Family Pride Or Purified by Suffering Part 17

"By the way, you were born in England? Were you ever at Alnwick?" Katy asked, and Marian replied: "Once, yes. I've seen the castle and the church. Did you go there--to St. Mary's, I mean?"

"Oh, yes, and I was never tired of that old churchyard, Wilford liked it, too, and we wandered by the hour among the sunken graves and quaint headstones."

"Do you remember any of the names upon the stones? Perhaps I may know them?" Marian asked; but Katy did not remember any, or if she did, it was not "Genevra Lambert, aged twenty-two." And so Marian asked her no more questions concerning St. Mary's, at Alnwick, but talked instead of London and other places, until three hours went by, and down in the street the coachman chafed and fretted at the long delay, wandering what kept his mistress in that neighborhood so long. Had she friends, or had she come on some errand of mercy? The latter most likely, he concluded, and so his face was not quite so cross when Katy at last appeared, looking at her watch and exclaiming at the lateness of the hour. But when, as they turned into the avenue, Katy called to him to stop, bidding him drive back, as she had forgotten something, he showed unmistakable signs of irritation, but nevertheless obeyed, and Katy was soon mounting a second time to the fourth story of No. ----, where Marian Hazelton knelt upon the floor, her head resting upon the costly fabrics and her frame quivering with the anguish of the sobs which reached Katy's ear even before she opened the unbolted door.

"What is it, Marian?" she asked, in great distress, while Marian, struggling to her feet, remained for a moment speechless.

She had not expected Katy to return, else she had never given way as she did, calling on her G.o.d to help her bear what she now knew she was not prepared to bear. She had thought the heart struggle conquered, and that she could calmly look upon Wilford Cameron's wife; but the sight of Katy, together with the errand on which she came, had unnerved her, and she wept bitterly in her desolation, until Katy's reappearance startled her from her position on the floor, making her stammer out some excuse about "homesickness and the seeing Katy bringing back the past."

Very lovingly Katy tried to comfort her, putting into her manner just enough of pretty patronage to amuse without annoying Marian, who soon grew calm, and then listened while Katy told why she returned. She feared she had talked too much of her own affairs--too much of his folks, who, after all, were nice, kind people, and she came to take it back, asking Marian never to speak of it, as it might get to them indirectly, and Wilford would be angry.

With a smile, as she thought how improbable it was that anything said to her up in that humble room should reach to No. ---- Fifth Avenue, Marian promised silence; and with a good-by kiss, given to convince Marian that she was not proud, Katy again departed, and was soon driving toward Madison Square. She was very happy that morning, for seeing Marian had brought Silverton near to her, and airy as a bird she ran up the steps of her own dwelling, where the door opened as by magic, and Wilford himself confronted her, asking, with the tone which always made her heart beat, where she had been, and he waiting for her two whole hours.

Surely it was not necessary to stop so long with a seamstress, he continued when she tried to explain. Ten minutes would suffice for directions, and he could not imagine what attractions there were in Miss Hazelton to keep her there three hours, and then the real cause of his vexation came out. He had come expressly for the carriage to take her and Sybil Grandon to a picnic up the river, whither his mother, Juno and Bell had already gone. Mrs. Grandon must wonder why he stayed so long, and perhaps give up going. Could Katy be ready soon; and Wilford walked rapidly up and down the parlor as he talked, with a restless motion of his hands which always betokened impatience. Poor Katy, how the brightness of the morning faded, and how averse she felt to joining that picnic, which she knew had been in prospect for some time, and had fancied she should enjoy. But not to-day, not with that cold, proud look on Wilford's face, and the feeling that he was vexed. Still she could think of no reasonable excuse, and so an hour later found her driving into the country with Sybil Grandon, who received her apologies with as much good-natured grace as if she had not worked herself into a pa.s.sion at the delay, for Sybil had been very cross and impatient; but all this vanished when she met Wilford and saw that he, too, was disturbed and irritated. Soft and sweet and smooth was she both in word and manner, so that by the time the pleasant grove was reached Wilford's ruffled spirits had been soothed, and he was himself again, ready to enjoy the pleasures of the day as keenly as if no harsh word had been said to Katy, who, silent and unhappy, listened to the graceful badinage between Sybil and her husband, thinking how differently his voice had sounded when addressing her only a little while before.

"Pray put some animation into your face, or Mrs. Grandon will certainly think we have been quarreling," Wilford whispered, as he lifted his wife from the carriage, and with a great effort Katy tried to be gay and natural.

But all the while was she fighting back her tears and wishing she were away. Even Marian's room, looking into the dingy court, was preferable to that place, and she was glad when the long day came to an end, and she with a fearful headache was riding back to the city.

The next morning was dark and rainy; but in spite of the weather Katy found her way to Marian's room, this time taking the ---- avenue cars, which left her independent as regarded the length of her stay. About Marian there was something more congenial than about her city friends, and day after day found her there, watching while Marian fashioned into shape the beautiful little garments, the sight of which had over Katy a strangely quieting influence, sobering her down and maturing her more than all the years of her life had done. Those were happy hours spent with Marian Hazelton, the happiest of the entire day, and Katy felt it keenly when Wilford at last interfered, telling her she was growing quite too familiar with that sewing woman, and her calls had best be discontinued, except, indeed, such as were necessary to the work in progress.

There was a grieved look on Katy's face, but she uttered no word of remonstrance; while her husband went on to say, that of course he did not wish to be unreasonable, nor interfere between her and her acquaintances as a general thing, but when the acquaintance chosen was a sewing woman, whose antecedents no one knew, and whose society could not be improving, the case was different.

After this there were no more mornings spent in Marian's room, no more talks of Silverton and Morris Grant; talks which did Katy a world of good, and kept her heart open to better influences, which might otherwise have been wholly choked and destroyed by the life she saw around her. With one great gush of tears, when there was no one to see her, Katy gave Marian up, writing her a note, in which were sundry directions for the work, which would go on even after she had left for the Mountain House, as she intended doing the last of June. And Marian, reading this note, guessed at more than Katy meant she should, and with a bitter sigh laid it in her basket, and then resumed the work, which seemed doubly monotonous now that there was no more listening for the little feet tripping up the stairs, or for the bird-like voice which had brought so much of music and sunshine to her lonely room.

CHAPTER XIX.

SARATOGA AND NEWPORT.

For three weeks Katy had been at the Mountain House, growing stronger every day, until now she was much like the Katy of one year ago, and Wilford was very proud of her, as he saw how greatly she was admired by those whose admiration he deemed worth having. But their stay among the Catskills was ended, and on the morrow they were going to Saratoga, where Mrs. Cameron and her daughter were, and where, too, was Sybil Grandon, the reigning belle of the United States. So Bell had written to her brother, bidding him hasten on with Katy, as she wished to see "that chit of a widow in her proper place." And Katy had been weak enough for a moment to feel a throb of satisfaction in knowing how effectually Sybil's claims to belleship would be put aside when she was once in the field; even glancing at herself in the mirror as she leaned on Wilford's shoulder, and feeling glad that mountain air and mountain exercise had brought the roses back to her white cheeks and the brightness to her eyes. But Katy wept pa.s.sionate tears of repentance for that weakness, when an hour later she read the letter which Dr. Grant had sent in answer to one she had written from the Mountain House, and in which she had told him much of her life in New York, confessing her shortcomings, and lamenting that the evils and excesses which shocked her once did not startle her now. To this letter Morris had replied as a brother might write to an only sister, first expressing his joy at her happiness, and then coming to the subject which lay nearest his heart, warning her against temptation, reminding her of that other life to which this is only a preparation, and beseeching her so to use the good things of this world, given her in such profusion, as not to lose the life eternal.

This was the substance of Morris' letter, which Katy read with streaming eyes, forgetting Saratoga as Morris' solemn words of warning and admonition rang in her ears, and shuddering as she thought of losing the life eternal of going where Morris would never come, nor any of those she loved the best, unless it were Wilford, who might reproach her with having dragged him there when she could have saved him.

"Keep yourself unspotted from the world," Morris had said, and she repeated it to herself, asking: "How shall I do that? How can one be good and fashionable, too?"

Then laying her hand upon the rock where she was sitting, Katy tried to pray as she had not prayed in months, asking that G.o.d would teach her what she ought to know, and keep her unspotted from the world. But at the Mountain House it is easier to pray that one be kept from temptation than it is at Saratoga, which this summer was crowded to overflowing, its streets presenting a fitting picture of Vanity Fair, so full were they of show and gala dress. At the United States, where Mrs. Cameron stopped, two rooms, for which an enormous price was paid, had been reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Wilford Cameron, and this of itself would have given them a certain _eclat_, even if there had not been present many who remembered the proud, fastidious bachelor, and were proportionately anxious to see his wife. She came, she saw, she conquered; and within three days after her arrival Katy Cameron was the acknowledged belle of Saratoga, from the United States to the Clarendon. And Katy, alas! was not quite the same who on the mountain ridge had sat with Morris' letter in her hand, praying that its teachings might not be all forgotten. Nor were they, but she did not heed them here where all was so bright and gay, and where the people thought her so perfect. Saratoga seemed different to her from New York, and she plunged into its gayeties, never pausing, never tiring, and seldom giving herself time to think, much less to pray, as Morris had bidden her do. And Wilford, though hardly able to recognize the usually timid Katy in the brilliant woman who led rather than followed, was sure of her faith to him, and so was only proud and gratified to see her bear off the palm from every compet.i.tor, while even Juno, though she quarreled with the shadow into which she was so completely thrown, enjoyed the _eclat_ cast upon their party by the presence of Mrs. Wilford, who had pa.s.sed beyond her criticism. Sybil Grandon, too, stood back in wonder that a simple country girl should win and wear the laurels she had so long claimed as her own; but as there was no help for it she contented herself as best she could with the admiration she did receive, and whenever opportunity occurred, said bitter things of Mrs. Wilford, whose parentage and low estate were through her pretty generally known. But it did not matter there what Katy had been; the people took her for what she was now, and Sybil's glory faded like the early dawn in the coming of the full day.

As it had been at Saratoga, so it was at Newport. Urged on by Mrs.

Cameron and Bell, who greatly enjoyed her notoriety, Katy plunged into the mad excitement of dancing and driving and coquetting, until Wilford himself became uneasy, locking her once in her room, where she was sleeping after dinner, and conveniently forgetting to release her until after the departure at evening of some young men from Cambridge, whose attentions to the Ocean House belle had been more strongly marked than was altogether agreeable to him. Of course it was a mistake--the locking of the door--and a great oversight in him not to have remembered it sooner, he said to Katy, by way of apology; and Katy, with no suspicion of the truth, laughed merrily at the joke, repeating it downstairs to the old dowagers, who shrugged their shoulders meaningly and whispered to each other that it might be well if more young, handsome wives were locked into their rooms and thus kept out of mischief.

Though flattered, caressed and admired, Katy was not doing herself much credit at Newport, but after Wilford there was no one to raise a warning voice, until Mark Ray came down for a few days' respite from the heated city, where he spent the entire summer, taking charge of the business which belonged as much to Wilford as to himself. But Wilford had a wife; it was more necessary that he should leave, Mark had argued; his time would come by and by. And so he had remained at home until the last of August, when he appeared suddenly at the Ocean House one night when Katy, in her airy robes and childlike simplicity, was breaking hearts by the score. Like others, Mark was charmed, and not a little proud, for Katy's sake, to see her thus appreciated; but when one day's experience had shown him more and given him a look behind the scenes, he trembled for her, knowing how hard it would be for her to come out of that sea of dissipation as pure and spotless as she went in.

"If I were her brother I would warn her that her present career, though very delightful now, is not one upon which she will look back with pleasure when the excitement is over," he said to himself; "but if Wilford is satisfied it is not for me to interfere. It is surely nothing to me what Katy Cameron does," he kept repeating to himself; but as often as he said it there came up before him a pale, anxious face, shaded with Helen Lennox's bands of hair, and Helen Lennox's voice whispered to him: "Save Katy, for my sake;" and so next day, when Mark found himself alone with Katy, while most of the guests were at the beach, he questioned her of her life at Saratoga and Newport, and gradually, as he talked, there crept into Katy's heart a suspicion that he was not altogether pleased with her account, or with what he had seen of her since his arrival.

For a moment Katy was indignant, but when he said to her kindly: "Would Helen he pleased?" her tears started at once, and she attempted an excuse for her weak folly, accusing Sybil Grandon as the first cause of the ambition for which she hated herself.

"She had been held up as my pattern," she said, half bitterly, and forgetting to whom she was talking--"she the one whom I was to imitate; and when I found that if I would I could go beyond her, I yielded to the temptation, and exulted to see how far she was left behind. Besides that," she continued, "is it no gratification, think you, to let Wilford's proud mother and sister see the poor country girl, whom ordinarily they would despise, stand where they cannot come, and even dictate to them if she chooses so to do? I know it is wrong--I know it is wicked--but I rather like the excitement, and so long as I am with these people I shall never be any better. Mark Ray, you don't know what it is to be surrounded by a set who care for nothing but fashion and display, and how they may outdo each other. I hate New York society.

There is nothing there but husks."

Katy's tears had ceased, and on her white face there was a new look of womanhood, as if in that outburst she had changed, and would never again be just what she was before.

"Say," she continued, "do you like New York society?"

"Not always--not wholly," Mark answered; "and still you misjudge it greatly, for all are not like the people you describe. Your husband's family represent one extreme, while there are others equally high in the social scale who do not make fashion the rule of their lives--sensible, cultivated, intellectual people, of whose acquaintance one might be glad--people whom I fancy your Sister Helen would enjoy. I have only met her twice, it is true, but my impression is that she would not find New York utterly distasteful."

Mark did not know why he had dragged Helen into that conversation, unless it were that she seemed very near to him as he talked with Katy, who replied:

"Yes, Helen finds some good in all. She sees differently from what I do, and I wish so much that she was here."

"Why not send for her?" Mark asked, casting about in his mind whether in case Helen came, he, too, could tarry for a week and leave that business in Southbridge, which he must attend to ere returning to the city.

It would be a study to watch Helen Lennox there at Newport, and in imagination Mark was already her sworn knight, shielding her from criticism, and commanding her respect from those who respected him, when Katy tore his castle down by answering impulsively:

"I doubt if Wilford would let me send for her here, nor does it matter, as I shall not remain much longer. I do not need her now, since you have showed me how foolish I have been. I was angry at first, but now I thank you for it, and so would Helen. I shall tell her when I am in Silverton.

I am going there from here, and oh, I so wish it was to-day."

The guests were beginning to return from the beach by this time, and as Mark had said all he had intended saying, and even more, he left Katy with Wilford, who had just come in and joined a merry party of Bostonians only that day arrived. That night at the Ocean House the guests missed something from their festivities; the dance was not so exhilarating or the small-talk between them so lively, while more than one white-kidded dandy swore mentally at the innocent Wilford, whose wife declined to join in the gayeties, and in a plain white muslin, with only a pond lily in her hair, kept by her husband's side, notwithstanding that he more than once bade her leave him and accept some of her numerous invitations to join the giddy dance. This sober phase of Katy did not on the whole please Wilford as much as her gayer ones had done. Perfectly sure of her devotion to himself, he liked to watch her as she glided amid the throng which paid her so much homage.

All he had ever dreamed of the sensation his bride would create was more than verified. Katy had fulfilled his highest expectations, reaching a point from which, as she had said to Mark, she could even dictate to his mother, if she chose, and he did not care to see her relinquish it.

But Katy remained true to herself. Dropping her girlish playfulness she a.s.sumed a quiet, gentle dignity, which became her even better than her gayer mood had done, making her ten times more popular and more sought after, until she begged to go away, persuading Wilford at last to name the day for their departure, and then, never doubting for a moment that her destination was Silverton, she wrote to Helen that she was coming on such a day, and as they would come by way of Providence and Worcester, they would probably reach West Silverton at ten o'clock, A.M.

"Wilford," she added, in a postscript, "has gone down to bathe, and as the mail is just closing, I shall send this letter without his seeing it. Of course it can make no difference, for I have talked all summer of coming, and he understands it."

CHAPTER XX.

MARK RAY AT SILVERTON.

The last day of summer was dying out in a fierce storm of rain which swept in sheets across the Silverton hills, hiding the pond from view, and beating the windows of the farmhouse, whose inmates were nevertheless unmindful of the storm save as they hoped the morrow would prove bright and fair, such as the day should be which brought them back their Katy. Nearly worn out with constant reference was her letter, the mother catching it up from time to time to read the part referring to herself, the place where Katy had told how blessed it would be "to rest again on mother's bed," just as she had often wished to do, "and hear mother's voice;" the deacon spelling out by his spluttering tallow candle, with its long, smoky wick, what she had said of "darling old Uncle Eph," and the rides into the fields which she should have with him; Aunt Betsy, too, reading mostly from memory the words: "Good old Aunt Betsy, with her skirts so limp and short, tell her she will look handsomer to me than the fairest belle at Newport;" and as often as Aunt Betsy read it she would e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e: "The land! what kind of company must the child have kept?" wondering next if Helen had never written of the hoop, for which she had paid a dollar, and which was carefully hung in her closet, waiting for the event of to-morrow, while the hem of her pongee had been let down and one breadth added to accommodate the hoop.

On the whole, Aunt Betsy expected to make a stylish appearance before the little lady of whom she stood slightly in awe, always speaking of her to the neighbors as "My niece, Miss Cameron, from New York," and taking good care to report what she had heard of "Miss Cameron's" costly dress and the grandeur of her house, where the furniture of the best chamber cost over fifteen hundred dollars.

"What could it be--gold?" Aunt Betsy had asked in her simplicity, feeling an increased respect for Katy, and consenting the more readily to the change in her pongee, as suggested to her by Helen.

But that was for to-morrow when Katy came; to-night she only wore a dotted brown, whose hem just reached the top of her "bootees," as she stood by the window, wondering, first, if the rain would ever stop, and wondering, secondly, where all them fish worms, squirming on the gra.s.s by the back door, did come from. Needn't tell her they crawled out of the ground; she knew better--they rained from the clouds, though she should s'pose that somebody would sometime have catched one on their bunnet or umberill. Dammed if she didn't mean to stand out o' doors some day till she was wet to the skin, and see what would come, and having thus settled a way by which to decide the only question, except that of the "'Piscopal Church and its quirks," on which she was still obstinate, Aunt Betsy went to strain the milk just brought by Uncle Ephraim, while Helen took her position near the window, looking drearily out upon the leaden clouds, and hoping it would brighten before the morrow. Like the others, Helen had read Katy's letter many times, dwelling longest upon the part which said: "I have been so bad, so frivolous and wicked here at Newport, that it will be a relief to make you my confessor, depending, as I do, upon your love to grant me absolution."

From a family at Silverton, who had spent a few days at a private house in Newport, Helen had heard something of her sister's life; the lady had seen her once driving a tandem team, or as Aunt Betsy had it, "driving tanterum," down the avenue, with Wilford at her side giving her instructions. Since then there had been some anxiety felt for her at the farmhouse, and more than Dr. Grant had prayed that she might be kept unspotted from the world; but when her letter came, so full of love and self-reproaches, the burden was lifted, and there was nothing to mar the antic.i.p.ations of the events for which they had made so many preparations, Uncle Ephraim going to the expense of buying at auction a half-worn, covered buggy, which he fancied would suit Katy better than the corn-colored wagon in which Katy used to ride. To pay for this the deacon had parted with the money set aside for the "greatcoat" he so much needed for the coming winter, his old gray one having done him service for fifteen years. But his comfort was nothing compared with Katy's happiness, and so, with his wrinkled face beaming with delight, he had brought home his buggy, which he designated a carriage, putting it carefully in the barn, and saying no one should ride in it till Katy came, the corn-color was good enough for them, but Katy was different--Katy was Mrs. Cameron, and used to something better. With untiring patience the old man mended up his harness, for what he had heard of Katy's driving had impressed him strongly with her powers of horsemanship, and, truth to tell, raised her somewhat in his respect.

Could he have afforded it Uncle Ephraim in his younger days would have been a horse jockey, and even now he liked nothing better than to make Old Whitey run when alone in the strip of woods between the house and the head of the pond.

"Katy inherits her love of horses from me," he said, complacently, and with a view of improving Whitey's style and metal, he took to feeding him on corn and oats, talking to him at times, and telling him who was coming.

Dear, simple-hearted Uncle Ephraim, the days which he must wait seemed long to him as they did to the female portion of his family, to Mrs.

Lennox, Aunt Hannah and Aunt Betsy, who each did what she could to make the house attractive. They were ready for Katy at last, or could be early on the morrow, and with the shutting in of night the candles were lighted in the sitting-room, and Helen sat down to her work, wishing it was to-night that Katy was coming. As if in answer to her wish there was the sound of wheels, which stopped before the house, and dropping her work, Helen ran quickly to the door, just as from under the dripping umbrella held by a driver boy, a tall young man, sprang upon the step, nearly upsetting her, but pa.s.sing an arm around her shoulders in time to keep her from falling.