LAST HOURS.
Katy _would know_; for she was coming at last. A telegram had announced
that she was on the road; and with nervous restlessness Wilford asked
repeatedly what time it was, reducing the hours to minutes, and counting
his own pulses to see if he could last so long.
“Save me, Doctor,” he whispered to Morris, “keep me alive till Katy
comes. I must see Katy again.”
And Morris, tenderer than a brother, did all he could to keep the feeble
breath from going out ere Katy came.
The train was due at five; but it was dark in the hospital, and from
every window a light was shining, when Morris carried, rather than led,
a quivering figure up the stairs and through the hall to the room where
the Camerons were, the father standing at the foot of Wilford’s bed, and
Bell bending over his pillow, administering the stimulants which kept
her brother alive. When Katy came in, she moved away, as did her father,
while Morris too stepped back into the hall; and thus the husband and
wife were left alone.
“Katy, precious Katy, you have forgiven me?” Wilford whispered, and the
rain of tears and kisses on his face was Katy’s answer as she hung over
him.
She had forgiven him, and she told him so when she found voice to talk,
wondering to find him so changed from the proud, exacting,
self-worshiping man to the humble, repentant and self-accusing person,
who took all blame of the past to himself, and exonerated her from every
fault. But when he drew her close to him, and whispered something in her
ear, she knew whence came the change, and a reverent “Thank the good
Father,” dropped from her lips.
“The way was dark and thorny,” Wilford said, making her sit down where
he could see her as he talked, “and only for God’s goodness I should
have lost the path. But he sent Morris Grant to point the road, and I
trust I am in it now. I wanted to tell you with my own lips how sorry I
am for what I have made you suffer; but sorriest of all for sending Baby
away. Oh, Katy, you do not know how that rested upon my conscience.
Forgive me, Katy, that I robbed you of your child.”
He was growing very weak, and he looked so white and ghastly that Katy
called for Bell, who came with her father, and the three stood together
around the bedside of the dying.
“You will remember me, Katy,” he said, “but you cannot mourn for me
always, and sometime in the future you will cease to be my _widow_, and,
Katy, I am willing. I wanted to tell you this, so that no thought of me
should keep you from a life where you will be happier than I have made
you.”
Wholly bewildered, Katy made no reply, and Wilford was silent a few
moments, in which he seemed partially asleep. Then rousing up, he said,
“You said once that Genevra was not dead. Did you mean it, Katy?”
Frightened and bewildered, Katy turned appealingly to her father-in-law,
who answered for her, “She meant it—Genevra is not dead,” while a
blood-red flush stained Wilford’s face, and his fingers beat the
bedspread thoughtfully.
“I fancied once that she was here—that she was the nurse the boys praise
so much. But that was a delusion,” he said, and without a thought of the
result, Katy asked impetuously, “if she were here would you care to see
her?”
There was a startled look on Wilford’s face, and he grasped Katy’s hand
nervously, his frame trembling with a dread of the great shock which he
felt impending over him.
“Is she here? Was the nurse Genevra?” he asked. Then, as his mind went
back to the past, he answered his own question by asserting “Marian
Hazelton is Genevra.”
They did not contradict him, nor did he ask to see her. With Katy there
he felt he had better not; but after a moment he continued, “It is all
so strange. I thought her dead. I do not comprehend how it can be. She
has been kind to me. Tell her I thank her for it. I was unjust to her. I
have much to answer for.”
Between each word he uttered there was a gasp for breath, and Father
Cameron opened the window to admit the cool night air. But nothing had
power to revive him. He was going very fast, Morris said, as he took his
stand by the bedside and watched the approach of death. There were no
convulsive struggles, only heavy breathings, which grew farther and
farther apart, until at last Wilford drew Katy close to him, and winding
his arm around her neck, whispered,
“I am almost home, my darling, and all is well. Be kind to Genevra for
my sake. I loved her once, but not as I love you.”
He never spoke again, and a few minutes later Morris led Katy from the
room, and then went out to give orders for the embalming.
* * * * *
In the little room she called her own, Marian Hazelton sat, her
beautiful hair disordered, and her eyes dim with the tears she had shed.
She knew that Wilford was dead, and as if his dying had brought back all
her olden love she wept bitterly for the man who had so darkened her
life. She had not expected to see him with Katy present; but now that it
was over she might go to him. There could be no harm in that. No one but
Morris would know who she was, she thought, when there came a timid
knock upon her door, and Katy entered, her face very pale, and her
manner very calm, as she came to Marian, and kneeling down beside her,
laid her head in her lap with the air of a weary child who has sought
its mother for rest.
“Poor little Katy!” Marian said; “your husband, they tell me, is dead.”
“Yes;” and Katy lifted up her head, and fixing her eyes earnestly upon
Marian, continued, “Wilford is dead. but before he died he left a
message for _Genevra Lambert_. Will she hear it now?”
With a sudden start Marian sprang to her feet, and demanded, “Who told
_you_ of Genevra Lambert?”
“Wilford told me months ago, showing me her picture, which I readily
recognized, and I have pitied you so much, knowing you were innocent.
Wilford thought you were dead,” Katy said, flinching a little before
Marian’s burning gaze, which fascinated even while it startled her.
It is not often that two women meet bearing to each other the relations
these two bore, and it is not strange that both felt constrained and
embarrassed as they stood looking at each other. As Marian’s was the
stronger nature, so she was the first to rally, and with the tears
swimming in her eyes she drew Katy closely to her, and said,
“Now that he is gone I am glad you know it. Mine has been a sad life,
but God has helped me to bear it. You say he believed me dead. Sometime
I will tell you how that came about; but now, his message,—he left one,
you say?”
Carefully Katy repeated every word Wilford had said, and with a gasping
cry Marian wound her arms around her neck, exclaiming,
“And you _will_ love me, because I have suffered so much. You will let
me call you Katy when we are alone. It brings you nearer to me.”
Marian was now the weaker of the two, and it was Katy’s task to comfort
her, as sinking back in her chair she sobbed,
“He did love me once. He acknowledged it at the last, before them all,
his wife, his father and his sister. Do they know?” she suddenly asked,
and when assured that they did, she relapsed into a silent mood, while
Katy stole quietly out and left her there alone.
Half an hour later and a female form passed hurriedly through the hall
and across the threshold into the chamber where the dead man lay. There
was no one with him now, and Marian was free to weep out the pent-up
sorrow of her life, which she did with choking sobs and passionate words
poured into the ear, deaf to every human sound. A step upon the floor
startled her, and turning round she stood face to face with Wilford’s
father, who was regarding her with a look which she mistook for one of
reproof and displeasure that she should be there.
“Forgive me,” she said; “he was my husband once, and surely now that he
is dead you will not begrudge me a few last moments with him for the
sake of the days when he loved me.”
There were many tender chords in the heart of Father Cameron, and
offering Marian his hand, he said,
“Far be it from me to refuse you this privilege. I pity you, Genevra; I
believe he dealt unjustly by you,—but I will not censure him now that he
is gone. He was my only boy. Oh, Wilford, Wilford! you have left me very
lonely.”
He released her hand, and Marian fled away, meeting next with Bell, who
felt that she must speak to her, but was puzzled what to say. Bell could
not define her feelings towards Marian, or why she shrunk from
approaching her. It was not pride, but rather a feeling of prejudice, as
if Marian were in some way to blame for all the trouble which had come
to them, while her peculiar position as the divorced wife of her brother
made it the more embarrassing. But she could not resist the mute
pleading of the eyes lifted so tearfully to her, as if asking for a nod
of recognition, and stopping before her she said, softly,
“_Genevra._”
That was all, but it made Genevra’s tears flow in torrents, and she
involuntarily held her hand out to Bell, who took it, and holding it
between her own, said,
“You were very kind to my brother. I thank you for it, and will tell my
mother, who will feel so grateful to you.”
This was a good deal for Bell to say, and after it was said, she
hastened away while Marian went on her daily round of duties, speaking
softer if possible to her patients that day, and causing them to wonder
what had come over that sweet face to make it so white and tear-stained.
That night in Marian’s room Katy sat and listened to what she did not
before know of the strange story kept from her so long. Marian confirmed
all Wilford had told, breathing no word of blame against him now that he
was dead, only stating facts, and leaving Katy to draw her own
conclusions.
“I knew that I was handsome,” she said, “and I liked to test my power;
but for that weakness I have been sorely punished. I had not at first
any intention of making him believe that I was dead, and when I sent the
paper containing the announcement of father’s death, I was not aware
that it also contained the death of my cousin, a beautiful girl just my
age, who bore our grand-mother’s name of Genevra, and about whom and a
young English lord, who had hunted one season in her father’s
neighborhood, there were some scandalous reports. Afterwards it occurred
to me that Wilford would see that notice, and naturally think it
referred to me, inasmuch as he knew nothing of my cousin Genevra.
“It was just as well, I said—I _was_ dead to him, and I took a strange
satisfaction in wondering if he would care. Incidentally I heard that
the postmaster at Alnwick had been written to by an American gentleman,
who asked if such a person as _Genevra Lambert_ was buried at St.
Mary’s; and then I knew he believed me dead, even though the name
appended to the letter was not Wilford Cameron, nor was the writing his;
for, as the cousin of the dead Genevra, I asked to see the letter, and
my request was granted. It was Mrs. Cameron who wrote it, I am sure,
signing a feigned name and bidding the postmaster answer to that
address. He did so, assuring the inquirer that Genevra Lambert was
buried there, and wondering to me if the young American who seemed
interested in her could have been a lover of the unfortunate girl.
“I was now alone in the world, for the aunt with whom my childhood was
passed died soon after my father, and so I went at last to learn a trade
on the Isle of Wight, emigrating from thence to New York, with the
determination in my rebellious heart that sometime, when it would cut
the deepest, I would show myself to the proud Camerons, whom I so
cordially hated. This was before God had found me, or rather before I
had listened to the still, small voice which took the hard, vindictive
feelings away, and made me feel kindly towards the mother and sisters
when I saw them, as I often used to do, driving gayly by. Wilford was
sometimes with them, and the sight of him always sent the hot blood
surging through my heart. But the greatest shock I ever had came to me
when I heard from your sister of his approaching marriage with you.
Those were terrible days that I passed at the farm-house, working on
your bridal trousseau; and sometimes I thought it more than I could
bear. Had you been other than the little, loving, confiding, trustful
girl you were, I must have disclosed the whole, and told that you would
not be the first who had stood at the altar with Wilford. But pity for
you kept me silent, and you became his wife.
“I loved your baby almost as much as if it had been my own, and when it
died there was nothing to bind me to the North, and so I came here,
where I hope I have done some good; at least I was here to care for
Wilford, and that is a sufficient reward for all the toil which falls to
the lot of a hospital nurse. I shall stay until the war is ended, and
then go I know not where. It will not be best for us to meet very often,
for though we respect each other, neither can forget the past, nor that
one was the lawful, the other the divorced wife of the same man. I have
loved you, Katy Cameron, for your uniform kindness shown to the poor
dressmaker. I shall always love you, but our paths lie widely apart.
Your future I can predict, but mine God only knows.”
Marian had said all she meant to say, and all Katy came to hear. The
latter was to leave in the morning, and when they would meet again
neither could tell. Few were the parting words they spoke, for the great
common sorrow welling up from their hearts; but when at last they said
good-bye, the bond of friendship between them was more strongly cemented
than ever, and Katy long remembered Marian’s parting words,
“God bless you, Katy Cameron! You have been a bright, sun spot in my
existence since I first knew you, even though you have stirred some of
the worst impulses of my nature. I am a better woman for having known
you. God bless you, Katy Cameron!”