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.