me—that is,
you know—yes, he liked me _some_” and Katy twisted the fringe of her
shawl, while Morris, in spite of the pain tugging at his heart strings,
laughed aloud as he rejoined, “I have no doubt he did; but go on—what
next?”
“He said more about my joining that party than anybody, and I am very
sure _he_ paid the _bills_.”
“Oh, Katy,” and Morris started as if he had been stung. “I would rather
have given Linwood than have you thus indebted to Wilford Cameron, or
any other man.”
“I could not well help it. I did not mean any harm,” Katy said timidly,
explaining how she had shrunk from the proposition which Mrs. Woodhull
thought was right, urging it until she had consented, and telling how
kind Mr. Cameron was, and how careful not to remind her of her
indebtedness to him, attending to and anticipating every want as if she
had been his sister.
“You would like Mr. Cameron, Cousin Morris. He made me think of you a
little, only he is prouder,” and Katy’s hand moved up Morris’s coat
sleeve till it rested on his shoulder.
“Perhaps so,” Morris answered, feeling a growing resentment towards one
who it seemed to him had done him some great wrong.
But Wilford was not to blame, he reflected. He could not help admiring
the bright little Katy—and so conquering all ungenerous feelings, he
turned to her at last, and said,
“Did my little Cousin Kitty like Wilford Cameron?”
Something in Morris’s voice startled Katy strangely; her hand came down
from his shoulder, and for an instant there swept over her an emotion
similar to what she had felt when with Wilford Cameron she rambled along
the shores of Lake George, or sat alone with him on the deck of the
steamer which carried them down Lake Champlain. But Morris had always
been her brother, and she did not guess that she was more to him than a
sister, so she answered frankly at last, “I guess I did like him a
little. I couldn’t help it, Morris. You could not either, or any one. I
believe Mrs. Woodhull was more than half in love with him herself, and
she talked so much of his family; they must be very grand.”
“Yes, I know those Camerons,” was Morris’s quiet remark.
“What! You don’t know Wilford?” Katy almost screamed, and Morris
replied, “Not Wilford, no; but the mother and the sisters were in Paris,
and I met them many times.”
“What were they doing in Paris?” Katy asked, and Morris replied that he
believed the immediate object of their being there was to obtain the
best medical advice for a little orphan grand-child, a bright, beautiful
boy, to whom some terrible accident had happened in infancy, preventing
his walking entirely, and making him nearly helpless. His name was
Jamie, Morris said, and as he saw that Katy was interested, he told her
how sweet-tempered the little fellow was, how patient under suffering,
and how eagerly he listened when Morris, who at one time attended him,
told him of the Saviour and his love for little children.
“Did he get well?” Katy asked, her eyes filling with tears at the
picture Morris drew of Jamie Cameron, sitting all day long in his wheel
chair, and trying to comfort his grand-mother’s distress when the
torturing instruments for straightening his poor back were applied.
“No, he died one lovely day in October, and they buried him beneath the
bright skies of France,” Morris said, and then Katy asked about the
mother and sisters. “Were they proud, and did he like them much?”
“They were very proud,” Morris said; “but they were always civil to
him,” and Katy, had she been watching, might have seen a slight flush on
his cheek as he told her of the stately woman, Wilford’s mother, of the
haughty Juno, a beauty and a belle, and lastly of Arabella, whom the
family nicknamed Bluebell, from her excessive fondness for books, and
her contempt for the fashionable life her mother and sister led.
It was evident that neither of the young ladies were wholly to Morris’s
taste, but of the two he preferred Bluebell, for though imperious and
self-willed, she had some heart, some principle, while Juno had none.
This was Morris’s opinion, and it disturbed little Katy, as was very
perceptible from the nervous tapping of her foot upon the carpet and the
working of her hands.
“How would _I_ appear by the side of those ladies?” she suddenly asked,
her countenance changing as Morris replied that it was almost impossible
to think of her as associated with the Camerons, she was so wholly
unlike them in every respect.
“I don’t believe I shocked Wilford so very much,” Katy rejoined,
reproachfully, while again a heavy pain shot through Morris’s heart, for
he saw more and more how Wilford Cameron was mingled with every thought
of the young girl, who continued: “And if he was satisfied, his mother
and sisters will be. Any way, I don’t want you to make me feel how
different I am from them.”
There was tears now on Katy’s face, and casting aside all selfishness,
Morris wound his arm around her, and smoothing her golden hair, just as
he used to do when she was a child and came to him to be soothed, he
said, very gently,
“My poor Kitty, you do like Wilford Cameron; tell me honestly—is it not
so?”
“Yes, I guess I do,” and Katy’s voice was a half sob. “I could not help
it, either, he was so kind, so—I don’t know what, only I could not help
doing what he bade me. Why, if he had said, ‘Jump overboard, Katy
Lennox,’ I should have done it, I know—that is, if his eyes had been
upon me, they controlled me so absolutely. Can you imagine what I mean?”
“Yes, I understand. There was the same look in Bell Cameron’s eye, a
kind of mesmeric influence which commanded obedience. They idolize
Wilford, and I dare say he is worthy of their idolatry. One thing at
least is in his favor—the crippled Jamie, for whose opinion I would give
more than all the rest, seemed to worship his Uncle Will; talking of him
continually, and telling how kind he was, sometimes staying up all night
to carry him in his arms when the pain in his back was more than usually
severe. So there must be a good, kind heart in Wilford Cameron, and if
my Cousin Kitty likes him, as she says she does, and he likes her as I
believe he must, why, I hope——”
Morris Grant could not finish the sentence, for he did _not_ hope that
Wilford Cameron would win the gem he had so long coveted as his own.
He might give Kitty up because she loved another best. He was generous
enough to do that, but if he did it, she must never know how much it
cost him, and lest he should betray himself he could not to-night talk
with her longer of Wilford Cameron. It was time too for Kitty to go
home, but she did not seem to remember it until Morris suggested to her
that her mother might be uneasy if she stayed away much longer, and so
they went together across the fields, the shadows all gone from Katy’s
heart, but lying so dark and heavy around Morris Grant, who was glad
when he could leave Katy at the farm-house door and go back alone to the
quiet library, where only God could witness the mighty struggle, it was
for him to say, “Thy will be done.” And while he prayed, Katy, in her
humble bedroom, with her head nestled close to Helen’s neck, was telling
her of Wilford Cameron, who, when they went down the rapids and she had
cried with fear, had put his arm around her trying to quiet her, and who
once again, on the mountain overlooking Lake George, had held her hand a
moment, while he pointed out a splendid view seen through the opening
trees. And Helen, listening, knew that Katy’s heart was lost, and that
for Wilford Cameron to deceive her now would be a cruel thing.