WILFORD’S VISIT.
Wilford had made the last change of cars, and when he stopped again it
would be at Silverton. He did not expect any one to meet him, but as he
remembered the man whom he had seen greeting Katy, he thought it not
unlikely that he might be there now, laughing to himself as he pictured
his mother’s horror, could she see him riding along in the corn-colored
vehicle which Uncle Ephraim drove. But that vehicle was safe at home
beneath the shed, while Uncle Ephraim was laying a stone wall upon the
huckleberry hill, and the handsome carriage waiting at Silverton depot
was certainly unexceptionable; while in the young man who, as the train
stopped and Wilford stepped out upon the platform, came to meet him,
asking if he were Mr. Cameron, Wilford recognized the true gentleman,
and his spirits rose at once as Morris said to him, “I am Miss Lennox’s
cousin, deputed by her to take charge of you for a time.”
Wilford had heard of Dr. Morris Grant and of his kindness to poor little
Jamie, who died in Paris; he had heard too that his proud sister Juno
had tried her powers of coquetry in vain upon the grave American; but he
had no suspicion that his new acquaintance was the one until Morris
mentioned having met his family in France and inquired after their
welfare.
After that the conversation became very familiar, and the ride seemed so
short that Wilford was surprised when, as they turned a corner in the
sandy road, Morris pointed to the farm-house, saying: “We are almost
there—that is the place.”
“_That!_” and Wilford’s voice indicated his disappointment, for in all
his mental pictures of Katy Lennox’s home he had never imagined anything
like this.
Large, rambling and weird-like, with something lofty and imposing, just
because it was so ancient, was the house he had in his mind, and he
could not conceal his chagrin as his eye took in the small, low
building, with its high windows and tiny panes of glass, paintless and
blindless, standing there alone among the hills. Morris understood it
perfectly; but without seeming to notice it, remarked, “It is the oldest
house probably in the country, and should be invaluable on that account.
I think we Americans are too fond of change and too much inclined to
throw aside all that reminds us of the past. Now I like the farm-house
just because it is old and unpretentious.”
“Yes, certainly,” Wilford answered, looking ruefully around him at the
stone wall, half tumbled down, the tall well-sweep, and the patch of
sun-flowers in the garden, with Aunt Betsy bending behind them, picking
tomatoes for dinner, and shading her eyes with her hand to look at him
as he drove up.
It was all very rural, no doubt, and very charming to people who liked
it, but Wilford did _not_ like it, and he was wishing himself safely in
New York when a golden head flashed for an instant before the window and
then disappeared as Katy emerged into view, waiting at the door to
receive him and looking so sweetly in her dress of white with the
scarlet geranium blossoms in her hair that Wilford forgot the homeliness
of the surroundings, thinking only of her and how soft and warm was the
little hand he held as she led him into the parlor. He did not know she
was so beautiful, he said to himself, and he feasted his eyes upon her,
forgetful for a time of all else. But afterwards, when Katy left him for
a moment, he had time to observe the well-worn carpet, the six
cane-seated chairs, large stuffed rocking-chair, the fall-leaf table,
with its plain wool spread, and lastly the really expensive piano, the
only handsome piece of furniture the room contained, and which he
rightly guessed must have come from Morris.
“What _would_ Juno or Mark say?” he kept repeating to himself half
shuddering as he recalled the bantering proposition to accompany him
made by Mark Ray, the only young man whom he considered fully his equal
in New York.
Wilford knew these feelings were unworthy of him, and he tried to shake
them off, listlessly turning over the books upon the table—books which
betokened in someone both taste and talent of no low order.
“Mark’s favorite,” he said, lifting up a volume of Schiller; and turning
to the fly-leaf he read, “Helen Lennox, from Cousin Morris,” just as
Katy returned with her sister, whom she presented to the stranger.
Helen was prepared to like him because Katy did, and her first thought
was that he was very fine looking; but when she met his cold, proud
eyes, and knew how closely he was scrutinizing her, there arose in her
heart a feeling of dislike which she could never wholly conquer. He was
very polite to her, but something in his manner annoyed and irritated
her, it was so cool, so condescending, as if he endured her merely
because she was Katy’s sister, nothing more.
“Rather pretty, more character than Katy, but odd and self-willed, with
no kind of style,” was Wilford’s running comment on Helen as he took her
in from the plain arrangement of her dark hair to the fit of her French
calico and the cut of her linen collar.
Fashionable dress would improve her very much, he thought, turning with
a feeling of relief to Katy, whom nothing could disfigure, and who was
now watching the door eagerly for the entrance of her mother. That lady
had spent a good deal of time at her toilet, and she came in at last,
flurried, fidgety, and very red, both from exercise and the bright-hued
ribbons streaming from her cap and sadly at variance with the color of
the dress. Wilford noticed the discrepancy at once, and noticed too how
little style there was about the nervous woman greeting him so
deferentially, and evidently regarding him as something infinitely
superior to herself. Wilford had looked with indifference on Helen, but
it would take a stronger word to express his opinion of the mother.
Morris, who remained to dinner, was in the parlor now, and in his
presence Wilford felt more at ease, more as if he had found an affinity.
Uncle Ephraim was not there, having eaten his bowl of milk and gone back
to his stone wall, so that upon Morris devolved the duties of host, and
he courteously led the way to the little dining-room, where the table
was loaded with the good things Aunt Hannah had prepared, burning and
browning her wrinkled face, which nevertheless smiled pleasantly upon
the stranger presented as Mr. Cameron.
About Aunt Hannah there was something naturally lady-like, and Wilford
recognized it at once; but when it came to Aunt Betsy, of whom he had
never heard, he felt for a moment as if by being there in such
promiscuous company he had somehow fallen from the Camerons’ high
estate. By way of pleasing the girls and doing honor to their guest,
Aunt Betsy had donned her very best attire, wearing the slate-colored
pongee dress, bought twenty years before, and actually sporting a set of
Helen’s cast-off hoops, which being too large for the dimensions of her
scanty skirt, gave her anything but the graceful appearance she
intended.
“Oh, auntie!” was Katy’s involuntary exclamation, while Helen bit her
lip with vexation, for the _hoop_ had been an afterthought to Aunt Betsy
just before going in to dinner.
But the good old lady never dreamed of shocking anyone with her attempts
at fashion; and curtsying very low to Mr. Cameron, she hoped for a
better acquaintance, and then took her seat at the table, just where
each movement could be distinctly seen by Wilford, scanning her so
intently as scarcely to hear the reverent words with which Morris asked
a blessing upon themselves and the food so abundantly prepared. They
could hardly have gotten through that first dinner without Morris, who
adroitly led the conversation into channels which he knew would interest
Mr. Cameron, and divert his mind from what was passing around him, and
so the dinner proceeded quietly enough, Wilford discovering, ere its
close, that Mrs. Lennox had really some pretensions to a lady, while
Helen’s dress and collar ceased to be obnoxious, as he watched the play
of her fine features and saw her eyes kindle as she took a modest part
in the conversation when it turned on books and literature.
Meanwhile Katy kept very silent, but when, after dinner was over and
Morris was gone, she went with Wilford down to the shore of the pond,
her tongue was loosed, and he found again the little fairy who had so
bewitched him a few weeks before. And yet there was a load upon his
heart, a shadow upon his brow, for he knew now that between Katy’s
family and his there was a social gulf which never could be crossed by
either party. He might bear Katy over, it was true, but would she not
look longingly back to her humble home, and might he not sometimes be
greatly chagrined by the sudden appearing of some one of this low-bred
family who did not seem to realize how ignorant they were, or how far
below him in the social scale? Poor Wilford! he winced and shivered when
he thought of Aunt Betsy, in her antiquated pongee, and remembered that
she was a near relative of the little maiden sporting so playfully
around him, stealing his heart away in spite of his family pride, and
making him more deeply in love than ever. It was very pleasant down by
the pond, and Wilford kept Katy there until the sun was going down and
they heard in the distance the tinkle of a bell as the deacon’s cows
plodded slowly homeward. Supper was waiting for them, and with his
appetite sharpened by his walk, Wilford found no cause of complaint
against Aunt Hannah’s viands, though he smiled mentally as he accepted
the piece of apple pie Aunt Betsy offered him, saying, by way of
recommendation, that “she made the crust but _Catherine_ peeled and
sliced the apples.”
The deacon had not returned from his work, and Wilford did not see him
until he came suddenly upon him, seated in the wood-shed door, resting
after the labor of the day. “The young man was welcome to Silverton,” he
said, “but he must excuse him from visitin’ much that night, for the
cows was to milk and the chores to do, as he never kep’ no boy.” The
“chores” were done at last, just as the clock pointed to half-past
eight, the hour for family worship. Unaccustomed as Wilford was to such
things, he felt the influence of the deacon’s voice as he read from the
word of God, and involuntarily found himself kneeling when Katy knelt,
noticing the deacon’s grammar it is true, but still listening patiently
to the lengthy prayer, which included him together with the rest of
mankind.
There was no chance of seeing Katy alone, that night, and so full two
hours before his usual custom Wilford retired to the little room to
which the deacon conducted him, saying, as he put down the lamp, “You’ll
find it pretty snug quarters, I guess, for such a close, muggy night as
this.”
And truly they were snug quarters, Wilford thought, as he surveyed the
dimensions of the room; but there was no alternative, and a few moments
found him in the centre of the two feather beds, neither Helen nor Katy
having discovered the addition made by Aunt Betsy, and which came near
being the death of the New York guest. To sleep was impossible, and
never for a moment did Wilford lose his consciousness or forget to
accuse himself of being an idiot for coming into that heathenish
neighborhood after a wife when in New York there were so many girls
ready and waiting for him.
“I’ll go back to-morrow morning,” he said, striking a match he consulted
his Railway Guide to find when the first train passed Silverton, feeling
comforted to know that only a few hours intervened between him and
freedom.
But alas for Wilford! He was but a man, subject to man’s caprices, and
when next morning he met Katy Lennox, looking in her light muslin as
pure and fair as the white blossoms twined in her wavy hair, his
resolution began to waver. Perhaps there was a decent hotel in
Silverton; he would inquire of Dr. Grant; at all events he would not
take the first train, though he might the next; and so he stayed, eating
fried apples and beefsteak, but forgetting to criticise, in his
appreciation of the rich thick cream poured into his coffee, and the
sweet, golden butter, which melted in soft waves upon the flaky rolls.
Again Uncle Ephraim was absent, having gone to mill before Wilford left
his room, nor was he visible to the young man until after dinner, for
Wilford did not go home, but drove instead with Katy in the carriage
which Morris sent round, excusing himself from coming on the plea of
being too busy, but saying he would join them at tea, if possible.
Wilford’s mind was not yet fully made up, so he concluded to remain
another day and see more of Katy’s family. Accordingly, after dinner, he
bent his energies to cultivating them all, from Helen down to Aunt
Betsy, who proved the most transparent of the four. Arrayed again in the
pongee, but this time without the hoop, she came into the parlor,
bringing her calico patch-work, which she informed him was pieced in the
“herrin’ bone pattern” and intended for Katy; telling him further, that
the feather bed on which he slept was also a part of “Catherine’s
setting out,” and was made from feathers she picked herself, showing him
as proof a mark upon her arm, left there by the gray goose, which had
proved a little refractory when she tried to draw a stocking over its
head.
Wilford groaned and Katy’s chance for being Mrs. Cameron was growing
constantly less and less as he saw more and more how vast was the
difference between the Barlows and himself. Helen, he acknowledged, was
passable, though she was not one whom he could ever introduce into New
York society; and he was wondering how Katy chanced to be so unlike the
rest, when Uncle Ephraim came up from the meadow, and announced himself
as ready now to _visit_, apologizing for his apparent neglect, and
seeming so absolutely to believe that his company was desirable, that
Wilford felt amused, wondering again what Juno, or even Mark Ray, would
think of the rough old man, sitting with his chair tipped back against
the wall, and going occasionally to the door to relieve himself of his
tobacco juice, for chewing was one of the deacon’s weaknesses. His pants
were faultlessly clean, and his vest was buttoned nearly up to his
throat, but his coat was hanging on a nail out by the kitchen door, and,
to Katy’s distress and Wilford’s horror, he sat among them in his shirt
sleeves, all unconscious of harm or of the disquiet awakened in the
bosom of the young man, who on that point was foolishly fastidious, and
who showed by his face how much he was annoyed. Not even the presence of
Morris, who came about tea time, was of any avail to lift the cloud from
his brow, and he seemed moody and silent until supper was announced.
This was the first opportunity Morris had had of trying his powers of
persuasion upon the deacon, and now, at a hint from Katy, he said to him
in an aside, as they were passing into the dining-room: “Suppose, Uncle
Ephraim, you put on your coat for once. It is better than coming to the
table so.”
“Pooh,” was Uncle Ephraim’s innocent rejoinder, spoken loudly enough for
Wilford to hear, “I shan’t catch cold, for I am used to it; besides
that, I never could stand the racket this hot weather.”
In his simplicity he did not even suspect Morris’s motive, but imputed
it wholly to concern for his health. And so Wilford Cameron found
himself seated next to a man who wilfully trampled upon all rules of
etiquette, shocking him in his most sensitive points, and making him
thoroughly disgusted with the country and country people generally. All
but Morris and Katy—he _did_ make an exception in their favor, leaning
most to Morris, whom he admired more and more, as he became better
acquainted with him, wondering how he could content himself to settle
down quietly in Silverton, when he would surely die if compelled to live
there for a week. Something like this he said to Dr. Grant, when that
evening they sat together in the handsome parlor at Linwood, for Morris
kindly invited him to spend the night with him.
“I stay in Silverton, first, because I think I can do more good here
than elsewhere, and secondly, because I really like the country and the
country people; for, strange and uncouth as they may seem to you, who
never lived among them, they have kinder, truer hearts beating beneath
their rough exteriors, than are often in the city.”
This was Morris’s reply, and in the conversation which ensued Wilford
Cameron caught glimpses of a nobler, higher phase of manhood than he had
thought existed, feeling an unbounded respect for one who, because he
believed it to be his duty, was, as it seemed to him, wasting his life
among people who could not appreciate his character, though they might
idolize the man. But this did not reconcile Wilford one whit the more to
Silverton. Uncle Ephraim had completed the work commenced by the two
feather beds, and at breakfast, next morning, he announced his intention
of returning to New York that day. To this Morris offered no objection,
but asked to be remembered to the mother and sisters, and then invited
Wilford to stop altogether at Linwood when he came again to Silverton.
“Thank you; but it is hardly probable that I shall be here very soon,”
Wilford replied, adding, as he met the peculiar glance of Morris’s eye,
“I found Miss Katy a delightful traveling acquaintance, and on my way
from Newport thought I would renew it and see a little of rustic life.”
Poor Katy! how her heart would have ached could she have heard those
words and understood their meaning, just as Morris did, feeling a rising
indignation for the man with whom he could not be absolutely angry, he
was so self-possessed, so pleasant and gentlemanly, while better than
all, was he not virtually giving Katy up? and if he did might she not
turn at last to him?
These were Morris’s thoughts as he walked with Wilford across the fields
to the farm-house, where Katy met them with her sunniest smile, singing
to them, at Wilford’s request, her sweetest song, and making him half
wish he could revoke his hasty decision and tarry a little longer. But
it was now too late for that, the carriage which would take him to the
depot was already on its way from Linwood; and when the song was ended
he told her of his intentions to leave on the next train, feeling a pang
when he saw how the blood left her cheek and lip, and then came surging
back as she said timidly, “Why need you leave so soon?”
“I have already outstayed my time. I thought of going yesterday, and my
partner, Mr. Ray, will be expecting me,” Wilford replied, laying his
hand upon Katy’s hair, while Morris and Helen stole quietly from the
room.
Thus left to himself, Wilford continued, “Maybe I’ll come again
sometime. Would you like to have me?”
“Yes,” and Katy’s blue eyes were lifted pleadingly to the young man, who
had never loved her so well as at that very moment when resolving to
cast her off.
For a moment Wilford was strongly tempted to throw all pride aside, and
ask that young girl to be his; but thoughts of his mother, of Juno and
Bell, and more than all, thoughts of Uncle Ephraim and his sister Betsy,
arose in time to prevent it, and so he only kissed her forehead
caressingly as he said good-bye, telling her that he should not soon
forget his visit to Silverton, and then, as the carriage drove up, going
out to where the remainder of the family were standing together and
commenting upon his sudden departure.
It was not sudden, he said, trying to explain. He really had thought
seriously of going yesterday, and feeling that he had something to atone
for, he tried to be unusually gracious as he shook their hands, thanking
them for their kindness, but seeming wholly oblivious to Aunt Betsy’s
remark that “she hoped to see him again, if not at Silverton, in New
York, where she wanted dreadfully to visit, but never had on account of
the ’bominable prices charged to the taverns, and she hadn’t no
acquaintances there.”
This was Aunt Betsy’s parting remark, and, after Katy, Aunt Betsy liked
Wilford Cameron better than any one of the group which watched him as he
drove from their door. Aunt Hannah thought him too much stuck up for
farmers’ folks; Mrs. Lennox, whose ambition would have accounted him a
most desirable match for her daughter, could not deny that his manner
towards them, though polite in the extreme, was that of a superior to
people greatly beneath him; while Helen, who saw clearer than the rest,
read him aright, and detected the struggle between his pride and his
love for poor little Katy, whom she found sitting on the floor, just
where Wilford left her standing, her head resting on the chair and her
face hidden in her hands as she sobbed quietly, hardly knowing why she
cried or what to answer when Helen asked what was the matter.
“It was so queer in him to go so soon,” she said; “just as if he were
offended about something.”
“Never mind, Katy,” Helen said, soothingly. “If he cares for you he will
come back again. He could not stay here always, of course; and I must
say I respect him for attending to his business, if he has any. He has
been gone from home for weeks, you know.”
This was Helen’s reasoning; but it did not comfort Katy, whose face
looked white and sad, as she moved listlessly about the house, almost
crying again when she heard in the distance the whistle of the train
which was to carry Wilford Cameron away and end his first visit to
Silverton.