WHAT FOLLOWED.
When Wilford left Katy so abruptly he had no definite purpose in his
mind. He was very sore with the remembrance of all that had passed since
baby’s death, and very angry at his wife, who he believed preferred
another to himself, or who would have done so had she known in time what
she did now. Like most angry people, he forgot wherein he had been in
fault, but charged it all to Katy as he went down Broadway that spring
morning, finding on his table a letter from an old classmate, who was
then in Washington getting up a company, and who wrote urging his friend
to join him at once, and offering him the rank of First Lieutenant. Here
was a temptation,—here an opportunity to revenge himself on Katy,
against whom he wrote a sad list of errors, making it sadder by brooding
over and magnifying it until he reached a point from which he would not
swerve.
“I shall do it,” he said, and his lips were pressed firmly together, as
in his private office he sat revolving the past, and then turning to the
future, opening so darkly before him, and making him shudder as he
thought of what it might bring. “I will spare Katy as much as possible,”
he said, “for hers is a different nature from Genevra’s. She cannot bear
as well,” and a bitter groan broke the silence of the room as Katy came
up before him just as she had looked that very morning standing by the
window, with tears in her eyes, and a wistful, sorry look on her white
face.
But Wilford was not one to retract when a decision was reached, and so
he arranged his business matters as well as his limited time would
allow; then, after the brief note to his father, wrote the letter to
Katy, and then followed to the Jersey ferry a regiment of soldiers who
were going on to Washington that night. Four days more and Lieutenant
Wilford Cameron, with no regret as yet for the past, marched away to
swell the ranks of men who, led by General McClellan, were pressing on,
as they believed, to Richmond and victory. A week of terrible suspense
went by, and then there came a letter to Mr. Cameron from his son,
requesting him to care for Katy, but asking no forgiveness for himself.
There were no apologies, no explanations, no kind words for Katy, whose
eyes moved slowly over the short letter, and then were lifted sadly to
her father’s face as she said,
“I will write to him myself, and on his answer will depend my future
course.”
This she said referring to the question she had raised as to whether she
should remain in New York or go to Silverton, where the family as yet
knew nothing except that Wilford had joined the army. And so the days
went by, while Katy’s letter was sent to Wilford, together with another
from his father, who called his son a “confounded fool,” telling him to
throw up his shoulder straps, which only honest men had a right to wear,
and come home where he belonged.
To this there came an indignant answer, bidding the father attend to his
own business, and allow the son to attend to his. To Katy, however,
Wilford wrote in a different strain, showing here and there marks of
tenderness and relenting, but saying what he had done could not now be
helped,—he was in for a soldier’s life for two years, and should abide
his choice.
This was the purport of Wilford’s letter, and Katy, when she finished
reading it, said sorrowfully,
“Wilford never loved me, and I cannot stay in _his_ home, knowing that I
am not trusted and respected as a wife should be. I will go to
Silverton. There is room for me there.”
Meanwhile at Silverton there was much anxiety for Katy, and many doubts
expressed lest something was wrong. That Wilford should go away so
suddenly, when he had never been noted for any very great amount of
patriotism, seemed strange, and Uncle Ephraim at last made up his mind
to the herculean task of going to New York to see what was the matter.
Presuming upon her experience as a traveler, Aunt Betsy had proffered
sundry pieces of advice with reference to what it was best for him to do
on the road, telling him which side of the car to sit, where to get out,
and above all things not to shake hands with the conductor when asked
for his ticket.
Uncle Ephraim heard her good-humoredly, and stuffing into his pocket the
paper of ginger-snaps, fried cakes and cheese, which Aunt Hannah had
prepared for his lunch, he started for the cars, and was soon on his way
to New York.
In his case there was no Bob Reynolds to offer aid and comfort, and the
old man was nearly torn in pieces by the hackmen, who, the moment he
appeared to view, pounced upon him as lawful prey, each claiming the
honor of taking him wherever he wished to go, and raising such a din
about his ears that he turned away thoroughly disgusted, telling them—
“He had feet and legs, and common sense, and he guessed he could find
his way without ’em. ’Bleeged to you, gentlemen, but I don’t need you,”
and with a profound bow the honest looking old deacon walked away,
asking the first man he met the way to Madison Square, and succeeding in
finding the number without difficulty.
With a scream of joy Katy threw herself into Uncle Ephraim’s arms, and
then led him to her own room, while the first tears she had shed since
she knew she was deserted rained in torrents over her face.
“What is it, Katy-did? I mistrusted something was wrong. What has
happened?” Uncle Ephraim asked; and with his arm around her, Katy told
him what had happened, and asked what she should do.
“Do?” the old man repeated. “Go home with me to your own folks until he
comes from the wars. He is your husband, and I shall say nothing agin
him; but if it was to go over I would forbid the banns. That chap has
misused you the wust way. You need not deny it, for it’s writ all over
your face,” he continued, as Katy tried to stop him, for sore as was her
heart with the great injustice done her, she would not have Wilford
blamed, and she was glad when dinner was announced, as that would put an
end to the painful conversation.
Leading Uncle Ephraim to the table, she presented him to Juno, whose
cold nod and haughty stare were lost on the old man, bowing his white
head so reverently as he asked the first blessing which had ever been
asked at that table.
It had not been a house of prayer—no altar had been erected for the
morning and evening sacrifice. God had almost been forgotten, and now He
was pouring His wrath upon the handsome dwelling, making it so
distasteful that Katy was anxious to leave it, and expressed her desire
to accompany Uncle Ephraim to Silverton as soon as the necessary
arrangements could be made.
“I don’t take it she comes for good,” Uncle Ephraim said that evening,
when Mr. Cameron opposed her going. “When the two years are gone, and
her man wants her back, she must come of course. But she grows poor here
in the city. It don’t agree with her like the scent of the clover and
the breeze from the hills. So, shet up the house for a spell, and let
the child come with me.”
Mr. Cameron knew that Katy would be happier at Silverton, and he finally
consented to her going, and placed at her disposal a sum which seemed to
the deacon a little fortune in itself.
To Mrs. Cameron and Juno it was a relief to have Katy taken from their
hands, and though they made a show of opposition, they were easily
quieted, and helped her off with alacrity, the mother promising to see
that the house was properly cared for, and Juno offering to send the
latest fashions which might be suitable, as soon as they appeared. Bell
was heartily sorry to part with the young sister, who seemed going from
her forever.
“I know you will never come back. Something tells me so,” she said, as
she stood with her arms around Katy’s waist, and her lips occasionally
touching Katy’s forehead. “But I shall see you,” she continued; “I am
coming to the farm-house in the summer, and you may say to Aunt Betsy
that I like her ever so much, and”—Bell glanced behind her, to see that
no one was listening, and then continued—“tell her a certain officer was
sick a few days in a hospital last winter, and one of his men brought to
him a dish of the most delicious dried peaches he ever ate. That man was
from _Silverton_, and the fruit was sent to him, he said, in a salt bag,
by a nice old lady, for whose brother he used to work. Just to think
that the peaches I helped to pare, coloring my hands so that the stain
did not come off in a month, should have gone so straight to _Bob_!” and
Bell’s fine features shone with a light which would have told Bob
Reynolds he was beloved, if the lips did refuse to confess it.
“I’ll tell her,” Katy said, and then bidding them all good-bye, and
putting her hand on Uncle Ephraim’s arm, she went with him from the home
where she had lived but two years, and those the saddest, most eventful
ones of her short life.