GETTING READY TO BE MARRIED.
“MISS HELEN LENNOX, Silverton, Mass.”
This was the superscription of a letter, postmarked New York, and
brought to Helen within a week after Wilford’s departure. It was his
handwriting, too; and wondering what he could have written to her, Helen
broke the seal, starting as there dropped into her lap a check for five
hundred dollars.
“What does it mean?” she said, her cheek flushing with anger and
insulted pride as she read the following brief lines:
“NEW YORK, May 8th.
“MISS HELEN LENNOX: Please pardon the liberty I have taken in
enclosing the sum of $500 to be used by you in procuring whatever Katy
may need for present necessities. Presuming that the country
seamstresses have not the best facilities for obtaining the latest
fashions, my mother proposes sending out her own private dressmaker,
Mrs. Ryan. You may look for her the last of the week.
“Yours truly, WILFORD CAMERON.”
It would be impossible to describe Helen’s indignation as she read this
letter, which roused her to a pitch of anger such as Wilford Cameron had
never imagined when he wrote the offensive lines. He had really no
intention of insulting her. On the contrary, the gift of money was
kindly meant, for he knew that Uncle Ephraim was poor, while the part
referring to the dressmaker was wholly his mother’s proposition, to
which he had acceded, knowing how much confidence Juno had in her taste,
and that whatever she might see at the farm-house would remain a secret
with her, or at most be confined to the ears of his mother and sisters.
He wished Katy to look well, and foolishly fancying that no country
artiste could make her look so, he consented to Mrs. Ryan’s going, never
dreaming of the effect it would have upon Helen, whose first impulse was
to throw the check into the fire. Her second, however, was soberer. She
would not destroy it, nor tell any one she had it, but Morris—_he_
should know the whole. Accordingly, she repaired to Linwood, finding
Morris at home, and startling him with the vehemence of her anger as she
explained the nature of her errand.
“If I disliked Wilford Cameron before, I hate him now. Yes, hate him,”
she said, stamping her little foot in fury.
“Why, Helen!” Morris exclaimed, laying his hand reprovingly on her
shoulder; “is this the right spirit for one who professes better things?
Stop a moment and think.”
“I know it is wrong,” Helen answered, “but somehow since he came after
Katy, I have grown so hard, so wicked toward Mr. Cameron. He seems so
proud, so unapproachable. Say, Cousin Morris, do you think him a good
man, that is, good enough for Katy?”
“Most people would call him too good for her,” Morris replied. “And, in
a worldly point of view, she is doing well. Cameron, I believe, is
better than three-fourths of the men who marry our girls. He is very
proud: but that results from his education and training. Looking only
from a New York standpoint he misjudges country people, but he will
appreciate you by and by. Do not begin by hating him so cordially.”
“Yes, but this money. Now, Morris, we do not want him to get Katy’s
outfit. I would rather go without clothes my whole life. Shall I send it
back?”
“I think that the best disposition to make of it,” Morris replied. “As
your brother, I can and will supply Katy’s needs.”
“I knew you would, Morris. And I’ll send it to-day, in time to keep that
dreadful Mrs. Ryan from coming; for I won’t have any of Wilford
Cameron’s dressmakers in the house.”
Morris could not help smiling at Helen’s energetic manner, as she
hurried to his library and taking his pen wrote to Wilford Cameron as
follows:
SILVERTON, May 9th, 18—.
MR. WILFORD CAMERON:—I give you credit for the kindest of motives in
sending the check which I now return to you, with my compliments. We
are not as poor as you suppose, and would almost deem it sacrilege to
let another than ourselves provide for Katy so long as she is ours.
And furthermore, Mrs. Ryan’s services will not be needed, so it is not
worth her while to make a journey here for nothing.
Yours,
HELEN LENNOX.
Helen felt better after this letter had gone, wondering often how it
would be received, and if Wilford would be angry. She hoped he would,
and his mother too. “The idea of sending that Ryan woman to us, as if we
did not know anything!” and Helen’s lip curled scornfully as she thus
denounced the Ryan woman, whose trunk was packed with paper patterns and
devices of various kinds when the letter arrived, saying she was not
needed. Being a woman of few words, she quietly unpacked her patterns
and went back to the work she was engaged upon when Mrs. Cameron
proposed her going into the country. Juno, on the contrary, flew into a
violent passion to think their first friendly advances should be thus
received. Bell laughed immoderately, saying she liked Helen Lennox’s
spirit, and wished her brother had chosen her instead of the other, who,
she presumed, was a milk and water thing, even if Mrs. Woodhull did
extol her so highly. Mrs. Cameron felt the rebuke keenly, wincing under
it, and saying “that Helen Lennox must be a very rude, ill-bred girl,”
and hoping her son would draw the line of division between his wife and
her family so tightly that the sister could never pass over it. She had
received the news of her son’s engagement without opposition, for she
knew the time for that was past. Wilford would marry Katy Lennox, and
she must make the best of it, so she offered no remonstrance, but, when
they were alone, she said to him, “Did you tell her? Does she know it
all?”
“No, mother,” and the old look of pain came back into Wilford’s face. “I
meant to do so, and I actually began, but she stopped me short, saying
she did not wish to hear my faults, she would rather find them out
herself. Away from her it is very easy to think what I will do, but when
the trial comes I find it hard, we have kept it so long; but I shall
tell her yet; not till after we are married though, and I have made her
love me even more than she does now. She will not mind it then. I shall
take her where I first met Genevra, and there I will tell her. Is that
right?”
“Yes, if you think so,” Mrs. Cameron replied.
Whatever it was which Wilford had to tell Katy Lennox, it was very
evident that he and his mother looked at it differently, he regarding it
as a duty he owed to Katy not to conceal from her what might possibly
influence her decision, while his mother only wished the secret told in
hopes that it would prevent the marriage; but now that Wilford had
deferred it till after the marriage, she saw no reason why it need be
told at all. At least Wilford could do as he thought best, and she
changed the conversation from Genevra to Helen’s letter, which had so
upset her plans. That her future daughter-in-law was handsome she did
not doubt, but she, of course, had no manner, no style, and as a means
of improving her in the latter respect, and making her presentable at
the altar and in Boston, she had proposed sending out _Ryan_; but that
project had failed, and Helen Lennox did not stand very high in the
Cameron family, though Wilford in his heart felt an increased respect
for her independent spirit, notwithstanding that she had thwarted his
designs.
“I have another idea,” Mrs. Cameron said to her daughters that
afternoon, when talking with them upon the subject. “Wilford tells me
Katy and Bell are about the same size and figure, and Ryan shall make up
a traveling suit proper for the occasion. Of course there will be no one
at the wedding for whom we care, but in Boston, at the Revere, it will
be different. Cousin Harvey boards there, and she is very stylish. I saw
some elegant grey poplins, of the finest lustre, at Stewart’s yesterday.
Suppose we drive down this afternoon.”
This was said to Juno as the more fashionable one of the sisters, but
Bell answered quickly, “Poplin, mother, on Katy? It will not become her
style, I am sure, though suitable for many. If I am to be fitted, I
shall say a word about the fabric. Get a little checked silk, as
expensive as you like. It will suit her better than a heavy poplin.”
Perhaps Bell was right, Mrs. Cameron said; they would look at both, and
as the result of this looking, two dresses, one of the finest poplin,
and one of the softest, richest, plaided silk, were given the next day
into Mrs. Ryan’s hands, with injunctions to spare no pains or expense in
trimming and making both. And so the dress-making for Katy’s bridal was
proceeding in New York, in spite of Helen’s letter; while down in
Silverton, at the farm-house, there were numerous consultations as to
what was proper and what was not, Helen sometimes almost wishing she had
suffered Mrs. Ryan to come. Katy would look well in anything, but Helen
knew there were certain styles preferable to others, and in a maze of
perplexity she consulted with this and that individual, until all
Silverton knew what was projected, each one offering the benefit of her
advice until Helen and Katy were nearly distracted. Aunt Betsy suggested
a blue delaine and round cape, offering to get it herself, and actually
purchasing the material with her own funds, saved from drying apples.
That would answer for one dress, Helen said, but not for the wedding;
and she was becoming more undecided, when Morris came to the rescue,
telling Katy of a young woman who had for some time past been his
patient, but who was now nearly well and was anxious to obtain work
again. She had evidently seen better days, he said; was very lady-like
in her manner, and possessed of a great deal of taste, he imagined;
besides that, she had worked in one of the largest shops in New York.
“As I am going this afternoon over to North Silverton,” he added, in
conclusion, “and shall pass Miss Hazelton’s house, you or Helen might
accompany me and see for yourself.”
It was decided that Helen should go, and about four o’clock she found
herself ringing at the cottage over whose door hung the sign, “Miss M.
Hazelton, Fashionable Dressmaker.” She was at home, and in a few moments
Helen was talking with Marian Hazelton, whose face showed signs of
recent illness, but was nevertheless very attractive, from its
peculiarly sad expression and the soft liquid eyes of dark blue, which
looked as if they were not strangers to tears. At twenty she must have
been strikingly beautiful; and even now, at thirty, few ladies could
have vied with her had she possessed the means for gratifying her taste
and studying her style. About the mouth, so perfect in repose, there was
when she spoke a singularly sweet smile, which in a measure prepared one
for the low, silvery voice, which had a strange note of mournful music
in its tone, making Helen start as it asked, “Did you wish to see me?”
“Yes; Dr. Grant told me you could make dresses, and I drove round with
him to secure your services, if possible, for my sister, who is soon to
be married. We would like it so much if you could go to our house
instead of having Katy come here.”
Marian Hazelton was needing work, for there was due more than three
months’ board, besides the doctor’s bill, and so, though it was not her
custom to go from house to house, she would, in this instance,
accommodate Miss Lennox, especially as during her illness her customers
had many of them gone elsewhere, and her little shop was nearly broken
up. “Was it an elaborate trousseau she was expected to make?” and she
bent down to turn over some fashion plates lying upon the table.
“Oh, no! we are plain country people. We cannot afford as much for Katy
as we would like; besides, I dare say Mr. Cameron will prefer selecting
most of her wardrobe himself, as he is very wealthy and fastidious,”
Helen replied, repenting the next instant the part concerning Mr.
Cameron’s wealth, as that might look like boasting to Miss Hazelton,
whose head was bent lower over the magazine as she said, “Did I
understand that the gentleman’s name was Cameron?”
“Yes, Wilford Cameron, from New York,” Helen answered, holding up her
skirts and s-s-kt-ing at the kitten which came running toward her,
evidently intent upon springing into her lap.
Fear of cats was Helen’s weakness, if weakness it can be called, and in
her efforts to frighten her tormentor she did not look again at Miss
Hazelton until startled by a gasping cry and heavy fall. Marian had
fainted, and Helen was just raising her head from the floor to her lap
when Morris appeared, relieving her of her burden, of whom he took
charge until she showed signs of life. In her alarm Helen forgot
entirely what they were talking about when the faint came on, and her
first question put to Marian was, “Were you taken suddenly ill? Why did
you faint?”
There was no answer at first; but when she did speak Marian said, “I am
still so weak that the least exertion affects me, and I was bending over
the table; it will soon pass off.”
If she was so weak she was not able to work, Helen said, proposing that
the plan be for the present abandoned, but to this Marian would not
listen; and her great eager eyes had in them so scared a look that Helen
said no more on that subject, but made arrangements for her coming to
them at once. Morris was to leave his patient some medicine, and while
he was preparing it, Helen had time to notice her more carefully,
admiring her lady-like manners, and thinking her smile the sweetest she
had ever seen. Greatly interested in her, Helen plied Morris with
questions of Miss Hazelton during their ride home, asking what he knew
of her.
“Nothing, except that she came to North Silverton a year ago, opening
her shop, and by her faithfulness, and pleasant, obliging manners,
winning favor with all who employed her. Previous to her sickness she
had a few times attended St. Paul’s at South Silverton, that being the
church of her choice. Had Helen never observed her?”
No, Helen had not. And then she spoke of her fainting, telling how
sudden it was, and wondering if she was subject to such turns. Marian
Hazelton had made a strong impression on Helen’s mind, and she talked of
her so much that Katy waited her appearance at the farm-house with
feverish anxiety. It was evening when she came, looking very white, and
seeming to Helen as if she had changed since she saw her first. In her
eyes there was a kind of hopeless, weary expression, while her smile
made one almost wish to cry, it was so sad, and yet so strangely sweet.
Katy felt its influence at once, growing very confidential with the
stranger, who, during the half hour in which they were accidentally left
alone, drew from her every particular concerning her intended marriage.
Very closely the dark blue eyes scrutinized little Katy, taking in first
the faultless beauty of her face, and then going away down into the
inmost depths of her character, as if to find out what was there.
“Pure, loving innocent, and unsuspecting,” was Marian Hazelton’s
verdict, and she followed wistfully every movement of the young girl as
she flitted around the room, chatting as familiarly with the dressmaker
as if she were a friend long known instead of an entire stranger.
“You look very young to be married,” Miss Hazelton said to her once, and
shaking back her short rings of hair Katy answered, “Eighteen next
Fourth of July; but Mr. Cameron is thirty.”
“Is he a widower?” was the next question, which Katy answered with a
merry laugh. “Mercy, no! _I_ marry a widower! How funny! I don’t believe
he ever cared a fig for anybody but me. I mean to ask him.”
“I would,” and the pale lips shut tightly together, while a resentful
gleam shot for a moment across Marian’s face; but it quickly passed
away, and her smile was as sweet as ever as she at last bade the family
good night and repaired to the little room where Wilford Cameron once
had slept.
A long time she stood before the glass, brushing her dark abundant hair,
and intently regarding her own features, while in her eyes there was a
hard, terrible look, from which Katy Lennox would have shrunk in fear.
But that too passed, and the eyes grew soft with tears as she turned
away, and falling on her knees moaned sadly, “I never will—no, I never
will. God help me to keep the promise. Were it the other one—Helen—I
might, for she could bear it; but Katy, that child—no, I never will,”
and as the words died on her lips there came struggling up from her
heart a prayer for Katy Lennox’s happiness, as fervent and sincere as
any which had ever been made for her since she was betrothed.
They grew to liking each other rapidly, Marian and Katy, the latter of
whom thought her new friend greatly out of place as a dressmaker,
telling her she ought to marry some rich man, calling her Marian
altogether, and questioning her very closely of her previous life. But
Marian only told her that she was born in London; that she learned her
trade on the Isle of Wight, near to the Osborne House, where the royal
family sometimes came, and that she had often seen the present Queen,
thus trying to divert Katy’s mind from asking what there was besides
that apprenticeship to the Misses True on the Isle of Wight. Once indeed
she went farther, saying that her friends were dead; that she had come
to America in hopes of doing better than she could at home; that she had
stayed in New York until her health began to fail, and then had tried
what country air would do, coming to North Silverton because a young
woman who worked in the same shop was acquainted there, and recommended
the place. This was all Katy could learn, and Marian’s heart history, if
she had one, was guarded carefully.
They had decided at last upon the wedding dress, which Helen reserved
the right to make herself. Miss Hazelton must fit it, of course, but to
her belonged the privilege of making it, every stitch; Katy would think
more of it if she did it all, she said; but she did not confess how the
bending over the dress, both early and late, was the escape-valve for
the feeling which otherwise would have found vent in passionate tears.
Helen was very wretched during the pleasant May days she usually enjoyed
so much, but over which now a dark pall was spread, shutting out all the
brightness and leaving only the terrible certainty that Katy was lost to
her forever—bright, frolicsome Katy, who, without a shadow on her heart,
sported amid the bridal finery, unmindful of the anguish tugging at the
hearts of both the patient women, Marian and Helen, who worked on so
silently, reserving their tears for the night-time, when Katy was
dreaming of Wilford Cameron. Helen was greatly interested in Marian, but
never guessed that her feelings, too, were stirred to their very depths
as the bridal preparations progressed. She only knew how wretched she
was herself, and how hard it was to fight her tears back as she bent
over the silk, weaving in with every stitch a part of the clinging love
which each day grew stronger for the only sister, who would soon be
gone, leaving her alone. Only once did she break entirely down, and that
was when the dress was done and Katy tried it on, admiring its effect
and having a second glass brought that she might see it behind.
“Isn’t it lovely?” she exclaimed; “and the more valuable because you
made it. I shall think of you every time I wear it,” and the impulsive
girl wound her arms around Helen’s neck, kissing her lovingly, while
Helen sank into a chair and sobbed aloud, “Oh, Katy, darling Katy! you
won’t forget me when you are rich and admired, and can have all you
want? You will remember us here at home, so sad and lonely? You don’t
know how desolate it will be, knowing you are gone, never to come back
again, just as you go away.”
In an instant Katy was on her knees before Helen, whom she tried to
comfort by telling her she should come back,—come often, too, staying a
long while; and that when she had a city home of her own she should live
with her for good, and they would be so happy.
“I cannot quite give Wilford up to please you,” she said, when that
gigantic sacrifice suggested itself as something which it was possible
Helen might require of her; “but I will do anything else, only please
don’t cry, darling Nellie—please don’t cry. It spoils all my pleasure,”
and Katy’s soft hands wiped away the tears running so fast over her
sister’s face.
After that Helen did not cry again in Katy’s presence, but the latter
knew she wanted to, and it made her rather sad, particularly when she
saw reflected in the faces of the other members of the family the grief
she had witnessed in Helen. Even Uncle Ephraim was not as cheerful as
usual, and once when Katy came upon him in the wood-shed chamber, where
he was shelling corn, she found him resting from his work and looking
from the window far off across the hills, with a look which made her
guess he was thinking of her, and stealing up beside him she laid her
hand upon his wrinkled face, whispering softly, “Poor Uncle Eph, are you
sorry, too?”
He knew what she meant, and the aged chin quivered, while a big tear
dropped into the tub of corn as he replied. “Yes, Katy-did—very sorry.”
That was all he said, and Katy, after smoothing his silvery hair a
moment, kissed his cheek and then stole away, wondering if the love to
which she was going was equal to the love of home, which, as the days
went by, grew stronger and stronger, enfolding her in a mighty embrace,
which could only be severed by bitter tears and fierce heart-pangs, such
as death itself sometimes brings. In that household there was, after
Katy, no one glad of that marriage except the mother, and she was only
glad because of the position it would bring to her daughter. But among
them all Morris suffered most, and suffered more because he had to
endure in secret, so that no one guessed the pain it was for him to go
each day where Katy was, and watch her as she sometimes donned a part of
her finery for his benefit, asking him once if he did not wish he were
in Wilford’s place, so as to have as pretty a bride as she should make.
Then Marian Hazelton glanced up in time to see the expression of his
face, a look whose meaning she readily recognized, and when Dr. Grant
left the farm-house that day, another than himself knew of his love for
Katy, drawing her breath hurriedly as she thought of taking back the
words, “I never will,”—of revoking that decision and telling Katy what
Wilford Cameron should have told her long before. But the wild wish
fled, and Wilford’s secret was safe, while Marian watched Morris Grant
with a pitying interest as he came among them, speaking always in the
same kind, gentle tone, and trying so hard to enter into Katy’s joy.
“His burden is greater than mine. God help us both,” Marian said, as she
resumed her work.
And so amid joy and gladness, silent tears and breaking hearts, the
preparations went on until all was done, and only three days remained
before the eventful tenth. Marian Hazelton was going home, for she would
not stay at the farm-house until all was over, notwithstanding Katy’s
entreaties were joined to those of Helen.
“Perhaps she would come to the church,” she said, “though she could not
promise;” and her manner was so strange that Katy wondered if she could
have offended her, and at last said to her timidly, as she stood with
her bonnet on, waiting for Uncle Ephraim, “You are not angry with me for
anything, are you?”
“Angry with _you_!” and Katy never forgot the glitter of the tearful
eyes, or their peculiar expression as they turned upon her. “No, oh, no;
I could not be angry with you, and yet, Katy Lennox, some in my position
would _hate_ you, contrasting your prospects with their own; but I do
not; I love you; I bless you, and pray that you may be happy with your
husband; honor him, obey him if need be, and above all, never give him
the slightest cause to doubt you. You will have admirers, Katy Lennox.
In New York others than your husband will speak to you words of
flattery, but don’t you listen. Remember what I tell you; and now,
again, God bless you.”
She touched her lips to Katy’s forehead, and when they were withdrawn
there were great tears there which she had left! Marian’s tears on
Katy’s brow; and it was very meet that just before her bridal day
Wilford Cameron’s bride should receive such baptism from Marian
Hazelton.