TROUBLE IN THE HOUSEHOLD.
As soon as it was understood that Mrs. Wilford Cameron was able to go
out, there were scores of pressing invitations from the gay world which
had missed her so much, but Katy declined them all on the plea that baby
needed her care. She was happier at home, and as a mother it was her
place to stay there. At first Wilford listened quietly, but when he
found it was her fixed determination to abjure society entirely, he
interfered in his cool, decisive way, which always carried its point.
“It was foolish to take that stand,” he said. “Other mothers went and
why should not she? She had already stayed in too much. She was injuring
herself, and”—what was infinitely worse to Wilford—“she was losing her
good looks.”
As proof of this he led her to the glass, showing her the pale, thin
face and unnaturally large eyes, so distasteful to him. Wilford Cameron
was very proud of his handsome house,—proud to know that everything
there was in keeping with his position and wealth, but when Katy was
immured in the nursery, the bright picture was obscured, for it needed
her presence to make it perfect, and he began to grow dissatisfied with
his surroundings, while abroad he missed her quite as much, finding the
opera, the party or the reception, insipid where she was not, and
feeling fully conscious that Wilford Cameron, without a wife, and that
wife Katy, was not a man of half the consequence he had thought himself
to be. Even Sybil Grandon did not think it worth her while to court his
attention, if Katy were not present, for unless some one saw and felt
her triumph it ceased directly to be one. On the whole Wilford was not
well pleased with society as he found it this winter, and knowing where
the trouble lay, he resolved that Katy should no longer remain at home,
growing pale and faded and losing her good looks. Wilford would not have
confessed it, and perhaps was not himself aware of the fact, that Katy’s
beauty was quite as dear to him as Katy herself. If she lost it her
value was decreased accordingly, and so, as a prudent husband, it
behooved him to see that what was so very precious was not unnecessarily
thrown away. It did not take long for Katy to understand that her days
of quiet were at an end,—that neither crib nor cradle could avail her
longer. Mrs. Kirby, selected from a host of applicants, was wholly
competent for Baby Cameron, and Katy must throw aside the mother, which
sat so prettily upon her, and become again the belle. It was a sad
trial, but Katy knew that submission was the only alternative, and so
when Mrs. Banker’s invitation came, she accepted it at once, but there
was a sad look upon her face as she kissed her baby for the twentieth
time ere going to her dressing maid.
Never until this night had Helen realized how beautiful Katy was when in
full evening dress, and her exclamations of delight brought a soft flush
to Katy’s cheek, while she felt a thrill of the olden vanity as she saw
herself once more arrayed in all her costly apparel. Helen did not
wonder at Wilford’s desire to have Katy with him, and very proudly she
watched her young sister as Esther twined the flowers in her hair and
then brought out the ermine cloak she was to wear as a protection
against the cold.
Wilford was standing by her, making a few suggestions, and expressing
his approbation in a way which reminded Helen of that night before the
marriage, when Katy’s dress had been condemned, and of that sadder,
bitterer time, when she had poured her tears like rain into that trunk
returned. All she had thought of Wilford then was now more than
confirmed, but he was kind to her and very proud of Katy, so she forced
back her feelings of disquiet, which, however, were roused again when
she saw the dark look on his face, as Katy, at the very last, ran to the
nursery to kiss baby good-bye, succeeding this time in waking it, as was
proven by the cry which made Wilford scowl angrily and brought to his
lips a word of rebuke for Katy’s childishness.
The party was not so large as that at Sybil Grandon’s, but it was more
select, and Helen enjoyed it better, meeting people who readily
appreciated the peculiarities of her mind, and who would have made her
forget all else around her if she had not been a guest at Mark Ray’s
house. It was the first time she had met him away from home since the
night at Mrs. Grandon’s, and as if forgetful of her reserve, he paid her
numberless attentions, which, coming from the master of the house, were
the more to be valued.
With a quiet dignity Helen received them all, the thought once creeping
into her heart that _she_ was preferred, notwithstanding that
engagement. But she soon repudiated this idea as unworthy of her. She
could not be wholly happy with one who, to win her hand, had trampled
upon the affections of another, even if that other were Juno Cameron.
And so she kept out of his way as much as possible, watching her sister
admiringly as she moved about with an easy, assured grace, or floated
like a snowflake through the dance in which Wilford persuaded her to
join, looking after her with a proud, all-absorbing feeling, which left
no room for Sybil Grandon’s coquettish advances.
As if the reappearance of Katy had awakened all that was weak and silly
in Sybil’s nature, she again put forth her powers of attraction, but met
only with defeat. Katy, and even Helen, was preferred before her,—both
belles of a different type; but both winning golden laurels from those
who hardly knew which to admire more—Katy, with her pure, delicate
beauty and charming simplicity, or Helen, with her attractive face, and
sober, quiet manner. But Katy grew tired early. She could not endure
what she once did; and when she came to Wilford with a weary look upon
her face, and asked him to go home, he did not refuse, though Mark, who
was near, protested against their leaving so soon.
“Surely Miss Lennox might remain; the carriage could be sent back for
her; and he had hardly seen her at all.” But Miss Lennox chose to go;
and after her white cloak and hood had passed through the door into the
street, there was nothing attractive for Mark in his crowded parlors,
and he was glad when the last guest had departed, and he was left alone
with his mother.
Operas, parties, receptions, dinners, matinees, morning calls, drives,
visits, and shopping; how fast one crowded upon the other, leaving
scarcely an hour of leisure to the devotee of fashion who attended to
them all. How astonished Helen was to find what _high life_ in New York
implied, and she ceased to wonder that so many of the young girls grew
haggard and old before their time, or that the dowagers grew selfish and
hard and scheming. She should die outright, she thought, and she pitied
poor little Katy, who, having once returned to the world, seemed
destined to remain there, in spite of her entreaties and the excuses she
made for declining the invitations which poured in so fast.
“Baby was not well—Baby needed her,” was the plea with which she met
Wilford’s arguments, until the mention of his child was sure to bring a
scowl upon his face, and it became a question in Helen’s mind, whether
he would not be happier if Baby had never come between him and his
ambition.
To hear Katy’s charms extolled, and know that he was envied the
possession of so rare a gem, feeling all the while sure of her faith,
was Wilford’s great delight, and it is not strange that, without any
very strong fatherly feeling or principle of right in that respect, he
should be irritated by the little life so constantly interfering with
his pleasure and so surely undermining Katy’s health. For Katy did not
improve, as Wilford hoped she might; and with his two hands he could
span her slender waist, while the beautiful neck and shoulders were no
longer worn uncovered, for Katy would not display her _bones_, whatever
the fashion might be. In this dilemma Wilford sought his mother, and the
result of that consultation brought a more satisfied look to his face
than it had worn for many a day.
“Strange he had never thought of it, when it was what so many people
did,” he said to himself, as he hurried home. “It was the very best
thing both for Katy and the child, and would obviate every difficulty.”
Next morning, as she sometimes did when more than usually fatigued, Katy
breakfasted in bed; while Wilford’s face, as he sat opposite Helen at
the table, had on it a look of quiet determination, such as she had
rarely seen there before. In a measure, accustomed to his moods, she
felt that something was wrong, and never dreaming that he intended
honoring her with his confidence, she was wishing he would finish his
coffee and leave, when, motioning the servant from the room, he said
abruptly, and in a tone which roused Helen’s antagonistic powers at
once, it was so cool, so decided, “I believe you have more influence
over your sister than I have; at least, she has latterly shown a
willfulness in disregarding me and a willingness to listen to you, which
confirms me in this conclusion——”
“Well,” and Helen twisted her napkin ring nervously, waiting for him to
say more; but her manner disconcerted him, making him a little uncertain
as to what might be hidden behind that rigid face, and a little doubtful
as to the expression it would put on when he had said all he meant to
say.
He did not expect it to wear a look as frightened and hopeless as Katy’s
did when he last saw it upon the pillow, for he knew how different the
two sisters were, and much as he had affected to despise Helen Lennox,
he was afraid of her now. It had never occurred to him before that he
was somewhat uncomfortable in her presence—that her searching brown eyes
often held him in check; but it came to him now, that his wife’s sister
had a _will_ almost as firm as his own, and she was sure to take Katy’s
part. He saw it in her face, even though she had no idea of what he
meant to say.
He must explain sometime, and so at last he continued. “You must have
seen how opposed Katy is to complying with my wishes, setting them at
naught, when she knows how much pleasure she would give me by yielding
as she used to do.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Helen replied, “unless it is her aversion
to going out, as that, I think, is the only point where her obedience
has not been absolute.”
Wilford did not like the words _obedience_ and _absolute_; that is, he
did not like the _sound_. Their definition suited him, but Helen’s
enunciation was at fault, and he answered quickly, “I do not require
absolute obedience from Katy. I never did; but in this matter to which
you refer, I think she might consult my wishes as well as her own. There
is no reason for her secluding herself in the nursery as she does. Do
you think there is?”
He put the question direct, and Helen answered it.
“I do not believe Katy means to displease you, but she has conceived a
strong aversion for festive scenes, and besides, baby is not healthy,
you know, and like all young mothers, she may be over-anxious, while I
fancy she has not the fullest confidence in the nurse, and this may
account for her unwillingness to leave the child with her.”
“Kirby was all that was desirable,” Wilford replied. “His mother had
taken her from a genteel, respectable house in Bond street, and he paid
her an enormous price, consequently she must be right;” and then came
the story that his mother had decided that neither Katy nor baby would
improve so long as they remained together; that for both a separation
was desirable; that she had recommended sending the child into the
country, where it would be better cared for than it could be at home,
with Katy constantly undoing all Mrs. Kirby had done, waking it from
sleep whenever the fancy took her, and in short, treating it much as she
probably did her doll when she was a little girl. With the child away,
there would be nothing to prevent Katy’s going out again and getting
back her good looks, which were somewhat impaired.
“Why, she looks older than you do,” Wilford said, thinking thus to
conciliate Helen, who quietly replied,
“There is not two years difference between us, and I have always been
well, and kept regular hours until I came here.”
Wilford’s compliment had failed, and more annoyed than before, he asked,
not what Helen thought of the arrangement, but if she would influence
Katy to act and think rationally upon it; “at least, you will not make
it worse,” he said, and this time there was something deferential and
pleading in his manner.
Helen knew the matter was fixed,—that neither Katy’s tears nor
entreaties would avail to revoke the decision, and so, though her whole
soul rose in indignation against a man who would deliberately send his
nursing baby from his roof because it was in his way, and was robbing
his bride’s cheek of its girlish bloom, she answered composedly,
“I will do what I can, but I must confess it seems to me an unnatural
thing. I had supposed parents less selfish than that.”
Wilford did not care what Helen had supposed, and her opposition only
made him more resolved. Still he did not say so, and he tried to smile
as he quitted the table and remarked to her,
“I hope to find Katy reconciled when I come home. I think I had better
not go up to her again, so tell her I send a good-bye kiss by you. I
leave her case in your hands.”
It was a far more difficult case than either he or Helen imagined, and
the latter started back in alarm from the white face which greeted her
view as she entered Katy’s room, and then with a moan hid itself in the
pillow.
“Wilford thought he would not come up, but he sent a kiss by me,” Helen
said, softly touching the bright, disordered hair, all she could see of
her sister.
“It does not matter,” Katy gasped. “Kisses cannot help me if they take
baby away. Did he tell you?” and she turned now partly towards Helen,
who nodded affirmatively, while Katy continued, “Had he taken a knife
and cut a cruel gash it would not have hurt me half so badly. I could
bear that, but my baby—oh, Helen, do you think they will take her away?”
She was looking straight at Helen, who shivered as she met an expression
so unlike Katy, and so like to that a hunted deer might wear if its
offspring were in danger.
“Say, do you think they will?” she continued, shedding back with her
thin hand the mass of tangled curls which had fallen about her eyes.
“Whom do you mean by _they_?” Helen asked, coming near to her, and
sitting down upon the bed.
There was a resentful gleam in the blue eyes usually so gentle, as Katy
answered,
“_Whom_ do I mean? _His folks_, of course! They have been the
instigators of every sorrow I have known since I left Silverton. Oh,
Helen! never, never marry anybody who has _folks_, if you wish to be
happy.”
Helen could not repress a smile, though she pitied her sister, who
continued,
“I don’t mean father Cameron, nor Bell, for I believe they love me.
Father does, I know, and Bell has helped me so often; but Mrs. Cameron
and Juno, oh, Helen, you will never know what _they_ have been to me.”
Since Helen came to New York there had been so much else to talk about
that Katy had said comparatively little of the Camerons. Now, however
there was no holding back on Katy’s part, and beginning with the first
night of her arrival in New York, she told what is already known to the
reader, exonerating Wilford in word, but dealing out full justice to his
mother and Juno, the former of whom controlled him so completely.
“I tried so hard to love her,” Katy said, “and if she had given me ever
so little in return I would have been satisfied; but she never did—that
is, when I hungered for it most, missing you at home, and the loving
care which sheltered me in childhood. After the world took me into favor
she began to caress me, but I was wicked enough to think it all came of
selfishness. I know I am hard and bad, for when I was sick, Mrs. Cameron
was really very kind, and I began to like her; but if she takes baby
away I shall surely die.”
“Where is baby to be sent?” Helen asked, and Katy answered,
“Up the river, to a house which Father Cameron owns, and which is kept
by a farmer’s family. I can’t trust Kirby. I do not like her. She keeps
baby asleep too long, and acts so cross if I try to wake her, or hint
that she looks unnatural. I cannot give baby to her care, with no one to
look after her, though Wilford says I must.”
Katy had never offered so violent opposition to any plan as she did now
to that of sending her child away.
“I can’t, I can’t,” she repeated constantly, and Mrs. Cameron’s call,
made that afternoon, with a view to reconcile the matter, only made it
worse, so that Wilford, on his return at night, felt a pang of
self-reproach as he saw the drooping figure holding his child upon its
lap and singing its lullaby in a plaintive voice, which told how sore
was its heart.
Wilford did not mean to be either a savage or a brute. On the contrary,
he had made himself believe that he was acting only for the good of both
mother and child; but the sight of Katy touched him, and he might have
given up the contest had not Helen, unfortunately, taken up the cudgels
in Katy’s defence, neglecting to conceal the weapons, and so defeating
her purpose. It was at the dinner, from which Katy was absent, that she
ventured to speak, not _asking_ that the plan be given up, but speaking
of it as an unnatural one, which seemed to her not only useless, but
cruel.
Wilford did not tell her that her opinion was not desired, but his
manner implied as much, and Helen felt the angry blood prickling through
her veins, as she listened to his reply, that it was neither unnatural
nor cruel; that many people did it, and his would not be an isolated
case.
“Then, if it must be,” Helen said, “pray let it go to Silverton, and I
will be its nurse. Katy will not object to that.”
In a very ironical tone Wilford thanked her for her offer, which he
begged leave to decline, intimating a preference for settling his own
matters according to his own ideas. Helen knew that further argument was
useless, and wished herself at home, where there were no _wills_ like
this, which, ignoring Katy’s tears and Katy’s pleading face, would not
retract one iota, or even stoop to reason with the suffering mother,
except to reiterate, “It is only for your good, and every one with
common sense will say so.”
Next morning Helen was surprised at Katy’s proposition to drive round to
Fourth street, and call on Marian.
“I have a strong presentiment that she can do me good,” Katy said.
“Shall you tell _her_?” Helen asked, in some surprise; and Katy replied,
“Perhaps I may, I’ll see.”
An hour later, and Katy, up in Marian’s room, sat listening intently,
while Marian spoke of a letter received a few days since from an old
friend who had worked with her at Madam ——‘s, and to whom she had been
strongly attached, keeping up a correspondence with her after her
marriage and removal to New London, in Connecticut, and whose little
child had borne Marian’s name. That child, born two months before
Katy’s, _was dead_, and the mother, finding her home so desolate, had
written, beseeching Marian to come to her for the remainder of the
winter.
There was an eager look in Katy’s face, and her eyes danced with the new
idea which had suddenly taken possession of her. She could _not_ trust
baby with Kirby up the river, but she could trust her in New London with
Mrs. Hubbell, if Marian was there, and grasping the latter’s arm, she
exclaimed, “Is Mrs. Hubbell poor? Would she do something for money, a
great deal of money, I mean?”
In a few moments Marian had heard Katy’s trouble, and Katy’s wish that
Mrs. Hubbell should take her child in place of the little one dead.
“Perhaps she would not harbor the thought for a moment, but she misses
her own so much, it made me think she might take mine. Write to her,
Marian,—write to-day,—now, before I go,” Katy continued, clasping
Marian’s hand, with an expression which, more than aught else, won
Marian Hazelton’s consent to a plan which seemed so strange.
“Yes, I will write,” she answered; “I will tell Amelia what you desire.”
“But, Marian, you too must go, if baby does—I’ll trust baby with you.
Say, Marian, will you go with my darling?”
It was hard to refuse, with those great, wistful, pleading eyes, looking
so earnestly into hers; but Marian must have time to consider. She had
thought of going to New London to open a shop, and if she did, she
should board with Mrs. Hubbell, and so be with the child. She would
decide when the answer came to the letter.
This was all the encouragement she would give; but it was enough to
change the whole nature of Katy’s feelings, and her face looked bright
and cheerful as she tripped down the stairway, talking to Helen of what
seemed to both like a direct interposition of Providence, and what she
was sure would please Wilford quite as well as the farm-house up the
river.
“Surely he will yield to me in this,” she said. Nor was she wrong; for,
glad of an opportunity to make some concessions, and still in the main
have his own way, Wilford raised no objection to the plan as
communicated to him by Katy, when, at an earlier hour than usual he came
home to dinner, and with the harmony of his household once more
restored, felt himself a model husband, as he listened to Katy’s plan of
sending baby to New London. On the whole, it might be better even than
the farm-house up the river, he thought, for it was further away, and
Katy could not be tiring herself with driving out every few days, and
keeping herself constantly uneasy and excited. The distance between New
York and New London was the best feature of the whole; and he wondered
Katy had not thought of it as an objection. But she had not, and but for
the pain when she remembered the coming separation, she would have been
very happy that evening, listening with Wilford and Helen to a new opera
brought out for the first time in New York.
Very differently from this was Marian’s evening passed, and on her face
there was a look such as Katy’s had never worn, as she asked for
guidance to choose the right, to lay all self aside, and if it were her
duty, to care for the child she had never seen, but whose birth had
stirred the pulsations of her heart and made the old wound bleed and
throb with bitter anguish. And as she prayed there crept into her face a
look which told that self was sacrificed at last, and Katy Cameron was
safe with her.
* * * * *
Mrs. Hubbell was willing—aye, more than that—was glad to take the child,
and the generous remuneration offered would make them so comfortable in
their little cottage, she wrote to Marian, who hastened to confer by
note with Katy, adding in a postscript, “Is it still your wish that I
should go? If so, I am at your disposal.”
It _was_ Katy’s wish, and she replied at once, going next to the nursery
to talk with Mrs. Kirby. Dark were the frowns and dire the displeasure
of that lady when told that, instead of going up the river, as she had
hoped, she was free to return to the “genteel and highly respectable
home on Bond street,” where Mrs. Cameron had found her.
“Wait till the _Madam_ comes, and then we’ll see,” she thought,
referring to Mrs. Cameron, and feeling delighted when, that very day,
she heard that lady’s voice in the parlor.
But Mrs. Cameron, though a little anxious with regard to both Mrs.
Hubbell’s and Marian’s antecedents, saw that Wilford was in favor of New
London, and so voted accordingly, only asking that she might write to
New London with regard to Mrs. Hubbell and her fitness to take charge of
a child in whose veins Cameron blood was flowing. To this Katy assented,
and as the answer returned to Mrs. Cameron’s letter was altogether
favorable, it was decided that Mrs. Hubbell should come to the city at
once for her little charge.
In a week’s time she arrived, seeming everything Katy could ask for, and
as Mrs. Cameron, too, approved her heartily as a modest, well-spoken
young woman, who knew her place, it was arranged that she should return
home with her little charge on Saturday, thus giving Katy the benefit of
Sunday in which “to get over it and recover her usual spirits,” Mrs.
Cameron said. The fact that Marian was going to New London within a week
after baby went, reconciled Katy to the plan, making her even cheerful
during the last day of baby’s stay at home. But as the daylight waned
and the night came on, a shadow began to steal across her face, and her
step was slower as she went up the stairs to the nursery, while only
herself that night could disrobe the little creature and hush it into
sleep.
“’Tis the last time, you know,” she said to Kirby, who went out, leaving
the young mother and child alone.
Mournfully sad and sweet was the lullaby Katy sang, and Helen, who, in
the hall, was listening to the low, sad moaning,—half prayer, half
benediction,—likened it to a farewell between the living and dead. Half
an hour later, when she glanced into the room, lighted only by the
moonbeams, baby was sleeping in her crib, whilst Katy knelt beside, her
face buried in her hands, and her form quivering with the sobs she tried
to smother as she softly prayed that her darling might come back again;
that God would keep the little child and forgive the erring mother, who
had sinned so deeply since the time she used to pray in her home among
the hills of Massachusetts. She was very white next morning, and to
Helen she seemed to be expanding into something more womanly, more
mature, as she disciplined herself to bear the pain welling up so
constantly from her heart, and at last overflowing in a flood of tears,
when Mrs. Hubbell was announced as in the parlor below, waiting for her
charge.
It was Katy who made her baby ready, trusting her to no one else, and
repelling with a kind of fierce decision all offers of assistance made
either by Helen, Mrs. Cameron, Bell, or the nurse, who were present,
while Katy’s hands drew on the little bright, soft socks of wool, tied
the hood of satin and lace, and fastened the scarlet cloak, her tears
falling fast as she met the loving, knowing look the baby was just
learning to give her, half smiling, half cooing, as she bent her face
down to it.
“Please all of you go out,” she said, when baby was ready—“Wilford and
all. I would rather be alone.”
They granted her request, but Wilford stood beside the open door,
listening while the mother bade farewell to her baby.
“Darling,” she murmured, “what will poor Katy do when you are gone, or
what will comfort her as you have done? Precious baby, my heart is
breaking to give you up; but will the Father in Heaven, who knows how
much you are to me, keep you from harm and bring you back again? I’d
give the world to keep you, but I cannot do it, for Wilford says that
you must go, and Wilford is your father.”
At that moment Wilford Cameron would have given half his fortune to have
kept his child for Katy’s sake, but it was now too late; the carriage
was at the door, and Mrs. Hubbell was waiting in the hall for the little
procession filing down the stairs. Mrs. Cameron and Bell, Wilford and
Katy, who carried the baby herself, her face bent over it and her tears
still dropping like rain. But it was Wilford who took the baby to the
carriage, going with it to the train and seeing Mrs. Hubbell off; then,
on his way back, he drove round to his own house, which even to him
seemed lonely, with all the paraphernalia of babyhood removed. Still,
now that the worst was over, he rather enjoyed it, for Katy was free
from care; there was nothing to hinder her gratifying his every wish,
and with his spirits greatly enlivened as he reflected how satisfactory
everything had been managed at the last, he proposed taking both Helen
and Katy to the theatre that night. But Katy answered, “No, Wilford, not
to-night; it seems too much like baby’s funeral. I’ll go next week, but
not to-night.”
So Katy had her way, and among the worshipers who next day knelt in
Grace Church, with words of prayer upon their lips, there was not one
more in earnest than she, whose only theme was, “My child, my darling
child.”
She did not get over it by Monday, as Mrs. Cameron had predicted. She
did not get over it at all, though she went without a word where Wilford
willed that she should go, and was ere long a belle again, but nothing
had power to draw one look from her blue eyes, the look which many
observed, and which Helen knew sprang from the mother-love, hungering
for its child. Only once before had Helen seen a look like this, and
that had come to Morris’s face on the sad night when she said to him,
“It might have been.” It had been there ever since, and Helen felt that
by the pangs with which that look was born he was a better man, just as
Katy was growing better for that hunger in her heart. God was taking His
own way to purify them both, and Helen watched intently, wondering what
the end would be.