CONCLUSION.
The scene shifts now to New York, where, one week after that wedding in
Silverton, Mark and Helen were, and where, too, were Morris and Katy.
But not on Madison Square. That house had been sold, and Katy had seen
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. Once Lieutenant Reynolds had thought to buy
it, but Bell said: "No, it would not be quite 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 uptown that Mrs. Cameron
pronounced it quite in the country, while 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 forty-five 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 had 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 in her heart that Katy was married, and
fully approving of 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 had 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 by his
manner how willingly he accepted him as the husband of one whom he
really loved as his child. Greatly he wished that they should stay with
him while they remained in New York, but Katy preferred going with Helen
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, Fortress Monroe, 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 jubilee
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!--foully, cruelly murdered!--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 so 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 prairie 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, fairest
flower of all, stands for a moment in the deep bay window of the
library, listening dreamily 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,
shining with silver, and laid for six, for her mother, Aunt Hannah and
Aunt Betsy are visiting her this rainy afternoon, while Morris, on his
return from North Silverton, where he has gone to see a patient, is to
call for Uncle Ephraim, who, in clean linen, checked gingham neck
handkerchief and the swallow-tailed coat which has served him for so
many years, sits waiting at home, with one kitten in his lap and
another on his shoulder.
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,
near the blazing fire, 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. Upstairs there is a pleasant
room which Katy calls Aunt Betsy's, and in it is the feather bed on
which Wilford Cameron once slept, a part of Katy's "setting out," which
never found its way to Madison Square. Morris himself did not think much
of feathers, but he made no objection when Aunt Betsy insisted on
sending over 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 were very happy together, and Katy found the
hours of his absence very long, especially when she was left alone. Even
to-day, with her aunts and mother, 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' arm is around her
shoulders, and her lips are upturned for the kiss he gives as he leads
her into the house out of the chill, damp air, chiding her gently 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, with his forty-five
years, at the feet of Sybil Grandon, who will be Mrs. Grey, and a bride
at Saratoga the coming summer. Juno, I believe, 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 really 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 sweet 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 made her tremble for a moment and turn faint, it brought
back so vividly to her mind the daisy-covered grave in Alnwick, whose
headstone bore Genevra Lambert's name. 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 heating heart the kind
congratulations upon her recent marriage, sent by Marian Hazelton.
"I knew how it would end, even when you were in Georgetown," she wrote,
"and I am glad that it is so, praying daily that you may be as happy
with Dr. Grant as to 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, and the last worn figure
gone, I shall stay where duty lies. What my life will henceforth be I do
not know, but I have sometimes thought that with the ample 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. Forgive me, Katy, if I did wrong in
wishing to kneel once upon the sod which covered him. 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 now and withered, but
something of their sweet perfume lingers still; and I prize them as my
greatest treasure, for, except the lock of raven 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-by. 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 and the pale occupant of that grave at Greenwood, whence
the flowers came, could be the Katy Grant who sat by the evening fire at
Linwood, with no shadow on her brow, and only 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," she 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 so 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. It seems that suspicion was aroused against
them at last, and Bab was cruelly whipped to make her confess where a
Union prisoner was hidden; but, though the blows cut deep into her back,
bringing the blood at every stroke, she never uttered a word; and with
her wounds all smarting as they were, she helped the poor boy off, and
then with her master, John Jennings, started for the North. I never saw
Mark more pleased than when seized around the neck by two long, brawny
arms, while a cheery voice called out: 'Hello, old chap, has you done
forgot John Jennin's?' 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 kissed her
more than once, and felt honored in doing so. Poor Bab! her back is
still a piteous sight, and I dress it every day, shuddering at the
sight, and thanking God that slavery, with all its horrors, is at an
end. I wish you could see how grateful the old creature is for every act
of kindness. She says 'the very feel of misses' soft, white hands makes
her old back better,' and she praises me continually to Mark, who is
just foolish enough to believe all she says. 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, even though Mark did ask if I intended bringing her into
the parlor to help entertain my company. Mark is a saucy, teasing
fellow, and I see more and more how he kept up that dreadful
Andersonville while so many of his comrades died. Dear Mark! can I ever
be grateful enough to God for bringing him home?
"We stopped at Annapolis on our way here, and I shall never forget the
pale, worn faces, or 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, their dim eyes
lighting 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 so greedy glances as he moves about the room, and
holding her hand with a 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.' Yon 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 gazed long and earnestly into
the fire, musing upon Helen's closing words, and 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.