MORRIS' CONFESSION.
Gradually the noise in the streets died away; the tread of feet, the
rumbling wheels and the tinkle of the car bells ceased, and not a sound
was heard, save as the distant fire bells pealed forth their warning
voices, or some watchman went hurrying by. The great city was asleep,
and to Morris the silence brooding over the countless throng was deeper,
more solemn than the silence of the country where nature gives out her
own mysterious notes and lullabies for her sleeping children. Slowly the
minutes went by, and Morris became at last aware that Wilford's eyes,
instead of resting on the pallid face which seemed to grow each moment
more pallid and ghastly, were fixed on him with an expression which made
him drop the pale hand he held between his own, pooring it occasionally
as a mother might poor and pity the hand of her dying baby.
Before his marriage a jealous thought of Morris Grant had found a
lodgment in Wilford's breast; but remembering the past he had tried to
drive it out, and fancied that he had succeeded, experiencing a sudden
shock when he felt it lifting its green head, and poisoning his mind
against the man doing for Katy only what a brother might do, or rather,
against the motives which prompted this man's devotion. He forgot that
it was his own entreaties which had kept Morris there, refusing to let
him go even for a day to the other patients missing him so much, and
complaining of his absence. Jealous men never reason clearly, and in
this case Wilford did not reason at all, but jumped readily at his
conclusion, calling to his aid as proof all that he had ever seen pass
between Katy and her cousin. That Morris Grant loved Katy was, after a
few moment's reflection, as fixed a fact in his mind as that she lay
there between them, her eyelids quivering, and her lips moaning feebly
as if about to speak. Years before, when Genevra was the wife, jealousy
had made Wilford almost a madman, and it now held him again in its
powerful grasp, whispering suggestions he would have spurned in a calm
frame of mind. There was a clinching of his fist, a knitting of his
brows, and a gathering blackness in his eyes as he listened while Katy,
rousing partially from her lethargy, talked of the days when she was a
little girl, and Morris had built the playhouse for her by the brook,
where the thorn apples grew and the waters fell over the smooth, white
rocks.
"Take me back there," she said, "and let me lie on the grass again. It
is so long since I was there, and I've suffered so much since then.
Wilford meant to be kind, but he did not try to understand or know how I
loved the country with its birds and flowers and springing grass by the
well, where the shadows come and go. I used to wonder where they were
going, and one day when I watched them I was waiting for Wilford, and
wishing he would come. Would it have been better if he had never come?"
Wilford's body shook with strong emotion as he bent forward to hear
Katy's answer to her question.
"Were there no Genevra," she said, "no verse 'what God hath joined
together let no man put asunder,' I should not think so; but there is
such a verse, and now I don't know what I think, only I must go. Come,
Morris, we will go together, you and I."
She turned partly toward Morris, who made her no reply. He could not,
with those fiery eyes fixed upon him, and he sat erect in his chair,
while Katy talked of Silverton, and the days gone by until her voice
grew very faint, ceasing at last as she fell into a second sleep,
heavier, more death-like, than the first. Something in her face alarmed
Morris, and in spite of the eyes watching him he bent every energy to
retain the feeble pulse, and the breath which grew shorter with each
respiration.
"Do you think her dying?" Wilford asked, and Morris replied: "Not yet;
but the look about the mouth and nose is like the look which so often
precedes death."
And that was all they said until another hour went by, when Morris' hand
was laid upon the forehead and moved up under the golden hair where
there were drops of perspiration.
"She is saved, thank God, Mr. Cameron, Katy is saved," was his joyful
exclamation, and burying his head in his hands, he wept for a moment
like a child, for Katy was restored again.
On Wilford's face there was no trace of tears. On the contrary, he
seemed hardening into stone, and in his heart fierce passions were
contending for the mastery, and urging him on to an act from which, in
his right mind, he would have shrunk. Rising slowly at last, he came
around to Morris' side, and grasping his shoulder, said:
"Morris Grant, you love Katy Cameron."
Like the peal of a bell on the frosty air the words rang through the
room, starting Morris from his bowed attitude, and for an instant
curdling his blood in his veins, for he understood now the meaning of
the look which had so puzzled him. In Morris' heart there was a moment's
hesitancy to know just what to answer, an ejaculatory prayer for
guidance, and then lifting up his head, his calm blue eyes met the eyes
of black unflinchingly, as he replied:
"I have loved her always."
A blaze like sheet lightning shot from beneath Wilford's eyelashes, and
a taunting sneer curled his lip, as he said:
"You, a saint, confess to this?"
It was quite natural, and in keeping with human nature for Wilford to
thrust Morris' religion in his face, forgetting that never on this side
the eternal world can man cease wholly to sin, that so long as flesh and
blood remain, there will be temptation, error and wrong, even among
God's children. Morris felt the sneer keenly; but the consciousness of
peace with his Maker sustained him in the shock and, with the same tone
he had at first assumed, he said:
"Should my being what you call a saint prevent my confessing what I
did?"
"No, not the confession, but the fact," Wilford answered, savagely. "How
do you reconcile your acknowledged love for Katy with the injunctions of
the Bible whose doctrines you indorse?"
"A man cannot always control his feelings, but he can strive to overcome
them and put the temptation aside. One does not sin in being tempted,
but in listening to the temptation."
"Then according to your own reasoning you have sinned, for you not only
have teen tempted, but have yielded to the temptation," Wilford
retorted, with a sinister look of exultation in his black eyes.
For a moment Morris was silent, while a struggle of some kind seemed
going on in his mind, and then he said:
"I never thought to lay open to you a secret which, after myself, is, I
believe, known to only one living being."
"And that one--is--you will not tell me that is Katy?" Wilford
exclaimed, his voice hoarse with passion, and his eyes flashing with
fire.
"No, not Katy. She has no suspicion of the pain which, since I saw her
made another's, has eaten into my heart, making me grow old so fast, and
blighting my early manhood."
Something in Morris' tone and manner inspired Wilford with awe, making
him relax his grasp upon the arm, and sending him back to his chair
while Morris continued:
"Most men would shrink from talking to a husband of the love they bore
his wife, and an hour ago I should have shrunk from it, too, but you
have forced me to it, and now you must listen while I tell you of my
love for Katy. It began longer ago than she can remember--began when she
was my baby sister, and I hushed her in my arms to sleep, kneeling by
her cradle and watching her with a feeling I have never been able to
define. She was in all my thoughts, her face upon the printed page of
every book I studied, and her voice in every strain of music I ever
heard. Then, when she grew older, I used to watch the frolicsome child
by the hour, building castles even then of the future, when she would be
a woman and I a man, with a man's right to win her. I know that she
shielded me from many a snare into which young men are apt to fall, for
when the temptation was greatest, and I was at its verge, a thought of
her was sufficient to lead me back to virtue. I carried her in my heart
across the sea, and said when I go back I will ask her to be mine. I
went back, but at my first meeting with Katy after her return from
Canandaigua she told me of you, and I knew then that hope for me was
gone, praying for strength to bear my loss and hide my love from her.
God grant that you nor she may never experience what I experienced on
that day which made her your wife, and I saw her go away. It seemed
almost as if God had forgotten me as the night after the bridal I sat
alone at home, and met that dark hour of sorrow. In the midst of it
Helen came, discovering my secret, and sympathizing with me until the
pain at my heart grew less, and I could pray that God would grant me a
feeling for Katy which should not be sinful. And He did at last, so I
could think of her without a wish that she was mine. Times there were
when the old love would burst forth with fearful power, and then I
wished that I might die. These were my moments of temptation which I
struggled to overcome. Sometimes a song, a strain of music, or a ray of
moonlight on the floor would bring the past to me so vividly that I
would stagger beneath the burden, feeling that it was greater than I
could bear. But God was very merciful and sent me work which took up all
my time, leaving little leisure for regrets, and driving me away from my
own pain to soothe the pain of others. When Katy came to us last summer
there was an hour of trial, when faith in God grew weak, and I was
tempted to question the justice of His dealing with me. But that, too,
passed, and in my love for your child I forgot the mother in part,
looking upon her as a sister rather than the Katy I had loved so well. I
would have given my life to have saved that child for her, even though
it was a bar between us, a something which separated her from me more
than the words she spoke at the altar. Though dead, that baby is still
a bar, and Katy is not the same to me she was before that little life
came into being. It is not wrong to love her as I do now. I feel no pang
of conscience save when something unexpected carries me back to the old
ground where I have fought so many battles."
Morris paused a moment, thinking of the time when Katy came to him with
her story of Genevra, and wondering if it were best to repeat the
incidents of that night. It was not, he finally concluded. It would be
better for Katy to tell it herself, and so he added at last: "What I
have borne has told upon me terribly. My people say I work too hard, but
they look only on the surface--they have never seen that inner chamber
of my heart, where only you have been fully admitted. Even Helen knows
not half what's there, but I felt that it was due to you, and so have
told you all, asking that no shadow of censure shall fall on Katy, who
would be greatly shocked to know what you know now."
Morris' manner was that of a man who spoke with perfect sincerity, and
it carried conviction to Wilford's heart, disarming him for a time of
the fierce anger and resentment he had felt while listening to Morris'
story. Acting upon the good impulse of the moment, he arose, and
offering his hand to Morris, he said:
"You have done nobly, Dr. Grant, I believe in your religion now. Forgive
me that I ever doubted it. I exonerate you from blame."
And thus they pledged their faith, Wilford meaning then all he said, and
feeling only respect for the man who had confessed his love for Katy.
After what had passed, Morris felt that it would be pleasanter for
Wilford if he were gone, and after a time he suggested returning to
Silverton at once, inasmuch as the crisis was past and Katy out of
danger. There was a struggle in Wilford's mind as to the answer he
should make to this suggestion. It would not be pleasant to see Morris
there now, for though he had said he forgave him, there was a feeling of
disquiet at his heart, and he at last signified his willingness for him
to leave when he thought best.
It was broad day when Katy awoke, so weak as to be unable to turn her
head upon the pillow, but in her eyes the light of reason was shining,
and she glanced wonderingly, first at Helen, at her mother, and then at
Wilford, as if trying to comprehend what had happened.
"Have I been sick?" she asked in a whisper, and Wilford, bending over
her, replied: "Yes, darling, very sick for nearly two whole weeks--ever
since I left home that morning, you know."
"Yes," and Katy shivered a little. "Yes, I know. But where is Morris? He
was here the last I can remember."
Wilford's face grew dark at once, and stepping back as Morris came in,
he said: "She asks for you." Then with a rising feeling of resentment he
watched them, while Morris spoke to Katy, telling her she was better,
but must keep very quiet, and not allow herself in any way to be
excited.
"Have I been crazy? Have I talked much?" she asked, and when Morris
replied in the affirmative there came a startled look into her eye, as
she said: "Of what or whom have I talked most?"
"Of Genevra," was the answer, and Katy continued: "Did I mention no one
else?"
Morris guessed of whom she was thinking, and answered, indifferently:
"You spoke of Miss Hazelton in connection with baby, but that was all."
Katy was satisfied, and closing her eyes fell away to sleep again, while
Morris made his preparations for leaving. It hardly seemed right for him
to go just then, but the only one who could have kept him maintained a
frigid silence with regard to a longer stay, and so the first train
which left New York for Springfield carried Dr. Grant, and Katy was
without a physician.
Wilford had hoped that Mrs. Lennox, too, would see the propriety of
accompanying Morris; but she would not leave Katy, and Wilford was fain
to submit to what he could not help. No explanation whatever had he
given to Mrs. Lennox or Helen with regard to Genevra. He was too proud
for that, but his mother had deemed it wise to smooth the matter over as
much as possible, enjoining upon them both the necessity of secrecy.
"When I tell you that neither my husband or daughters know it, you will
understand that I am greatly in earnest in wishing it kept," she said.
"It was a most unfortunate affair, and though the divorce is, of
course, to be lamented, it is better that she died. We never could have
received her as our equal."
"Was anything the matter, except that she was poor?" Mrs. Lennox asked,
with as much dignity as was in her nature to assume.
"Well, no. She had a good education, I believe, and was very pretty; but
it makes trouble always where there is a great inequality between a
husband's family and that of his wife."
Poor Mrs. Lennox understood this perfectly, but she was too much afraid
of the great lady to venture a reply, and a tear rolled down her burning
cheek as she wet the napkin for Katy's head, wishing that she had back
again the daughter, whose family she knew the Camerons despised. The
atmosphere of Madison Square did not suit Mrs. Lennox, especially when,
as the days went by and Katy began to mend, troops of gay ladies called,
mistaking her for the nurse, and all staring a little curiously when
told that she was Mrs. Cameron's mother. Of course, Wilford chafed and
fretted at what he could not help, seldom addressing his mother-in-law
on any subject, and making himself so generally disagreeable that Helen
at last suggested returning home, inasmuch as Katy was so much better.
There was then a faint remonstrance on his part, but Helen did not waver
in her decision, though she pitied Katy, who, when the day of her
departure came and they were for a few moments alone, took her hand
between her own and kissing it fondly, said: "You don't know how I dread
your going or how wretched I shall be without you. Everything which once
made me happy has been removed or changed. Baby is dead, and
Wilford--oh, Helen, I sometimes wish I had not heard of Genevra, for I
am afraid it can never be with us as it was once; that is, I have not
quite the same trust in him, and he seems so changed. Have you noticed
how silent and moody he has grown?"
Helen had noticed it, but she would not say so, and she tried to comfort
her sister, telling her she would be very happy yet; "but, Katy
darling," she continued, "you have a duty to perform as well as Wilford.
Your heart is very sore now because of the deception, but you must not
let that soreness appear in your manner. You must be to Wilford just
what you always were, unless you wish to wean him from you. He, too, has
had a terrible shock; his pride and self-love have been wounded, and men
like him do not like being humbled as he has been. You must soothe him,
Katy, and smooth his ruffled feathers, proving to him that you can and
do forgive the past. And, Katy, remember you have a Friend always near
to whom you can carry your burdens, sure that He will listen and heal
the smarting pain. Go to Him often and make Him yours indeed. He has
come very near to you within the last year, and such visitations have a
meaning in them. Listen, then, lest He should come again and visit you
with greater sufferings."
"Purified by Suffering." The words came floating back to Katy, just as
Uncle Ephraim had spoken them in the pleasant meadowland, and just as
they had sometimes haunted her since, but never having so deep a meaning
as now, when Helen's words suggested them again. She was suffering, oh,
so terribly, but was she purifying, too? She feared not, and after the
sad parting with her mother and sister was over she turned her face to
her pillow, trying so hard to pray that God would make her His own, and
by the suffering He sent purify her for heaven.