THE EFFECT.
With a shiver Katy held it a moment in her lap, noticing how old and
worn it looked--noticing, too, the foreign mark upon it, and that one
hinge was broken, wondering if all this wear had come from frequent use.
Had Wilford looked often at that picture?--and if so, what were his
feelings as he looked? Was he sorry that Genevra died? Did he sometimes
wish her there, instead of Katy Lennox, of Barlow origin? Did he
contrast their faces one with the other, giving the preference to
Genevra, or was Katy's liked the best? All these questions Katy asked
herself, while her fingers fluttered about the clasp, which she half
dreaded to unfasten.
Cautiously, very cautiously, at last the lid was opened, and a lock of
soft brown hair fell out, clinging to Katy's hand as if it had been a
living thing, and making her shudder with fear as she shook off the
silken tress and remembered that the head it once adorned was lying in
St. Mary's churchyard, where the English daisies grew.
"She had pretty hair," she thought; "darker, richer than mine," and into
Katy's heart there crept a feeling akin to jealousy, lest Genevra had
been fairer than herself, as well as better loved. "I won't be foolish
any longer," she said, and turning resolutely to the light she opened
the lid again and saw Genevra Lambert, starting quickly, then looking
again more closely--then, with a gasp, panting for breath, while like
lightning flashes the past came rushing over her, as, with her eyes
fixed upon that picture, she tried to whisper, "It is--it is!"
She could not then say whom, for if she were right in her belief,
Genevra was not dead. There were no daisies growing on her grave, for
she still walked the earth a living woman, whom Katy knew so
well--Marian Hazelton. That was the name Katy could not speak, as, with
the blood curdling in her veins and freezing about her heart, she sat
comparing the face she remembered so well with the one before her. In
some points they were unlike, for thirteen years had slightly marred the
youthful contour of the face she knew--had sharpened the features and
thinned the abundant hair; but still there could be no mistake. The
eyes, the brow, the smile, the nose, all were the same, and with a pang
bitterer than she yet had felt, poor Katy fell upon her face and asked
that she might die. In her utter ignorance of law, she fancied that if
Genevra were alive, she had no right to Wilford's name--no right to be
his wife--especially as the sin for which Genevra was divorced had by
her never been committed, and burning tears of bitter shame ran down her
cheeks as she whispered, "'What God hath joined together let no man put
asunder.' Those are God's words, and how dare the world act otherwise?
She is his wife, and I--oh! I don't know what I am!" and on the carpet
where she was kneeling Katy writhed in agony as she tried to think what
she must do. Not stay there--she could not do that now--not, at least,
until she knew for sure that she was Wilford's wife, in spite of
Genevra's living. Maybe she was; there was a Mrs. Grainier in the city
divorced from her first husband and living with her second; but then the
man was a profligate, a most abandoned wretch, who had not been proved
innocent, as Genevra had, and that must make a difference. "Oh, if there
was only some one to advise me--some one who knew and would tell me what
was right," Katy moaned, feeling herself inadequate to meet the dark
hour alone.
But to whom should she go? To Father Cameron? No, nor to his mother.
They might counsel wrong for the sake of secrecy. Would Mark Ray or Mrs.
Banker know? Perhaps; but they were strangers--her trouble must not be
told to them, and then with a great bound her heart turned at last to
Morris. He knew everything. He would not sanction a wrong. He would tell
her just what was right, and she could trust him fully in everything.
There was no other person whom she could believe just as she could him.
Uncle Ephraim was equally as good and conscientious, but he did not know
as much as Morris--he did not understand everything. Morris was her
refuge, and to him she would go that very day, leaving a note for
Wilford in case she never came back, as possibly she might not. And
then, like an imprisoned bird, which sees its cage door opened at last,
but dreads the freedom offered, Katy drew her bleeding wings close to
her side and shrank from the cold world which lay outside that home of
luxury. But when she remembered that possibly she had no right to stay
there, she grew strong again, and, seizing her pen, dashed off a wild,
impassioned letter, which, if her husband did not find her there on his
return, would tell him where she was and why she had gone. This she left
in a drawer appropriated to Wilford's use, and where he could not fail
to find it; but the picture she put in her own pocket, not caring to
part with that. Had Marian been in the city she would have gone to her
at once, but Marian was where long rows of cots are ranged against the
hospital walls, each holding a maimed and suffering soldier, to whom she
ministered so tenderly, the brightness of her smile and the beauty of
her face deluding the delirious ones into the belief that the journey of
life for them was ended and heaven reached at last, where an angel in
woman's garb attended upon them. Marian was impossible, and Dr. Grant
was the only alternative left.
Summoning Esther, Katy told her, in as calm a voice as she could
command, that, feeling very lonely, she was going out to spend the day,
and probably the night. At all events the servants were not to expect
her until she came.
"Yes, ma'am--going to Mr. Cameron's, I suppose?" Esther said, and as
Katy made no answer the impression in Esther's mind was that she would
spend the day and night at the elder Cameron's, as she had done once
before when Wilford was away.
And this was the intelligence carried to the servants, who wondered that
their mistress did not order the carriage, but started off on foot, her
face looking ghastly white beneath the folds of her crape veil as she
closed the door behind and looked back at the home she might be leaving
forever. The carriage, she knew, would lead to detection, and as it was
not far to the New Haven depot, she kept on her way until the train was
reached, and she in a seat by herself was looking with eyes which could
not weep over the city she was so fast leaving behind. Had she for one
moment suspected Morris's love, all her womanly instincts would have
kept her from seeking him then, but she had no such suspicion. Morris
was her elder brother, and like a stricken sister she was going to him
with her grief, sure of sympathy and sure of counsel for the right.
The afternoon was cold and stormy, so that it was late in the evening
when the long train reached West Silverton, where Katy was to stop.
Owing to the storm but few were at the depot, and among them none who
recognized Katy Cameron beneath the heavy veil she kept so closely over
her face, even while asking for a conveyance out to Linwood. It was a
comparative boy who volunteered his services, and as he had recently
come to Silverton he knew nothing of Katy or of Dr. Grant, so that she
was saved from all embarrassment upon that point; her driver never
addressing her except to ask the way, which was not wholly familiar to
him.
"Turn here. Yes, that is right," she said, when they reached the road
which led to Linwood, and a feeling like guilt crept over her as through
the leafless trees and across the meadow land she spied the farmhouse
light shining through the drifting snow as if beckoning her to come.
"Not yet--not now. I must see Morris first," she answered mentally to
that silent invitation, and drawing the buffalo skin around her with a
shiver. She did not look again toward the farmhouse, but onward to where
the lights of Linwood shone through the wintry darkness. "This is the
place," she said, and in a moment she stood upon the broad stone steps,
shaking the snow from her cloak, while the boy waited a moment, hoping
to be invited to share the warmth he felt there was within that handsome
building.
Katy would rather he should not stop, but when she saw how cold he was
she began to relent, and telling him where to shelter his horse, pointed
to the basement bidding him go in there. Then, with a hesitating step
on she began to wonder what Morris would say, she crossed the wide
piazza and softly turning the door knob, stood in the hall at Linwood.