CHAPTER XLIV.LAST HOURS.
Katywould 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, makingher 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 mywidow, 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 forGenevra Lambert. Will she hear it now?”
With a sudden start Marian sprang to her feet, and demanded, “Who toldyouof 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 youwilllove 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 humansound. 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 hadtold, 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—Iwasdead 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 asGenevra Lambertwas 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 themother 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!”