LAST HOURS.
Katy would know, for she was coming to him on the morrow, as a brief
telegram announced, and Wilford's face grew brighter with thoughts of
seeing her. He knew when the train was due, and with nervous
restlessness he asked repeatedly what time it was, reducing the hours to
minutes, and counting his own pulses to see if he would 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.
"I must have clean linen on my bed and on my person, too," Wilford said,
"for Katy is coming, and I must not look repulsive."
The clean white linen was brought, and when it was arranged a smile of
childish satisfaction crept around the lips, as Wilford said:
"Katy can kiss me now. She is not accustomed to hospital fare, you
know."
His mind seemed slightly to wander; but when the hour came for the
arrival of the train he knew it, asking, eagerly:
"Do you suppose she's come?" and straining his ear to catch the sound of
the distant whistle. Dr, Morris had gone to meet her, and the time fled
on apace until at last his step was heard, and Wilford, lifting up his
head, listened for that other step, which, alas! was not there.
"The train is behind time several hours," was Morris' report, and with
a moan Wilford turned away and wept, thinking by some strange chance of
that day when at the farmhouse others had waited for Katy as he was
doing, and waited, too, in vain.
Truly, they of the farmhouse were avenged, for never had they felt so
bitter a pang as Wilford did when he knew Katy had not come.
"It's right," he said, when he could trust himself to speak; "but I did
want to see her. Tell her I am willing."
The last seemed wrung from him almost against his will, and drops of
sweat stood thickly upon his brow. Only Bell and her father guessed what
he meant by being willing. Morris had no idea, but he wiped the
death-sweat away, and said, soothingly:
"Be quiet, and you may see her yet. She will surely come by and by."
Thus reassured, Wilford grew calm and fell asleep, while the watchers by
his side waited anxiously for the first sound which should herald the
arrival of the train.
* * * * *
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, where, in a corner, Marian Hazelton's white face
looked out upon him, her hands clasped over her heart, and working
nervously as she watched Katy going where she must not go--going 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 in this their first
meeting since the parting at Yonkers nearly one year ago.
"Katy, precious Katy, you have forgiven me?" he whispered, and the rain
of tears and kisses on his face was Katy's answer as she hung over him.
She had forgiven him like a true, faithful wife, 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 one Morris Grant to point the road, and
I trust I am in it now. I wanted to see you before I died, 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, or how often in my sleep upon the tented
plain or hillside I have felt again the touch of Baby's arms and Baby's
cheek against my own as I felt it that day when I came home and took her
from you. 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 at once, as did her father, and the three
stood together around the bedside of the dying, Katy with his cold hand
in hers, and occasionally bending down to hear his whispered words of
love and deep contrition.
"You will remember me, Katy," he said, "but you cannot mourn for me
always, and some time 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 wrote me 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 thin 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 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 now there was a gasp for breath, and Father
Cameron opened the window wide 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 his orders for the embalming of the
body.
* * * * *
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, for Morris had told her so, 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 did not know that at the last he
knew she was so near. 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, and she was
making up her mind to go, when there came a timid knock upon the door,
and Katy entered, her face very pale, 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, caressing her golden hair. "Your
husband, they tell me, is dead."
"Yes," and Katy lifted up her head, and fixing her eves 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 holding Katy from
her, demanded: "Who told you of Genevra Lambert, and when?"
"Wilford told me months ago, showing me her picture, which I readily
recognized," was Katy's answer, and a flush of fear and shame came to
Marian's cheek as she continued:
"Did he tell you all? And do you hate me as a vile, polluted creature?"
"Hate you, Marian? No. I have pitied you so much, knowing you were
innocent. Wilford told me all, but he 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 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, sad
life, but God has helped me bear it. You say he believed me dead. Some
time 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, not because he did once, but 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 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 now to every human sound. A step upon the floor
startled her, and turning around 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 thus.
"Forgive me," she said, wringing her hands together. "I know how you
despise me, but 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,
for 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 toward Marian, or why she shrank 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.
Candidly 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. Herself she censured much for
fostering that fondness for admiration so irritating to a jealous man
like Wilford.
"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 grandmother'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. Afterward 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, she having spent much
of her time in the northern part of Scotland, and he never inquired
particularly about my relatives.
"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, at the
instigation, probably, of her son, 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 some time, 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 toward 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 farmhouse, 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 at some time 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, whom I knew loved him so much, kept me silent, and you became
his wife.
"Of what has happened since you know--except, indeed, how hard it was
sometimes for poor, weak human nature to see you as happy as you were at
first, and then contrast my lot with yours. 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 may and do respect
each other, neither can forget the past, or 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-by, 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!"