The Cameron pride; or, purified by suffering

by Mary Jane Holmes

“Madly in love, and fancying I could not live without her, I besieged her with letters, some of which she returned unopened, while on 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, and urged my suit the more vehemently, as we were about going into Scotland, where our marriage could be celebrated in private at any time. 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 like a dream, we went to Scotland and were married privately, for I won her to this at last.

“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 now 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 a mere boy—and 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, and suspected 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, 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 watched her while she parted with him, suffering him to kiss her hand and forehead as he said, “Good-bye, 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 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, 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 obtained, Genevra putting in no defence, but, as I heard afterwards, settling down into 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, for, Katy, Genevra was innocent, as I found after the time was past when reparation could be made.”