 | CHAPTER XLIV.
LAST HOURS. The Cameron pride, or, Purified by suffering |  |
44. CHAPTER XLIV.
LAST HOURS.
KATY would 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 minnutes,
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, 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 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 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 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
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
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 for Genevra Lambert.
Will she hear it now?”
With a sudden start Marian sprang to her feet, and demanded,
“Who told you of 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 you will love 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
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 human
sound. 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 not 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 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.
“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.
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—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, singing 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,
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 the mother and sisters when I saw them, as I
often used to do, driving gaily 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
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!”
| CHAPTER XLIV.
LAST HOURS. The Cameron pride, or, Purified by suffering | |