“I knew that I was handsome,” she said, “and I liked to test my power; but for that weakness I have been sorely punished. I had not at first any intention of making him believe that I was dead, and when I sent the paper containing the announcement of father’s death, I was not aware that it also contained the death of my cousin, a beautiful girl just my age, who bore our grand-mother’s name of Genevra, and about whom and a young English lord, who had hunted one season in her father’s neighborhood, there were some scandalous reports. Afterwards it occurred to me that Wilford would see that notice, and naturally think it referred to me, inasmuch as he knew nothing of my cousin Genevra.
“It was just as well, I said—I was dead to him, and I took a strange satisfaction in wondering if he would care. Incidentally I heard that the postmaster at Alnwick had been written to by an American gentleman, who asked if such a person as Genevra Lambert was buried at St. Mary’s; and then I knew he believed me dead, even though the name appended to the letter was not Wilford Cameron, nor was the writing his; for, as the cousin of the dead Genevra, I asked to see the letter, and my request was granted. It was Mrs. Cameron who wrote it, I am sure, signing a feigned name and bidding the postmaster answer to that address. He did so, assuring the inquirer that Genevra Lambert was buried there, and wondering to me if the young American who seemed interested in her could have been a lover of the unfortunate girl.
“I was now alone in the world, for the aunt with whom my childhood was passed died soon after my father, and so I went at last to learn a trade on the Isle of Wight, emigrating from thence to New York, with the determination in my rebellious heart that sometime, when it would cut the deepest, I would show myself to the proud Camerons, whom I so cordially hated. This was before God had found me, or rather before I had listened to the still, small voice which took the hard, vindictive feelings away, and made me feel kindly towards the mother and sisters when I saw them, as I often used to do, driving gayly by. Wilford was sometimes with them, and the sight of him always sent the hot blood surging through my heart. But the greatest shock I ever had came to me when I heard from your sister of his approaching marriage with you. Those were terrible days that I passed at the farm-house, working on your bridal trousseau; and sometimes I thought it more than I could bear. Had you been other than the little, loving, confiding, trustful girl you were, I must have disclosed the whole, and told that you would not be the first who had stood at the altar with Wilford. But pity for you kept me silent, and you became his wife.
“I loved your baby almost as much as if it had been my own, and when it died there was nothing to bind me to the North, and so I came here, where I hope I have done some good; at least I was here to care for Wilford, and that is a sufficient reward for all the toil which falls to the lot of a hospital nurse. I shall stay until the war is ended, and then go I know not where. It will not be best for us to meet very often, for though we respect each other, neither can forget the past, nor that one was the lawful, the other the divorced wife of the same man. I have loved you, Katy Cameron, for your uniform kindness shown to the poor dressmaker. I shall always love you, but our paths lie widely apart. Your future I can predict, but mine God only knows.”
Marian had said all she meant to say, and all Katy came to hear. The latter was to leave in the morning, and when they would meet again neither could tell. Few were the parting words they spoke, for the great common sorrow welling up from their hearts; but when at last they said good-bye, the bond of friendship between them was more strongly cemented than ever, and Katy long remembered Marian’s parting words,
“God bless you, Katy Cameron! You have been a bright, sun spot in my existence since I first knew you, even though you have stirred some of the worst impulses of my nature. I am a better woman for having known you. God bless you, Katy Cameron!”
CHAPTER XLV.
MOURNING.
The grand funeral which Mrs. Cameron once had planned for Katy was a reality at last, but the breathless form lying so cold and still in the darkened room at No. — Fifth Avenue, was that of a soldier embalmed—an only son brought back to his father’s house amid sadness and tears. They had taken him there rather than to his own house, because it was the wish of his mother, who, however hard and selfish she might be to others, had idolized her son, and mourned for him truly, forgetting in her grief to care how grand the funeral was, and feeling only a passing twinge when told that Mrs. Lennox had come from Silverton to pay the last tribute of respect to her late son-in-law. Some little comfort it was to have her boy lauded as a faithful soldier, and to hear the commendations lavished upon him during the time he lay in state, with his uniform around him; but when the whole was over, and in the gray of the wintry afternoon her husband returned from Greenwood, there came over her a feeling of such desolation as she had never known—a feeling which drove her at last to the little room upstairs, where sat a lonely man, his head bowed upon his hands, and his tears dropping silently upon the hearth-stone as he, too, thought of the vacant parlor below and the new grave at Greenwood.
“Oh, husband, comfort me!” fell from her lips as she tottered to her husband, who opened his arms to receive her, forgetting all the years which had made her the cold, proud woman, who needed no sympathy, and remembering only that bright green summer when she was first his bride, and came to him for comfort in every little grievance, just as now she came in this great, crushing sorrow.
He did not tell her she was reaping what she had sown, that but for her pride and deception concerning Genevra, Wilford might never have gone to the war, or they been without a son. He did not reproach her at all, but soothed her tenderly, calling her by her maiden name, and awkwardly smoothing her hair, silvered now with gray, and feeling for a moment that Wilford had not died in vain, if by his dying he gave back to his father the wife so lost during the many years since fashion and folly had been the idols she worshiped. But the habits of years could not be lightly broken, and Mrs. Cameron’s mind soon became absorbed in the richness of her mourning, and the strict etiquette of her mourning days. To Katy she was very kind, caressing her with unwonted affection, and scarcely suffering her to leave her sight, much less to stay for a day at Mrs. Banker’s, where Katy secretly preferred to be. Of Genevra, too, she talked with Katy, and at her instigation wrote a friendly letter, thanking Mrs. Lambert for all her kindness to her son, expressing her sorrow that she had ever been so unjust to her, and sending her a handsome locket, containing on one side a lock of Wilford’s hair, and on the other his picture, taken from a large sized photograph. Mrs. Cameron felt herself a very good woman after she had done all this, together with receiving Mrs. Lennox at her own house, and entertaining her for one whole day; but at heart there was no real change, and as time passed on she gradually fell back into her old ways of thinking, and went no more for comfort to her husband as she had on that first night after the burial.