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Such was the fearful picture conjured up by Wilford's imagination, as he stood watching poor Aunt Betsy, a dark cloud on his brow and fierce anger at his heart, that she should thus presume to worry and annoy him.
Wilford's compliment had failed, and more annoyed than before, he asked, not what Helen thought of the arrangement, but if she would influence Katy to act and think rationally upon it; "at least you will not make it worse," he said, and this time there was something quite deferential and pleading in his manner.
This was Wilford's accusation against his wife; this for what she must be punished, until such time as his royal clemency saw fit to forgive and take her back as he meant to. He had no fear of her going to Morris, or to the farmhouse either, for much as she was attached to her family, he believed she would shrink from a return to poverty, choosing rather the luxuries of her city home.
One glance she gave to the brown silk, Wilford's gift, but her good sense told her that the plain merino she wore was far more suitable to the sickroom, where she spent her time, and so with a fresh collar and cuffs, and another brush of her rich hair, she went to Mrs.
"What's this?" he asked, lifting the crape veil and dropping it again with an impatient gesture as Helen replied: "It is Katy's mourning veil." Contrary to his expectations, black was becoming to Katy, who looked like a pure white lily, as, leaning on Wilford's arm next day, she stood by the grave where they were burying her child.
These were Wilford's very words, and though Katy had once expected him to say them, they came upon her now with a dreadful shock, making her view herself as the murderer of her child, and thus blunting the pain she might otherwise have felt as he went on to speak of Silverton and its inhabitants, just as he would not have spoken had he known she was so near.
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.
Cameron asked, and Morris passed the case to her, saying: "A picture was under Katy's pillow." Morris did not look at Mrs. Cameron, but tried to busy himself with the medicines upon the stand, while she, too, recognized Genevra Lambert, wondering how it came in Katy's possession, and how much she knew of Wilford's secret.
So absorbed was she in her reverie as not to hear Wilford's step as he came in, but when he stood behind her and took her head playfully between his hands, she started up, feeling that the weather had changed; it was not as cold and dreary in Boston as she imagined, neither did mother's bed seem as desirable a place to rest upon as the shoulder where she laid her head, playing with Wilford's buttons, and saying to him at last: "You went out to telegraph, didn't you?"
In Morris' heart there was a moment's hesitancy to know just what to answer, an ejaculatory prayer for guidance, and then lifting up his head, his calm blue eyes met the eyes of black unflinchingly, as he replied: "I have loved her always." A blaze like sheet lightning shot from beneath Wilford's eyelashes, and a taunting sneer curled his lip, as he said: "You, a saint, confess to this?"
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