GEORGETOWN HOSPITAL.
GEORGETOWN, February—, 1862.
MRS. WILFORD CAMERON:
“Your husband cannot live long. Come immediately.
M. HAZELTON.”
So read the telegram received by Katy one winter morning, and which
stunned her for a few minutes so that she could neither feel nor think.
But the reaction came soon enough, bringing with it only the remembrance
of Wilford’s love. All the wrong, the harshness, was forgotten, and only
the desire remained to fly at once to Wilford. Bravely she kept up until
New York was reached, when the tension of her nerves gave way, and she
fainted, as we have seen.
At Father Cameron’s a telegram had been received, telling of Wilford’s
danger. But the mother could not go to him. A lung difficulty, to which
she was subject, had confined her to the house for many days, and so it
was the father and Bell who made their hasty preparations for the
hurried journey to Georgetown. They heard of Katy’s arrival, and Bell
came at once to see her.
“She will not be able to join us to-morrow,” was the report Bell carried
home, for she saw more than mere exhaustion in the white face lying so
motionless on Helen’s pillow, with the dark rings about the eyes, and
the quiver of the muscles about the mouth.
“It is very hard, but God knows best,” poor Katy moaned, when the next
day her father and Bell went without her.
“Yes, darling, God knows best,” Helen answered, smoothing the bright
hair, and thinking sadly of the young officer sitting by his camp-fire,
and waiting so eagerly for the bride who could not go to him now. “God
knows what is best, and does all for the best.”
Katy said it many times that long, long week, during which she stayed
with Helen, living from day to day upon the letters sent by Bell, who
gave but little hope that Wilford would recover. Not a word did she say
of Marian, and only twice did she mention Morris, who was one of the
physicians in that hospital, so that when at last Katy was strong enough
to venture on the journey, she had but little idea of what had
transpired in Wilford’s sick room.
* * * * *
Those were sad, weary days which Wilford first passed upon his hospital
cot, and as he was not sick but crippled, he had ample time for
reviewing the past, which came up before his mind as vividly as if he
had been living again the scenes of bygone days. Of Katy he thought
continually, repenting of his rashness, and wishing so much that the
past could be undone. Disgusted with soldier life, he had wished himself
at home a thousand times, but never by a word had he admitted such a
wish to any living being, and when, on the dark, rainy afternoon which
first saw him in the hospital, he turned his face to the wall and wept,
he replied to one who said to him soothingly,
“Don’t feel badly, my young friend. We will take as good care of you
here as if you were at home.”
“It’s the pain which brings the tears. I’d as soon be here as at home.”
Gradually, however, there came a change, and Wilford grew softer in his
feelings, half resolving to send for Katy, who had offered to come, and
to whom he had replied, “It is not necessary.” But as often as he
resolved, his evil genius whispered, “She does not care to come,” and so
the message was never sent, while the longing for home faces brought on
a nervous fever, which made him so irritable that his attendants turned
from him in disgust, thinking him the most unreasonable man they ever
met with. Once he dreamed Genevra was there—that her fingers threaded
his hair as they used to do in the happy days at Brighton—that her hand
was on his brow, her breath upon his face, and with a start he awoke,
just as the rustle of female garments died away in the hall.
“The nurse in the second ward has been in here,” a comrade said. “She
seemed specially interested in you, and if she had not been a stranger,
I should have said she was crying over you.”
With a quick, sudden movement, Wilford put his hand to his cheek, where
there was a tear, either his own or that of the “nurse,” who had
recently bent over him. Retaining the same proud reserve which had
characterized his whole life, he asked no questions, but listened to
what his companions were saying of the beauty and tenderness of the
“young girl,” as they called her, who had glided for a few moments into
their presence, winning their hearts in that short space of time, and
making them wish she would come back again. Wilford wished so too,
conjuring up all sorts of conjectures about the unknown nurse, and once
going so far as to fancy it was Katy herself. But Katy would hardly
venture there as nurse, and if she did she would not keep aloof from
him. It was not Katy, and if not, who was it that twice when he was
sleeping came and looked at him, his comrades said, rallying him upon
the conquest he had made, and so exciting his imagination that the fever
began to increase, and the blood throbbed hotly through his veins, while
his brows were knit together with thoughts of the mysterious stranger.
Then, with a great shock it occurred to him that Katy had affirmed,
“_Genevra_ is alive.”
What if it were so, and this nurse were Genevra? The very idea fired
Wilford’s brain, and when next his physician came he looked with alarm
upon the great change for the worse exhibited by his patient.
“Shall I send for your friends?” he asked, and Wilford answered,
savagely,
“I have no friends—none at least, but what will be glad to know I’m
dead.”
And that was the last, except the wild words of a maniac, which came
from Wilford’s lips for many a day and night. When they said he was
unconscious, Marian Hazelton obtained permission to attend him, and
again the eyes of the other occupants of the room were turned
wonderingly towards her as she bent over the sick man, parting his
matted hair, smoothing his pillow, and holding the cooling draught to
the parched lips which muttered strange things of Brighton, of Alnwick
and Rome—of the heather on the Scottish moors, and the daisies on
Genevra’s grave, where Katy once sat down.
“She did not know Genevra was there,” he said; “but I knew, and I felt
as if the dead were wronged by that act of Katy’s. Do _you_ know Katy?”
and his black eyes fastened upon Marian, who soothed him into quiet,
while she talked to him of Katy, telling of her graceful beauty, her
loving heart, and the sorrow she would feel when she heard how sick he
was.
“Shall I send for her?” she asked, but Wilford answered,
“No, I am satisfied with you.”
This was her first day with him, but there were other days when all her
strength, and that of Morris, who, at her earnest solicitation, came to
her aid, was required to keep him on his bed. He was going home, he
said, going to Katy; and like a giant he writhed under a force superior
to his own, and which held him down and controlled him, while his loud
outcries filled the building, and sent a shudder to the hearts of those
who heard them. As the two men, who at first had occupied the room with
him, were well enough to leave for home, Marian and Morris both begged
that, unless absolutely necessary, no other one should be sent to that
small apartment, where all the air was needed for the patient in their
charge. And thus the room was left alone for Wilford, who grew worse so
fast that Marian telegraphed to Katy, bidding her come at once.
* * * * *
Slowly the wintry night was passing, the fifth since Marian’s message
was sent to Katy, and Morris sat by Wilford’s cot, when suddenly he met
Wilford’s eyes fixed upon him with a look of recognition he could not
mistake.
“Do you know me?” he asked so kindly, and with so much of genuine
sympathy in his voice, that the heavy eyelids quivered for an instant,
as Wilford nodded his head, and whispered,
“Dr. Grant.”
There had been a momentary flash of resentment when he saw the watcher
beside him, but Wilford was too weak, too helpless to cherish that
feeling long, and besides there were floating through his still
bewildered mind visions of some friendly hand, which had ministered to
him daily—of a voice and form, distinct from the one he thought an
angel’s, and which was not there now with him. That voice, that form, he
felt sure belonged to Morris Grant, and remembering his past harshness
toward him, a chord of gratitude was touched, and when Morris took his
hand he did not at once withdraw it, but let his long, white fingers
cling around the warm, vigorous ones, which seemed to impart new life
and strength.
“You have been very sick,” Morris said, anticipating the question
Wilford would ask. “You are very sick still, and at the request of your
nurse I came to attend you.”
A pressure of the hand was Wilford’s reply, and then there was silence
between them, while Wilford mastered all his pride, and with quivering
lips whispered,
“_Katy!_”
“We have sent for her. We expect her every train,” Morris replied, and
Wilford asked,
“Who has been with me—the nurse, I mean? Who is she?”
Morris hesitated a moment, and then said,
“Marian Hazelton.”
“I know—yes,” Wilford replied, having no suspicion as to _who_ was
standing outside his door, and listening, with a throbbing heart, to his
rational questions.
In all their vigils held together no sign had ever passed from Dr. Grant
to Marian that he knew her, but he had waited anxiously for this moment,
knowing that Wilford must not be shocked, as a sight of Marian would
shock him. He knew she was outside the door, and as Wilford turned his
head upon the pillow, he went to her, and leading her to a safe
distance, said softly,
“His reason has returned.”
“And my services are ended,” Marian rejoined, looking him steadily in
the face, but not in the least prepared for his affirmative question.
“You are _Genevra Lambert_?”
There was a low, gasping sound of surprise, and Marian staggered forward
a step or two, then steadying herself, she said,
“And if I am, it surely is not best for him to see me. You would not
advise it?”
She looked wistfully at Morris, the great desire to be recognized, to be
spoken to kindly by the man who once had been her husband overmastering
for a moment all her prudence.
“It would not be best, both for his sake and _Katy’s_,” Morris said, and
with a moan like the dying out of her last hope, Marian turned away, her
eyes dim with tears and her heart heavy with a sense of something lost,
as in the gray dawn of the morning she went back to her former patients,
who hailed her coming with childish joy, one fair young boy from the
Granite hills kissing the hand which bandaged his poor crushed arm so
tenderly, and thanking her that she had returned to him again.
* * * * *
“Mr. J. Cameron, Miss Bell Cameron,” were the names on the cards sent to
Dr. Grant late that afternoon, and in a few moments he was with the
father and sister who asked so anxiously for Wilford and explained why
Katy was not with them.
Wilford was sleeping when they entered his room, his face looking so
worn and thin, and his hands folded so helplessly upon his breast, that
with a gush of tears Bell knelt beside him, and laying her warm cheek
against his bony one, woke him with her sobs. For a moment he seemed
bewildered, then recognizing her, he raised his feeble arm and winding
it about her neck, kissed her more tenderly than he had ever done
before. He had not been demonstrative of his affection for his sisters.
But Bell was his favorite, and he held her close to him while his eyes
moved past his father, whom he did not see, on to the door as if in
quest of someone. It was Katy, and guessing his thoughts, Bell said,
“She is not here. She could not come now. She is sick in New York, but
will join us in a few days.”
There was a look of intense disappointment in Wilford’s face, which even
his father’s warm greeting could not dissipate, and Morris saw the great
tears as they dropped upon the pillow, the proud man trying hard to
repress them, and asking no questions concerning any one at home. He was
too weak to talk, but he held Bell’s hand in his as if afraid that she
would leave him, while his eyes rested alternately upon her face and
that of his father, who, wholly unmanned at the fearful change in his
son, laid his head upon the bed and cried aloud.
Next morning Bell was very white and her voice trembled as she came from
a conference with Dr. Morris, who had told her that her brother would
die.
“He may live a week, and he may not,” he said, adding solemnly, “As his
sister you will tell him of his danger, while there is time to seek the
refuge without which death is terrible.”
“Oh, if I could only pray with and for him!” Bell thought, as she went
to her brother, mourning her misspent days, and feeling her courage
giving way when at last she stood in his presence and met his kindly
smile.
“I dreamed that you were not here after all,” he said, “I am so glad to
find it real. How long before I can go home, do you suppose?”
He had stumbled upon the very thing Bell was there to talk about, his
question indicating that he had no suspicion of the truth. Nor had he;
and it came like a thunderbolt when Bell, forgetting all her prudence,
said impetuously,
“Oh, Wilford, maybe you’ll never go home. Maybe you’ll——”
“_Not die_,” Wilford exclaimed, clasping his hands with sudden emotion.
“Not die—you don’t mean that? Who told you so?”
“Dr. Grant,” was Bell’s reply, which brought a fierce frown to Wilford’s
face, and awoke all the angry passions of his heart.
“Dr. Grant,” he repeated. “He would like me removed from his path; but
it shall not be. I will not die. Tell him that. I will not die,” and
Wilford’s voice was hoarse with passion as he raised his clenched fists
in the air.
He was terribly excited, and in her fright Bell ran for Dr. Grant. But
Wilford motioned him back, hurling after him words which kept him from
the room the entire day, while the sick man rolled, and tossed, and
raved in the delirium, which had returned, and which wore him out so
fast. No one had the least influence over him, except Marian Hazelton,
who, without a glance at Mr. Cameron or Bell, glided to his side, and
with her presence and gentle words soothed him into comparative quiet,
so that the bitter denunciations against the _saint_, who wanted him to
die, ceased, and he fell into a troubled sleep.
With a strange feeling of interest Mr. Cameron and Bell watched her,
wondering if she were indeed Genevra, as Katy had affirmed. They would
not ask her; and both breathed more freely when, with a bow in
acknowledgment of Mr. Cameron’s compliment to her skill in quieting his
son, she left the room.
That night they watched with Wilford, who slept off his delirium, and
lay with his face turned from them, so that they could not guess by its
expression what was passing in his mind.
All the next day he maintained the most frigid silence, answering only
in monosyllables, while Bell kept wiping away the great drops of sweat
constantly oozing out upon his forehead and about the pallid lips.
Just at nightfall he startled Bell by asking that Dr. Grant be sent for.
“Please leave me alone with him,” he said, when Dr. Morris came; then
turning to Morris, as the door closed upon his father and his sister, he
said abruptly,
“Pray for me, if you can pray for one who yesterday hated you so for
saying he must die.”
Earnestly, fervently, Morris prayed, as for a dear brother; and when he
finished, Wilford’s faint “Amen” sounded through the room.
“I am not right yet,” the pale lips whispered, as Morris sat down beside
him. “Not right with God, I mean. I’ve sometimes said there was no God;
but I did not believe it; and now I know there is. He has been moving
upon me all the day, driving out my bitterness toward you, and causing
me to send for you at last. Do you think there is hope for me? I have
much to be forgiven.”
“Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow,” Morris
replied; and then he tried to point that erring man to the Lamb of God,
who taketh away the sins of the world, convincing him that there _was_
hope even for him, and leaving him with the conviction that God would
surely finish the good work begun, nor suffer this soul to be lost which
had turned to Him at the eleventh hour.
Wilford knew his days were numbered, and he talked freely of it to his
father and sister the next morning when they came to him. He did not say
that he was ready or willing to die, only that he must, and he asked
them to forget, when he was gone, all that had ever been amiss in him as
a son and brother.
“I was too proud, too selfish, to make others happy,” he said, “I
thought it all over yesterday, and the past came back again so vividly,
especially the part connected with Katy. Oh, Katy, I did abuse her!” and
a bitter sob attested the genuineness of Wilford’s grief for his
treatment of Katy. “I despised her family, I treated them with contempt.
I broke Katy’s heart, and now I must die without telling her I am sorry.
But you’ll tell her, Bell, how I tried to pray, but could not for
thoughts of my sin to her. She will not be glad that I am dead. I know
her better than to think that; and I believe she loves me. But, after I
am gone, and the duties of the world have closed up the gap I shall
leave, I see a brighter future for her than her past has been; and you
may tell her I am——” He could not say, “I am willing.” Few husbands
could have done so then, and he was not an exception.
Wholly exhausted, he lay quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, it
was of _Genevra_. Even here he did not try to screen himself. He was the
one to blame, he said, Genevra was true, was innocent, as he ascertained
too late.
“Would you like to see her, if she was living?” came to Bell’s lips; but
the fear that it would be too great a shock, prevented their utterance.
He had no suspicion of her presence; and it was best he should not. Katy
was the one uppermost in his mind; and in the letter Bell sent to her
next day, he tried to write, “Good-bye, my darling;” but the words were
scarcely legible, and his nerveless hand fell helpless at his side as he
said,
“She will never know the effort it cost me, nor hear me say that I hope
I am forgiven. It came to me last night; and now the way is not so dark,
but Katy will not know.”