WHAT THE PAGE DISCLOSED.
I was little more than nineteen years of age when I left Harvard College
and went abroad with my only brother, the John or Jack of whom you have
so often heard. Both himself and wife were in delicate health, and it
was hoped a voyage across the sea would do them good. For nearly a year
we were in various parts of England, stopping for two months at
Brighton, where, among the visitors, was a widow from the vicinity of
Alnwick, and with her an orphan niece, whose dazzling beauty attracted
my youthful fancy. She was not happy with her aunt, upon whom she was
wholly dependent, and my sympathies were all enlisted, when, with the
tears shining in her lustrous eyes, she one day accidentally stumbled
upon her trouble and told me how wretched she was, asking if in America
there was not something for her to do.
“It was at this time that Jamie was born, and Mary, the girl who went
out with us, was married to an Englishman, making it necessary for Hatty
to find some one to take her place. Hearing of this, Genevra came one
day, and offered herself as half companion, half waiting-maid to Hatty.
Anything was preferable to the life she led, she said, pleading so hard
that Hatty, after an interview with the old aunt—a purse-proud, vulgar
woman, who seemed glad to be rid of her charge—consented to receive her,
and Genevra became one of our family, an equal rather than a menial,
whom Hatty treated with as much consideration as if she had been a
sister. I wish I could tell you how beautiful Genevra Lambert was at
that period of her life, with her brilliant English complexion, her eyes
so full of poetry and passion, her perfect features, and, more than all,
the wondrous smile, which would have made a plain face handsome.
“Of course I came to love her, and loved her all the more for the
opposition I knew my family would throw in the way of my marrying the
daughter of an English apothecary, and one who was voluntarily filling a
servant’s place. But with my mother across the sea, I could do anything;
and when Genevra told me of a base fellow, who, since she was a child,
had sought her for his wife, and still pursued her with his letters, my
passions were roused, and I offered myself at once. Her answer was a
decided refusal. She knew _her_ position, she said, and she knew mine,
just as she knew the nature of the feeling which prompted me to act thus
toward her. Although just my age, she was older in judgment and
experience, and she seemed to understand the difference between our
relative positions. I was not indifferent to her, she said, and were she
my equal her answer might be otherwise than the decided no.
“Madly in love, and fancying I could not live without her, I besieged
her with letters, some of which she returned unopened, while on others
she wrote a few hurried lines, calling me a boy, who did not know my own
mind, and asking what my friends would say.
“I cared little for friends, and urged my suit the more vehemently, as
we were about going into Scotland, where our marriage could be
celebrated in private at any time. I did not contemplate making the
affair public at once. That would take from the interest and romance,
while, unknown to myself, there was at heart a fear of my family.
“But not to dwell too long upon those days, which seem to me now like a
dream, we went to Scotland and were married privately, for I won her to
this at last.
“My brother’s failing health, as well as Hatty’s, prevented them from
suspecting what was going on, and when at last we went to Italy they had
no idea that Genevra was my wife. At Rome her beautiful face attracted
much attention from tourists and residents, among whom were a few young
men, who, looking upon her as Jamie’s nurse, or at most a companion for
his mother, made no attempt to disguise their admiration. For this I had
no redress except in an open avowal of the relation in which I stood to
her, and this I could not then do, for the longer it was deferred the
harder I found it to acknowledge her my wife. I loved her devotedly, and
that perhaps was one great cause of the jealousy which began to spring
up and embitter my life.
“I do not now believe that Genevra was at heart a coquette. She was very
fond of admiration, but when she saw how much I was disturbed she made
an effort to avoid those who flattered her, but her manner was
unfortunate, while her voice—the sweetest I ever heard—was calculated to
invite rather than repel attention. As the empress of the world, she
would have won and kept the homage of mankind, from the humblest beggar
in the street to the king upon the throne, and had I been older I should
have been proud of what then was my greatest annoyance. But I was a mere
boy—and I watched her jealously, until a new element of disquiet was
presented to me in the shape of a ruffianly looking fellow, who was
frequently seen about the premises, and with whom I once found Genevra
in close converse, starting and blushing guiltily when I came upon her,
while her companion went swiftly from my sight.
“It was an old English acquaintance, who was poor and asking charity,”
she said, when questioned, but her manner led me to think there was
something wrong, particularly as I saw her with him again, and thought
she held his hand.
“It was evident that my brother would never see America again, and at
his request my mother came to us, in company with a family from Boston,
reaching us two weeks before he died. From the first she disliked
Genevra, and suspected the liking between us, but never dreaming of the
truth until a week after Jack’s death, when in a fit of anger at Genevra
for listening to an English artist, who had asked to paint her picture,
the story of the marriage came out, and like a child dependent on its
mother for advice, I asked, ‘What shall I do??
“You know mother, and can in part understand how she would scorn a girl
who, though born to better things, was still found in the capacity of a
waiting-maid. I never saw her so moved as she was for a time, after
learning that her only living son, from whom she expected so much, had
thrown himself away, as she expressed it. Sister Hatty, who loved
Genevra, did all she could to heal the growing difference between us,
but I trusted mother most. I believed that what she said was right, and
so matters grew worse, until one night, the last we spent in Rome, I
missed Genevra from our rooms, and starting in quest of her, found her,
in a little flower garden back of our dwelling. There, under the deep
shadow of a tree, and partly concealed from view, she stood with her arm
around the neck of the same rough-looking man who had been there before.
She did not see me as I watched her while she parted with him, suffering
him to kiss her hand and forehead as he said, “Good-bye, my darling.”
“In a tremor of anger and excitement I quitted the spot, my mind wholly
made up with regard to my future. That there was something wrong about
Genevra I did not doubt, and I would not give her a chance to explain by
telling her what I had seen, but sent her back to England, giving her
ample means for defraying the expenses of her journey and for living in
comfort after her arrival there. From Rome we went to Naples, and then
to Switzerland, where Hatty died, leaving us alone with little Jamie. It
was at Berne that I received an anonymous letter from England, the
writer stating that Genevra was with her aunt, that the whole had ended
as he thought it would, that he could readily guess at the nature of the
trouble, and hinting that if a _divorce_ was desirable on my return to
England, all necessary proof could be obtained by applying to such a
number in London, the writer announcing himself a brother of the man who
had once sought Genevra, and saying he had always opposed the match,
knowing Genevra’s family.
“This was the first time the idea of a _divorce_ had entered my mind,
and I shrank from a final separation. But mother felt differently. It
was not a new thought to her, knowing as she did that the validity of a
Scotch marriage, such as ours, was frequently contested in the English
Courts. Once free from Genevra the world this side the water would never
know of that mistake, and she set herself steadily to accomplish her
purpose. To tell you all that followed our return to England, and the
steps by which I was brought to sue for a divorce, would make my story
too long, and so I will only state that, chiefly by the testimony of the
anonymous letter-writer, whose acquaintance we made, a divorce was
obtained, Genevra putting in no defence, but, as I heard afterwards,
settling down into an apathy from which nothing had power to rouse her
until the news of her freedom from me was carried to her, when, amid a
paroxysm of tears and sobs, she wrote me a few lines, assuring me of her
innocence, refusing to send back her wedding ring, and saying God would
not forgive me for the great wrong I had done her. I saw her once after
that by appointment, and her face haunted me for years, for, Katy,
_Genevra was innocent_, as I found after the time was past when
reparation could be made.”
Wilford’s voice trembled, and for a moment there was silence in the
room, while he composed himself to go on with the story:
“She would not live with me again if she could, she said, denouncing
bitterly the Cameron pride, and saying she was happier to be free; and
there we parted, but not until she told me that her traducer was the old
discarded suitor who had sworn to have revenge, and who, since the
divorce, had dared seek her again. A vague suspicion of this had crossed
my mind once before, but the die was cast, and even if the man were
false, what I saw myself in Rome still stood against her, and so my
conscience was quieted, while mother was more than glad to be rid of a
daughter-in-law of whose family I knew nothing. Rumors I did hear of a
cousin whose character was not the best, and of the father who for some
crime had fled the country, and died in a foreign land, but as that was
nothing to me now, I passed it by, feeling it was best to be released
from one of so doubtful antecedents.
“In the spring of 185— we came back to New York, where no one had ever
heard of the affair, so quietly had it been managed. I was still an
unmarried man to the world, as no one but my mother knew my secret. With
her I often talked of Genevra, wishing sometimes that I could hear from
her, a wish which was finally gratified. One day I received a note
requesting an interview at a down town hotel, the writer signing himself
as Thomas Lambert, and adding that I need have no fears, as he came to
perform an act of justice, not of retribution. Three hours later I was
locked in a room with Genevra’s father, the same man whom I had seen in
Rome. Detected in forgery years before, he had fled from England and had
hidden himself in Rome, where he accidentally met his daughter, and so
that stain was removed. He had heard of the divorce by a letter which
Genevra managed to send him, and braving all difficulties and dangers he
had come back to England and found his child, hearing from her the story
of her wrongs, and as well as he was able setting himself to discover
the author of the calumny. He was not long in tracing it to _Le Roy_,
Genevra’s former suitor, whom he found in a dying condition, and who
with his last breath confessed the falsehood which was imposed upon me,
he said, partly from motives of revenge, and partly, with a hope that
free from me, Genevra would at the last turn to him. As proof that Mr.
Lambert told me truth, he brought the dying man’s confession, written in
a cramped, trembling hand, which I recognized at once. The confession
ended with the solemn assertion, ‘For aught I know or believe, Genevra
Lambert is as pure and true as any woman living.’
“I cannot describe the effect this had upon me. I did not love Genevra
then. I had out-lived that affection, but I felt remorse and pity for
having wronged her, and asked how I could make amends.
“‘You cannot,’ the old man said, ‘except in one way, and that she does
not desire. I did not come here with any wish for you to take her for
your wife again. It was an unequal match which never should have been;
but if you believe her innocent, she will be satisfied. She wanted you
to know it—I wanted you to know it, and so I crossed the sea to find
you.’”
“The next I heard of her was in the columns of an English newspaper,
which told me she was dead, while in another place a pencil mark was
lightly traced around a paragraph, which said that ‘a forger, Thomas
Lambert, who escaped years ago and was supposed to be dead, had recently
reappeared in England, where he was recognized, but not arrested, for
the illness which proved fatal. He was attended,’ the paper said, ‘by
his daughter, a beautiful young girl, whose modest mien and gentle
manner had done much towards keeping the officers of justice from her
dying father, no one being able to withstand her pleadings that her
father might die in peace.’
“I was grateful for this tribute to Genevra, for I felt that it was
deserved; and I turned again to the notice of her death, which must have
occurred within a short time of her father’s, and was probably induced
by past troubles and recent anxiety for him.
“Genevra Lambert died at Alnwick, aged 22. There could be no mistake,
and with a tear to the memory of the dead whom I had loved and injured,
I burned the paper, feeling that now there was no clue to the secret I
was as anxious to preserve as was my mother.
“And so the years wore on till I met and married you, withholding from
you that yours was not the first love which had stirred my heart. I
meant to tell you, Katy, but I could not for the great fear of losing
you if you knew all. And then an error concealed so long is hard to be
confessed. I took you across the sea to Brighton, where I first met
Genevra, and then to Alnwick, seeking out the grave which made assurance
doubly sure. It was natural that I should make some inquiries concerning
her last days; I questioned the old sexton who was at work near by.
Calling his attention to the name, I said it was an uncommon one and
asked if he knew the girl.
“‘Not by sight, no,’ he said. ‘She was only here a few days before she
died. I’ve heard she was very winsome and that there was a scandal of
some kind mixed up with her.’
“I would not ask him any more; and without any wrong to you, I confess
that my tears dropped upon the turf under which I knew Genevra lay.”
“I am glad they did; I should hate you if you had not cried,” Katy
exclaimed, her voice more natural than it had been since the great shock
came.
“Do you forgive me, Katy? Do you love me as well as ever?” Wilford
asked, stooping down to kiss her, but Katy drew her face away and would
not answer then.
She did not know herself how she felt towards him. He did not seem just
like the husband she had trusted in so blindly. It would take a long
time to forget that another head than hers had lain upon his bosom, and
it would take longer yet to blot out the memory of complaining words
uttered to his mother. She had never thought he could do that, never
dreamed of such a thing, knowing that she would sooner have parted with
her right hand than complained of him. Her idol had fallen in more
respects than one, and the heart it had bruised in the fall refused at
once to gather the shattered pieces up and call them as good as new. She
was not so obstinate as Wilford began to fancy. She was only stunned and
could not rally at his bidding. He confessed the whole, keeping nothing
back, and he felt that Katy was unjust not to acknowledge his
magnanimity and restore him to her favor. Again he asked forgiveness,
and bent down to kiss her, but Katy answered, “Not yet, Wilford, not
till I feel all right towards you. A wife’s kiss should be sincere.”
“As you like,” trembled on Wilford’s lips, but he beat back the words
and walked up and down the room, knowing now that his journey must be
deferred till morning, and wondering if Katy would hold out till then.
It was long past midnight, but to retire was impossible, and so for one
whole hour he paced through the room, while Katy lay with her eyes
closed and her lips moving occasionally in words of prayer she tried to
say, asking God to help her, and praying that she might in future lay
her treasures up where they could not so suddenly be swept away. Wearily
the hours passed, and the gray dawn was stealing into the room when
Wilford again approached his wife and said, “You know I was to have left
home last night on business. As I did not go then it is necessary that I
leave this morning. Are you able to stay alone for three days more? Are
you willing?”
“Yes—oh yes,” Katy replied, feeling that to have him gone while she
battled with the pain lying so heavy at her heart, would be a great
relief.
Perhaps he suspected this feeling in part, for he bit his lip
impatiently, and without another word called up the servant whose duty
it was to prepare his breakfast. Cold and cheerless seemed the
dining-room, to which an hour later he repaired, and tasteless was the
breakfast without Katy there to share it. She had been absent many times
before, but never just as now, with this wide gulf between them, and as
he broke his egg and tried to drink his coffee, Wilford felt like one
from whom every support had been swept away. He did not like the look on
Katy’s face or the sound of her voice, and as he thought upon them, self
began to whisper again that she had no right to stand out so long when
he had confessed everything, and by the time his breakfast was finished,
Wilford Cameron was, in his own estimation, an abused and injured man,
so that it was with an air of defiance rather than humility that he went
again to Katy. She, too, had been thinking, and as the result of her
thoughts she lifted up her head as he came in and said, “I can kiss you
now, Wilford.”
It was human nature, we suppose—at least it was Wilford’s nature—which
for an instant tempted him to decline the kiss proffered so lovingly;
but Katy’s face was more than he could withstand, and when again he left
that room the kiss of pardon was upon his lips and comparative quiet was
in his heart.
“The picture, Wilford,—please bring me the picture, I want to see it,”
Katy called after him, as he was running down the stairs.
Wilford would not refuse, and hastily unlocking his private drawer he
carried the case to Katy’s room, saying to her, “I would not mind it
now. Try and sleep awhile. You need the rest so much.”
Katy knew she had the whole day before her, and so she nestled down
among her pillows and soon fell into a quiet sleep, from which Esther at
last awakened her, asking if she should bring her breakfast to her room.
“Yes, do,” Katy replied, adjusting her dress and trying to arrange the
matted curls, which were finally confined in a net until Esther’s more
practiced hands were ready to attack them, then sending Esther from the
room Katy took the picture of Genevra from the table where Wilford had
laid it.