University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.
THE INTERVIEW.

DR. MORRIS was very tired, for his labors that
day had been unusually severe, and it was with a
feeling of comfort and relief that at an earlier
hour than usual, he had turned his steps homeward,
finding a bright fire waiting him in the library,
where his late dinner was soon brought by the housekeeper.
It was very pleasant in that cosy library of
oak and green, with the bright fire on the hearth, and
the smoking dinner set so temptingly before him. And
Morris felt the comfort of his home, thanking the God
who had given him all this, and chiding his wayward
heart that it had ever dared to repine. He was not repining
to-night, as with his hands crossed upon his
head he sat looking into the fire and watching the bits
of glowing anthracite dropping into the pan. He was
thinking of the sick-bed which he had visited last, and
how a faith in Jesus can make the humblest room like
the gate of Heaven; thinking how the woman's eyes had
sparkled when she told him of the other world, where
she would never know pain or hunger or cold again, and
how quickly their lustre was dimmed when she spoke of
her absent husband, the soldier to whom the news of
her death, with the child he had never seen, would be a
crushing blow.

“They who have neither wife nor child are the happier
perhaps,” he said; and then he thought of Katy and
her great sorrow when baby died, wondering if to spare
herself that pain she would rather baby had never been.
“No—oh, no,” he answered to his own inquiry. “She
would not lose the memory which comes from that little
grave for all the world contains. It is better once to
love and lose than not to love at all. In Heaven we
shall see and know why these things were permitted,
and marvel at the poor human nature which rebelled
against them.”

Just at this point of his soliloquy, the telegram was

brought to him. “Come in the next train. I am in
great trouble.”

He read it many times, growing more and more perplexed
with each reading, and then trying to decide
what his better course would be. There were no
patients needing him that night, that he knew of; he
might perhaps go if there was yet time for the train
which passed at four o'clock. There was time, he
found, and telling Mrs. Hull that he had been suddenly
called to New York, he bade his boy bring out his horse
and take him at once to the depot. It was better to
leave no message for the deacon's family, as he did not
wish to alarm them unnecessarily. “I shall undoubtedly
be back to-morrow,” he thought, as he took his seat
in the car, wondering what could be the trouble which
had prompted that strange despatch.

It was nearly midnight when he reached the city, but
a light was shining from the windows of that house in
Madison Square, and Katy, who had never for a moment
doubted his coming, was waiting for him. But not in
the parlor; she was too sick now to go down there, and
when she heard his ring and his voice in the hall asking
for her, she bade Esther show him to her room. More
and more perplexed, Morris ran up to the room where
Katy lay, or rather crouched, upon the sofa, her eyes so
wild and her face so white that, in great alarm, Morris
took the cold hands she stretched feebly towards him,
and bending over her said, “What is it, Katy? Has anything
dreadful happened? and where is your husband?”

At the mention of her husband Katy shivered, and rising
from her crouching position, she pushed her hair
back from her forehead and replied, “Oh, Morris! I am
so wretched,—so full of pain! I have heard of something
which took my life away. I am not Wilford's wife,
for he had another before me,—a wife in Italy,—who is
not dead! And I, oh Morris! what am I? I knew you
would know just what I was, and I sent for you to tell
me and take me away from here, back to Silverton. Help
me, Morris! I am choking! I am—yes—I am—going to
faint!”

It was the first time Katy had put the great horror in
words addressed to another, and the act of doing so made

it more appalling, and with a moan she sank back among
the pillows of the couch, while Morris tried to comprehend
the strange words he had heard, “I am not Wilford's
wife, for he had another before me,—a wife in Italy,
—who is not dead.”

Dr. Morris was thoroughly a man, and though much of
his sinful nature had been subdued, there was enough left
to make his heart rise and fall with great throbs of joy as
he thought of Katy free, even though that freedom were
bought at the expense of dire disgrace to others, and of
misery to her. But only for a moment did he feel thus—
only till he knelt beside the pallid face with the dark
rings beneath the eyes, and saw the faint, quivering motion
around the lips, which told that she was not wholly
unconscious.

“My poor little wounded bird,” he said, as pityingly as
if he had been her father, while much as a father might
kiss his suffering child, he kissed the forehead and the
eyelids where the tears began to gather.

Katy was not insensible, and the name by which he
called her, with the kisses that he gave, thawed the ice
around her heart and brought a flood of tears, which
Morris wiped away, lifting her gently up and pillowing
her hot head upon his arm, while she moaned like a weary
child.

“It rests me so just to see you, Morris. May I go
back with you, as your housekeeper, instead of mrs.
Hull;—that is, if I am not his wife? The world might
despise me, but you would know I was not to blame. I
should go nowhere but to the farm-house, to church, and
baby's grave. Poor baby! I am glad God gave her to
me, even if I am not Wilford's wife; and I am glad now
that she died.”

She was talking to herself rather than to Morris, who,
smoothing back her hair and chafing her cold hands,
said,

“My poor child, you have passed through some agitating
scene. Are you able now to tell me all about it,
and what you mean by another wife?”

There was a shiver, and the white lips grew still whiter
as Katy began her story, going back to St. Mary's churchyard,
and then coming to her first night in New York,

when Juno had told her of a picture and asked her
whose it was. Then she told of Wilford's admission of
an earlier love, who, he said, was dead; of the trouble
about the baby's name, and his aversion to Genevra; but
when she approached the dinner at the elder Cameron's,
her lip quivered in a grieved kind of way as she remembered
what Wilford had said of her to his mother, but
she would not tell this to Morris,—it was not necessary
to her story,—and so she said, “They were talking of
what I ought never to have heard, and it seemed as if
the walls were closing me in so I could not move to let
them know I was there. I said to myself, `I shall go
mad after this,' and I thought of you all coming to see
me in the mad-house, your kind face, Morris, coming up
distinctly before me, just as it would look at me if I were
really crazed. But all this was swept away like a hurricane
when I heard the rest, the part about Genevra, Wilford's
other wife.”

Katy was panting for breath, but she went on with the
story, which made Morris clench his hands as he comprehended
the deceit which had been practiced so long.
Of course he did not look at it as Katy did, for he knew
that according to all civil law she was as really Wilford's
wife as if no other had existed, and he told her so, but
Katy shook her head. “He can't have two wives living.
and I tell you I knew the picture—Genevra is not dead,
I have seen her; I have talked with her,—Genevra is not
dead.”

“Granted that she is not,” Morris answered, “the divorce
remains the same.”

“I do not believe in divorces. Whom God hath joined
together let not man put asunder,” Katy said with an air
which implied that from this argument there could be no
appeal.

“That is the Scripture, I know,” Morris replied, “but
you must know that for one sin our Saviour permitted a
man to put away his wife, thus making it perfectly right.”

“But in Genevra's case the sin did not exist. She was
as innocent as I am, and that must make a difference.”

She was very earnest in her attempts to prove that Genevra
was still a lawful wife, so earnest that a dark suspicion
entered Morris's mind, finding vent in the question,

“Katy, don't you love your husband, that you try
so hard to prove he is not yours?”

There were red spots all over Katy's face and neck as
she saw the meaning put upon her actions, and, covering
her face with her hands, she sobbed violently as she replied,
“I do, oh, yes, I do! I never loved any one else.”
I would have died for him once. May be I would die for
him now; but, Morris, he is disappointed in me. Our
tastes are not alike, and we made a great mistake, or Wilford
did when he took me for his wife. I was better
suited to most anybody else, and I have been so wicked
since, forgetting all the good I ever knew, forgetting
prayer save as I went through the form from old habit's
sake; forgetting God, who has punished me so sorely
that every nerve smarts with the stinging blows.”

Oh, how lovingly, how earnestly Morris talked to Katy
then, telling her of Him who smites but to heal, who
chastens not in anger, and would lead the lost one back
into the quiet fold where there was perfect peace.

And Katy, listening eagerly, with her great blue eyes
fixed upon his face, felt that to experience that of which
he talked, was worth more than all the world beside.
Gradually, too, there stole over her the rest she always
felt with him—the indescribable feeling which prompted
her to care for nothing except to do just what he bade
her do, knowing it was right; so when he said to her,
“You cannot go home with me, Katy; your duty is to
remain here in your husband's house,” she offered no remonstrance.
Indeed, Morris doubted if she fully understood
him, she looked so sick and appeared so strange.

“It is not safe for you to be alone. Esther must stay
with you,” he continued, feeling her rapid pulse and noticing
the alternate flushing and paling of her cheek.

A fever was coming on, he feared, and summoning
Esther to the room, he said,

“Your mistress is very sick. You must stay with her
till morning, and if she grows worse, let me know. I
shall be in the library.”

Then, with a few directions with regard to the medicine,
he fortunately had with him, he left the chamber,
and repaired to the library below, where he spent the
few remaining hours of the night, pondering on the

strange story he had heard, and praying for poor Katy,
whose heart had been so sorely wounded.

The quick-witted Esther saw that something was
wrong, and traced it readily to Wilford, whose exacting
nature she thoroughly understood. She had not been
blind during the two years and a half she had been
Katy's maid, and no impatient word of Wilford's, or frown
upon his face, had escaped her when occurring in her
presence, while Katy's uniform sweetness and entire
submission to his will had been noted as well, so that in
Esther's opinion Wilford was a domestic tyrant, and
Katy was an angel. Numerous were her conjectures as
to the cause of the present trouble, which must be something
serious, or Katy had never telegraphed for Dr.
Grant, as she felt certain she had.

“Whatever it is, I'll stand her friend,” she said, as she
bent over her young mistress, who was talking of Genevra
and the grave at St. Mary's, which was no grave at all.

She was growing worse very rapidly, and frightened at
last at the wildness of her eyes, and her constant ravings,
Esther went down to Morris, and bade him come
quickly to Mrs. Cameron.

“She is taken out of her head, and talks so queer and
raving.”

Morris had expected this, but he was not prepared to
find the fever so high, or the symptoms so alarming.

“Shall I send for Mrs. Cameron and another doctor,
please?” Esther asked.

Morris had faith in himself, and he would rather no
other hand should minister to Katy; but he knew he could
not stay there long, for there were those at home who
needed his services. Added to this, her family physician
might know her constitution, now, better than he knew
it, and so he answered that it would be well to send for
both the doctor and Mrs. Cameron.

It was just daylight when Mrs. Cameron arrived,
questioning Esther closely, and appearing much surprised
when she heard of Dr. Grant's presence in the
house. That he came by chance, she never doubted, and
as Esther merely answered the questions put directly to
her, Mrs. Cameron had no suspicion of the telegram.

“I am glad he happened here at this time,” she said.

“I have the utmost confidence in his skill. Still it may
be well for Dr. Craig to see her. I think that is his
ring.”

The city and country physicians agreed exactly with
regard to Katy's illness, or rather the city physician
bowed in acquiescence when Morris said to him that the
fever raging so high had, perhaps, been induced by natural
causes, but was greatly aggravated by some sudden
shock to the nervous system. This was before Mrs.
Cameron came up, but it was repeated in her presence
by Dr. Craig, who thus left the impression that the idea
had originated with himself, rather than with Dr. Grant,
as perhaps he thought it had. He was at first inclined
to patronize the country doctor, but soon found that he
had reckoned without his host. Morris knew more of
Katy, and quite as much of medicine as he did himself,
and when Mrs. Cameron begged him to stay longer, he
answered that her son's wife was as safe in his brother
physician's hands as she could be in his.

Mrs. Cameron was very glad that Dr. Grant was there,
she said. It was surely Providence who sent him to
New York on that particular day, and Morris shivered as
he wondered if it were wrong not to explain the whole
to her.

“Perhaps it is best she should not know of the telegram,”
he thought, and merely bowing to her remarks,
he turned to Katy, who was growing very restless and
moaning as if in pain.

“It hurts,” she said, turning her head from side to
side; “I am lying on Genevra.”

With a sudden start, Mrs. Cameron drew nearer, but
when she remembered the little grave at Silverton, she
said, “It's the baby she's talking about.”

Morris knew better, and as Katy still continued to
move her head as if something were really hurting her,
he passed his hand under her pillow and drew out the
picture she must have kept near her as long as her consciousness
remained. He knew it was Genevra's picture,
and was about to lay it away, when the cover dropped
into his hand, and his eye fell upon a face which was
not new to him, while an involuntary exclamation
of surprise escaped him, as Katy's assertion that Genevra

was living was thus fully confirmed. Marian had
not changed past recognition since her early girlhood,
and Morris knew the likeness at once, pitying Katy more
than he had pitied her yet, as he remembered how
closely Marian Hazleton had been interwoven with her
married life, and the life of the little child which had
borne her name.

“What is that?” Mrs. Cameron asked, and Morris
passed the case to her, saying, “A picture which was
under Katy's pillow.”

Morris did not look at Mrs. Cameron, but tried to
busy himself with the medicines upon the stand, while
she too recognized Genevra Lambert, wondering how it
came in Katy's possession and how much she knew of
Wilford's secret.

“She must have been rummaging,” she thought, and
then as she remembered what Esther had said about her
mistress appearing sick and unhappy, when her husband
left home, she repaired to the parlor and summoning
Esther to her presence, asked her again, “When she first
observed traces of indisposition in Mrs. Cameron.”

“When she came home from that dinner at your
house. She was just as pale as death, and her teeth
fairly chattered as I took off her things.”

“Dinner? What dinner?” Mrs. Cameron asked, and
Esther replied. “Why, the night Mr. Wilford went away
or was to go. She changed her mind about meeting
him at your house, and said she meant to surprise him.
But she came home before Mr. Cameron, looking like a
ghost, and saying she was sick. It's my opinion something
she ate at dinner hurt her.”

“Very likely, yes. You can go now,” Mrs. Cameron
said, and Esther departed, never dreaming how much
light she had inadvertently thrown upon the mystery.

“She must have been in the library and heard all we
said,” Mrs. Cameron thought, as she nervously twisted
the fringe of her breakfast shawl. “I remember we talked
of Genevra, and that we both heard a strange sound
from some quarter, but thought it came from the kitchen.
That was Katy. She was there all the time and let
herself quietly out of the house. I wonder does Wilford
know,” and then there came over her an intense desire

for Wilford to come home—a desire which was not
lessened when she returned to Katy's room and heard her
talking of Genevra and the grave at St. Mary's “where
nobody was buried.”

In a tremor of distress, lest she should betray something
which Morris must not know, Mrs. Cameron tried
to hush her, talking as if it was the baby she meant, but
Katy answered promptly, “It's Genevra Lambert I
mean, Wilford's other wife; the one across the sea. She
was innocent, too—as innocent as I, whom you both deceived.”

Here was a phase of affairs for which Mrs. Cameron
was not prepared, and excessively mortified that Morris
should hear Katy's ravings, she tried again to quiet her,
consoling herself with the reflection that as Morris was
Katy's cousin, he would not repeat what he heard, and
feeling gratified now that Dr. Craig was absent, as she
could not be so sure of him. If Katy's delirium continued,
no one must be admitted to the room except those
who could be trusted, and as there had been already several
rings, she said to Esther that as the fever was probably
malignant and contagious, no one must be admitted
to the house with the expectation of seeing the patient,
while the servants were advised to stay in their own
quarters, except as their services might be needed elsewhere.
And so it was that by the morrow the news had
spread of some infectious disease at No. — on Madison
Square, which was shunned as carefully as if small-pox
itself had been raging there instead of the brain fever,
which increased so fast that Morris suggested to Mrs.
Cameron that she telegraph for Wilford.

“They might find him, and they might not, Mother
Cameron said. They could try, at all events,” and in a
few moments the telegraphic wires were carrying the
news of Katy's illness, both to the west, where Wilford
had gone, and to the east, where Helen read with a
blanched cheek that Katy perhaps was dying, and she
must hasten to New York.

This was Mrs. Cameron's suggestion, wrung out by
the knowing that some woman besides herself was needed
in the sick-room, and by feeling that Helen could be
trusted with the story of the first marriage, which Katy

talked of constantly, telling it so accurately that only a
fool would fail of being convinced that there was much
of truth in those delirious ravings.