A long time she stood before the glass, brushing her dark abundant hair, and intently regarding her own features, while in her eyes there was a hard, terrible look, from which Katy Lennox would have shrunk in fear. But that too passed, and the eyes grew soft with tears as she turned away, and falling on her knees moaned sadly, “I never will—no, I never will. God help me to keep the promise. Were it the other one—Helen—I might, for she could bear it; but Katy, that child—no, I never will,” and as the words died on her lips there came struggling up from her heart a prayer for Katy Lennox’s happiness, as fervent and sincere as any which had ever been made for her since she was betrothed.
They grew to liking each other rapidly, Marian and Katy, the latter of whom thought her new friend greatly out of place as a dressmaker, telling her she ought to marry some rich man, calling her Marian altogether, and questioning her very closely of her previous life. But Marian only told her that she was born in London; that she learned her trade on the Isle of Wight, near to the Osborne House, where the royal family sometimes came, and that she had often seen the present Queen, thus trying to divert Katy’s mind from asking what there was besides that apprenticeship to the Misses True on the Isle of Wight. Once indeed she went farther, saying that her friends were dead; that she had come to America in hopes of doing better than she could at home; that she had stayed in New York until her health began to fail, and then had tried what country air would do, coming to North Silverton because a young woman who worked in the same shop was acquainted there, and recommended the place. This was all Katy could learn, and Marian’s heart history, if she had one, was guarded carefully.
They had decided at last upon the wedding dress, which Helen reserved the right to make herself. Miss Hazelton must fit it, of course, but to her belonged the privilege of making it, every stitch; Katy would think more of it if she did it all, she said; but she did not confess how the bending over the dress, both early and late, was the escape-valve for the feeling which otherwise would have found vent in passionate tears. Helen was very wretched during the pleasant May days she usually enjoyed so much, but over which now a dark pall was spread, shutting out all the brightness and leaving only the terrible certainty that Katy was lost to her forever—bright, frolicsome Katy, who, without a shadow on her heart, sported amid the bridal finery, unmindful of the anguish tugging at the hearts of both the patient women, Marian and Helen, who worked on so silently, reserving their tears for the night-time, when Katy was dreaming of Wilford Cameron. Helen was greatly interested in Marian, but never guessed that her feelings, too, were stirred to their very depths as the bridal preparations progressed. She only knew how wretched she was herself, and how hard it was to fight her tears back as she bent over the silk, weaving in with every stitch a part of the clinging love which each day grew stronger for the only sister, who would soon be gone, leaving her alone. Only once did she break entirely down, and that was when the dress was done and Katy tried it on, admiring its effect and having a second glass brought that she might see it behind.
“Isn’t it lovely?” she exclaimed; “and the more valuable because you made it. I shall think of you every time I wear it,” and the impulsive girl wound her arms around Helen’s neck, kissing her lovingly, while Helen sank into a chair and sobbed aloud, “Oh, Katy, darling Katy! you won’t forget me when you are rich and admired, and can have all you want? You will remember us here at home, so sad and lonely? You don’t know how desolate it will be, knowing you are gone, never to come back again, just as you go away.”
In an instant Katy was on her knees before Helen, whom she tried to comfort by telling her she should come back,—come often, too, staying a long while; and that when she had a city home of her own she should live with her for good, and they would be so happy.
“I cannot quite give Wilford up to please you,” she said, when that gigantic sacrifice suggested itself as something which it was possible Helen might require of her; “but I will do anything else, only please don’t cry, darling Nellie—please don’t cry. It spoils all my pleasure,” and Katy’s soft hands wiped away the tears running so fast over her sister’s face.
After that Helen did not cry again in Katy’s presence, but the latter knew she wanted to, and it made her rather sad, particularly when she saw reflected in the faces of the other members of the family the grief she had witnessed in Helen. Even Uncle Ephraim was not as cheerful as usual, and once when Katy came upon him in the wood-shed chamber, where he was shelling corn, she found him resting from his work and looking from the window far off across the hills, with a look which made her guess he was thinking of her, and stealing up beside him she laid her hand upon his wrinkled face, whispering softly, “Poor Uncle Eph, are you sorry, too?”
He knew what she meant, and the aged chin quivered, while a big tear dropped into the tub of corn as he replied. “Yes, Katy-did—very sorry.”
That was all he said, and Katy, after smoothing his silvery hair a moment, kissed his cheek and then stole away, wondering if the love to which she was going was equal to the love of home, which, as the days went by, grew stronger and stronger, enfolding her in a mighty embrace, which could only be severed by bitter tears and fierce heart-pangs, such as death itself sometimes brings. In that household there was, after Katy, no one glad of that marriage except the mother, and she was only glad because of the position it would bring to her daughter. But among them all Morris suffered most, and suffered more because he had to endure in secret, so that no one guessed the pain it was for him to go each day where Katy was, and watch her as she sometimes donned a part of her finery for his benefit, asking him once if he did not wish he were in Wilford’s place, so as to have as pretty a bride as she should make. Then Marian Hazelton glanced up in time to see the expression of his face, a look whose meaning she readily recognized, and when Dr. Grant left the farm-house that day, another than himself knew of his love for Katy, drawing her breath hurriedly as she thought of taking back the words, “I never will,”—of revoking that decision and telling Katy what Wilford Cameron should have told her long before. But the wild wish fled, and Wilford’s secret was safe, while Marian watched Morris Grant with a pitying interest as he came among them, speaking always in the same kind, gentle tone, and trying so hard to enter into Katy’s joy.
“His burden is greater than mine. God help us both,” Marian said, as she resumed her work.