The Cameron pride; or, purified by suffering

by Mary Jane Holmes

Katy knew it was settled, and choking back the tears, she tried to listen, while Wilford, having fairly broken the ice with regard to his family, told her how anxious he was that she should make a good first impression upon his mother. Did Katy remember that Mrs. Morey whom they met at Paris, and could she not throw a little of her air into her manner, that is, could she not drop her girlishness when in the presence of others and be a little more dignified? When alone with him he liked to have her just what she was, a loving, affectionate little wife, but the world looked on such things differently. Would Katy try?

Wilford when he commenced had no definite idea as to what he should say, and without meaning it he made Katy moan piteously.

“I don’t know what you mean. I would do anything if I knew how. Tell me, how shall I be dignified?”

She was crying so hard that Wilford, while mentally calling himself a fool and a brute, could only try to comfort her, telling her she need not be anything but what she was—that his mother and sisters would love her just as he did—and that daily association with them would teach her all that was necessary.

Katy’s tears were stopped at last; but the frightened, anxious look did not leave her face, even though Wilford tried his best to divert her mind. A nervous terror of her new relations had gained possession of her heart, and nearly the entire night she lay awake, pondering in her mind what Wilford had said, and thinking how terrible it would be if he should be disappointed in her after all. The consequence of this was that a very white tired face sat opposite Wilford next morning at the breakfast served in their private parlor; nor did it look much fresher even after they were in the cars and rolling out of Boston. But when Worcester was reached, and the old home way-marks began to grow familiar, the color came stealing back, until the cheeks burned with an unnatural red, and the blue eyes fairly danced as they rested on the hills of Silverton.

“Only three miles from mother and Helen! Oh, if I could go there!” Katy thought, working her fingers nervously; but the express train did not pause there, and it went so swiftly by the depot that Katy could hardly distinguish who was standing there, whether friend or stranger.

But when at last they came to West Silverton, and the long train slowly stopped, the first object she saw was Dr. Morris, driving down from the village. He had no intention of going to the depot, and only checked his horse a moment, lest it should prove restive if too near the engine; but when a clear young voice called from the window, “Morris! oh, Cousin Morris! I’ve come!” his heart gave a great throb, for he knew whose voice it was and whose the little hand beckoning to him. He had supposed her far away beneath Italian skies, for at the farm-house no intelligence had been received of her intended return, and in much surprise he reined up to the rear door, and throwing his lines to a boy, went forward to where Katy stood, her face glowing with delight as she flew into his arms, wholly forgetful of the last night’s lecture on dignity, and also forgetful of Wilford, standing close beside her. He had not tried to hold her back when, at the sight of Morris, she sprang away from him; but he followed after, biting his lip, and wishing she had a little more discretion. Surely it was not necessary to half strangle Dr. Grant as she was doing, kissing his hand after she had kissed his face a full half dozen times, and all the people looking on. But Katy did not care for people. She only knew that Morris was there—the Morris whom, in her great happiness abroad, she had perhaps slighted by not writing directly to him but once. In Wilford’s sheltering care she had not felt the need of this good cousin, as she used to do; but she was so glad to see him, wondering why he looked so thin and sad. Was he sick? she asked, with a pitying look, which made him shiver as he answered,

“No, not sick, though tired, perhaps, as I have at present an unusual amount of work to do.”

And this was true—he was unusually busy. But that was not the cause of his thin face, which others than Katy remarked. Helen’s words, “It might have been,” spoken to him on the night of Katy’s bridal, had never left his mind, much as he had tried to dislodge them. Some men can love a dozen times; but it was not so with Morris. He could overcome his love so that it should not be a sin, but no other could ever fill the place where Katy had been; and as he looked along the road through life he felt that he must travel it alone. Truly, if Katy were not yet passing through the fire, he was, and it had left its mark upon him, purifying as it burned, and bringing his every act into closer submission to his God. Only Helen and Marian Hazelton interpreted aright that look upon his face, and knew it came from the hunger of his heart, but they kept silence; while others said that he was working far too hard, urging him to abate his unwearied labors, for they would not lose their young physician yet. But Morris smiled his patient, kindly smile on all their fears and went his way, doing his work as one who knew he must render strict account for the popularity he was daily gaining, both in his own town and those around. He could think of Katy now without a sin, but he was not thinking of her when she came so unexpectedly upon him, and for an instant she almost bore his breath away in her vehement joy.

Quick to note a change in those he knew, he saw that her form was not quite so full, nor her cheeks so round; but she was weary with the voyage, and knowing how sea-sickness will wear upon one’s strength, Morris imputed it wholly to that, and believed she was, as she professed to be, perfectly happy.