The village clock was striking one, and the sound echoed across the waters of Fairy Pond, awakening, in his marshy bed, a sleeping frog, who sent forth upon the warm, still air a musical, plaintive note as Morris bore his bride over the threshold and into the library, where a cheerful fire was blazing. He had ordered it kindled there, for he had a fancy ere he slept to see fulfilled a dream he had dreamed so often, of Katy sitting as his wife in the chair across the hearth, where he placed her now, himself removing her shawl and hood; then kneeling down before her, with his arm around her waist and his head upon her shoulder, he prayed aloud to the God who had brought her there, asking His blessing upon their future life, and dedicating himself and all he had to his Master’s service. It is such prayer which God delights to answer, and a peace, deeper than they had yet known, fell upon that newly married pair at Linwood.
CHAPTER LII.
CONCLUSION.
The scene shifts now to New York, where, one week after that wedding in Silverton, Mark and Helen went, together with Morris and Katy. But not to Madison Square. That house had been sold, and Katy saw it but once, her tears falling fast as, driving slowly by with Morris, she gazed at the closed doors and windows of what was once her home, and around which lingered no pleasant memories save that it was the birthplace of baby Cameron. Lieutenant Reynolds had thought to buy it, but Bell said, “No, it would not be pleasant for Katy to visit me there, and I mean to have her with me as much as possible.” So the house went to strangers, and a less pretentious but quite as comfortable one was bought for Bell, so far up town that Juno wondered how her sister would manage to exist so far from everything, intimating that her visits would be far between, a threat which Lieutenant Bob took quite heroically; indeed, it rather enhanced the value of his pleasant home than otherwise, for Juno was not a favorite, and his equanimity was not likely to be disturbed if she never crossed his threshold. She was throwing bait to Arthur Grey, the man who swore he was fifty to escape the draft, and who, now that the danger was over, would gladly take back his oath and be forty, as he really was. With the most freezing kiss imaginable Juno greeted Katy, calling her “Mrs. Grant,” and treating Morris as if he were an entire stranger, instead of the man whom to get she would once have moved both earth and heaven. Mrs. Cameron, too, though glad that Katy was married, and fully approving her choice, threw into her manner so much reserve that Katy’s intercourse with her was anything but agreeable, and she turned with alacrity to father Cameron, who received her with open arms, calling her his daughter, and welcoming Morris as his son, taken in Wilford’s stead. “My boy,” he frequently called him, showing how willingly he accepted him as the husband of one whom he loved as his child. Greatly he wished that they should stay with him while they remained in New York, but Katy preferred going to Mrs. Banker’s, where she would be more quiet, and avoid the bustle and confusion attending the preparations for Bell’s wedding. It was to be a grand church affair, and to take place during Easter week, after which the bridal pair were going on to Washington, and if possible to Richmond, where Bob had been a prisoner. Everything seemed conspiring to make the occasion a joyful one, for all through the North, from Maine to California, the air was rife with the songs of victory and the notes of approaching peace. But alas! He who holds our country’s destiny in his hand changed that song of gladness into a wail of woe, which, echoing through the land, rose up to heaven in one mighty sob of anguish, as the whole nation bemoaned its loss. Our President was dead, and New York was in mourning, so black, so profound, that with a shudder Bell Cameron tossed aside the orange wreath and said to her lover, “We will be married at home. I cannot now go to the church, when everything seems like one great funeral.”
And so in Mrs. Cameron’s drawing-room there was a quiet wedding, one pleasant April morning, and Bell’s plain traveling dress was far more in keeping with the gloom which hung over the great city than her gala robes would have been, with a long array of carriages and merry wedding chimes. Westward they went instead of South, and when our late lamented President was borne back to the prairies of Illinois, they were there to greet the noble dead, and mingle their tears with those who knew and loved him long before the world appreciated his worth.
Softly the May rain falls on Linwood, where the fresh green grass is springing and the early spring flowers blooming, and where Katy stands for a moment in the bay window of the library, listening to the patter on the tin roof overhead, and gazing wistfully down the road, as if watching for some one; then turning, she enters the dining-room and inspects the supper table, for her mother. Aunt Hannah, and Aunt Betsy are visiting her this rainy afternoon, while Morris, on his return from North Silverton, is to call for Uncle Ephraim and bring him home to tea.
Linwood is a nice place to visit, and the old ladies enjoy it vastly, especially Aunt Betsy, who never tires of telling what they have “over to Katy’s,” and whose capeless shaker hangs often on the hall stand, just as it hangs now, while she, good soul, sits in the pleasant parlor, and darns the socks for Morris, taking as much pains as if it were a network of fine lace she was weaving, instead of a shocking rent in some luckless heel or toe. Up stairs there is a pleasant room which Katy calls Aunt Betsy’s, and in it is the “feather bed,” which never found its way to Madison Square. Morris himself did not think much of feathers, but he made no objections when Aunt Betsy insisted upon Katy’s having the bed kept for so many years, and only smiled a droll kind of smile when he one morning met it coming up the walk in the wheelbarrow which Uncle Ephraim trundled.
Morris and his young wife are very happy together and Katy finds the hours of his absence very long, especially when left alone. Even to-day the time drags heavily, and she looks more than once from the bay window, until at last Brownie’s head is seen over the hill, and a few moments after Morris’s arm is around her shoulders, and her lips are upturned for the kiss he gives as he leads her into the house, chiding her for exposing herself to the rain, and placing in her hand three letters, which she does not open until the cozy tea is over and her family friends have gone. Then, while her husband looks over his evening paper, she breaks the seals one by one reading first the letter from “Mrs. Bob Reynolds,” who has returned from the West, and who is in the full glory of her bridal calls.
“I was never so happy in my life as I am now,” she wrote. “Indeed, I did not know that a married woman could be so happy; but then every woman has not a Bob for her husband, which makes a vast difference. You ought to see Juno. I know she envies me, though she affects the utmost contempt for matrimony, and reminds me forcibly of the fox and the grapes. You see, Arthur Grey is a failure, so far as Juno is concerned, he having withdrawn from the field and laid himself at the feet of Sybil Grandon, who will be Mrs. Grey, and a bride at Saratoga the coming summer. Juno intends going too, as the bridesmaid of the party; but every year her chances lessen, and I have very little hope that father will ever call other than Bob his son, always excepting Morris, of course, whom he has adopted in place of Wilford. You don’t know, Katy, how much father thinks of you, blessing the day which brought you to us, and saying that if he is ever saved, he shall in a great measure owe it to your influence and consistent life after the great trouble came upon you.”
There were tears in Katy’s eyes as she read this letter from Bell, and with a mental prayer of thanksgiving that she had been of any use in guiding even one to the Shepherd’s Fold, she took next the letter whose superscription brought back so vividly to her mind the daisy-covered grave in Alnwick. Marian, who was now at Annapolis, caring for the returned prisoners, did not write often, and her letters were prized the more by Katy, who read with a beating heart the kind congratulations upon her recent marriage, sent by Marian Hazelton.