LINWOOD.
Morris had returned from Spencer, and in his dressing-gown and slippers
was sitting by the window of his cheerful library, looking out upon the
purple sunshine flooding the western sky, and thinking of the little
girl coming so rapidly up the grassy lane in the rear of the house. He
was going over to see her by and by, he said, and he pictured to himself
how she must look by this time, hoping that he should not find her
greatly changed, for Morris Grant's memories were very precious of the
playful child who, in that very room where he was sitting, used to tease
and worry him so much with her lessons poorly learned, and the
never-ending jokes played off upon her teacher. He had thought of her so
often when across the sea, and, knowing her love of the beautiful, he
had never looked upon a painting or scene of rare beauty that he did not
wish her by his side sharing in the pleasure. He had brought her from
that far-off land many little trophies which he thought she would prize,
and which he was going to take with him when he went to the farmhouse.
He never dreamed of her coming there to-night. She would, of course,
wait for him. Helen had, even when it was more her place to call upon
him first. How, then, was he amazed when, just as the sun was going down
and he was watching its last rays lingering on the brow of the hill
across the pond, the library door was opened wide and the room seemed
suddenly filled with life and joy, as a graceful figure, with reddish,
golden hair, bounded across the floor, and winding its arms around his
neck gave him the hearty kiss which Katy had in her mind when she
declined Aunt Betsy's favorite vegetable.
Morris Grant was not averse to being kissed, and yet the fact that Katy
Lennox had kissed him in such a way awoke a chill of disappointment, for
it said that to her he was the teacher still, the elder brother, whom,
as a child, she had in her pretty way loaded with caresses.
"Oh, Cousin Morris!" she exclaimed, and, still holding his hand: "Why
didn't you come over at noon, you naughty, naughty boy? But what a
splendid-looking man you've got to be, though! and what do you think of
me?" she added, blushing for the first time, as he held her off from him
and looked into the sunny face.
"I think you wholly unchanged," he answered, so gravely that Katy began
to pout as she said: "And you are sorry, I know. Pray, what did you
expect of me, and what would you have me be?"
"Nothing but what you are--the same Kitty as of old," he answered, his
own bright smile breaking all over his sober face.
He saw that his manner repelled her, and he tried to be natural,
succeeding so well that Katy forgot her first disappointment, and making
him sit by her on the sofa, where she could see him distinctly, she
poured forth a volley of talk, telling him, among other things, how much
afraid of him some of his letters made her--they were so serious and so
like a sermon.
"You wrote me once that you thought of being a minister," she added.
"Why did you change your mind? It must be splendid, I think, to be a
young clergyman--invited to so many tea-drinkings, and having all the
girls in the parish after you, as they always are after unmarried
ministers."
Into Morris Grant's eyes there stole a troubled light as he thought how
little Katy realized what it was to be a minister of God--to point the
people heavenward and teach them the right way. There was a moment's
pause, and then he tried to explain to her that he hoped he had not been
influenced either by thought of tea-drinking or having the parish girls
after him, but rather by an honest desire to choose the sphere in which
he could accomplish the most good.
"I did not decide rashly," he said, "but after weeks of anxious thought
and prayer for guidance I came to the conclusion that in the practice of
medicine I could find perhaps as broad a field for good as in the
church, and so I decided to go on with my profession--to be a physician
of the poor and suffering, speaking to them of Him who came to save, and
in this way I shall not labor in vain. Many would seek another place
than Silverton and its vicinity, but something told me that my work was
here, and so I am content to stay, feeling thankful that my means admit
of my waiting for patients, if need be, and at the same time ministering
to the wants of those who are needy."
Gradually, as he talked, there came into his face a light, born only
from the peace which passeth understanding, and the awe-struck Katy
crept closer to his side, and, grasping his hand in hers, said, softly:
"Dear cousin, what a good man you are, and how silly I must seem to you,
thinking you cared for tea-drinkings, or even girls, when, of course,
you do not."
"Perhaps I do," the doctor replied, slightly pressing the warm, fat hand
holding his so fast. "A minister's or a doctor's life would be dreary
indeed if there was no one to share it, and I have had my dreams of the
girls, or girl, who was some day to brighten up my home."
He looked fully at Katy now, but she was thinking of something else, and
her next remark was to ask him, rather abruptly, how old he was.
"Twenty-six last May," he answered, while Katy continued: "You are not
old enough to be married yet. Wilford Cameron is thirty."
"Where did you meet Wilford Cameron?" Morris asked, in some surprise,
and then the story which Katy had not told, even to her sister, came out
in full, and Morris tried to listen patiently while Katy explained how,
on the very first day of the examination, Mrs. Woodhull had come in, and
with her the grandest, proudest-looking man, who the girls some of them
said was Mr. Wilford Cameron, from New York, a very fastidious bachelor,
whose family were noted for their wealth and exclusiveness, keeping six
servants, and living in the finest style; that Mrs. Woodhull, who all
through the year had been very kind to Katy, came to her after school
and invited her home to tea; that she had gone, and met Mr. Cameron;
that she was very much afraid of him at first, and was not sure that she
was quite over it now, although he was so polite to her all through the
journey, taking so much pains to have her see the finest sights, and
laughing at her enthusiasm.
"Wilford Cameron with you on your trip?" Morris asked, a new idea,
dawning on his mind.
"Yes; let me tell you," and Katy spoke rapidly. "I saw him that night,
and then Mrs. Woodhull took me to ride with him in the carriage, and
then--well, I rode alone with him once down by the lake, and he talked
to me just as if he was not a grand man and I a little schoolgirl. And
when the term closed I stayed at Mrs. Woodhull's, and he was there. He
liked my playing and liked my singing, and I guess he liked me--that is,
you know--yes, he liked me some," and Katy twisted the fringe of her
shawl, while Morris, in spite of the pain tugging at his heart-strings,
laughed aloud as he rejoined: "I have no doubt he did; but go on--what
next?"
"He said more about my joining that party than anybody, and I am very
sure he paid the bills."
"Oh, Katy," and Morris started as if he had been stung. "I would rather
have given Linwood than have you thus indebted to Wilford Cameron or any
other man."
"I could not well help it. I did not mean any harm," Katy said, timidly,
for at first she had shrunk from the proposition, but Mrs. Woodhull
seemed to think it right, urging it on until she had consented, and so
she said to Morris, explaining how kind Mr. Cameron was, and how careful
not to remind her of her indebtedness to him, attending to and
anticipating every want as if she had been his sister.
"You would like Mr. Cameron, Cousin Morris. He made me think of you a
little, only he is prouder," and Katy's hand moved up Morris' coat
sleeve till it rested on his shoulder.
"Perhaps so," Morris answered, feeling a growing resentment toward one
who, it seemed to him, had done him some great wrong.
But Wilford was not to blame, he reflected. He could not well help
liking the bright little Katy--some; and so, conquering all ungenerous
feelings, he turned to her at last and said:
"Did my little Cousin Kitty like Wilford Cameron?"
Something in Morris' voice startled Katy strangely; her hand came down
from his shoulder, and for an instant there swept over her an emotion
similar to what she had felt when with Wilford Cameron she rambled
along the shores of Lake George, or sat alone with him on the deck of
the steamer which carried them down Lake Champlain. But Morris had
always been her brother, and she did not guess how hard it was for him
to keep from telling her then that she was more to him than a sister.
Had he told her, this story, perhaps, had not been written; but he kept
silence, and so it is ours to record how Katy answered frankly at last:
"I guess I did like him a little. I could not help it, Morris. You could
not, either, or any one. I believe Mrs. Woodhull was more than half in
love with him, and she is an old woman compared with me. By the way,
what did she mean by introducing me to him as the daughter of Judge
Lennox? I meant to have asked her, but forgot it afterward. Was father
ever a judge?"
"Not properly," Morris replied. "He was justice of the peace in
Bloomfield, where you were born, and for one year held the office of
side or associate judge, that's all. Few ever gave him that title, and
I wonder at Mrs. Woodhull. Possibly she fancied Mr. Cameron would think
better of you if he supposed you the daughter of a judge."
"That may be, though I do not believe he would, do you?"
Morris did not say what he thought, but quietly remarked, instead: "I
know those Camerons."
"What! Wilford! You don't know Wilford?" Katy almost screamed, and
Morris replied: "Not Wilford, no; but the mother and the sisters were
last year in Paris, and I met them many times."
"What were they doing in Paris?" Katy asked, and Morris replied that he
believed the immediate object of their being there was to obtain the
best medical advice for a little orphan grandchild, a bright, beautiful
boy, to whom some terrible accident had happened in infancy, preventing
his walking entirely, and making him nearly helpless. His name was
Jamie, Morris said, and as he saw that Katy was interested, he told her
how sweet-tempered the little fellow was, how patient under suffering,
and how eagerly he listened when Morris, who at one time attended him,
told him of the Savior and His love for little children.
"Did he get well?" Katy asked, her eyes filling with tears at the
picture Morris drew of Jamie Cameron, sitting all day long in his wheel
chair, and trying to comfort his grandmother's distress when the
torturing instruments for straightening his poor back were applied.
"No, he will always be a cripple, till God takes him to Himself," Morris
said, and then Katy asked about the mother and sisters--were they proud,
and did he like them much?
"They were very proud," Morris said; "but they were always civil to me,"
and Katy, had she been watching, might have seen a slight flush on his
cheek as he told her of the stately woman, Wilford's mother, of the
haughty Juno, a beauty and a belle, and lastly of Arabella, whom the
family nicknamed Bluebell, from her excessive fondness for books, a
fondness which made her affect a contempt for the fashionable life her
mother and sister led.
It was very evident that neither of the young ladies were wholly to
Morris' taste, but of the two he preferred the Bluebell, for though very
imperious and self-willed, she really had some heart, some principle,
while Juno had none. This was Morris' opinion, and it disturbed the
little Katy, as was very perceptible from the nervous tapping of her
foot upon the carpet and the working of her hands.
"How would I appear by the side of those ladies?" she suddenly asked,
her countenance changing as Morris replied that it was almost impossible
to think of her as associated with the Camerons, she was so wholly
unlike them in every respect.
"I don't believe I shocked Wilford so very much," Katy rejoined,
reproachfully, while again a heavy pain shot through Morris' heart, for
he saw more and more how Wilford Cameron was mingled with every thought
of the young girl, who continued: "And if he was satisfied, I guess his
mother and sisters will be. Anyway, I don't want you to make me feel how
different I am from them."
There were tears now on Katy's face, and casting aside all selfishness,
Morris wound his arm around her, and smoothed her golden hair, just as
he used to do when she was a child and came to him to be soothed. He
said, very gently:
"My poor Kitty, you do like Wilford Cameron; tell me honestly--is it
not so?"
"Yes, I guess I do," and Katy's voice was a half sob. "I could not help
it, either, he was so kind, so--I don't know what, only I could not help
doing what he bade me. Why, if he had said: 'Jump overboard, Katy
Lennox,' I should have done it, I know--that is, if his eyes had been
upon me, they controlled me so absolutely. Can you imagine what I mean?"
"Yes, I understand. There was the same look in Bell Cameron's eye, a
kind of mesmeric influence which commanded obedience. They idolize this
Wilford, and I dare say he is worthy of their idolatry. One thing, at
least, is in his favor--the crippled Jamie, for whose opinion I would
give more than all the rest, seemed to worship his Uncle Will, talking
of him continually, and telling how kind he was, sometimes staying up
all night to carry him in his arms when the pain in his back was more
than usually severe. So there must be a good, kind heart in Wilford
Cameron, and if my Cousin Kitty likes him, as she says she does, and he
likes her as I believe he must, why, I hope--"
Morris Grant could not finish the sentence; for he did not hope that
Wilford Cameron would win the gem he had so long coveted as his own.
He might give Kitty up because she loved another best. He was generous
enough to do that, but if he did it, she must never know how much it
cost him, and lest he should betray himself he could not to-night talk
with her longer of Wilford Cameron, whom he believed to be his rival. It
was time now for Katy to go home, but she did not seem to remember it
until Morris suggested to her that her mother might be uneasy if she
stayed away much longer, and so they went together across the fields,
the shadow all gone from Katy's heart, but lying so dark and heavy
around Morris Grant, who was glad when he could leave Katy at the
farmhouse door and go back alone to the quiet library, where only God
could witness the mighty struggle it was for him to say: "Thy will be
done." And while he prayed, not that Katy should be his, but that he
might have strength to bear it if she were destined for another, Katy,
up in her humble bedroom, with her head nestled close to Helen's neck,
was telling her of Wilford Cameron, who, when they went down the rapids
and she had cried with fear, had put his arm around her, trying to quiet
her, and who once again, on the mountain overlooking Lake George, had
held her hand a moment, while he pointed out a splendid view seen
through the opening trees. And Helen, listening, knew just as Morris
Grant had done that Katy's heart was lost, and that for Wilford Cameron
to deceive her now would be a cruel thing.