It was Bell's turn now to blush and then grow white, while Helen lightly touching the superb diamond on her first finger, said: "That indicates as much. When did it happen, Bell?"

Mrs. Cameron had said they were not a family to bruit their affairs abroad, and if so, Bell was not like her family, for she answered frankly: "Just before he went away. It's a splendid diamond, isn't it?" and she held it up for Helen to inspect.

The basket was empty by this time, and as Aunt Betsy went to fill it from the trees, Bell and Helen were left alone, the former continuing in a low, sad tone: "I've been so sorry sometimes that I did not tell Bob I loved him, when he wished me to so much."

"Not tell him you loved him! How then could you tell him yes, as it appears you did?" Helen asked, and Bell answered: "I could not well help that; it came so sudden and he begged so hard, saying my promise would make him a better man, a better soldier and all that. It was the very night before he went, and so I said that out of pity and patriotism I would give the promise, and I did, but it seemed too much for a woman to tell a man all at once that she loved him, and I wouldn't do it, but I've been sorry since; oh, so sorry, during the two days when we heard nothing from him after that dreadful battle at Bull Run. We knew he was in it, and I thought I should die until his telegram came saying he was safe. I did sit down then and commence a letter, confessing all I felt, but I tore it up, and he don't know now just how I feel."

"And do you really love him?" Helen asked, puzzled by this strange girl, who laughingly held up her soft, white hand, stained and blackened with the juice of the fruit she had been paring, and said: "Do you suppose I would spoil my hands like that and incur ma chere-mamma's displeasure, if Bob were not in the army and I did not care for him? And now that I have confessed so much, allow me to catechise you. Did Mark Ray ever propose and you refuse him?"

"Never!" and Helen's face grew crimson, while Bell continued: "That is funny. Half our circle think so, though how the impression was first given I do not know. Mother told me, but would not tell where she received her information. I heard of it again in a few days, and have reason to believe that Mrs. Banker knows it too and feels a little uncomfortable that her son should be refused when she considers him worthy of the empress herself."

Helen was very white, and her limbs shook as she asked: "And how with Mark and Juno?"

"Oh, off and on," Bell replied; "that is, Juno is always on, while Mark is more uncertain, and Juno really has improved in some respects. As I wrote you once, she is very docile when with Mark, and acts as if trying to atone for something—her old badness, I guess. You are certain you never cared for Mark Ray?"

This was so abrupt and Bell's eyes were so searching that Helen grew giddy for a moment and grasped the back of the chair, as she replied: "I did not say I never cared for him. I said he never proposed; and that is true; he never did."

"And if he had?" Bell continued, never taking her eyes from Helen, who, had she been less agitated, would have denied Bell's right to question her so closely. Now, however, she answered blindly: "I do not know. I cannot tell. I thought him engaged to Juno."

"Well, if that is not the rarest case of cross-purposes that I ever knew," Bell said, wiping her hands upon Aunt Betsy's apron, and preparing to attack the piled up basket just brought in.

Further conversation was impossible, and, with her mind in a perfect tempest of thought, Helen went away, trying to decide what it was best for her to do. Some one had spread the report that she had refused Mark Ray, telling of the refusal, of course, or how else could it have been known? and this accounted for Mrs. Banker's long-continued silence. Since Helen's return to Silverton Mrs. Banker had written two or thee kind, friendly letters, which did her so much good; but these had suddenly ceased, and Helen's last remained as yet unanswered. She saw the reason now, every nerve quivering with pain as she imagined what Mrs. Banker must think of one who could make a refusal public, or what was tenfold worse, pretend to an offer she never received. "She must despise me, and Mark Ray, too, if he has heard of it," she said, resolving one moment to ask Bell to explain to Mrs. Banker, and then changing her mind and concluding to let matters take their course, inasmuch as interference from her might be construed by the mother into undue interest in the son. "Perhaps Bell will do it without my asking," she thought, and this hope did much toward keeping her spirits up on that last day of Katy's stay at home, for she was going back in the morning. Wilford would not leave her, though she begged to stay. He did not like the sad expression of her face, and he must take her where she would have more excitement, hoping thus to win her from her grief, and perhaps induce her to lay aside her black, which would be so serious a hindrance to his enjoyment. But Katy clung to that as to a strict, religious duty, saying to Helen, as in the twilight they sat together up in their old room, talking of the ensuing winter, which would be so different from the last:

"If anything besides the feeling that she is so much happier, could reconcile me to baby's loss, it is the knowing that my mourning will keep me from the society in which I could not mingle so soon," and her tears dropped upon the somber robes, which had transformed her so suddenly from the gay, airy creature of fashion into the sober, quiet woman who seemed older, soberer than even Helen herself.

They did not see Marian Hazelton again, and Katy wondered at it, deciding that in some things Marian was very peculiar, while Wilford and Bell were slightly disappointed, as both had a desire to meet and converse with one who had been so like a second mother to the little dead Genevra. Wilford spoke of his child now as Genevra, but to Katy it was baby still; and, with choking sobs and passionate tears, she bade good-by to the little mound underneath which it was lying, and then went back to her city home.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE FIRST WIFE.

Softly and swiftly the hazy September days glided into dun October, who shook down leafy showers of crimson and of gold upon the withered grass, and then gave place to the dark November rains, which made the city seem doubly desolate to Katy, who, like the ghost of her former self, moved listlessly about her handsome home, starting quickly as a fancied baby cry fell on her ear, and then weeping bitterly as she remembered the sad past and thought of the still sadder present. Katy was very unhappy, and the world, as she looked upon it, seemed utterly cheerless. For much of this unhappiness Wilford was himself to blame. After the first few days, during which he was all kindness and devotion, he did not try to comfort her, but seemed irritated that she should mourn so deeply for the child which, but for her indiscretion, might have been living still. Her seclusion from gay society troubled him. He did not like staying at home, and their evenings, when they were alone, passed in gloomy silence. At last Mrs. Cameron, annoyed at what annoyed her son, brought her influence to bear upon her daughter-in-law, trying to rouse her to something like her olden interest in the world; but all to no effect, and matters grew constantly worse, as Wilford thought Katy unreasonable and selfish, while Katy tried hard not to think him harsh in his judgment of her, and exacting in his requirements. "Perhaps she was the one most in fault; it could not be pleasant for him to see her so entirely changed from what she used to be," she thought, one morning late in November, when her husband had just left her with an angry frown upon his face and reproachful words upon his lips.

Father Cameron and his daughters were out of town, and Mrs. Cameron, feeling lonely in their absence, had asked Wilford and Katy to dine with her. But Katy did not wish to go, and so Wilford had left her in anger, saying "she could suit herself, but he should go at all events."

Left alone, Katy began to feel that she had done wrong in declining the invitation. Surely she could go there, and the echo of the bang with which Wilford had closed the street door was still vibrating in her ear, when her resolution began to give way, and while Wilford was riding moodily downtown, thinking harsh things against her, she was meditating what she thought might be an agreeable surprise. She would go around and meet him at dinner, trying to appear as much like her old self as she could, and so atone for anything which had hitherto been wrong in her demeanor.

It was strange how much better Katy felt when this decision was reached, and Esther, below stairs, raised her finger warningly for the cook to listen as her mistress trilled a few notes of a song. It was the first time since her return from Silverton that a sound like that had been heard within the house, and it seemed the precursor of better days. At lunch, too, Katy's face was very bright, and Esther was surprised when, later in the day, she was sent for to arrange her mistress' hair, as she had not arranged it since baby died. Greatly annoyed, Wilford had been by the smooth bands combed so plainly back, and at the blackness of the dress; but now there was a change, and graceful curls fell about the face, giving it the girlish expression which Wilford liked. The somberness of the dark dress was relieved by simple folds of white crape at the throat and wrists, while the handsome jet ornaments, the gift of Wilford's father, added to the style and beauty of the childish figure, which had seldom looked lovelier than when ready and waiting for the carriage. At the door there was a ring, and Esther brought a note to Katy, who, recognizing her husband's handwriting, tore it quickly open and read as follows:

"DEAR KATY: I have been suddenly called to leave the city on business, which will probably detain me for three days or more, and as I must go on the night train, I wish Esther to have my portmanteau ready with whatever I may need for the journey. As I proposed this morning, I shall dine with mother, but come home immediately after dinner. W. CAMERON."

Katy was glad now that she had decided to meet him at his mother's, as the knowing she had pleased him would make the time of his absence more endurable, and after seeing that everything was ready for him she stepped with a comparatively light heart into her carriage, and was driven to No. —— Fifth Avenue.

Mrs. Cameron was out, the servant said, but was expected every minute with Mr. Wilford.

"Never mind," Katy answered; "I want to surprise them, so please don't tell them I am here when you let them in," and going into the library she sat down before the grate, waiting rather impatiently until the door bell rang and she heard both Wilford's and Mrs. Cameron's voice in the hall.

Contrary to her expectations, they did not come into the library, but went instead into the parlor, the door of which was partially ajar, so that every word they said could be distinctly heard where Katy sat. It would seem that they were continuing a conversation which had been interrupted by their arriving home, for Mrs. Cameron said, with the tone she always assumed when sympathizing with her son: "I am truly sorry for you. Is she never more cheerful than when I have seen her?"

"Never," and Katy could feel just how Wilford's lips shut over his teeth as he said it; "never more cheerful, but worse if anything. Why, positively the house seems so like a funeral that I hate to leave the office and go back to it at night, knowing how mopish and gloomy Katy will be."

"My poor boy, it is worse than I feared," Mrs. Cameron said, with a little sigh, while Katy, with a great gasping sob, tried to rise and go to them, to tell them she was there—the mopish Katy, who made her home so like a funeral to her husband.

But her limbs refused to move, and she sank back powerless in her chair, compelled to listen to things which no true husband should ever say to a mother of his wife, especially when that wife's error consisted principally in mourning too much for the child "which but for her imprudence might have been living then." These were Wilford's very words, and though Katy had once expected him to say them, they came upon her now with a dreadful shock, making her view herself as the murderer of her child, and thus blunting the pain she might otherwise have felt as he went on to speak of Silverton and its inhabitants, just as he would not have spoken had he known she was so near. Then, encouraged by his mother, he talked again of her, not against her, but in a way which made her poor aching heart throb as she whispered, sadly: "He is disappointed in me. I do not come up to all that he expected. I do very well, considering my low origin, but I am not what his wife should be."

Wilford had not said all this, but Katy inferred it, and every nerve quivered with anguish as the wild wish came over her that she had died on that day when she sat in the summer grass at home watching the shadows come and go and waiting for Wilford Cameron. Poor Katy! she thought her cup of sorrow full, when, alas! only a drop had as yet been poured into it. But it was filling fast, and Mrs. Cameron's words: "It might have been better with Genevra," was the first outpouring of the overwhelming torrent which for a moment bore her life and sense away. She thought they meant her baby—the little Genevra sleeping under the snow in Silverton—and her white lips answered: "Yes, it would be better," before Wilford's voice was heard, saying, as he always said: "No, I have never wished Genevra in Katy's place, though I have sometimes wondered what the result would have been had I learned in season how much I wronged her."

Was heaven and earth coming together, or what made Katy's brain so dizzy and the room so dark, as, with head bent forward and lips apart, she strained her ear to catch every word of the conversation which followed, and in which she saw glimpses of that leaf offered her once to read, and from which she had promised not to shrink should it ever be thrust upon her? But she did shrink, oh! so shudderingly, holding up her hands and striking them through the empty air as if she would thrust aside the terrible scepter risen so suddenly before her. She had heard all that she cared to hear then. Another word and she should surely die where she was, within hearing of the voices still talking of Genevra. Stopping her ears to shut out the dreadful sound, she tried to think what she should do. To gain the door and reach the street was her desire, and throwing on her wrappings she went noiselessly into the hall, and carefully turning the lock closed the door behind her, finding herself alone in the street in the dusk of a November night. But Katy was not afraid, and drawing her hood closely over her face she sped on until her own house was reached, alarming Esther with her frightened face, but explaining that she had been taken suddenly ill and returned before dinner.

"Mr. Cameron will be here soon," she said. "I do not need anything to-night, so you can leave me alone and go where you like—to the theatre, if you choose. I heard you say you wished to go. Here is the money for you and Phillips," and handing a bill to the slightly puzzled Esther, she dismissed her from the room.

Meanwhile, at the elder Cameron's, no one had a suspicion of Katy's recent presence, for the girl who had admitted her had gone to visit a sick sister, with whom she was to spend the night. Thus Katy's secret was safe, and Wilford, when at last he bade his mother good-by and started for home, was not prepared for the livid face, the bloodshot eyes, and the strange, unnatural look which met him at the threshold.

Katy was waiting for him, and answered his ring herself, her hands grasping his almost fiercely and dragging him up the stairs to her own room, where, more like a maniac than Katy Cameron, she confronted him with the startling question:

"Who is Genevra Lambert? It is time I knew before committing greater sin. Tell me, Wilford, who is she?"

She was standing before him, her slight figure seeming to expand into a greater height, the features glowing with strong excitement, and her hot breath coming hurriedly through her dilated nostrils, but never opening the pale lips set so firmly together. There was something terrible in her look and attitude, and it startled Wilford, who recoiled a moment from her, scarcely able to recognize the Katy hitherto so gentle and quiet. She had learned his secret, but the facts must have been distorted, he knew, or she had never been so agitated. From beneath his hair the great sweat drops came pouring, as he tried to approach her and take the uplifted hands, motioning him aside with the words: "Not touch me; no, not touch me till you have told me who is Genevra Lambert."

She repeated the question twice, and rallying all his strength Wilford answered her at last: "Genevra Lambert was my wife!"

"I thought so," and the next moment Katy lay in Wilford's arms, dead, as he feared, for there was no motion about the eyelids, no motion that he could perceive about the pulse or heart, as he laid the rigid form upon the bed and then bent every energy to restore her, even though he feared that it was hopeless.

"I must do what I can," he said, thinking once to send for a physician and laying his hand upon the bell rope for the purpose of ringing up a servant; but a faint, gasping sound met his ear, assuring him there yet was life and that Katy was not dead.

If possible he would prefer that no one should intrude upon them now, and he chafed her icy hands and bathed her face until the eyes unclosed again, but with a shudder turned away as they met his. Then as she grew stronger and remembered the past she started up, exclaiming: "If Genevra Lambert is your wife, what then am I? Oh, Wilford, how could you make me not a wife, when I trusted and loved you so much?"

He knew now that she was laboring under a mistake, and he did not wonder at the violence of her emotions if she believed he had wronged her so cruelly, and coming nearer to her he said: "You mistake me; Genevra Lambert was my wife once, but is not now, for she is dead. Do you hear me, Katy? Genevra died years ago, when you were a little girl playing in the fields at home."

By mentioning Silverton he hoped to bring back something of her olden look, in place of the expression which troubled and frightened him. The experiment was successful and great tears gathered in Katy's eyes, washing out the wild, unnatural gleam, while the lips whispered: "And it was her picture Juno saw. She told me the night I came and I tried to question you. You remember?"

Wilford did remember it and he replied: "Yes, but I did not suppose you knew I had a picture. You have been a good wife, Katy, never to mention it since then;" and he tried to kiss her forehead, but she covered it with her hands, saying, sadly: "Not yet, Wilford, I cannot bear it now. I must know the whole about Genevra. Why didn't you tell me before? Why have you deceived me so?"

"Katy," and Wilford grew very earnest in his attempts to defend himself, "do you remember that day we sat under the buttonwood tree and you promised to be mine? Try and recall the incidents of that hour and see if I did not hint at some things past which I wished had been otherwise—did not offer to show you the blackest page of my whole life and you would not see it. Was that so, Katy?"

"Yes," she answered, and he continued: "You said you were satisfied to take me as I was. You would not hear evil against me and so I acquiesced, bidding you not shrink back if ever the time should come when you must read that page. I was to blame, I know, but there were many extenuating circumstances, much to excuse me for withholding what you would not hear."

Wilford did not like to be censured, neither did he like to censure himself, and now that Katy was out of danger and comparatively calm, he began to build about himself a fortress of excuses for having kept from her the secret of his life.

"Would not most any man have done just as I did?" he continued. "Can you mention one who would not?"

"Yes, Cousin Morris," Katy answered; "he would never have deceived me thus."

A little vexed at the mention of Dr. Grant, Wilford replied: "I do not pretend to be a saint, and I believe your cousin does; but I doubt whether even he, with all his goodness, would do very differently from what I have done; but tell me how, where did you hear of Genevra?"

Amid sobs and tears Katy told him how she had repented of her decision not to join him at his mother's, coming to the conclusion that she was doing wrong to seclude herself so much and trying her best to look well again in his eyes.

"I meant to surprise you," she said, "and when I heard your mother was out I went into the library to wait, thinking you would come there, but you did not, and I started to go to you when my feet were stopped, for you were talking of me, Wilford, not bad, perhaps, but as you would not have talked had you known that I was there where I heard the words which burned like coals of fire, so that I could have screamed in my distress."

Katy was not weeping now and her face was like that of some accusing angel as she continued: "I thought my heart was broken when I heard you talk so of me and Silverton, but that was nothing compared with what came next, when your mother spoke of Genevra. I thought it was my baby she meant at first, and the tightness around my heart was giving way, for if you did complain of me to your mother, I could forgive that because you were baby's father; but Genevra Lambert! oh, Wilford, I died a thousand deaths in one when I first heard of her and understood why you objected to the name our baby finally bore. You did not wish to be so constantly reminded of the other wife. I could not sit there longer, the room around me grew so black, so I struggled to my feet and reached the door, going into the street and thinking once I would end my wretched life in the distant river; but something turned my steps toward home and I came, thinking it all over and suffering such agony. Oh, Wilford, why did you keep it from me? What was there about it wrong and where is she buried?"

"In Alnwick, at St. Mary's," Wilford answered, determining now to hold nothing back, and by his abruptness wounding Katy afresh.

"In Alnwick, at St. Mary's" Katy cried. "Then I have seen her grave, and that is why you were so anxious to get there, so unwilling to go away. Oh, if I were lying there instead of Genevra, it would be so much better, so much better."

There was sobbing now, in a moaning, plaintive way which touched Wilford tenderly, and smoothing her tangled hair, he said: "I would not exchange my Katy for all the Genevras in the world. She was never as dear to me as you. I was but a boy, and did not know my mind when I met her. Shall I tell you about her now? Can you bear to hear the story of Genevra?"

There was a nod of assent, and Katy turned her face to the wall, clasping her hands tightly together, while Wilford drew his chair to her side and began to read the page he should have read to her long before.



CHAPTER XXXV.

WHAT THE PAGE DISCLOSED.

"I was little more than nineteen years of age when I left Harvard College and went abroad with my only brother, the John or Jack of whom you have so often heard. Both himself and wife were in delicate health, and it was hoped a voyage across the sea would do them good. For nearly a year we were in various parts of England, stopping for two months at Brighton, where, among the visitors, was a widow from the vicinity of Alnwick, and with her an orphan niece whom I often met, and whose dazzling beauty attracted my youthful fancy. She was not happy with her aunt, upon whom she was wholly dependent, and my sympathies were all enlisted, when, with the tears shining in her lustrous eyes, she one day accidentally stumbled upon her trouble and told me how wretched she was, asking if in America there was not something for her to do.

"It was at this time that Jamie was born and Mary, the girl who went out with us, was married to an Englishman, making it necessary for Hatty to find some one to take her place. Hearing of this, Genevra came one day, and to my secret delight offered herself as half companion, half waiting-maid to Hatty. Anything was preferable to the life she led, she said, pleading so hard that Hatty, after an interview with the old aunt—a purse-proud, vulgar woman, who seemed glad to be rid of her charge—consented to receive her, and Genevra became one of our family, an equal rather than a menial, whom Hatty treated with as much consideration as if she had been a sister. I wish I could tell you how beautiful Genevra Lambert was at that period of her life. I have her picture, which I will show you by and by, but it will not convey an adequate idea of her as she was then, with her brilliant English complexion, her eyes so full of poetry and passion, her perfect features, and, more than all, the wondrous smile, which would have made a plain face handsome. She was full of life and spirits, with enough of coquetry about her to fascinate and turn older heads than mine.

"Of course I came to love her, and loved her all the more for the opposition I knew my family would throw in the way of my marrying the daughter of an English apothecary, and one who was voluntarily filling a servant's place. But with my mother across the sea, I could do anything; and when Genevra told me of a base fellow, as she termed him, who, since she was a child, had sought her for his wife, and still pursued her with his letters, my passions all were roused, and I offered myself at once. I do not think she anticipated this when she told me of the letters, as it might seem to you. She was neither designing nor artful, but, on the contrary, wholly open-hearted and truthful, telling me the contents of the letter because I found her weeping over it and insisted upon knowing the cause. Her answer to my offer was a decided refusal. She knew her position, she said, and she knew mine, just as she knew the nature of the feeling which prompted me to act thus toward her. Although just my age, she was older in judgment and experience, and she seemed to understand the difference between our relative positions. I was not indifferent to her, she said, and were she my equal her answer might be otherwise than the decided no.

"Of course this only made me more eager, particularly as during the next two weeks she avoided me as much as possible, never stopping alone with me for a moment or giving me a chance to say a word in private. Madly in love, and fancying I could not live without her, I besieged her with letters, some of which she returned unopened, while on the others she wrote a few hurried lines, calling me a boy, who did not know my own mind, and asking what my friends would say.

"I cared little for friends, urging my suit the more vehemently, as we were about going into Scotland, where our marriage could be celebrated in private at any time. I say in private, for I did not contemplate making the affair public at once. That would take from the interest and romance, while, unknown to myself, there was at heart a fear of my family.

"But not to dwell too long upon those days, which seem to me now so like a dream, we went to Scotland and were married privately, for I won her to this at last. And now comes the part where Jamie is concerned. On the night of our marriage, Genevra, who had obtained permission to be absent on a plea of visiting a friend, had procured some one to take charge of Jamie, a red-faced girl from Edinburgh, who, unused to children, perched the child upon her shoulder, and while in this condition let him fall, injuring his spine and making him a cripple for life. Genevra never forgave herself for that sad accident, which would not have happened had she remained at her post, while to me Jamie has ever since been a sacred thing, his helplessness which he bears so meekly a constant reproach, reminding me of what I would had never been."

"Then you are sorry you married Genevra?" Katy exclaimed, turning partly toward him, and giving the first token she as yet had given that she was listening to the story.

Sometimes Wilford was sorry and sometimes he was not, for there was a world of pleasurable excitement connected with those months of secrecy, those private interviews, those stolen kisses, and little acts of endearment, which so intoxicated and bewildered him that the talking of them now brought something of the olden thrill he had experienced, when for a moment he held Genevra's hand in his or wound his arm around her waist, knowing he had a perfect right to do so. But it was better not to confess this to Katy, and so he evaded the question, and continued:

"My brother's failing health, as well as Hatty's, prevented them from suspecting what was going on, and when at last we went to Italy they had no idea that Genevra was my wife. At Rome her beautiful face attracted much attention from tourists and residents, among whom were a few young men, who, looking upon her as Jamie's nurse, or at most a companion for his mother, made no attempt to disguise their admiration. For this I had no redress except in an open avowal of the relation in which I stood to her, and this I could not then do, for the longer it was deferred the harder I found it to acknowledge her my wife. I loved her devotedly, and that perhaps was one great cause of the jealousy which began to spring up and embitter my life.

"I do not believe that Genevra was at heart a coquette. She was very fond of admiration, but when she saw how much I was disturbed she made an effort to avoid those who flattered her, but her manner was unfortunate, while her voice—the sweetest I ever heard—was calculated to invite rather than repel attention. As the empress of the world, she would have won and kept the homage of mankind, from the humblest beggar in the street to the king upon the throne, and had I been older I should have been proud of what then was my greatest annoyance. But I was young—a mere boy—and so I watched her jealously, until a new element of disquiet was presented to me in the shape of a ruffianly looking fellow, who was frequently seen about the premises, and with whom I once found Genevra in close converse, starting and blushing guiltily when I came upon her, while her companion went swiftly from my sight.

"'It was an old English acquaintance, who was poor and asking charity,' she said, when questioned, but her manner led me to think there was something wrong, particularly as I saw her with him again, and thought she held his hand.

"It was evident that my brother would never see America again, and at his request my mother came to us, in company with a family from Boston, reaching us two weeks before he died. From the first, she disliked Genevra, suspecting the liking between us, but never dreaming of the truth until a week after Jack's death, when in a fit of anger at Genevra for listening to an English artist, who had asked to paint her picture, the story of the marriage came out, and like a child dependent on its mother for advice, I asked, 'What shall I do?'

"You know mother, Katy—that is, you know her pride—and can in part understand how she would scorn a girl who, though born to better things, was still found in the capacity of a waiting maid. I never saw her so moved as she was for a time, after learning that her only living son, from whom she expected so much, had thrown himself away, as she expressed it. Sister Hatty, who loved Genevra, did all she could to heal the growing difference between us, but I trusted mother most. I believed that what she said was right, and so matters grew worse, until one night, the last we spent in Rome, I missed Genevra from our rooms, and starting in quest of her, found her in a little flower garden back of our dwelling. There, under the deep shadow of a tree, and partly concealed from view, she stood with her arm around the neck of the same rough-looking man who had been there before. She did not see me as I stood and watched her while she parted with him, suffering him to kiss her hand and forehead as he said, 'Good-by, my darling.'

"In a tremor of anger and excitement I quitted the spot, my mind wholly made up with regard to my future. That there was something wrong about Genevra I did not doubt, and I would not give her a chance to explain by telling her what I had seen, but sent her back to England, giving her ample means for defraying the expenses of her journey and for living in comfort after her arrival there. From Rome we went to Naples, and then to Switzerland, where Hatty died, leaving us alone with little Jamie. It was here at Berne that I received an anonymous letter from England, the writer stating that Genevra was with her aunt, that the whole had ended as he thought it would, that he could readily guess at the nature of the trouble, and hinting that if a divorce was desirable on my return to England, all necessary proof could be obtained by applying to such a number in London, the writer announcing himself a brother of the man who had once sought Genevra, and saying he had always opposed the match, knowing Genevra's family.

"This was the first time the idea of a divorce had entered my mind. Instead of that the hope that Genevra might in some way be restored to me unspotted, had unconsciously been the daystar of my existence, and I shrank from a final separation. But mother felt differently. It was not a new thought to her, knowing as she did that the validity of a Scotch marriage, such as ours, was frequently contested in the English courts. Once free from Genevra the world this side the water would never know of that mistake, and she set herself steadily to accomplish her purpose. To tell you all that followed our return to England and the steps by which I was brought to sue for a divorce would make my story too long, and so I will only state that, chiefly by the testimony of the anonymous letter writer, whose acquaintance we made, a divorce was at last obtained, Genevra putting in no defense, but as I heard afterward, settling down to an apathy from which nothing had power to rouse her until the news of her freedom from me was carried to her, when, amid a paroxysm of tears and sobs she wrote me a few lines, assuring me of her innocence, refusing to send back her wedding ring, and saying God would not forgive me for the great wrong I had done her. I saw her once after that by appointment and her face haunted me for years. Indeed, I sometimes see it in my dreams as it confronted me then, with a look which I now know was a look of deeply injured innocence, for, Katy, Genevra was innocent, as I found after the time was past when reparation could be made."

Wilford's voice trembled now, and for a moment there was silence in the room while he composed himself to go on with the story:

"She would not live with me again if she could, she said, denouncing bitterly the Cameron pride and saying she was happier to be free. I remember I tried to excuse myself, remember saying that if there had been children or a child I should have paused before taking the decisive step, and there we parted, but not until she had told me that her traducer was the old discarded suitor who had sworn to have revenge, and who, since the divorce, had dared seek her again. A vague suspicion of this had crossed my mind once before, but the die was cast, and even if the man were false, what I saw myself in Rome still stood against her and so my conscience was quieted, while mother was more than glad to be rid of a daughter-in-law of whose family I knew nothing. Rumors I did hear of a cousin whose character was not the best, and of the father who for some crime had fled the country, dying in a foreign land, but as that was nothing to me now, I passed it by, feeling it was best to be relieved from one of so doubtful antecedents.

"In the spring of 185- we came back to New York, where no one had ever heard of the affair, so quietly and well had it been managed. I was a young man still, no one except my mother sharing in the secret. With her I often talked of Genevra, wishing sometimes that I could hear from her, a wish which was finally gratified. One day I received a note requesting an interview at a downtown hotel, the writer signing himself as Thomas Lambert, and adding that I need have no fears as he came to perform an act of justice, not of retribution. Three hours later I was locked in a room with Genevra's father, the same man whom I had seen in Rome. Detected in forgery years before, he had fled from England and had hidden himself in Rome, where he accidentally met his daughter, and so that stain was removed. He had heard of the divorce by a letter which Genevra managed to send him, and braving all difficulties and dangers he had come back to England and found his child, hearing from her the story of her wrongs, and as well as he was able setting himself to discover the author of the calumny. He was not long in tracing it to Le Roy, whom he found in a dying condition, and who with his last breath confessed the falsehood which was imposed upon me, he said, partly from motives of revenge and partly with a hope that free from me Genevra would at the last turn to him. As proof that Mr. Lambert told me the truth, he brought the dying man's confession, written in a cramped, trembling hand, which I recognized at once. The confession ended with the solemn assertion: 'For aught I know or believe, Genevra Lambert is as pure and true as any woman living.'

"I cannot describe the effect this had upon me. I did not love Genevra then. I had outlived that affection, but I felt remorse and pity for having wronged her so, and asked how I could make amends.

"'You cannot,' the old man said, 'except in one way, and that she does not desire. I did not come here with any wish for you to take her for your wife again. It was an unequal match which never should have been; but if you believe her innocent, she will be satisfied. She wanted you to know it, I wanted you to know it, and so I crossed the sea to find you.'

"I sent a letter by him assuring her she stood acquitted in my mind of all I had suspected her, and asked her pardon for the great wrong I had done her. The next I heard of her was in the columns of an English newspaper, which told me she was dead, while in another place a pencil mark was lightly turned around a paragraph, which said that 'a forger, Thomas Lambert, who escaped years ago and was supposed to be dead, had recently reappeared in England, where he was recognized, but not arrested, for the illness proved fatal.' He was attended, the paper said, by his daughter, 'a beautiful young girl whose modest mien and gentle manner had done much toward keeping the officers of justice from her dying father, no one being able to withstand her pleadings that her father might die in peace.'

"I was grateful for this tribute, to Genevra, and I felt that it was deserved; turning again to the notice of her death, which must have occurred within a short time of her father's, and was probably induced by past troubles and recent anxiety for him.

"'Genevra Lambert died at Alnwick, aged twenty-two.' There could be no mistake, and with a tear to the memory of the dead whom I had loved and injured, I burned the paper, feeling that now there was no clew to the secret I was as anxious to preserve as was my mother.

"And so the years wore on till I met and married you, withholding from you that yours was not the first love which had stirred my heart, nor yours the first head which had slept upon my arm. I meant to tell you, Katy, but I could not for the great fear of losing you if you knew all. And then an error concealed so long is hard to be confessed. I took you across the sea to Brighton, where I first met Genevra, and then to Alnwick, seeking out the grave which made assurance doubly sure. It was that one in the far corner of St. Mary's where I went so often and where once you came, sitting upon the very mound whose headstone bore Genevra's name. I drew my breath quickly as if the dead were thus dishonored, but I knew you meant no harm, and as soon as possible I hurried you away. It was natural that I should make some inquiries concerning her last days, but lest it should all come out kept me back, so that I only questioned the old sexton who once was at work nearby. Calling his attention to the name, I said it was an uncommon one and asked if he knew the girl.

"'Not by sight, no,' he said. 'She was only here a few days before she died. I've heard she was very winsome and that there was a scandal of some kind mixed up with her.'

"I would not ask him any more; and without any wrong to you, my wife, I confess that my tears dropped upon the turf under which I knew Genevra lay."

"I am glad they did; I should hate you if you had not cried," Katie exclaimed, her voice more natural than it had been since the great shock came, and her own tears falling fast to the memory of Genevra, whose grave she had sat upon with Wilford standing near.

A buried wife was not so dreadful to contemplate as a wife divorced but living still, and Katy's heart did not beat with quite so heavy throbs of fear and shame as it had at first. But it was very sore with the feeling that to her almost as great a wrong had been done as to Genevra, for had he not deceived her from the very first, he and his mother, who had been the terror of Genevra's life as she was the bane of Katy's.

"Do you forgive me, Katy? Do you love me as well as ever?" Wilford asked, stooping down to kiss her, but Katy drew her face away and did not answer then.

She did not know herself just how she felt toward him. He did not seem just like the husband she had trusted in so blindly. It would take a long time to forget that another head than hers had lain upon his bosom, and it would take longer yet to blot out the memory of the complaining words uttered to his mother. She had never thought he could do that, never dreamed of such a thing, knowing that she would sooner have parted with her right hand than have complained of him. Her idol had fallen in more respects than one, and the heart it had bruised in the fall refused at once to gather the shattered pieces up and call them good as new. She was not obstinate, she was not sulky, as Wilford began to fancy. She was only stunned and could not rally at his bidding. He had confessed the whole, keeping nothing back, and he felt that Katy was unjust not to acknowledge his magnanimity and restore him to her favor. Again he asked forgiveness, again bent down to kiss her, but Katy answered: "Not yet, Wilford, not till I feel all right toward you. A wife's kiss should be sincere."

"As you like," trembled on Wilford's lips, but he beat back the words and walked up and down the room, knowing now that his journey must be deferred till morning, and wondering if Katy would hold out till then.

It was long past midnight, but to retire was impossible, and so for one whole hour he paced through the room, while Katy lay with her eyes closed and her lips moving occasionally in the words of prayer she tried to say, asking God to help her, and praying that she might in future lay her treasures up where they could not so suddenly be swept away. Wearily the hours passed, and the gray dawn was stealing into the room when Wilford again approached his wife and said, "You know I was to have left home last night on business. As I did not go then, it is necessary that I leave this morning. Are you able to stay alone for three days or more? Are you willing?"

"Yes—oh, yes," Katy replied, feeling that to have him gone while she battled with the pain lying so heavy at her heart would be a great relief.

Perhaps he suspected this feeling in part, for he bit his lip impatiently, and without another word called up the servant whose duty it was to prepare his early breakfast. Cold and cheerless seemed the dining-room, to which an hour later he repaired, and tasteless was the breakfast without Katy there to share it. She had been absent many times before, but never just as now, with this wide gulf between them, and as he broke his egg and tried to drink his coffee, Wilford felt like one from whom every support had been swept away, leaving him tottering and giddy. He did not like the look of Katy's face or the sound of her voice, and as he thought upon them, self began to whisper again that she had no right to stand out so long when he had confessed everything, and by the time his breakfast was finished Wilford Cameron was, in his own estimation, an abused an injured man, so that it was with an air of defiance rather than humility that he went again to Katy. She, too, had been thinking, and as the result of her thoughts she lifted up her head as he came in and said, "I can kiss you now, Wilford."

It was human nature, we suppose—at least it was Wilford's nature—which for an instant tempted him to decline the kiss proffered so lovingly; but Katy's face was more than he could withstand, and when again he left that room the kiss of pardon was upon his lips and comparative quiet was in his heart.

"The picture, Wilford—you have forgotten that," Katy called after him, as he was running down the stairs.

Wilford would rather have been with her when she first looked upon Genevra, but there was not time for that, and hastily unlocking his private drawer he carried the case to Katy's room, laying it upon the bureau and saying to her: "I would not mind it now, until it is fully light. Try and sleep a while. You need the rest so much."

Katy knew she had the whole day before her in which to investigate the face of one who once had filled her place, and so she nestled down among her pillows, and soon fell into a quiet sleep, from which Esther, who looked in upon her several times, at last awakened her, asking if she should bring her breakfast to her room.

"Yes, do," Katy replied, adjusting her dress and trying to arrange the matted curls, which were finally confined in a net until Esther's more practiced hands were ready to attack them.

And all this while the picture lay upon the bureau—the square, old-fashioned daguerreotype, which Katy shrank from opening.

"I'll wait till after breakfast," she said; then as the thought came over her that if the face proved as beautiful as Wilford had described, she in her present forlorn condition would feel the contrast deeply, she said, "I'll wait till Esther has fixed my hair; then I will look at Genevra."

Breakfasting did not occupy her long, and Esther soon was busy with her toilet, combing out and looping-back her curls, and bringing a plain dress of rich bombazine, with fresh bands of white crape, as had been worn the previous day. Katy's toilet was complete at last, and as Esther closed the door behind her, Katy, with a trembling hand, took from the drawer, where she had hid it from Esther's eyes, the picture of Genevra Lambert.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

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.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE INTERVIEW.

Dr. Morris was very tired, for his labors that day had been unusually severe, and it was with a feeling of comfort and relief that he had turned his steps homeward just as the night was closing in, finding a bright fire waiting for him in the library, where his supper was soon brought by the housekeeper, Mrs. Hull, the other servants having gone to an adjoining town to attend the wedding party of a former associate. It was very pleasant in that cozy library of oak and green, with the bright fire on the hearth, the heavy curtains shutting out all traces of the storm, and the smoking supper set so temptingly before him. And Morris felt the comfort of his home, thanking the God who had given him all this, and chiding his wayward heart that it had ever dared to repine. He was not repining to-night; he had not repined for many a day, though he never sat down at home after his day's labor in slippers and dressing-gown, with a new book beside him on the table, that there was not a sense of something wanting, a glancing at the empty chair across the hearth, a thought perhaps of Katy, who could squeeze the whole of her slight form into that chair. But he was not thinking of her now, as with his hands crossed upon his head he sat looking into the fire and watching the bits of glowing anthracite dropping into the pan. He was thinking of the sickbed which he had visited last, and how a faith in Jesus can make the humblest room like the gate of heaven; thinking how the woman's eyes had sparkled when she told him of the other world, where she would never know pain, or hunger, or cold again, and how quickly their luster was dimmed when she spoke of her absent husband, the soldier to whom the news of her death with the child he had never seen would be a crushing blow.

"They who have neither wife nor child are the happier perhaps," he said, and then the thought of Katy and her great sorrow when baby died, wondering if to spare herself that pain she would rather baby had never been. "No—oh, no," he answered to his own inquiry. "She would not lose the memory which comes from that little grave for all the world contains. It is better once to love and lose than not to love at all. In heaven we shall see and know why these things were permitted, and marvel at the poor human nature which rebelled against them."

Just at this point of his soliloquy the door opened, so softly that he did not hear it turn upon its hinges, nor hear the light footstep on the carpet as Katy came in. But when she coughed he started up in wonder at the apparition standing so still before him.

"Morris, oh, Morris," Katy cried, throwing back her veil and revealing a face which Morris could not believe was hers for the lines of suffering and distress stamped so legibly upon it.

But it was Katy, as the voice implied, and, seizing her cold hands, Morris asked: "Katy, why are you here to-night, and why are you alone? Has anything happened? Tell me! your looks frighten me!"

"I am so wretched—so full of pain. I have heard of something dreadful," she replied—"something which took my life away. I could not stay there after that, and so I come to you. I am not Wilford's wife, for he had another, before me—a wife in Italy—who is not dead! And I—oh! Morris, what am I? Untie my bonnet, do! It is choking me to death! I am—yes—I am—going—to faint!"

It was the first time Katy had put the great horror in words addressed to another, and the act of doing so made it more appalling, while the excitement and fatigue she had endured, together with the action of the heat upon her chilled system, took her strength away, and into the chair where Morris had so often seen her in fancy, she sank a crumpled heap of cloaks and furs and bonnet, which Morris tried to remove so as to reach the limp, fainting creature which had said: "I am not Wilford's wife, for he had another before me—a wife in Italy—who is not dead."

Dr. Morris was thoroughly a man, and though much of his sinful nature had been subdued, there was enough left to make his heart rise and fall with great throbs of joy as he thought of Katy free, even though that freedom were bought at the expense of dire disgrace to others and of misery to her. But only for a moment did he feel thus, only till the bonnet was removed and the gaslight fell upon the pallid face with the dark rings beneath the eyes, and the faint, quivering motion around the lips, which told that she was not wholly unconscious.

"My poor little wounded bird," he said, as pityingly as if he had been her father, while, much as a father might kiss his suffering child, he kissed the forehead and the eyelids where the tears began to gather.

Katy was not insensible, and the name by which he called her, with the kisses that he gave, thawed the ice around her heart and brought a flood of tears which Morris wiped away, removing her heavy fur and lifting her gently up, while he took away the cloak and left her unencumbered. With a sigh she sank back into the chair, and, leaning her head upon its cushioned arm, moaned like a weary child.

"It is so pleasant to be here, and it rests me so. I wish I might never go away. May I stay here, Morris, as your housekeeper, instead of Mrs. Hull?—that is, if I am not his wife. The world might despise me, but you would know I was not to blame. I should go nowhere but to the farmhouse, to church, and baby's grave. Poor baby! I am glad God gave her to me, even if I am not Wilford's wife; and I am glad now that she died."

She was talking to herself rather than to Morris, who, smoothing back her hair and chafing her cold hands, said:

"My poor child, you have passed through some agitating scene. Are you able now to tell me all about it, and what you mean by another wife?"

He saw she was greatly exhausted, and he brought her a glass of wine, hoping she would rally. She had no supper, she said, except a cracker bought in Springfield, but the moment he turned to the bellrope she begged him not to ring. She was not hungry—she could not eat. She should never eat again.

Wishing himself to know something definite ere going to Mrs. Hull, Morris yielded to her entreaties, and sitting down in front of her, said again: "Now tell me what brought you here without your husband's knowledge."

There was a shiver, and the white lips grew still whiter as Katy began her story, going back to St. Mary's churchyard, and then coming to her first night in New York, when Juno had told her of a picture and asked her whose it was. Then she told of Wilford's admission of an earlier love, who, he said, was dead; of the trouble about the baby's name, and his aversion to Genevra; of his frequent abstracted moods, which she remembered now, never suspecting at the time their cause, and not knowing now for certain that Genevra was the subject of his thoughts. But it was safe to believe almost anything of one who had deceived her so cruelly, and Katy's blue eyes flashed resentfully as she uttered the first bitter words she had ever breathed against her husband. But when she approached the dinner at the elder Cameron's, her lip quivered in a grieved kind of way as she remembered what Wilford had said of her to his mother, but she would not tell this to Morris, it was not necessary to her story, and so she said: "They were talking of what I ought never to have heard, and it seemed as if the walls were closing me in so that I could not move to let them know I was there. I said to myself, 'I shall go mad after this,' and I thought of you all coming to see me in the madhouse, your kind face, Morris, coming up distinctly before me, just as it would look at me if I were really crazed. But all this was swept away like a hurricane when I heard the rest, the part about Genevra, Wilford's other wife."

Katy was panting for breath and Morris brought the wine again, after which she went on with the story, which made Morris clinch his hands as he comprehended the deceit which had been practiced so long. Of course he did not look at it as Katy did, for he knew that according to all civil law she was as really Wilford's wife as if no other had existed, and he told her so, but Katy shook her head: "He can't have two wives living, and I tell you I knew the picture—Genevra is not dead. I have seen her; I have talked with her—Genevra is not dead."

"Granted that she is not," Morris answered, "the divorce remains the same."

"I do not believe in divorces. 'Whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder,'" Katy said with an air which implied that from this argument there could be no appeal.

"That is the Scripture I know," Morris replied, "but you must remember that for one sin our Savior permitted a man to put away his wife, thus making it perfectly right."

"But in Genevra's case the sin did not exist. She was as innocent as I am, and that must make a difference."

She was very earnest in her attempts to prove that Genevra was still a lawful wife, so earnest that a dark suspicion entered Morris's mind, finding vent in the question, "Katy, don't you love your husband, that you try so hard to prove he is not yours?"

There were red spots all over Katy's face and neck as she saw the meaning put upon her actions, and covering her face with her hands she sobbed violently as she replied: "I do, oh, yes, I do. I never loved any one else. I would have died for him once. Maybe I would die for him now; but, Morris, I fear he is disappointed in me. Our tastes are not alike, and we made a great mistake, or Wilford did when he took me for his wife. I was better suited to most anybody else, and I have been so wicked since, forgetting all the good I ever knew, forgetting prayer save as I went through the form from old habit's sake, forgetting God, who has overtaken me at last and punished me so sorely that every nerve smarts with the stinging blows."

Oh, how lovingly, how earnestly Morris talked to Katy then, telling her of Him who smites but to heal, who chastens not in anger, but who would lead the lost one back into the quiet fold where there was perfect peace.

And Katy, listening eagerly, with her great blue eyes fixed upon his face, felt that to be like him, to experience that of which he talked, was worth more than all the world beside. Gradually; too, there stole over her the rest she always felt with him—the indescribable feeling which prompted her to care for nothing except to do just what he bade her do, knowing it was right. So when he said at last, "You must go back to New York; this is no place for you," she offered no remonstrance; but when he continued, "And you must go to-night; that is, you must take the early morning train, so as to reach the city before any one has had a chance to read the letter," she demurred at once. "She must see mother; she must see Helen; she must tell Helen who Genevra was. She wanted her to know it, but no one else. She must visit baby's grave; she could not go back without it."

"Not if it is right?" Morris asked, and Katy began to waver when he told her how much better it would be for her family not to know of this visit to him, as it would trouble them. She could tell Wilford, if she liked, but he must not be permitted to find the letter, as he would if he returned while she was gone. "I will go with you. It is not safe for you to go alone," he continued, feeling her rapid pulse and noticing the alternate flushing and paling of her cheek.

A fever was coming on, he feared, and it must not be there with him, for more reasons than one. She must return to New York, or, failing to do that, he must take her across the fields to the farmhouse before the coming dawn.

"Are you sick, Katy?" he asked, as she appeared to be growing stupid.

"Not sick, no; only so tired, so sleepy," and the heavy lids closed over the dull eyes, while Katy's head still lay upon the cushioned arm of the large chair.

Her position was not an easy one, and wheeling the lounge to the fire Morris brought a pillow from his sleeping room adjoining, and taking Katy in his arms laid her where she would at least be more comfortable than in the chair. Wrapping his shawl about her and turning down the gas so as to shield her eyes, he left her alone, while he went to Mrs. Hull, puzzling her brain to know who the lady was, brought there that stormy night, and talking so long and earnestly with the doctor. The driver boy was gone, and thinking it possible that their visitor might be wanting supper, the thoughtful woman had put the kettle on the stove, where it was sending forth volumes of steam just as Morris appeared. If he went to New York with Katy he must trust Mrs. Hull with his reasons for going, and as from past experience he believed she could be trusted, he frankly told her that Mrs. Wilford Cameron was in the library; that circumstances rendered it desirable for her to return to New York as soon as possible; that as she could not go alone he must of course go with her, and he expected Mrs. Hull not only to help him off, but also to keep the fact of Katy's having been there a secret from every one.

"Some trouble with that high-headed husband of hers; I always mistrusted him," was Mrs. Hull's mental conclusion, as she nodded assent to what Morris had said, asking if he proposed taking the early morning train which passed at four o'clock, and who did he expect would drive his cutter back, as the boys would not be home before broad daylight.

Here was a dilemma of which Morris had not thought, but Mrs. Hull's woman's wits came to his aid, suggesting that he "leave his horse at the tavern in West Silverton and she would send John after it as soon as he returned."

This arranged, Mrs. Hull next asked if Katy would not have some supper before her long ride.

"A cup of tea and a slice of toast was all she would require," Morris said, and he felt many doubts about her touching that.

She was sleeping when he returned to her, but when the tea was ready, she roused up enough to say she did not want it.

"Make her drink it if you ever expect to get her to New York," Mrs. Hull suggested, alarmed at the redness of Katy's face, and the brightness of her eyes.

"You must drink it," Morris said. "It will make you stronger for the ride. We are going very soon, you know—going to New York," and he shook her shoulder gently as he tried to make her comprehend.

When he said she must, Katy lifted up her head, doing whatever he bade her do, and seeming more natural for the exertion and the food she took.

"Let me rest now for a little while," she said, and lying back upon her pillow she slept for an hour, while Morris knelt beside her, counting her rapid pulse, marking the progress of the fever and praying earnestly that she might be able to reach New York, and that no serious consequences would result from his taking her there that night.

To others it might seem a crazy project, but Morris felt that it was right, and he nerved himself to his part of the toil, harnessing his own horse and leading him around to the door, where he left him while he went to get Katy ready. She was not sleeping now, for the powerful stimulant given just before leaving her had taken effect, and she seemed a great deal better, fastening her cloak herself and tying her own bonnet, while Morris put an extra shawl around her, and Mrs. Hull brought the hot soapstone prepared for her feet. Then, when all was ready, Morris carried her to the covered sleigh, wrapping robes and furs around her so that it seemed impossible she should take cold.

The storm had now abated, and the moon shone brightly upon the cold, frosty snow, as they sped along, Morris' bells tinkling in the clear cutting air, and occasionally waking some light sleeper, who knew those musical bells, and said: "That is the doctor," wondering who was sick, and as they nestled down again in their warm bed, feeling glad that they were not obliged to be abroad in a wintry night like this. There was no one at the West Silverton depot except the man who always stayed there, and he was too nearly asleep to notice whether it was one or twenty ladies whom Morris accompanied into the sitting-room, going next to provide for his horse at the hotel nearby.

This done he came back to Katy, staying by her until the early train came swiftly in, pausing only for a moment, and when next it moved forward, bearing him and Katy on the strange journey to New York.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

GETTING HOME.

Springfield was left behind just as the gray daylight came stealing through the frost-bound windows, rousing the sleepy passengers, and making Morris pull his wide collar a little closer about his face as if to avoid observation. He was not afraid of daylight except as it might disclose some old acquaintance who would perhaps wonder to see him at that hour between Springfield and Hartford, and wonder more whose was the head resting so confidentially upon his shoulder, for after the change at Springfield, Katy, who could no longer keep awake, had leaned against his arm as readily as if he had been her brother.

A secret of any kind makes its possessor suspicious, and Morris felt anxious whenever any one glanced that way, but he would not waken Katy, who slept upon his arm until New York was reached, when with a frightened, startled feeling, she sat up, and pushing her veil from her face, looked about her, nodding half unconsciously to Thomas Tubbs, whom she knew from having seen him in her husband's office, and who since leaving Hartford had been a passenger on board that train, sitting just behind Dr. Morris, and wondering when he saw who his companion was, "if Mrs. Wilford had been to Silverton." Mattie wondered, too, when he told her, as she poured his half-cold coffee, and then it passed from his mind, until the following morning when he heard Mark Ray saying to a client who had asked when Mr. Cameron would probably return:

"If he does not come to-day, we shall telegraph for him, as his wife is very sick."

Then Tom remembered how white and haggard Katy's face had looked, and many times that day his mind recurred to Katy Cameron, whom in his boyish way he had admired as something supernaturally beautiful, and who, in her own room at home, lay burning with fever, and talking of Silverton, of Linwood, of baby, of Genevra, and of Wilford.

Morris had seen her safely to her own door, and then thinking she would do best alone for a time, he left her on the steps, after having rung the bell and seen that the ring was answered.

It was Esther who met her, expressing much concern at her appearance, and asking why she did not stay at Father Cameron's instead of coming home this cold raw day.

Hardly knowing what she did, Katy motioned Esther to her after reaching her room, and whispered:

"I have not been to Father Cameron's. I had business somewhere else, but you must not tell. I am in trouble, Esther, or rather, I have been. I guess it's over now. You are a good girl, and I can trust you. There's a letter in that drawer, please bring it to me."

Either complied, and Katy held in her hand the letter left for Wilford. It had not been opened. It must never be opened now, and holding it until a fire was kindled in the grate, she tossed it into the flames, watching it as it crispened and blackened upon the glowing coals.

The quick-witted Esther saw that something was wrong, and traced it readily to Wilford, whose exacting nature she thoroughly understood. She had not been blind during the two years and a half she had been Katy's maid, and no impatient word of Wilford's, or frown upon his face, had escaped her when occurring in her presence, while Katy's uniform sweetness and entire submission to his will had been noted as well, so that in Esther's opinion Wilford was a domestic tyrant, and Katy was an angel. There was no danger then of Esther's repeating anything forbidden. She had, of course, her own private speculation on the subject, and when she learned that the tall, handsome man who came within an hour after Katy's arrival was Dr. Grant, about whom she had heard both her young mistress and Mrs. Cameron talk so much, her woman's wits came to her aid again, and to herself she said:

"It's to Silverton Mrs. Cameron went, though how she could get there and back so soon is a mystery to me, or why she went at all."

Then as she remembered all the circumstances which followed the dinner for which Katy had dressed with so much care, and the burning of the letter, a wild conjecture passed through her mind as to the nature of the trouble which had taken Katy to Silverton in her husband's absence, leaving a letter for him, and then burning it up when she came back, accompanied by Dr. Grant. For that he did come with her Esther was sure, as she saw him on the steps when she answered Katy's ring, and knew the man who now sat in the parlor waiting for her to take his name to Katy was the same.

"There is something in the wind," she thought, as she carried Morris' name to Katy, who did not seem to hear, or if she did, she paid no heed, but talked of the blinding snow, and the grave in St. Mary's churchyard, which was no grave at all.

Her manner, more than her looks, frightened the girl, who retreated down the stairs, meeting Morris in the hall, and saying as she grasped his arm:

"You are a doctor, Dr. Grant. Come, then, to Mrs. Cameron. She is taken out of her head, and talks so queer and raving."

Morris had expected this, but he was not prepared to find the fever so high, or the symptoms so alarming.

"Shall I send for Mrs. Cameron and another doctor, please?" Esther asked.

Morris had faith in himself, and he would rather no other hand should minister to Katy; but he knew he could not stay there long, for there were those at home who needed his services. Added to this, her family physician might know her constitution now better than he knew it, and so he answered that it would be well to send for both the doctor and Mrs. Cameron.

It was growing dark now in the city, and the shadows were stealing into the room where Morris sat down to wait for other counsel and the arrival of Mrs. Cameron. To the servants in the kitchen Esther stated, with a very matter-of-course air, that her mistress had come home, feeling sick, and that as she seemed getting worse, she was to send to Madam Cameron, adding that it was a piece of great good luck that Dr. Grant, from Silverton, who was her cousin, happened to be in the city, and had called just when he was needed the most.

"He was the doctor whom Jamie talked so much about," she said; "the doctor whom the family met in Paris," dwelling so long on Dr. Grant and discussing him so volubly that Phillips and the other servants lost sight entirely of what had struck them a little oddly, to wit: that Mrs. Wilford should leave Father Cameron's if she was so very sick.

It was Esther who met Mrs. Cameron in the hall, conducting her into the parlor and adopting a different style of argument with her from that used in the basement. "Mrs. Wilford was not well when her husband went away; but of course he thought nothing of it, neither did she—Esther—until to-day, when she came in from the street, looking very badly, and going directly to her bed, where she had been growing worse ever since."

"Yes," and Mrs. Cameron beat her foot thoughtfully. "I wish I had called yesterday. I did speak of it, fearing she would be lonely."

"I dare say she was," Esther replied, never changing color in the least, although somewhat afraid she was being driven to the wall. "She seemed downcast all the morning, but went about noon. I thought maybe she would call on you."

"I wish she had," Mrs. Cameron replied, and then Esther told her how providential it was that a Dr. Grant from Silverton happened to come to New York that very day. Of course he called upon his cousin, first sending up his card, and then going himself when told that Mrs. Cameron was out of her head and did not understand who was waiting to see her.

Completely befogged with regard to a part of the play enacting before her eyes, Mrs. Cameron exclaimed: "Dr. Grant, of Silverton! I have the utmost confidence in his skill. Still, it may be well for Dr. Craig to see her. I think that is his ring."

The city and country physicians agreed exactly with regard to Katy's illness, or rather the city physician bowed in acquiescence when Morris said to him that the fever raging so high had perhaps been induced by natural causes, but was greatly aggravated by some sudden shock to the nervous system. This was before Mrs. Cameron came up, but it was repeated in her presence by Dr. Craig, who thus left the impression that the idea had originated with himself rather than with Dr. Grant, as perhaps he thought it had. He was at first inclined to patronize the country doctor, but soon found that he had reckoned without his host. Morris knew more of Katy and quite as much of medicine as he did himself, and when Mrs. Cameron begged him to stay longer he answered that her son's wife was as safe in his brother physician's hands as she could be in his.

"Indeed, she's safer," he added, "for Dr. Grant can watch her every moment, and I leave her in his care, calling again of course in the morning."

Mrs. Cameron was very glad that Dr. Grant was there, she said. It was surely Providence who sent him to New York on that particular day, and Morris shivered as he wondered if it were wrong not to explain the whole to her.

"Perhaps it is best she should not know of Katy's journey to Silverton," he thought, and merely bowing to her remarks, he turned to Katy, who was growing very restless and moaning as if in pain.

"It hurts," she said, turning her head from side to side; "I am lying on Genevra."

With a sudden start Mrs. Cameron drew nearer, but when she remembered the little grave at Silverton, she said: "It's the baby she's talking about."

Morris knew better, and as Katy still continued to move her head as if something were really hurting her, he passed his hand under her pillow and drew out the picture which she had held as long as her consciousness remained. He knew it was Genevra's picture, and was about to lay it away when the cover dropped from his hand and his eye fell upon a face which was not new to him, while an involuntary exclamation of surprise broke from his lips as Katy's assertion that Genevra was living was thus fully confirmed. Marian had not changed past recognition since her early girlhood, and Morris knew the likeness at once, pitying Katy more than he had pitied her yet, as he remembered how closely Marian Hazelton had been interwoven with her married life and the life of the little child which had borne her name.

"What is that?" Mrs. Cameron asked, and Morris passed the case to her, saying: "A picture was under Katy's pillow."

Morris did not look at Mrs. Cameron, but tried to busy himself with the medicines upon the stand, while she, too, recognized Genevra Lambert, wondering how it came in Katy's possession, and how much she knew of Wilford's secret.

"She most have been rummaging," she thought, and then, as she remembered what Esther had said about her mistress appearing sick and unhappy when her husband left, she repaired to the parlor and summoning Esther to her presence, asked her again: "When she first observed traces of indisposition in Mrs. Cameron."

Considerably flurried and anxious to prove true to Katy, Esther replied, at random: "When she came home from that dinner at your house. She was just as pale as death, and her teeth fairly chattered as I took off her things."

"Dinner? What dinner?" Mrs. Cameron asked, and Esther replied: "Why, the night Mr. Wilford went away or was to go. She changed her mind about meeting him at your house and said she meant to surprise him. But she came home before Mr. Cameron, looking like a ghost and saying she was sick. It's my opinion something she ate at dinner hurt her."

"Very likely; yes. You can go now," Mrs. Cameron said, and Esther departed, never dreaming how much light she had inadvertently thrown upon the mystery.

"She must have been in the library and heard all we said," Mrs. Cameron thought, as she nervously twisted the fringe of her breakfast shawl. "I remember we talked of Genevra, and I remember, too, that we both heard a strange sound from some quarter, but thought it came from the kitchen. That was Katy. She was there all the time and let herself quietly out of the house. I wonder does Wilford know," and then there came over her an intense desire for Wilford to come home, a desire which was not lessened when she returned to Katy's room and heard her talking of Genevra and the grave at St. Mary's "where nobody was buried."

In a tremor of distress, lest she should betray something which Morris must not know, Mrs. Cameron tried to hush her, talking as if it was the baby she meant, the Genevra who died at Silverton; but Katy answered promptly: "I'm not to be hoodwinked any longer. It's Genevra Lambert I mean, Wilford's other wife; the one across the sea, whom you and he browbeat. She was innocent, too—as innocent as I, whom you both deceived."

Here was a phase of affairs for which Mrs. Cameron was not prepared, and excessively mortified that Morris should hear Katy's ravings, she tried again to quiet her, consoling herself with the reflection that as Morris was Katy's cousin, he would not repeat what he heard, and feeling gratified now that Dr. Craig was absent, as she could not be so sure of him. If Katy's delirium continued, no one must be admitted to the room except those who could be trusted, and as there had been already several rings, she said to Esther that as the fever was probably malignant and contagious, no one must be admitted to the house with the expectation of seeing the patient, while the servants were advised to stay in their own quarters, except as their services might be needed elsewhere. And so it was that by the morrow the news had spread of some infectious disease at No. —— on Madison Square, which was shunned as carefully as if the smallpox itself had been raging there instead of the brain fever, which increased so fast that Morris suggested to Mrs. Cameron that she telegraph for Wilford.