CONCLUSION.
The scene shifts now to New York, where, one week after that wedding in
Silverton, Mark and Helen went, together with Morris and Katy. But not
to Madison Square. That house had been sold, and Katy saw it but once,
her tears falling fast as, driving slowly by with Morris, she gazed at
the closed doors and windows of what was once her home, and around which
lingered no pleasant memories save that it was the birthplace of baby
Cameron. Lieutenant Reynolds had thought to buy it, but Bell said, “No,
it would not be pleasant for Katy to visit me there, and I mean to have
her with me as much as possible.” So the house went to strangers, and a
less pretentious but quite as comfortable one was bought for Bell, so
far up town that Juno wondered how her sister would manage to exist so
far from everything, intimating that her visits would be far between, a
threat which Lieutenant Bob took quite heroically; indeed, it rather
enhanced the value of his pleasant home than otherwise, for Juno was not
a favorite, and his equanimity was not likely to be disturbed if she
never crossed his threshold. She was throwing bait to _Arthur Grey_, the
man who swore he was fifty to escape the draft, and who, now that the
danger was over, would gladly take back his oath and be forty, as he
really was. With the most freezing kiss imaginable Juno greeted Katy,
calling her “Mrs. Grant,” and treating Morris as if he were an entire
stranger, instead of the man whom to get she would once have moved both
earth and heaven. Mrs. Cameron, too, though glad that Katy was married,
and fully approving her choice, threw into her manner so much reserve
that Katy’s intercourse with her was anything but agreeable, and she
turned with alacrity to father Cameron, who received her with open arms,
calling her his daughter, and welcoming Morris as his _son_, taken in
Wilford’s stead. “My boy,” he frequently called him, showing how
willingly he accepted him as the husband of one whom he loved as his
child. Greatly he wished that they should stay with him while they
remained in New York, but Katy preferred going to Mrs. Banker’s, where
she would be more quiet, and avoid the bustle and confusion attending
the preparations for Bell’s wedding. It was to be a grand church affair,
and to take place during Easter week, after which the bridal pair were
going on to Washington, and if possible to Richmond, where Bob had been
a prisoner. Everything seemed conspiring to make the occasion a joyful
one, for all through the North, from Maine to California, the air was
rife with the songs of victory and the notes of approaching peace. But
alas! He who holds our country’s destiny in his hand changed that song
of gladness into a wail of woe, which, echoing through the land, rose up
to heaven in one mighty sob of anguish, as the whole nation bemoaned its
loss. Our President was dead, and New York was in mourning, so black, so
profound, that with a shudder Bell Cameron tossed aside the orange
wreath and said to her lover, “We will be married at home. I cannot now
go to the church, when everything seems like one great funeral.”
And so in Mrs. Cameron’s drawing-room there was a quiet wedding, one
pleasant April morning, and Bell’s plain traveling dress was far more in
keeping with the gloom which hung over the great city than her gala
robes would have been, with a long array of carriages and merry wedding
chimes. Westward they went instead of South, and when our late lamented
President was borne back to the prairies of Illinois, they were there to
greet the noble dead, and mingle their tears with those who knew and
loved him long before the world appreciated his worth.
* * * * *
Softly the May rain falls on Linwood, where the fresh green grass is
springing and the early spring flowers blooming, and where Katy stands
for a moment in the bay window of the library, listening to the patter
on the tin roof overhead, and gazing wistfully down the road, as if
watching for some one; then turning, she enters the dining-room and
inspects the supper table, for her mother. Aunt Hannah, and Aunt Betsy
are visiting her this rainy afternoon, while Morris, on his return from
North Silverton, is to call for Uncle Ephraim and bring him home to tea.
Linwood is a nice place to visit, and the old ladies enjoy it vastly,
especially Aunt Betsy, who never tires of telling what they have “over
to Katy’s,” and whose capeless shaker hangs often on the hall stand,
just as it hangs now, while she, good soul, sits in the pleasant parlor,
and darns the socks for Morris, taking as much pains as if it were a
network of fine lace she was weaving, instead of a shocking rent in some
luckless heel or toe. Up stairs there is a pleasant room which Katy
calls Aunt Betsy’s, and in it is the “feather bed,” which never found
its way to Madison Square. Morris himself did not think much of
feathers, but he made no objections when Aunt Betsy insisted upon Katy’s
having the bed kept for so many years, and only smiled a droll kind of
smile when he one morning met it coming up the walk in the wheelbarrow
which Uncle Ephraim trundled.
Morris and his young wife are very happy together and Katy finds the
hours of his absence very long, especially when left alone. Even to-day
the time drags heavily, and she looks more than once from the bay
window, until at last Brownie’s head is seen over the hill, and a few
moments after Morris’s arm is around her shoulders, and her lips are
upturned for the kiss he gives as he leads her into the house, chiding
her for exposing herself to the rain, and placing in her hand three
letters, which she does not open until the cozy tea is over and her
family friends have gone. Then, while her husband looks over his evening
paper, she breaks the seals one by one reading first the letter from
“Mrs. Bob Reynolds,” who has returned from the West, and who is in the
full glory of her bridal calls.
“I was never so happy in my life as I am now,” she wrote. “Indeed, I did
not know that a married woman could be so happy; but then every woman
has not a _Bob_ for her husband, which makes a vast difference. You
ought to see Juno. I know she envies me, though she affects the utmost
contempt for matrimony, and reminds me forcibly of the fox and the
grapes. You see, Arthur Grey is a failure, so far as Juno is concerned,
he having withdrawn from the field and laid himself at the feet of Sybil
Grandon, who will be Mrs. Grey, and a bride at Saratoga the coming
summer. Juno intends going too, as the bridesmaid of the party; but
every year her chances lessen, and I have very little hope that father
will ever call other than Bob his son, always excepting _Morris_, of
course, whom he has adopted in place of Wilford. You don’t know, Katy,
how much father thinks of you, blessing the day which brought you to us,
and saying that if he is ever saved, he shall in a great measure owe it
to your influence and consistent life after the great trouble came upon
you.”
There were tears in Katy’s eyes as she read this letter from Bell, and
with a mental prayer of thanksgiving that she had been of any use in
guiding even one to the Shepherd’s Fold, she took next the letter whose
superscription brought back so vividly to her mind the daisy-covered
grave in Alnwick. Marian, who was now at Annapolis, caring for the
returned prisoners, did not write often, and her letters were prized the
more by Katy, who read with a beating heart the kind congratulations
upon her recent marriage, sent by Marian Hazelton.
“I knew how it would end, when you were in Georgetown,” she wrote,
“and I am glad that it is so, praying daily that you may be happy with
Dr. Grant and remember the sad past only as some dream from which you
have awakened. I thank you for your invitation to visit Linwood, and
when my work is over I may come for a few weeks and rest in your
bird’s nest of a home. Thank God the war is ended; but _my boys_ need
me yet, and until the last crutch has left the hospital, I shall stay
where duty lies. What my life will henceforth be I do not know; but I
have sometimes thought that with the funds you so generously bestowed
upon me, I shall open a school for orphan children, taking charge
myself, and so doing some good. Will you be the Lady Patroness, and
occasionally enliven us with the light of your countenance? I have
left the hospital but once since you were here, and then I went to
Wilford’s grave. I prayed for you while there, remembering only that
_you_ had been his wife. In a little box where no eyes but mine ever
look, there is a bunch of flowers plucked from Wilford’s grave. They
are faded and withered, but something of their sweet perfume lingers
still; and I prize them as my greatest treasure; for, except the lock
of hair severed from his head, they are all that is remaining to me of
the past, which now seems so far away. It is time to make my nightly
round of visits, so I must bid you good-bye. The Lord lift up the
light of his countenance upon you, and be with you forever.
MARIAN HAZELTON.”
For a long time Katy held this letter in her hand, wondering if the
sorrowful woman whose life was once so strangely blended with that of
Marian Hazelton, could be the Katy Grant who sat by the evening fire at
Linwood, with the sunshine of perfect happiness resting on her heart.
“Truly He doeth all things well to those who wait upon Him,” she
thought, as she laid down Marian’s letter and took up the third and
last, Helen’s letter, dated at Fortress Monroe, whither, with Mark Ray,
she had gone just after Bell Cameron’s bridal.
“You cannot imagine,” Helen wrote, “the feelings of awe and even terror
which steal over me the nearer I get to the seat of war, and the more I
realize the bloody strife we have been engaged in, and which, thank God,
has now nearly ceased. You have heard of John Jennings, the noble man
who saved my dear husband’s life, and of Aunt Bab, who helped in the
good work? Both are here, and I never saw Mark more pleased than when
seized around the neck by two long brawny arms, while a cheery voice
called out: ‘Hallow, old chap, has you done forgot John Jennins?’ I
verily believe Mark cried, and I know I did, especially when old Bab
came up and shook ‘young misses’ hand.’ I kissed her, Katy—all black,
and rough, and uncouth as she was. I wish you could see how grateful the
old creature is for every act of kindness. When we come home again, both
John and Bab will come with us, though what we shall do with John, is
more than I can tell. Mark says he shall employ him about the office,
and this I know will delight Tom Tubbs, who has again made friends with
Chitty, and who will almost worship John as having saved Mark’s life.
Aunt Bab shall have an honored seat by the kitchen fire, and a pleasant
room all to herself, working only when she likes, and doing as she
pleases.
“Did I tell you that Mattie Tubbs was to be my seamstress? I am getting
together a curious household, you will say; but I like to have those
about me to whom I can do the greatest amount of good, and as I happen
to know how much Mattie admires ‘the Lennox girls,’ I did not hesitate
to take her.
“We stopped at Annapolis on our way here, and I shall never forget the
pale, worn faces, nor the great sunken eyes which looked at me so
wistfully as I went from cot to cot, speaking words of cheer to the
sufferers, some of whom were Mark’s companions in prison, and whose eyes
lighted up with joy as they recognized him and heard of his escape.
There are several nurses here, but no words of mine can tell what _one_
of them is to the poor fellows, or how eagerly they watch for her
coming. Following her with greedy glances as she moves about the room,
and holding her hand with a firm clasp, as if they would keep her with
them always. Indeed, more than one heart, as I am told, has confessed
its allegiance to her; but she answers all the same, ‘I have no love to
give. It died out long ago, and cannot be recalled.’ You can guess who
she is, Katy. The soldiers call her an angel, but we know her as
Marian.”
There were great tear blots upon that letter as Katy put it aside, and
nestling close to Morris, laid her head upon his knee, where his hand
could smooth her golden curls, while she pondered Helen’s closing words,
thinking how much they expressed, and how just a tribute they were to
the noble woman whose life had been one constant sacrifice of self for
another’s good—“The soldiers call her an angel, but we know her as
Marian.”
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.