IN THE SPRING.
Katy Lennox had been very sick, and the bed where Wilford slept had
stood in the parlor during the long weeks while the obstinate fever ran
its course; but she was better now, and sat nearly all day before the
fire, sometimes trying to crochet a little, and again turning over the
books which Morris had bought to interest her—Morris, the kind
physician, who had attended her so faithfully, never leaving her while
the fever was at its height, unless it was necessary, but staying with
her day and night, watching her symptoms carefully, and praying so
earnestly that she might not die, not, at least, until some token had
been given that again in the better world he should find her, where
partings were unknown and where no Wilford Camerons could contest the
prize with him. Not that he was greatly afraid of Wilford now; that fear
had mostly died away just as the hope had died from Katy’s heart that
she would ever meet him again.
Since the September morning when he left her, she had not heard from him
except once, when in the winter Morris had been to New York, and having
a few hours’ leisure on his hands had called at Wilford’s office,
receiving a most cordial reception, and meeting with Mark Ray, who
impressed him as a man quite as highly cultivated as Wilford, and
possessed of more character and principle. This call was not altogether
of Morris’s seeking, but was made rather with a view to pleasing Katy,
who, when she learned that he was going to New York, had said
inadvertently, “Oh, I do so hope you’ll meet with Mr. Cameron, for then
we shall know that he is neither sick nor dead, as I have sometimes
feared.”
And so Morris had sought his rival, feeling repaid for the effort it had
cost him, when he saw how glad Wilford seemed to meet him. The first
commonplaces over, Wilford inquired for Katy. Was she well, and how was
she occupying her time this winter?
“Both Helen and Katy are pupils of mine,” Morris replied, “reciting
their lessons to me every day when the weather will admit of their
crossing the fields to Linwood. We have often wondered what had become
of you, that you did not even let us know of your safe arrival home,” he
added, looking Wilford fully in the eye, and rather enjoying his
confusion as he tried to apologize.
He had intended writing, but an unusual amount of business had occupied
his time. “Mark will tell you how busy I was,” and he turned appealingly
to his partner, in whose expressive eyes Morris read that Silverton was
not unknown to him.
But if Wilford had told him anything derogatory of the farm-house or its
inmates, it did not appear in Mr. Ray’s manner, as he replied that Mr.
Cameron had been very busy ever since his return from Silverton, adding,
“From what Cameron tells me of your neighborhood, there must be some
splendid hunting and fishing there, and I had last fall half a mind to
try it.”
This time there was something comical in the eyes turned so
mischievously upon Wilford, who colored scarlet for an instant, but soon
recovered his composure, and invited Morris home with him to dinner.
“I shall not take a refusal,” he said, as Morris began to decline.
“Mother and the young ladies will be delighted to see you again. Mark
will go with us, of course.”
There was something so hearty in Wilford’s invitation that Morris did
not again object, and two hours later found him in the drawing-room at
No.—— Fifth Avenue, receiving the friendly greetings of Mrs. Cameron and
her daughters, each of whom vied with the other in their polite
attentions to him.
Morris did not regret having accepted Wilford’s invitation to dinner, as
by this means he saw the home which had well nigh been little Katy
Lennox’s. She would be sadly out of place here with these people, he
thought, and he looked upon all their formality and ceremony, and then
contrasted it with what Katy had been accustomed to. Juno would kill her
outright, was his next mental comment, as he watched that haughty young
lady, dividing her coquetries between himself and Mr. Ray, who being
every way desirable, both in point of family and wealth, was evidently
her favorite. She had colored scarlet when first presented to Dr. Grant,
and her voice had trembled as she took his offered hand, for she
remembered the time when her liking had not been concealed, and was only
withdrawn at the last because she found how useless it was to waste her
affections upon one who did not prize them.
When Wilford first returned from Silverton he had, as a sure means of
forgetting Katy, told his mother and sister something of the farm-house
and its inmates; and Juno, while ridiculing both Helen and Katy, had
felt a fierce pang of jealousy in knowing they were cousins to Morris
Grant, who lived so near that he could, if he liked, see them every day.
In Paris Juno had suspected that somebody was standing between her and
Dr. Grant, and with the quick insight of a smart, bright woman, she
guessed that it was one of these cousins—Katy most likely, her brother
having described Helen as very commonplace,—and for a time she had hated
poor, innocent Katy most cordially for having come between her and the
only man for whom she had ever really cared. Gradually, however, the
feeling died away, but was revived again at sight of Morris Grant, and
at the table she could not forbear saying to him,
“By the way, Dr. Grant, why did you never tell us of those charming
cousins, when you were in Paris? Brother Will describes one of them as a
little water lily, she is so fair and pretty. Katy, I think, is her
name. Wilford, isn’t it Katy Lennox whom you think so beautiful, and
with whom you are more than half in love?”
“Yes, it _is_ Katy,” and Wilford spoke sternly, for he did not like
Juno’s bantering tone, but he could not stop her, and she went on,
“Are they your own cousins, Dr. Grant?”
“No, they are removed from me two or three degrees, their father having
been only my second cousin.”
The fact that Katy Lennox was not nearly enough related to Dr. Grant to
prevent his marrying her if he liked, did not improve Juno’s amiability,
and she continued to ask questions concerning both Katy and Helen, the
latter of whom she persisted in thinking was strong-minded, until Mark
Ray came to the rescue, diverting her attention by adroitly
complimenting her in some way, and so relieving Wilford and Morris, both
of whom were exceedingly annoyed.
“When Will visits Silverton again I mean to go with him,” she said to
Morris at parting, but he did not tell her that such an event would give
him the greatest pleasure. On the contrary, he merely replied,
“If you do you will find plenty of room at Linwood for those four trunks
which I remember seeing in Paris, and your brother will tell you whether
I am a hospitable host or not.”
Biting her lip with chagrin, Juno went back to the drawing-room, while
Morris returned to his hotel, accompanied by Wilford, who passed the
entire evening with him, appearing somewhat constrained, as if there was
something on his mind which he wished to say; but it remained unspoken,
and there was no allusion to Silverton until, as Wilford was leaving, he
said,
“Remember me kindly to the Silverton friends, and say I have not
forgotten them.”
And this was all there was to carry back to Katy, who on the afternoon
of Morris’s return from New York was at Linwood, waiting to pour his tea
and make his toast, she pretended, though the real reason was shining
all over her tell-tale face, which grew so bright and eager when Morris
said,
“I dined at Mr. Cameron’s, Kitty.”
But the brightness gradually faded as Morris described his call and then
repeated Wilford’s message.
“And that was all,” Katy whispered sorrowfully as she beat the damask
cloth softly with her fingers, shutting her lips tightly together to
keep back her disappointment.
When Morris glanced at her again there was a tear on her long eyelashes,
and it dropped upon her cheek, followed by another and another, but he
did not seem to see it, and talked of New York and the fine sights in
Broadway until Katy was able to take part in the conversation.
“Please don’t tell _Helen_ that you saw Wilford,” she said to Morris as
he walked home with her after tea, and that was the only allusion she
made to it, never after that mentioning Wilford’s name or giving any
token of the love still so strong within her heart, and waiting only for
some slight token to waken it again to life and vigor.
This was in the winter, and Katy had been very sick since then, while
Morris had come to believe that Wilford was forgotten, and when, as she
grew stronger, he saw how her eyes sparkled at his coming, and how
impatient she seemed if he was obliged to hurry off, hope whispered that
she would surely be his, and his usually grave face wore a look of
happiness which his patients noticed, feeling themselves better after
one of his cheery visits. Poor Morris! he was little prepared for the
terrible blow in store for him, when one day early in April he started,
as usual, to visit Katy, saying to himself, “If I find her alone,
perhaps I’ll ask if she will come to Linwood this summer;” and Morris
paused a moment beneath a beechwood tree to still the throbbings of his
heart, which beat so fast as he thought of going home from his weary
work and finding Kate there, his little wife—whom he might caress and
love all his affectionate nature would prompt him to. He knew that in
some points she was weak, but then she was very young, and there was
about her so much of purity, innocence, and perfect beauty, that few
men, however strong their intellect, could withstand her, and Morris
felt that in possessing her he should have all he needed to make this
life desirable. She would improve as she grew older, and it would be a
most delightful task to train her into what she was capable of becoming.
Alas for Dr. Morris! He was very near the farm-house now, and there were
only a few minutes between him and the cloud which would darken his
horizon so completely. Katy was alone, sitting up in her pretty dressing
gown of blue, which was so becoming to her pure complexion. Her hair,
which had been all cut away during her long sickness, was growing out
again somewhat darker than before, and lay in rings upon her head,
making her look more childish than ever. But to this Morris did not
object. He liked to have her a child, and he thought he had never seen
her so beautiful as she was this morning, when, with glowing cheek and
dancing eyes, she greeted him as he came in.
“Oh, Dr. Morris!” she began, holding up a letter she had in her hand, “I
am so glad you’ve come! Wilford has not forgotten me. He has written,
and he is coming again, if I will let him; I _am_ so glad! Ain’t you?
Seeing you knew all about it, and never told Helen, I’ll let you read
the letter.”
And she held it toward the young man leaning against the mantel and
panting for the breath which came so heavily.
Something he said apologetically about being _snow blind_, for there was
that day quite a fall of soft spring snow; and then, with a mighty
effort which made his heart quiver with pain, Morris was himself once
more, and took the letter in his hand.
“Perhaps I ought not to read it,” he said, but Katy insisted, and
thinking to himself, “It will cure me sooner perhaps,” he read the few
lines Wilford Cameron had written to his “dear little Katy.”
That was the way he addressed her, going on to say that circumstances
which he could not explain to her had kept him silent ever since he left
her the previous autumn; but through all he never for a moment had
forgotten her, thinking of her the more for the silence he had
maintained. “And now that I have risen above the circumstances,” he
added, in conclusion, “I write to ask if I may come to Silverton again?
If I may, just drop me one word, ‘come,’ and in less than a week I shall
be there. Yours very truly, W. Cameron.”
Morris read the letter through, feeling that every word was separating
him further and further from Katy, to whom he said, “You will answer
this?”
“Yes, oh yes; perhaps to-day.”
“And you will tell him to come?”
“Why,—what else should I tell him?” and Katy’s blue eyes looked
wonderingly at Morris, who hardly knew what he was doing, or why he said
to her next, “Listen to me, Katy. You know why Wilford Cameron comes
here a second time, and what he will probably ask you ere he goes away:
but, Katy, you are not strong enough yet to see him under so exciting
circumstances, and, as your physician, I desire that you tell him to
wait at least three weeks before he comes. Will you do so, Katy?”
“That is just as Helen talked,” Katy answered mournfully. “She said I
was not able.”
“And will you heed us?” Morris asked again, while Katy after a moment
consented, and glad of this respite from what he knew to a certainty
would be, Morris dealt out her medicine, and for an instant felt her
rapid pulse, but did not retain her hand within his own, nor lay his
other upon her head, as he had sometimes done.
He could not do that now, so he hurried away, finding the world into
which he went far different from what it had seemed an hour ago. Then
all was bright and hopeful; but now, alas! a darker night was gathering
round him than any he had ever known, and the patients visited that day
marveled at the whiteness of his face, asking if he were ill. Yes, he
answered them truly, and for two days he was not seen again, but
remained at home alone, where none but his God was witness to what he
suffered; but when the third day came he went again among his sick,
grave, quiet and unchanged in outward appearance, unless it was that his
voice, always so kind, had now a kinder tone and his manner was
tenderer, more sympathizing. Inwardly, however, there was a change, for
Morris Grant had lain himself upon the sacrificial altar, willing to be
and to endure whatever God should appoint, knowing that all would
eventually be for his good. To the farm-house he went every day, talking
most with Helen now, but never forgetting who it was sitting so demurely
in the arm-chair, or flitting about the room, for Katy was gaining
rapidly. Love perhaps had had nothing to do with her dangerous illness,
but it had much to do with her recovery, and those not in the secret
wondered to see how she improved, her cheeks growing round and full and
her eyes shining with returning health and happiness.
At Helen’s instigation Katy had deferred Wilford’s visit four weeks
instead of three, but in that time there had come two letters from him,
so full of anxiety and sympathy for “his poor little Katy who had been
so sick,” that even Helen began to think that he was not as proud and
heartless as she supposed, and that he did love her sister after all.
“If I supposed he meant to deceive her I should wish I was a man to
cowhide him,” she said to herself, with flashing eye, as she heard Katy
exulting that he was coming “to-morrow.”
This time he would stop at Linwood, for Katy had asked Morris if he
might, while Morris had told her yes, feeling his heart-wound throb
afresh, as he thought how hard it would be to entertain his rival. Of
himself Morris could do nothing, but with the help he never sought in
vain he could do all things, and so he gave orders that the best chamber
should be prepared for his guest, bidding Mrs. Hull see that no pains
were spared for his entertainment, and then with Katy he waited for the
day, the last one in April, which would bring Wilford Cameron a second
time to Silverton.