HOW IT ENDED.
"Will Marian go to No. ---- Fifth Avenue?" Marian asked herself that
question many times, as with Katy's card in her hand she stood pondering
the subject and feeling glad of the good fortune which had sent her from
home when Wilford's mother called.
Yes, Marian would; and at the hour between the daylight and the dark,
just as the lamps are lighted in the street, and before they are usually
lighted in the parlors there was a ring at the door, whose massive plate
bore the name of Cameron, and the colored man who answered that ring
stared at the figure he ushered in, seating it in the dim hall and
asking for the name.
"Miss Hazelton wishes to see Mrs. Cameron," was the reply, and at the
sound of that musical, well-bred voice, the servant half opened the
parlor door, but closed it again as he went for his mistress, who
expressed her surprise that Marian Hazelton should presume to enter
where she did.
"Maybe she is a lady, mother; Katy raves about her continually," Bell
said; but with an air of incredulity at the lady part, Mrs. Cameron
swept haughtily down the broad staircase, the rustle of her heavy silk
sending a chill of fear through Marian's frame, but not affecting her so
much as did the voice; the cold, proud, metallic voice, which said to
her as she half arose to her feet, "Miss Hazelton, I believe?"
At that sound there crept over her the same sensation she had felt years
ago, whenever the tones of that voice fell on her ear, for this was not
the first meeting of Mrs. Cameron and Marian Hazelton. But for all the
former guessed or knew, it was the first, and she looked curiously at
the graceful figure, but dimly seen in the shadowy twilight, noticing
the thick green veil which so nearly concealed the face, and wondering
why it was worn, or being worn, why it was kept so nearly down.
"Miss Hazelton, I believe?" was all that had passed between them as yet,
for at these words a great fear had come upon Marian lest her own voice
should seem as natural as did the one which had just spoken to her.
But she could not stand there long without answering, and so she
ventured at last to say:
"Yes, I found Mrs. Wilford Cameron's note, and came around as she
requested."
There was nothing objectionable in that remark, while the voice was
very, very sweet and musical, so musical, indeed, so like a voice heard
before, that Mrs. Cameron involuntarily went a step nearer to the
stranger, and even thought of calling up a servant to light the gas. But
that would perhaps be too great a civility, or at least betoken too
great a curiosity, and so she forebore, while she began to question
Marian of her own and Mrs. Hubbell's antecedents. Both were English,
both had worked upon the Isle of Wight, and later in New York, at
Madam ----'s; one had married, living now in New London, and the other
Stood there as Marian Hazelton, puzzling and bewildering Mrs. Cameron,
who tried to recall the person of whom she was reminded by that voice and
that manner, so wholly ladylike and refined.
Marian Hazelton pleased her, as was apparent from her expressing a wish
that "as far as practicable Miss Hazelton should take charge of the
child. We cannot tell how early life-long impression may be made, and it
is desirable that they be of the right nature, and wholly in accordance
with refinement and good-breeding."
There was a curl on Marian's lip as she remembered another meeting with
the proud lady whose words were not as complimentary as now, but she
merely bent her head in supposed acquiescence to the belief that Baby
Cameron was, or soon would be, capable of discriminating between a nurse
refined and one the opposite. There was a moment's silence and then
Marian asked if baby had been christened?
"Not yet, we cannot decide upon a name," was the reply, while Marian
continued:
"I understood your daughter that it was to be Genevra."
Marian Hazelton was growing too familiar, and so the lady deigned no
answer, but stepped a little to one side, as if she would thus indicate
that the conference was ended.
Dropping her veil entirely over her face, for the servant was now
lighting the parlor lamps, Marian turned toward the door which Mrs.
Cameron opened, and she passed out just as up the steps came Wilford,
Marian's skirts brushing him as she passed, and her heart beating
painfully as she thought of her escape and began to realize the danger
she incurred when she accepted the office of partial nurse to his child.
"Dark, mother? How is that? Why is the hall not lighted?" she heard him
say, and the old, familiar tones, so little changed, vibrated sadly in
her ear, as she dashed away a tear, and then hurried on through the
darkened streets toward her humble home, so different from the Cameron's.
"Who was that, mother?" Wilford said, expressing regret that he had not
happened in a little earlier, so as to have seen her himself, and
asking what his mother thought of her.
"I liked her. She seemed a well-bred person, and her voice is much like
Genevra's."
Wilford turned his eyes quickly upon his mother, who continued:
"I did not think of her, it is true, until Miss Hazelton inquired about
baby's name, and said she understood from Katy that it was to be
Genevra. Then it came to me whose her voice was like. Genevra's, you
know, was very musical."
"Yes," Wilford answered, and in his eyes there was a look of pain, such
as thoughts of Genevra always brought.
She was in his mind when he ran up his father's steps, not Genevra
living, but Genevra dead--she who slept in that lone corner of the
churchyard across the sea. "Genevra Lambert, aged twenty-two," and not
Genevra, aged nearly thirty-two, if she had been still living. Kindly,
regretfully, he always spoke of her now, separating her entirely from
the little fairy who was mistress of his house and love--Katy, who was
preferred before Genevra, and to whom no wrong was done, he thought, by
his sad memories of the beautiful English girl, whose grave was at St.
Mary's, and whose picture was so securely hidden from every eye save his
own. He never liked to talk of her now, and he changed the subject at
once, asking when it would be best to send his child away.
"Miss Hazelton is ready any time, and so I decided upon the day after
to-morrow--that will be Saturday--thus giving Katy the benefit of Sunday
in which to get over it and recover her usual spirits."
"You are sure it is right?" Wilford asked, for now that the time drew
near when the little crib at home would be empty, the nursery desolate,
with no fretful, plaintive wail to annoy and worry him, he began to feel
that after all that cry was not so very vexing as he had imagined it to
be; that he might miss it when it was gone, and wish back the little
creature which had been so greatly in his way.
Besides this, there was a sense of injustice to Katy. Perhaps he had not
been considerate enough of her feelings; at all events, his mother's
arranging the time of baby's departure looked like ignoring Katy
altogether, and he ventured a remonstrance. But his mother soon
convinced him of her infallible judgment; not only in that matter, but
in all others pertaining to his household; and so with his good opinion
of himself restored, he went home to where Katy waited for him, with her
baby in her lap, both tastefully attired, and making a most lovely
picture. Wilford kissed them both, and took his daughter in his arms, an
act he had not often been guilty of, for baby tending was not altogether
to his taste.
In the dark hours of agony which came to him afterward, he remembered
that night, feeling again the touch of the velvet cheek and the warmth
of the faint breath which floated across his face as he held his little
girl for a moment to it, laughing at Katy's distress because "his
whiskers scratched it."
It was strange how much confidence Katy had in Marian Hazelton, and how
the fact that she was going to New London reconciled her 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 sunny face, and her step was slower as it 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 readily yielded
her post and went out, leaving the young mother and child alone.
Mournfully sad and sweet was the lullaby Katy sang, and Helen, in the
hall, listening to the low, sad moaning, half prayer, half benediction,
likened it to a farewell between the living and the dead. Half an hour
later, when she glanced into the room, lighted only by the moonbeams,
baby was sleeping in her crib, which 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 the 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 Marian was
announced as in the parlor below waiting for her charge. Fortunately
there was but little time for parting kisses and fond good-byes, for
Marian had purposely waited as long as possible ere coming, and
expedition was necessary if she reached the train.
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 like rain 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 had 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? Some
time 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 Marian, whom no one had seen but Helen, was waiting
in the hall, her thick green veil dropped before her face, and a muffler
about her mouth as if suffering from the toothache. Helen had asked if
it were so, but Marian's answer was prevented by 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 put his child into Marian's
extended arms, forgetting in his excitement to notice aught in the new
nurse except the long, green veil which was not raised at all, even when
Katy said, pleadingly, "You will care for her, Marian, as if she were
your own."
"Yes, I will, I will," was the response, spoken huskily and having in
it no tone like Genevra's. "I will as if it were my own," were the last
words Marian said as she went down the steps, followed by Wilford, to
whom the thought had just occurred that he ought to see her off.
Marian had not expected this, and the tension of her nerves was hardly
equal to the task of sitting there with Wilford Cameron opposite, his
baby in her lap, his voice in her ear, and his eyes turned upon her as
if curious to know what manner of woman she was. But the thick veil did
its duty well, while the muffler answered the purpose intended; it
changed the voice which was only natural once, and that when it
addressed the baby, which began to grow restless as they drew near the
depot. Then Wilford was reminded of Genevra, and the thought carried him
across the sea, so that he forgot all else until the station was reached
and he was busy, procuring checks and ticket. He saw her into the car,
procuring for her a double seat, and speaking a word for her to the
conductor, whom he knew. And this he did partly for Katy's sake, and
partly because in spite of the plain attire he recognized the lady and
felt that Marian Hazelton was no ordinary person. He offered her his
hand, wondering why hers trembled so in his grasp, wondering why it was
so cold, and wondering, too, why, if she had never been a wife, she wore
that plain gold circlet which glittered upon her third finger.
"They certainly call her Miss Hazelton," he thought, as he bade her
good-by and then left her alone, going back to the 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, but 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 even Helen, with her sounder health and
stronger constitution, grew tired of that endless round, which gave her
scarcely a quiet hour at home. And Katy was a belle again, her name on
every lip, her praise in every heart, for none could feel jealous, she
bore her honors so meekly, wondering why people liked her so much and
loving them because they did. And none admired her more than Helen, who,
scarcely less a belle herself, yielded everything to her young sister
whom she pitied while she admired, for 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 came to Morris' face on
the sad night when she said to him, "It might have been." It had been
there ever since, and Helen, though revering him before, 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, but the process was going on and Helen
watched it intently, wondering what the end would be.