AFTER THE MARRIAGE.
“Why did you invite him to Linwood?” Helen began. “I am sure we have had
city guests enough. Oh, if Wilford Cameron had only never come, we
should have had Katy now,” and the sister-love overcame every other
feeling, making Helen cry bitterly as they drove back to the farm-house.
Morris could not comfort her then, and so in silence he left her and
went on his way to Linwood. It was well for him that there were many
sick ones on his list, for in attending to them he forgot himself in
part, so that the day with him passed faster than at the farm-house,
where life and its interests seemed suddenly to have stopped. Nothing
had power to rouse Helen, who never realized how much she loved her
young sister until now, when she listlessly put to rights the room which
had been theirs so long, but which was now hers alone. It was a sad task
picking up that disordered chamber, bearing so many traces of Katy, and
Helen’s heart ached terribly as she hung away the little pink calico
dressing-gown in which Katy had looked so prettily, and picked up from
the floor the pile of skirts lying just where they had been left the
previous night; but when it came to the little half-worn slippers which
had been thrown one here and another there as Katy danced out of them,
she could control herself no longer, and stopping in her work sobbed
bitterly, “Oh, Katy, Katy, how can I live without you!” But tears could
not bring Katy back, and knowing this, Helen dried her eyes ere long and
joined the family below, who like herself were spiritless and sad.
It was some little solace to them all that day to follow Katy in her
journey, saying, she is at Worcester, or Framingham, or Newton, and when
at noon they sat down to their dinner in the tidy kitchen they said,
“She is in Boston,” and the saying so made the time which had elapsed
since the morning seem interminable. Slowly the hours dragged, and at
last, before the sun-setting, Helen, who could bear the loneliness of
home no longer, stole across the fields to Linwood, hoping in Morris’s
companionship to forget her own grief in part. But Morris was a sorry
comforter then. He had ministered as usual to his patients that day,
listening to their complaints and answering patiently their inquiries;
but amid it all he walked as in a maze, hearing nothing except the
words, “I, Katy, take thee, Wilford, to be my wedded husband,” and
seeing nothing but the airy little figure which stood up on tiptoe for
him to kiss its lips at parting. His work for the day was over now, and
he sat alone in his library when Helen came hurriedly in, starting at
sight of his face, and asking if he was ill.
“I have had a hard day’s work,” he said. “I am always tired at night,”
and he tried to smile and appear natural. “Are you very lonely at the
farm-house?” he asked, and then Helen broke out afresh, mourning
sometimes for Katy, and again denouncing Wilford as proud and heartless.
“Positively, Cousin Morris, he acted all the while he was in the church
as if he were doing something of which he was ashamed; and then did you
notice how impatient he seemed when the neighbors were shaking hands
with Katy at the depot, and bidding her good-bye? He looked as if he
thought they had no right to touch her, she was so much their superior,
just because she had married _him_, and he even hurried her away before
Aunt Betsy had time to kiss her. And yet the people think it such a
splendid match for Katy, because he is so rich and generous. Gave the
clergyman fifty dollars and the sexton five, so I heard; but that does
not help him with me. I know it’s wicked, Morris, but I find myself
taking real comfort in hating Wilford Cameron.”
“That is wrong, Helen, all wrong,” and Morris tried to reason with her;
but his arguments this time were not very strong, and he finally said to
her, inadvertently, “If _I_ can forgive Wilford Cameron for marrying our
Katy, you surely ought to do so, for he has hurt _me_ the most.”
“_You_, Morris! YOU, YOU!” Helen kept repeating, standing back still
further and further from him, while strange, overwhelming thoughts
passed like lightning through her mind as she marked the pallid face,
where was written since the morning more than one line of suffering, and
saw in the brown eyes a look such as they were not wont to wear.
“Morris, tell me—tell me truly—did you love my sister Katy?” and with an
impetuous rush Helen knelt beside him, as, laying his head upon the
table he answered,
“Yes, Helen. God forgive me if it were wrong. I _did_ love your sister
Katy, and love her yet, and that is the hardest to bear.”
All the tender pitying woman was roused in Helen, and like a sister she
smoothed the locks of damp, dark hair, keeping a perfect silence as the
strong man, no longer able to bear up, wept like a very child. For a
time Helen felt as if bereft of reason, while earth and sky seemed
blended in one wild chaos as she thought, “Oh, why couldn’t it have
been? Why didn’t you tell her in time?” and at last she said to him, “If
Katy had known it! Oh, Morris, why didn’t you tell her? She never
guessed it, never! If she had—if she had,” Helen’s breath came
chokingly, “I am very sure—yes, I know _it might have been_!”
“Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these—it might have been.”
Morris involuntarily thought of these lines, but they only mocked his
sorrow as he answered Helen, “I doubt if you are right; I hope you are
not. Katy loved me as her brother, nothing more, I am confident. Had she
waited till she was older, God only knows what might have been, but now
she is gone and our Father will help me to bear, will help us both, if
we ask him, as we must.”
And then, as only he could do, Morris talked with Helen until she felt
her hardness towards Wilford giving way, while she wondered how Morris
could speak so kindly of one who was his rival.
“Not of myself could I do it,” Morris said; “but I trust in One who says
‘As thy day shall thy strength be,’ and He, you know, never fails.”
There was a fresh bond of sympathy now between Morris and Helen, and the
latter needed no caution against repeating what she had discovered. The
secret was safe with her, and by dwelling on what “might have been” she
forgot to think so much of what _was_, and so the first days after
Katy’s departure were more tolerable than she had thought it possible
for them to be. At the close of the fourth there came a short note from
Katy, who was still in Boston at the Revere, and perfectly happy, she
said, going into ecstasies over her husband, the best in the world, and
certainly the most generous and indulgent. “Such beautiful things as I
am having made,” she wrote, “when I already had more than I needed, and
so I told him, but he only smiled a queer kind of smile as he said ‘Very
true; you do not need them.’ I wonder then why he gets me more. Oh, I
forgot to tell you how much I like his cousin, Mrs. Harvey, who boards
at the Revere, and whom Wilford consults about my dress. I am somewhat
afraid of her, too, she is so grand, but she pets me a great deal and
laughs at my speeches. Mr. Ray is here, and I think him splendid.
“By the way, Helen, I heard him tell Wilford that you had one of the
best shaped heads he ever saw, and that he thought you decidedly good
looking. I must tell you now of the only thing which troubles me in the
least, and I shall get used to that, I suppose. It is so strange Wilford
never told me a word until she came. Think of little Katy Lennox with a
waiting-maid, who jabbers French half the time, for she speaks that
language as well as her own, having been abroad with the family once
before. That is why they sent her to me; they knew her services would be
invaluable in Paris. Her name is Esther, and she came the day after we
did, and brought me such a beautiful mantilla from Wilford’s mother, and
the loveliest dress. Just the pattern was fifty dollars, she said.
“The steamer sails in three days, and I will write again before that
time, sending it by Mr. Ray, who is to stop over one train at Linwood.
Wilford has just come in, and says I have written enough for now, but I
must tell you he has bought me a diamond pin and ear-rings, which
Esther, who knows the value of everything, says never cost less than
five hundred dollars.
“Your loving,
KATY CAMERON.”
“Five hundred dollars!” and Aunt Betsy held up her hands in horror,
while Helen sat a long time with the letter in her hand, cogitating upon
its contents, and especially upon the part referring to herself, and
what Mark Ray had said of her.
Every human heart is susceptible of flattery, and Helen’s was not an
exception. Still with her ideas of city men she could not at once think
favorably of Mark Ray, just for a few complimentary words which might or
might not have been in earnest, and she found herself looking forward
with nervous dread to the time when he would stop at Linwood, and of
course call on her, as he would bring a letter from Katy.
Very sadly to the inmates of the farm-house rose the morning of the day
when Katy was to sail, and as if they could really see the tall masts of
the vessel which was to bear her away, the eyes of the whole family were
turned often to the eastward with a wistful, anxious gaze, while on
their lips and in their hearts were earnest prayers for the safety of
that ship and the precious freight it bore. But hours, however sad, will
wear themselves away, and so the day went on, succeeded by the night,
until that too had passed and another day had come, the second of Katy’s
ocean life. At the farm-house the work was all done up, and Helen in her
neat gingham dress, with her bands of brown hair bound about her head,
sat sewing, when she was startled by the sound of wheels, and looking up
saw the boy employed to carry packages from the express office, driving
to their door with a trunk, which he said had come that morning from
Boston.
In some surprise Helen hastened to unlock it with the key which she
found appended to it. The trunk was full, and over the whole a linen
towel was folded, while on the top of that lay a letter in Katy’s
handwriting, directed to Helen, who, sitting down upon the floor, broke
the seal and read aloud as follows:
BOSTON, JUNE—, Revere House
“Nearly midnight.
“MY DEAR SISTER HELEN:—I have just come in from a little party given by
one of Mrs. Harvey’s friends, and I am _so_ tired, for you know I am not
accustomed to such late hours. The party was very pleasant indeed, and
everybody was so kind to me, especially Mr. Ray, who stood by me all the
time, and who somehow seemed to help me, so that I knew just what to do,
and was not awkward at all. I hope not, at least for Wilford’s sake.
“You do not know how grand and dignified he is here in Boston among his
own set; he is so different from what he was in Silverton that I should
be afraid of him if I did not know how much he loves me. He shows that
in every action, and I am perfectly happy, except when I think that
to-morrow night at this time I shall be on the sea, going away from you
all. Here it does not seem far to Silverton, and I often look towards
home, wondering what you are doing, and if you miss me any. I wish I
could see you once before I go, just to tell you all how much I love
you—more than I ever did before, I am sure.
“And now I come to the trunk. I know you will be surprised at its
contents, but you cannot be more so than I was when Wilford said I must
pack them up and send them back—all the dresses you and Marion made.”
“No, oh no!” and Helen felt her strength leave her wrists in one sudden
throb as the letter dropped from her hand, while she tore off the linen
covering and saw for herself that Katy had written truly.
She could not weep then, but her face was white as marble as she again
took up the letter and commenced at the point where she had broken off.
“It seems that people traveling in Europe do not need many things, but
what they have must be just right, and so Mrs. Cameron wrote for Mrs.
Harvey to see to my wardrobe, and if I had not exactly what was proper
she was to procure it. It is very funny that she did not find a single
proper garment among them all, when we thought them so nice. They were
not just the style, she said, and that was very desirable in Mrs.
Wilford Cameron. Somehow she tries to impress me with the idea that
_Mrs. Wilford Cameron_ is a very different person from little Katy
Lennox, but I can see no difference except that I am a great deal
happier and have Wilford all the time.
“Well, as I was telling you, I was measured and fitted, and my figure
praised, until my head was nearly turned, only I did not like the horrid
stays they put on me, squeezing me up and making me feel so stiff. Mrs.
Harvey says no lady does without them, expressing much surprise that I
had never worn them, and so I submit to the powers that be; but every
chance I get here in my room I take them off and throw them on the
floor, where Wilford has stumbled over them two or three times.
“This afternoon the dresses came home, and they do look beautifully,
while every one has belt, and gloves, and ribbons, and sashes, and laces
or muslins to match—fashionable people are so particular about these
things. I have tried them on, and except that I think them too tight,
they fit admirably, and _do_ give me a different air from what Miss
Hazelton’s did. But I really believe I like the old ones best, because
_you_ helped to make them; and when Wilford said I must send them home,
I went where he could not see me and cried, because—well, I hardly know
why I cried, unless I feared you might feel badly. Dearest Helen, don’t,
will you? I love you just as much, and shall remember you the same as if
I wore the dresses. Dearest sister, I can fancy the look that will come
on your face, and I wish I could be present to kiss it away. Imagine me
there, will you? with my arms around your neck, and tell mother not to
mind. Tell her I never loved her so well as now, and that when I come
home from Europe I shall bring her ever so many things. There is a new
black silk for her in the trunk, and one for each of the aunties, while
for you there is a lovely brown, which Wilford said was just your style,
telling me to select as nice a silk as I pleased, and this he did, I
think, because he guessed I had been crying. He asked what made my eyes
so red, and when I would not tell him he took me with him to the silk
store and bade me get what I liked. Oh, he is the dearest, kindest
husband, and I love him all the more because I am the least bit afraid
of him.
“And now I must stop, for Wilford says so. Dear Helen, dear all of you,
I can’t help crying as I say good-bye. Remember little Katy, and if she
ever did anything bad, don’t lay it up against her. Kiss Morris and
Uncle Ephraim, and say how much I love them. Darling sister, darling
mother, good-bye.”
This was Katy’s letter, and it brought a gush of tears from the four
women remembered so lovingly in it, the mother and the aunts stealing
away to weep in secret, without ever stopping to look at the new dresses
sent to them by Wilford Cameron. They were very soft, very handsome,
especially Helen’s rich golden brown, and as she looked at it she felt a
thrill of satisfaction in knowing it was hers, but this quickly passed
as she took out one by one the garments she had folded with so much
care, wondering when Katy would wear each one and where she would be.
“She will never wear them, never—they are not fine enough for her now!”
she exclaimed, and as she just then came upon the little plaid, she laid
her head upon the trunk lid, while her tears dropped like rain in among
the discarded articles condemned by Wilford Cameron.
It seemed to her like Katy’s grave, and she was sobbing bitterly, when a
step sounded outside the window, and a voice called her name. It was
Morris, and lifting up her head Helen said passionately,
“Oh, Morris, look! he has sent back all Katy’s clothes, which you bought
and I worked so hard to make. They were not good enough for his wife to
wear, and so he insulted us. Oh, Katy, I never fully realized till now
how wholly she is lost to us!”
“Helen, Helen,” Morris kept saying, trying to stop her, for close behind
him was Mark Ray, who heard her distinctly, and glancing in, saw her
kneeling before the trunk, her pale face stained with tears, and her
dark eyes shining with excitement.
Mark Ray understood it at once, feeling indignant at Wilford for thus
unnecessarily wounding the sensitive girl, whose expression, as she sat
there upon the floor, with her face upturned to Morris, haunted him for
months. Mark was sorry for her—so sorry that his first impulse was to go
quietly away, and so spare her the mortification of knowing that he had
witnessed that little scene; but it was now too late. As she finished
speaking her eye fell on him, and coloring scarlet she struggled to her
feet, and covering her face with her hands wept still more violently.
Mark was in a dilemma, and whispered softly to Morris, “I think I will
leave. You can tell her all I had to say;” but Helen heard him, and
mastering her agitation, she said to him,
“Please, Mr. Ray, don’t go—not yet at least, not till I have asked you
of Katy. Did you see her off? Has she gone?”
Thus importuned Mark Ray came in, and sitting down where his boot almost
touched the new brown silk, he very politely began to answer her rapid
questions, putting her entirely at her ease by his pleasant, affable
manner, and making her forget the littered appearance of the room, as
she listened to his praises of her sister, who, he said, seemed so very
happy, and attracted universal admiration wherever she went. No allusion
whatever was made to the trunk during the time of Mark’s stay, which was
not long. If he took the next train to New York, he had but an hour more
to spend, and feeling that Helen would rather he should spend it at
Linwood he soon arose to go. Offering his hand to Helen, there passed
from his eyes into hers a look which had over her a strangely quieting
influence, and prepared her for a remark which otherwise might have
seemed out of place.
“I have known Wilford Cameron for years; he is my best friend, and I
respect him as a brother. In some things he may be peculiar, but he will
make your sister a kind husband. He loves her devotedly, I know,
choosing her from the throng of ladies who would gladly have taken her
place. I hope you will like him for _my_ sake as well as Katy’s.”
His warm hand unclasped from Helen’s, and with another good-bye he was
gone, without seeing either Mrs. Lennox, Aunt Hannah or Aunt Betsy. This
was not the time for extending his acquaintance, he knew, and he went
away with Morris, feeling that the farm-house, so far as he could judge,
was not exactly what Wilford had pictured it. “But then he came for a
wife, and I did not,” he thought, while Helen’s face came before him as
it looked up to Morris, and he wondered, were he obliged to choose
between the sisters, which he should prefer. During the few days passed
in Boston he had become more than half in love with Katy himself, almost
envying his friend the pretty little creature he had won. She was very
beautiful and very fascinating in her simplicity, but there was
something in Helen’s face more attractive than mere beauty, and Mark
said to Morris as they walked along,
“Miss Lennox is not much like her sister.”
“Not much, no; but Helen is a splendid girl—more strength of character,
perhaps, than Katy, who is younger than her years even. She has always
been petted from babyhood; it will take time or some great sorrow to
show what she really is.”
This was Morris’s reply, and the two then proceeded on in silence until
they reached the boundary line between Morris’s farm and Uncle
Ephraim’s, where they found the deacon mending a bit of broken fence,
his coat lying on a pile of stones, and his wide, blue cotton trowsers
hanging loosely around him. When told who Mark was, and that he brought
news of Katy, he greeted him cordially, and sitting down upon his fence
listened to all Mark had to say. Between the old and young man there
seemed at once a mutual liking, the former saying to himself as Mark
went on, and he resumed his work,
“I most wish it was this chap with Katy on the sea. I like his looks the
best,” while Mark’s thoughts were,
“Will need not be ashamed of that man, though I don’t suppose _I_ should
really want him coming suddenly in among a drawing-room full of guests.”
Morris did not feel much like entertaining Mark, but Mark was fully
competent to entertain himself, and thought the hour spent at Linwood a
very pleasant one, half wishing for some excuse to tarry longer; but
there was none, and so at the appointed time he bade Morris good-bye and
went on his way to New York.