THE INTERVIEW.
Dr. Morris was very tired, for his labors that day had been unusually
severe, and it was with a feeling of comfort and relief that at an
earlier hour than usual, he had turned his steps homeward, finding a
bright fire waiting him in the library, where his late dinner was soon
brought by the housekeeper. It was very pleasant in that cosy library of
oak and green, with the bright fire on the hearth, and the smoking
dinner set so temptingly before him. And Morris felt the comfort of his
home, thanking the God who had given him all this, and chiding his
wayward heart that it had ever dared to repine. He was not repining
to-night, as with his hands crossed upon his head he sat looking into
the fire and watching the bits of glowing anthracite dropping into the
pan. He was thinking of the sick-bed which he had visited last, and how
a faith in Jesus can make the humblest room like the gate of Heaven;
thinking how the woman’s eyes had sparkled when she told him of the
other world, where she would never know pain or hunger or cold again,
and how quickly their lustre was dimmed when she spoke of her absent
husband, the soldier to whom the news of her death, with the child he
had never seen, would be a crushing blow.
“They who have neither wife nor child are the happier perhaps,” he said;
and then he thought of Katy and her great sorrow when baby died,
wondering if to spare herself that pain she would rather baby had never
been. “No—oh, no,” he answered to his own inquiry. “She would not lose
the memory which comes from that little grave for all the world
contains. It is better once to love and lose than not to love at all. In
Heaven we shall see and know why these things were permitted, and marvel
at the poor human nature which rebelled against them.”
Just at this point of his soliloquy, the telegram was brought to him.
“Come in the next train. I am in great trouble.”
He read it many times, growing more and more perplexed with each
reading, and then trying to decide what his better course would be.
There were no patients needing him that night, that he knew of; he might
perhaps go if there was yet time for the train which passed at four
o’clock. There was time, he found, and telling Mrs. Hull that he had
been suddenly called to New York, he bade his boy bring out his horse
and take him at once to the depot. It was better to leave no message for
the deacon’s family, as he did not wish to alarm them unnecessarily. “I
shall undoubtedly be back to-morrow,” he thought, as he took his seat in
the car, wondering what could be the trouble which had prompted that
strange despatch.
It was nearly midnight when he reached the city, but a light was shining
from the windows of that house in Madison Square, and Katy, who had
never for a moment doubted his coming, was waiting for him. But not in
the parlor; she was too sick now to go down there, and when she heard
his ring and his voice in the hall asking for her, she bade Esther show
him to her room. More and more perplexed, Morris ran up to the room
where Katy lay, or rather crouched, upon the sofa, her eyes so wild and
her face so white that, in great alarm, Morris took the cold hands she
stretched feebly towards him, and bending over her said, “What is it,
Katy? Has anything dreadful happened? and where is your husband?”
At the mention of her husband Katy shivered, and rising from her
crouching position, she pushed her hair back from her forehead and
replied, “Oh, Morris! I am so wretched,—so full of pain! I have heard of
something which took my life away. I am _not_ Wilford’s wife, for he had
another before me,—a wife in Italy,—who is not dead! And _I_, oh Morris!
what _am_ I? I knew you would know just what I was, and I sent for you
to tell me and take me away from here, back to Silverton. Help me,
Morris! I am choking! I am—yes—I am—going to faint!”
It was the first time Katy had put the great horror in words addressed
to another, and the act of doing so made it more appalling, and with a
moan she sank back among the pillows of the couch, while Morris tried to
comprehend the strange words he had heard, “I am not Wilford’s wife, for
he had another before me,—a wife in Italy,—who is not dead.”
Dr. Morris was thoroughly a man, and though much of his sinful nature
had been subdued, there was enough left to make his heart rise and fall
with great throbs of joy as he thought of Katy _free_, even though that
freedom were bought at the expense of dire disgrace to others, and of
misery to her. But only for a moment did he feel thus—only till he knelt
beside the pallid face with the dark rings beneath the eyes, and saw the
faint, quivering motion around the lips, which told that she was not
wholly unconscious.
“My poor little wounded bird,” he said, as pityingly as if he had been
her father, while much as a father might kiss his suffering child, he
kissed the forehead and the eyelids where the tears began to gather.
Katy was not insensible, and the name by which he called her, with the
kisses that he gave, thawed the ice around her heart and brought a flood
of tears, which Morris wiped away, lifting her gently up and pillowing
her hot head upon his arm, while she moaned like a weary child.
“It rests me so just to see you, Morris. May I go back with you, as your
housekeeper, instead of Mrs. Hull;—that is, if I am not his wife? The
world might despise me, but you would know I was not to blame. I should
go nowhere but to the farm-house, to church, and baby’s grave. Poor
baby! I am glad God gave her to me, even if I am not Wilford’s wife; and
I am glad now that she died.”
She was talking to herself rather than to Morris, who, smoothing back
her hair and chafing her cold hands, said,
“My poor child, you have passed through some agitating scene. Are you
able now to tell me all about it, and what you mean by another wife?”
There was a shiver, and the white lips grew still whiter as Katy began
her story, going back to St. Mary’s churchyard and then coming to her
first night in New York, when Juno had told her of a picture and asked
her whose it was. Then she told of Wilford’s admission of an earlier
love, who, he said, was dead; of the trouble about the baby’s name, and
his aversion to Genevra; but when she approached the dinner at the elder
Cameron’s, her lip quivered in a grieved kind of way as she remembered
what Wilford had said of _her_ to his mother, but she would not tell
this to Morris,—it was not necessary to her story,—and so she said,
“They were talking of what I ought never to have heard, and it seemed as
if the walls were closing me in so I could not move to let them know I
was there. I said to myself, ‘I shall go mad after this,’ and I thought
of you all coming to see me in the mad-house, your kind face, Morris,
coming up distinctly before me, just as it would look at me if I were
really crazed. But all this was swept away like a hurricane when I heard
the rest, the part about _Genevra_, Wilford’s other wife.”
Katy was panting for breath, but she went on with the story, which made
Morris clench his hands as he comprehended the deceit which had been
practiced so long. Of course he did not look at it as Katy did, for he
knew that according to all civil law she was as really Wilford’s wife as
if no other had existed, and he told her so, but Katy shook her head.
“He can’t have two wives living. And I tell you I knew the
picture—_Genevra is not dead_, I have seen her; I have talked with
her,—Genevra is not dead.”
“Granted that she is not,” Morris answered, “the divorce remains the
same.”
“I do not believe in divorces. Whom God hath joined together let not man
put asunder,” Katy said with an air which implied that from this
argument there could be no appeal.
“That is the Scripture, I know,” Morris replied, “but you must know that
for one sin our Saviour permitted a man to put away his wife, thus
making it perfectly right.”
“But in Genevra’s case the sin did not exist. She was as innocent as I
am, and that must make a difference.”
She was very earnest in her attempts to prove that Genevra was still a
lawful wife, so earnest that a dark suspicion entered Morris’s mind,
finding vent in the question, “Katy, don’t you love your husband, that
you try so hard to prove he is not yours?”
There were red spots all over Katy’s face and neck as she saw the
meaning put upon her actions, and, covering her face with her hands, she
sobbed violently as she replied, “I do, oh, yes, I do! I never loved any
one else. I would have died for him once. Maybe I would die for him now;
but, Morris, he is disappointed in me. Our tastes are not alike, and we
made a great mistake, or Wilford did when he took me for his wife. I was
better suited to most anybody else, and I have been so wicked since,
forgetting all the good I ever knew, forgetting prayer save as I went
through the form from old habit’s sake; forgetting God, who has punished
me so sorely that every nerve smarts with the stinging blows.”
Oh, how lovingly, how earnestly Morris talked to Katy then, telling her
of Him who smites but to heal, who chastens not in anger, and would lead
the lost one back into the quiet fold where there was perfect peace.
And Katy, listening eagerly, with her great blue eyes fixed upon his
face, felt that to experience that of which he talked, was worth more
than all the world beside. Gradually, too, there stole over her the
_rest_ she always felt with him—the indescribable feeling which prompted
her to care for nothing except to do just what he bade her do, knowing
it was right; so when he said to her, “You cannot go home with me, Katy;
your duty is to remain here in your husband’s house,” she offered no
remonstrance. Indeed, Morris doubted if she fully understood him, she
looked so sick and appeared so strange.
“It is not safe for you to be alone. Esther must stay with you,” he
continued, feeling her rapid pulse and noticing the alternate flushing
and paling of her cheek.
A fever was coming on, he feared, and summoning Esther to the room, he
said,
“Your mistress is very sick. You must stay with her till morning, and if
she grows worse, let me know. I shall be in the library.”
Then, with a few directions with regard to the medicine he fortunately
had with him, he left the chamber, and repaired to the library below,
where he spent the few remaining hours of the night, pondering on the
strange story he had heard, and praying for poor Katy whose heart had
been so sorely wounded.
The quick-witted Esther saw that something was wrong, and traced it
readily to Wilford, whose exacting nature she thoroughly understood. She
had not been blind during the two years and a half she had been Katy’s
maid, and no impatient word of Wilford’s, or frown upon his face, had
escaped her when occurring in her presence, while Katy’s uniform
sweetness and entire submission to his will had been noted as well, so
that in Esther’s opinion Wilford was a domestic tyrant, and Katy was an
angel. Numerous were her conjectures as to the cause of the present
trouble, which must be something serious, or Katy had never telegraphed
for Dr. Grant, as she felt certain she had.
“Whatever it is, I’ll stand her friend,” she said, as she bent over her
young mistress, who was talking of Genevra and the grave at St. Mary’s,
which was no grave at all.
She was growing worse very rapidly, and frightened at last at the
wildness of her eyes, and her constant ravings, Esther went down to
Morris, and bade him come quickly to Mrs. Cameron.
“She is taken out of her head, and talks so queer and raving.”
Morris had expected this, but he was not prepared to find the fever so
high, or the symptoms so alarming.
“Shall I send for Mrs. Cameron and another doctor, please?” Esther
asked.
Morris had faith in himself, and he would rather no other hand should
minister to Katy; but he knew he could not stay there long, for there
were those at home who needed his services. Added to this, her family
physician might know her constitution, now, better than he knew it, and
so he answered that it would be well to send for both the doctor and
Mrs. Cameron.
It was just daylight when Mrs. Cameron arrived, questioning Esther
closely, and appearing much surprised when she heard of Dr. Grant’s
presence in the house. That he came by chance, she never doubted, and as
Esther merely answered the questions put directly to her, Mrs. Cameron
had no suspicion of the telegram.
“I am glad he happened here at this time,” she said. “I have the utmost
confidence in his skill. Still it may be well for Dr. Craig to see her.
I think that is his ring.”
The city and country physicians agreed exactly with regard to Katy’s
illness, or rather the city physician bowed in acquiescence when Morris
said to him that the fever raging so high had, perhaps, been induced by
natural causes, but was greatly aggravated by some sudden shock to the
nervous system. This was before Mrs. Cameron came up, but it was
repeated in her presence by Dr. Craig, who thus left the impression that
the idea had originated with himself, rather than with Dr. Grant, as
perhaps he thought it had. He was at first inclined to patronize the
country doctor, but soon found that he had reckoned without his host.
Morris knew more of Katy, and quite as much of medicine as he did
himself, and when Mrs. Cameron begged him to stay longer, he answered
that her son’s wife was as safe in his brother physician’s hands as she
could be in his.
Mrs. Cameron was very glad that Dr. Grant was there, she said. It was
surely Providence who sent him to New York on that particular day, and
Morris shivered as he wondered if it were wrong not to explain the whole
to her.
“Perhaps it is best she should not know of the telegram,” he thought,
and merely bowing to her remarks, he turned to Katy, who was growing
very restless and moaning as if in pain.
“It hurts,” she said, turning her head from side to side; “I am lying on
Genevra.”
With a sudden start, Mrs. Cameron drew nearer, but when she remembered
the little grave at Silverton, she said, “It’s the baby she’s talking
about.”
Morris knew better, and as Katy still continued to move her head as if
something were really hurting her, he passed his hand under her pillow
and drew out the picture she must have kept near her as long as her
consciousness remained. He knew it was Genevra’s picture, and was about
to lay it away, when the cover dropped into his hand, and his eye fell
upon a face which was not new to him, while an involuntary exclamation
of surprise escaped him, as Katy’s assertion that Genevra was living was
thus fully confirmed. Marian had not changed past recognition since her
early girlhood, and Morris knew the likeness at once, pitying Katy more
than he had pitied her yet, as he remembered how closely Marian Hazelton
had been interwoven with her married life, and the life of the little
child which had borne her name.
“What is that?” Mrs. Cameron asked, and Morris passed the case to her,
saying, “A picture which 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.
“She must have been rummaging,” she thought, and then as she remembered
what Esther had said about her mistress appearing sick and unhappy, when
her husband left home, she repaired to the parlor and summoning Esther
to her presence, asked her again, “When she first observed traces of
indisposition in Mrs. Cameron.”
“When she came home from that dinner at your house. She was just as pale
as death, and her teeth fairly chattered as I took off her things.”
“Dinner? What dinner?” Mrs. Cameron asked, and Esther replied, “Why, the
night Mr. Wilford went away or was to go. She changed her mind about
meeting him at your house, and said she meant to surprise him. But she
came home before Mr. Cameron, looking like a ghost, and saying she was
sick. It’s my opinion something she ate at dinner hurt her.”
“Very likely, yes. You can go now,” Mrs. Cameron said, and Esther
departed, never dreaming how much light she had inadvertently thrown
upon the mystery.
“She must have been in the library and heard all we said,” Mrs. Cameron
thought, as she nervously twisted the fringe of her breakfast shawl. “I
remember we talked of Genevra, and that we both heard a strange sound
from some quarter, but thought it came from the kitchen. That was Katy.
She was there all the time and let herself quietly out of the house. I
wonder does Wilford know,” and then there came over her an intense
desire for Wilford to come home—a desire which was not lessened when she
returned to Katy’s room and heard her talking of Genevra and the grave
at St. Mary’s “where nobody was buried.”
In a tremor of distress, lest she should betray something which Morris
must not know Mrs. Cameron tried to hush her, talking as if it was the
baby she meant, but Katy answered promptly, “It’s Genevra Lambert I
mean, Wilford’s other wife; the one across the sea. She was innocent,
too—as innocent as I, whom you both deceived.”
Here was a phase of affairs for which Mrs. Cameron was not prepared, and
excessively mortified that Morris should hear Katy’s ravings, she tried
again to quiet her, consoling herself with the reflection that as Morris
was Katy’s cousin, he would not repeat what he heard, and feeling
gratified now that Dr. Craig was absent, as she could not be so sure of
him. If Katy’s delirium continued, no one must be admitted to the room
except those who could be trusted, and as there had been already several
rings, she said to Esther that as the fever was probably malignant and
contagious, no one must be admitted to the house with the expectation of
seeing the patient, while the servants were advised to stay in their own
quarters, except as their services might be needed elsewhere. And so it
was that by the morrow the news had spread of some infectious disease at
No. —— on Madison Square, which was shunned as carefully as if smallpox
itself had been raging there instead of the brain fever, which increased
so fast that Morris suggested to Mrs. Cameron that she telegraph for
Wilford.
“They might find him, and they might not,” Mother Cameron said. “They
could try, at all events,” and in a few moments the telegraphic wires
were carrying the news of Katy’s illness, both to the west, where
Wilford had gone, and to the east, where Helen read with a blanched
cheek that Katy perhaps was dying, and she must hasten to New York.
This was Mrs. Cameron’s suggestion, wrung out by the knowing that some
woman besides herself was needed in the sick room, and by feeling that
Helen could be trusted with the story of the first marriage, which Katy
talked of constantly, telling it so accurately that only a fool would
fail of being convinced that there was much of truth in those delirious
ravings.