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, when her eyes were swollen with weeping over Morris' letter, which had come the previous night, telling her how circumstances which seemed providential had led him to the hospital where her husband was, and where, too, was Marian Hazelton.
"I did not think it advisable to visit your husband at first," he wrote, "while Miss Hazelton, who had recently been transferred to this hospital, also kept out of the way. Nor was it necessary that either of us should minister to him there, for he was not thought very ill. 'Only a slight touch of rheumatism, and a low, nervous fever,' said the attending physician, of whom I inquired. Latterly, however, the fever has increased to a fearful extent, seating itself upon the brain, so that he knows neither myself nor Miss Hazelton, both of whom are with him. She, because she would be here where she heard of danger, and I because his case was given into my charge. So I am with him now, writing by his side, while he lies sleeping quietly, and Miss Hazelton bends over him, bathing his burning head. He does not know her, but he talks of Katy, who he says is dead and buried across the sea. Will you come to him, Katy? Your presence may save his life. Telegraph when you leave New York, and I will meet you at the depot."
It is not strange that this letter, followed so soon by the telegram from Marian, should crush one as delicate as Katy, or that for a few minutes she should have been stunned with the shock, so as neither to 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, talking of her in his delirium. Bravely she kept up until New York was reached, but once where Helen was, the tension of her nerves gave way, and she fainted, so we have seen.
At Father Cameron's that night there were troubled, anxious faces, for they, too, had heard 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 from fatigue and fainting 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.
The morrow found that Bell was right, for Katy could not rise, but lay like some crushed flower still on Helen's bed, moaning softly:
"It is very hard, but God knows best."
"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 an invalid in Helen's room, living from day to day upon the letters sent by Bell, who had gone on to Georgetown with her father, and who gave but little hope that Wilford would recover. Not a word did she say of Marian, and only twice did she mention Morris, 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 sickroom.
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, blaming himself much, but so strong was his pride and selfishness, blaming her more for the trouble which had come upon them. Why need she have taken the Genevra matter so to heart, going with it to Morris and so bringing him into his present disagreeable situation. He did not mean to be unjust or unkind toward Katy, but he looked upon her as the direct cause of his being where he was. Had she never been seen in the cars with Morris, he should not have left home as he did, and might anticipate going back without a flush of shame and a dread of meeting old friends, who would think less of him than they used to do. A thousand times Wilford had repented of his rashness, but never by a word had he admitted such repentance 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, longing for home, or for the sight of a familiar face, and half resolving more than once 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 here," 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 sometimes turned from him in disgust, thinking him the most unreasonable man they had ever met. Once he dreamed Genevra was there—that she came to him just as she was in her beautiful girlhood—that her fingers threaded his hair as they used to do in their 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 new 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 "new nurse," who had so recently bent over him. Retaining the same proud reserve which had characterized his whole life, he asked no questions, but listened intently to what his sick companions were saying of the beauty and tenderness of the young girl, 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 this idea was soon dismissed. Katy would hardly venture there as a 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 which at first was hardly observable 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, I have seen her. I recognized the picture at once."
What if it were so, and this nurse was Genevra? The very thought fired Wilford's brain, and when next his physician came he looked with some alarm upon the great change for the worse exhibited by his patient. That surgeon's forte was more in dressing ghastly wounds than in subduing fever, and as he held Wilford's hand, he said:
"You have a fever, my friend, and it is increasing fast. Perhaps you would like to see our new physician, Dr. Grant. He is great on fevers."
"Dr. Grant—Dr. Morris Grant?" Wilford exclaimed, starting up in bed with a fierce energy which surprised the surgeon.
"Yes, Dr. Morris Grant, from Massachusetts," the latter replied, his surprise increasing when Wilford rejoined:
"Send Satan himself sooner than he. I hate him."
The words dropped hissingly from the firmly set teeth, and Wilford fell back upon his pillow, exhausted with excitement and anger that Morris Grant should be there in the same building and offered as his physician.
"Never while my reason lasts," he whispered to himself, with hatred of Morris growing more intense with every beat of his wiry pulse.
Wilford was very sick, and when next the surgeon came around he knew by the bright, restless eyes that reason was tottering.
"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 dangerous, Marian Hazelton the "new nurse," sought and obtained permission to attend him, and again the eyes of the other occupants of the room were turned wonderingly toward her as she bent over the sick man, parting his matted hair, smoothing his tumbled pillow, and holding the cooling draught to the parched lips which muttered strange things in her ear, talking 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. "She never guessed there was a Genevra; but I knew, and I felt almost as if the dead were wronged by that act of Katy's. Do you know Katy?" and his black eyes fastened upon Marian, who, with the strange power she possessed over her patients, soothed him into quiet, while she told him she knew Katy, and talked to him of her, 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," and holding her hand he fell away to sleep.
This was the first day of her being with him, but there were other days when he was not so quiet, 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 back to Katy's; he had punished her long enough, 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 buildings, 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 he 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 Morris wrote to Katy, while Marian followed the letter with a telegram, bidding her come at once.
Slowly the wintry night was passing, the fifth since Morris' letter was sent to Katy, and Morris sat by Wilford's cot, wondering if the morning would bring her to him, 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 who was 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 is we? Who has been with me—the nurse, I mean? Who is she?"
Morris hesitated a moment, and then said:
"Marian Hazelton—she who took care of baby."
"I know—yes," Wilford said, having no suspicion as to who was the woman standing now just 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 well that in his present state 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, then, 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, 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, reading her thoughts aright, 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.
She had not asked Dr. Grant how much he knew of her story, or where he had learned it. She was satisfied that he did know it, and she left her case in his hands, wondering if at any time Wilford had been conscious of her presence as a nurse, and if he would miss her any. He did miss her, but he made no comment, and when, as the morning advanced, another nurse appeared, he said to himself:
"Surely this cannot be Miss Hazelton," but asked no questions of any kind, and Marian's heart grew heavier when in answer to her inquiry, Morris said: "He has not mentioned you."
"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 asking so anxiously for Wilford and explaining 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 recognising 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 some one. 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 firmly 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 sought her brother's side and asked how he had rested. She had come 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 next 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 it was all a dream," he said, "and that you were not here after all. 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? Who said I was near to death?"
"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 says so because he wishes it. 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 clinched 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.
Smoothing his pillow, and arranging the bedclothes tidily about him, Marian turned to meet the eyes of both Mr. Cameron and Bell fixed curiously upon her. With a strange feeling of interest they had watched her, both feeling an aversion to addressing her, and both 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.
Neither said what they thought of her, nor was her name once mentioned, but she was not for a moment absent from their minds as they from choice sat that night 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, oh, how earnestly 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 even 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 thought because I took her from a lower walk of life than mine, that she was bound by every tie of gratitude to do just what I said, and I set myself at work to crush her every feeling and impulse which savored of her early home. 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, father, and you, too, Bell, how, dying, I tried to pray, but could not for thought 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 then 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 were 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 the next day, he tried to write: "Good-by, 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, the peace for which I've sought so long, and Dr. Grant has prayed, and now the way is not so dark, but Katy will not know."