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!"