WILFORD’S SECOND VISIT.
Wilford Cameron had tried to forget Katy Lennox, both for his sake and
her own, for he foresaw that she could not be happy with his family, and
he came to think it might be a wrong to her to transplant her into a
soil so wholly unlike that in which her habits and affections had taken
root.
His father once had abruptly asked him if there was any truth in the
report that he was about to marry and make a fool of himself, and when
Wilford had answered “No,” he had replied with a significant
“Umph! Old enough, I should think, if you ever intend to marry.
Wilford,” and the old man faced square about, “I know nothing of the
girl, except what I gathered from your mother and sisters. You have not
asked my advice. I don’t suppose you want it, but if you do, here it is.
If you love the girl and she is respectable, marry her if she is poor as
poverty and the daughter of a tinker; but if you don’t love her, and
she’s as rich as a nabob, for thunder’s sake keep away from her.”
This was the elder Cameron’s counsel, and Katy’s cause rose fifty per
cent. in consequence. Still Wilford was sadly disquieted, so much so
that his partner, Mark Ray, could not fail to observe that something was
troubling him, and at last frankly asked what it was. Wilford knew he
could trust Mark, and he confessed the whole, telling him far more of
Silverton than he had told his mother, and then asking what his friend
would do were the case his own.
Fond of fun and frolic, Mark laughed immoderately at Wilford’s
description of Aunt Betsy bringing her “herrin’ bone” patch-work into
the parlor, and telling him it was a part of Katy’s “settin’ out,” but
when it came to her hint for an invitation to visit New York, the amused
young man roared with laughter, wishing so much that he might live to
see the day when poor Aunt Betsy Barlow stood ringing for admittance at
No.—— Fifth Avenue.
“Wouldn’t it be rich, though, the meeting between your Aunt Betsy and
Juno?” and the tears fairly poured down the young man’s face.
But Wilford was too serious for trifling, and after his merriment had
subsided, Mark talked with him candidly of Katy Lennox, whose cause he
warmly espoused, telling Wilford that he was far too sensitive with
regard to family and position.
“You are a good fellow on the whole, but too outrageously proud,” he
said. “Of course this Aunt Betsy in her _pongee_, whatever that may be,
and the uncle in his shirt sleeves, and this mother whom you describe as
weak and ambitious, are objections which you would rather should not
exist; but if you love the girl, take her, family and all. Not that you
are to transport the whole colony of Barlows to New York,” he added, as
he saw Wilford’s look of horror, “but make up your mind to endure what
cannot be helped, resting yourself upon the fact that your position is
such as cannot well be affected by any marriage you might make, provided
the wife were right.”
This was Mark Ray’s advice, and it had great weight with Wilford, who
knew that Mark came, if possible, from a better line of ancestry than
himself. And still Wilford hesitated, waiting until the winter was over,
before he came to the decision which, when it was reached, was firm as a
granite rock. He had made up his mind at last to marry Katy Lennox if
she would accept him, and he told his mother so in presence of his
sisters, when one evening they were all kept at home by the rain. There
was a sudden uplifting of Bell’s eyelashes, a contemptuous shrug of her
shoulders, and then she went on with the book she was reading, wondering
if Katy was at all inclined to literature, and thinking if she were that
it might be easier to tolerate her. Juno, who was expected to say the
sharpest things, turned upon him with the exclamation,
“If you can stand those two feather beds, you can do more than I
supposed,” and as one means of showing her disapproval, she quitted the
room, while Bell, who had taken to writing articles on the follies of
the age, soon followed her sister to elaborate an idea suggested to her
mind by her brother’s contemplated marriage.
Thus left alone with her son, Mrs. Cameron tried all her powers of
persuasion upon him. But nothing she said influenced him in the least,
seeing which she suddenly confronted him with the question, “Shall you
tell her _all_? A husband should have no secrets of that kind from his
wife.”
Wilford’s face was white as ashes, and his voice trembled as he replied,
“Yes, mother, I shall tell her all; but, oh! you do not know how hard it
has been for me to bring my mind to that, or how sorry I am that we ever
kept that secret—when Genevra died——”
“Hush—h!” came warningly from the mother as Juno reappeared, the warning
indicating that Genevra was a name never mentioned, except by mother and
son.
As Juno remained, the conversation was not resumed, and the next morning
Wilford wrote to Katy Lennox the letter which carried to her so much of
joy, and to Dr. Grant so much of grief. To wait four weeks, as Katy said
he must, was a terrible trial to Wilford, who counted every moment which
kept him from her side. It was all owing to Dr. Grant and that
perpendicular Helen, he knew, for Katy in her letter had admitted that
the waiting was wholly their suggestion; and Wilford’s thoughts
concerning them were anything but complimentary, until a new idea was
suggested, which drove every other consideration from his mind.
Wilford was naturally _jealous_, but that fault had once led him into so
deep a trouble that he had struggled to overcome it, and now, at its
first approach, after he thought it dead, he tried to shake it off—tried
not to believe that Morris cared especially for Katy. But the mere
possibility was unendurable, and in a most feverish state of excitement
he started again for Silverton.
As before, Morris was at the station, his cordial greeting and friendly
manner disarming him from all anxiety in that quarter, and making him
resolve anew to trample the demon jealousy under his feet, where it
could never rise again. Katy’s life should not be darkened by the green
monster, he thought, and her future would have been bright indeed had it
proved all that he pictured it as he drove along with Morris in the
direction of the farm-house.
Katy was waiting for him, and he did not hesitate to kiss her more than
once as he kept her for a moment in his arms, and then held her off to
see if her illness had left any traces upon her. It had not, except it
were in the increased delicacy of her complexion and the short hair now
growing out in silky rings. She was very pretty in her short hair, but
Wilford felt a little impatient as he saw how childish it made her look,
and thought how long it would take for it to attain its former length.
He was already appropriating her to himself, and devising ways of
improving her. In New York, with Morris Grant standing before his
jealous gaze, he could see no fault in Katy, and even now, with her
beside him, and the ogre jealousy gone, he saw no fault in _her_; it was
only her hair, and that would be remedied in time; otherwise she was
perfect, and in his delight at meeting her again he forgot to criticise
the farm-house and its occupants, as he had done before.
They were very civil to him—the mother overwhelmingly so, and Wilford
could not help detecting her anxiety that all should be settled this
time. Helen, on the contrary, was unusually cool, confirming him in his
opinion that she was strong-minded and self-willed, and making him
resolve to remove Katy as soon as possible from her influence. When
talking with his mother he had said that if Katy told him “yes,” he
should probably place her at some fashionable school for a year or two;
but on the way to Silverton he had changed his mind. He could not wait a
year, and if he married Katy at all, it should be immediately. He would
then take her to Europe, where she could have the best of teachers,
besides the advantage of traveling; and it was a very satisfactory
picture he drew of the woman whom he should introduce into New York
society as his wife, Mrs. Wilford Cameron. It is true that Katy had not
yet said the all-important word, but she was going to say it, and when
late that afternoon they came from the walk he had asked her to take,
she had listened to his tale of love and was his promised wife. Katy was
no coquette; whatever she felt she expressed, and she had frankly
confessed to Wilford her love for him, telling him how the fear that he
had forgotten her had haunted her all the long winter; and then with her
clear, truthful blue eyes looking into his, asking him why he had not
sent her some message if as he said, he loved her all the time.
For a moment Wilford’s lip was compressed and a flush overspread his
face, as, drawing her closer to him, he replied, “My little Katy will
remember that in my first note I spoke of certain circumstances which
had prevented my writing earlier. I do not know that I asked her not to
seek to know those circumstances; but I ask it now. Will Katy trust me
so far as to believe that all is right between us, and never allude to
these circumstances?”
He was kissing her fondly, and his voice was so winning that Katy
promised, and then came the hardest, the trying to tell her _all_, as he
had said to his mother he would. Twice he essayed to speak, and as often
something sealed his lips, until at last he began, “You must not think
me perfect, Katy, for I have faults, and perhaps if you knew my past
life you would wish to revoke your recent decision and render a
different verdict to my suit. Suppose I unfold the blackest leaf for
your inspection?”
“No, no, oh no,” and Katy playfully stopped his mouth with her hand. “Of
course you have some faults, but I would rather find them out by myself.
I could not hear anything against you now. I am satisfied to take you as
you are.”
Wilford felt his heart throb wildly with the feeling that he was
deceiving the young girl; but if she would not suffer him to tell her,
he was not to be censured if she remained in ignorance. And so the
golden moment fled, and when he spoke again he said, “If Katy will not
now read the leaf I offered to show her, she must not shrink in horror,
if ever it does meet her eye.”
“I won’t, I promise,” Kate answered, a vague feeling of fear creeping
over her as to what the reading of that mysterious page involved. But
this was soon forgotten, as Wilford, remembering his suspicions of Dr.
Grant, thought to probe her a little by asking if she had ever loved any
one before himself.
“No, never,” she answered. “I never dreamed of such a thing until I saw
you, Mr. Cameron;” and Wilford believed the trusting girl, whose loving
nature shone in every lineament of her face, upturned to receive the
kisses he pressed upon it, resolving within himself to be to her what he
ought to be.
“By the way,” he continued, “don’t call me Mr. Cameron again, as you did
just now. I would rather be your Wilford. It sounds more familiar;” and
then he told her of his projected tour to Europe, and Katy felt her
pulses quicken as she thought of London, Paris and Rome, as places which
her plain country eyes might yet look upon. But when it came to their
marriage, which Wilford said must be within a few weeks—she demurred,
for this arrangement was not in accordance with her desires; and she
opposed her lover with all her strength, telling him she was so young,
not eighteen till July, and she knew so little of housekeeping. He must
let her stay at home until she learned at least the art of making bread!
Poor, ignorant Katy! Wilford could not forbear a smile as he thought how
different were her views from his, and tried to explain that the art of
bread-making, though very desirable in most wives, was _not_ an
essential accomplishment for his. Servants would do that; besides he did
not intend to have a house of his own at once; he should take her first
to live with his mother, where she could learn what was necessary much
better than in Silverton.
Wilford Cameron expected to be obeyed in every important matter by the
happy person who should be his wife, and as he possessed the faculty of
enforcing perfect obedience without seeming to be severe, so he silenced
Katy’s arguments, and when they left the shadow of the butternut tree
she knew that in all human probability six weeks’ time would find her on
the broad ocean alone with Wilford Cameron. So perfect was Katy’s faith
and love that she had no fear of Wilford now, but as his affianced wife
walked confidently by his side, feeling fully his equal, nor once
dreaming how great the disparity his city friends would discover between
the fastidious man of fashion and the unsophisticated country girl. And
Wilford did not seek to enlighten her, but suffered her to talk of the
delight it would be to live in New York, and how pleasant for mother and
Helen to visit her, especially the latter, who would thus have a chance
to see something of the world.
“When I get a house of my own I mean she shall live with me all the
while,” she said, stooping to gather a tuft of wild blue-bells growing
in a marshy spot.
Wilford winced a little, but he would not so soon tear down Katy’s
castles, and so he merely remarked, as she asked if it would not be nice
to have Helen with them,
“Yes, very nice; but do not speak of it to her yet, as it will probably
be some time before she will come to us.”
And so Helen never suspected the honor in store for her as she stood in
the doorway anxiously waiting for her sister, who she feared would take
cold from being out so long. Something though in Katy’s face made her
guess that to her was lost forever the bright little sister whom she
loved so dearly, and fleeing up the narrow stairway to her room, she
wept bitterly as she thought of the coming time when she would occupy
that room alone, and know that never again would a little golden head
lie upon her neck just as it had lain, for there would be a new love, a
new interest between them, a love for the man whose voice she could hear
now talking to her mother in the peculiar tone he always assumed when
speaking to any one of them excepting Morris or Katy.
“I wish it were not wrong to hate him,” she exclaimed passionately; “it
would be such a relief; but if he is only kind to Katy, I do not care
how much he despises us,” and bathing her face, Helen sat down by her
window, wondering, if Mr. Cameron took her sister, when it would
probably be. “Not this year or more,” she said, “for Katy is so young;”
but on this point she was soon set right by Katy herself, who, leaving
her lover alone with her mother, stole up to tell her sister the good
news.
“Yes, I know; I guessed as much when you came back from the meadows,”
and Helen’s voice was very unsteady in its tone as she smoothed the soft
rings clustering around her sister’s brow.
“Crying, Helen! oh, don’t. I shall love you just the same, and you are
coming to live with us,” Katy said, forgetting Wilford’s instructions in
her desire to comfort Helen, who broke down again, while Katy’s tears
were mingled with her own.
It was the first time Katy had thought what it would be to leave forever
the good, patient sister, who had been so kind, treating her like a
petted kitten and standing between her and every hardship.
“Don’t cry, Nellie,” she said, “New York is not far away, and I shall
come so often, that is, after we return from Europe. Did I tell you we
are going there first, and Wilford will not wait, but says we must be
married the 10th of June?—that’s his birthday—thirty—and he is telling
mother now.”
“So soon—oh Katy! and you so young!” was all Helen could say, as with
quivering lip she kissed her sister’s hand raised to wipe her tears
away.
“Yes, it is soon, and I am young: but Wilford is in such a hurry; he
don’t care,” Katy replied, trying to comfort Helen, and begging of her
not to cry so hard.
No, Wilford did not care how much he wrung the hearts of Katy’s family
by taking her from them at once, and by dictating to a certain extent
the way in which he would take her. There must be no invited guests, he
said; no lookers-on, except such as chose to go to the church where the
ceremony would be performed, and from which place he should go directly
to the Boston train. It was his wish, too, that the matter should be
kept as quiet as possible, and not be generally discussed in the
neighborhood, as he disliked being a subject for gossip. And Mrs.
Lennox, to whom this was said, promised compliance with everything, or
if she ventured to object she found herself borne down by a stronger
will than her own, and weakly yielded, her manner fully testifying to
her delight at the honor conferred upon her by this high marriage of her
child. Wilford knew just how pleased she was, and her obsequious manner
annoyed him far more than Helen’s blunt straightforwardness, when, after
supper was over, she told him how averse she was to his taking Katy so
soon, adding still further that if it must be, she saw no harm in
inviting a few of their neighbors. It was customary, it would be
expected, she said, while Mrs. Lennox, emboldened by Helen’s boldness,
chimed in, “at least your folks will come; I shall be glad to meet your
mother.”
Wilford was very polite to them both; very good-humored, but he kept to
his first position, and poor Mrs. Lennox saw fade into airy nothingness
all her visions of roasted fowls and frosted cake trimmed with myrtle
and flowers, with hosts of the Silverton people there to admire and
partake of the marriage feast. It was too bad and so Aunt Betsy said,
when, after Wilford had gone to Linwood, the family sat together around
the kitchen stove, talking the matter over.
“Yes, it was too bad, when there was that white hen-turkey she could fat
up so easy before June, and she knew how to make ’lection cake that
would melt in your mouth, and was enough sight better than the black
stuff they called weddin’ cake. She meant to try what _she_ could do
with Mr. Carmon.”
And next morning when he came again she did try, holding out as
inducements why he should be married the night before starting for
Boston, the “white hen-turkey, the ’lection cake, and the gay old times
the young folks would have playing snap-and-catchem; or if they had a
mind, they could dance a bit in the kitchen. She didn’t believe in it,
to be sure—none of the Orthodox did; but as Wilford was a ’Piscopal, and
that was a ’Piscopal quirk, it wouldn’t harm for once.”
Wilford tried not to show his disgust, and only Helen suspected how hard
it was for him to keep down his utter contempt. She saw it in his eyes,
which resembled two smouldering volcanoes as they rested upon Aunt Betsy
during her harangue.
“Thank you, madam, for your good intentions, but I think we will
dispense with the turkey and the cake,” was all he said, though he did
smile at the old lady’s definition of dancing, which for once she might
allow.
Even Morris, when appealed to, decided with Wilford against Mrs. Lennox
and Aunt Betsy, knowing how unequal he was to the task which would
devolve on him in case of a bridal party at the farm-house. In
comparative silence he heard from Wilford of his engagement offering no
objection when told how soon the marriage would take place, but
congratulating him so quietly, that if Wilford had retained a feeling of
jealousy, it would have disappeared; Morris was so seemingly indifferent
to everything except Katy’s happiness. But Wilford did not observe
closely, and failed to detect the hopeless look in Morris’s eyes, or the
whiteness which settled about his mouth as he fulfilled the duties of
host and sought to entertain his guest. Those were dark hours for Morris
Grant, and he was glad when at the end of the second day Wilford’s visit
expired, and he saw him driven from Linwood round to the farm-house,
where he would say his parting words to Katy and then go back to New
York.