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<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The curse of Clifton, by Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth</p>
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<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The curse of Clifton</p>
<p style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em;'>or, the widowed bride</p>
<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth</p>
<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 16, 2023 [eBook #70776]</p>
<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p>
  <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</p>
<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CURSE OF CLIFTON ***</div>

<div class='tnotes covernote'>

<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p>

<p class='c000'>The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p>

</div>

<div class='titlepage'>

<div>
  <h1 class='c001'><span class='sc'>The Curse of Clifton</span><br> <span class='small'>OR,</span><br> <span class='large'>THE WIDOWED BRIDE.</span></h1>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='xlarge'>BY MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><span class='small'>AUTHOR OF “SELF-RAISED,” “ISHMAEL,” “FAIR PLAY,” “A NOBLE LORD,” “THE CHANGED BRIDES,” “A BEAUTIFUL FIEND,” “HOW HE WON HER,” “RETRIBUTION,” “THE BRIDE’S FATE,” “THE LADY OF THE ISLE,” “CRUEL AS THE GRAVE,” “VIVIA,” “THE WIDOW’S SON,” “ALLWORTH ABBEY,” “THE LOST HEIRESS,” “INDIA,” “THE GYPSY’S PROPHECY,” “THE ARTIST’S LOVE,” “THE THREE BEAUTIES,” “VICTOR’S TRIUMPH,” “THE MISSING BRIDE,” “FALLEN PRIDE,” “THE FATAL SECRET,” “THE SPECTRE LOVER,” “MAIDEN WIDOW,” “THE TWO SISTERS,” “FATAL MARRIAGE,” “THE BRIDAL EVE,” “THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” “THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS,” “TRIED FOR HER LIFE,” “DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” ETC.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'><span class='small'>“<span class='sc'>The Curse of Clifton; or, The Widowed Bride</span>” will be found, on perusal by all,
to be equal, if not superior, to any of the previous works by the celebrated American authoress,
Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth, who is now conceded by critics to be the most popular
female writer living, and her works to be among the greatest novels in the English language, as
well as the most splendid pictures of American life ever written.  “<span class='sc'>The Curse of Clifton</span>”
shows all the grace, vigor, and absorbing interest to be found in  “Ishmael” and “Self-Raised,”
her last two works, and places Mrs. Southworth in the front rank of living novelists. The same
indescribable charm pervades all her works, which can only emanate from a female mind, and
the excellences of “<span class='sc'>The Curse of Clifton</span>” are many and great. It is a model book—graphic,
brilliant and original. The romance is glowing and bold, possessing an absorbing interest
that can attach only to real existences and life-like portraitures. The characters are
beautifully drawn, and the novel throughout is highly exciting and of unexceptionable moral
tendency. It ought to be read by everybody in the cheap form in which it is now issued.</span></p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div>PHILADELPHIA:</div>
    <div>T. B. PETERSON &#38; BROTHERS;</div>
    <div>306 CHESTNUT STREET.</div>
  </div>
</div>

</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div><span class='small'>COPYRIGHT:—1875.</span></div>
    <div><span class='small'>T. B. PETERSON &#38; BROTHERS.</span></div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='xlarge'>MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S COMPLETE WORKS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'>EACH WORK IS COMPLETE IN ONE LARGE DUODECIMO VOLUME.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><i>SELF-RAISED; or, FROM THE DEPTHS. Sequel to Ishmael.</i></div>
      <div class='line in2'><i>ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. (Being Self-Made.)</i></div>
      <div class='line in4'><i>THE MOTHER-IN-LAW; or, MARRIED IN HASTE.</i></div>
      <div class='line in6'><i>THE PHANTOM WEDDING; or, Fall of House of Flint.</i></div>
      <div class='line'><i>THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER.</i></div>
      <div class='line in2'><i>A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE.</i></div>
      <div class='line in4'><i>VICTOR’S TRIUMPH. A Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend.”</i></div>
      <div class='line in6'><i>THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, Orville Deville.</i></div>
      <div class='line'><i>FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, the MAN HATER.</i></div>
      <div class='line in2'><i>HOW HE WON HER. A Sequel to “Fair Play.”</i></div>
      <div class='line in4'><i>THE CHANGED BRIDES; or, Winning Her Way.</i></div>
      <div class='line in6'><i>THE BRIDE’S FATE. Sequel to “The Changed Brides.”</i></div>
      <div class='line'><i>CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow Eve Mystery.</i></div>
      <div class='line in2'><i>TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to “Cruel as the Grave.”</i></div>
      <div class='line in4'><i>THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or, The Crime and the Curse.</i></div>
      <div class='line in6'><i>THE LADY OF THE ISLE; or, The Island Princess.</i></div>
      <div class='line'><i>THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or, The Brothers.</i></div>
      <div class='line in2'><i>A NOBLE LORD. Sequel to “The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.”</i></div>
      <div class='line in4'><i>THE FAMILY DOOM; or, the SIN OF A COUNTESS.</i></div>
      <div class='line in6'><i>THE MAIDEN WIDOW. Sequel to “The Family Doom.”</i></div>
      <div class='line'><i>THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or, The Bride of an Evening.</i></div>
      <div class='line in2'><i>THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, the Bridal Day.</i></div>
      <div class='line in4'><i>THE THREE BEAUTIES; or, Shannondale.</i></div>
      <div class='line in6'><i>ALL WORTH ABBEY; or, Eudora.</i></div>
      <div class='line'><i>FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE.</i></div>
      <div class='line in2'><i>INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER.</i></div>
      <div class='line in4'><i>VIVIA; or, THE SECRET OF POWER.</i></div>
      <div class='line in6'><i>THE WIDOW’S SON; or, Left Alone.</i></div>
      <div class='line'><i>THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, The Children of the Isle.</i></div>
      <div class='line in2'><i>BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. Sequel to “The Widow’s Son.”</i></div>
      <div class='line in4'><i>THE BRIDAL EVE; or, Rose Elmer.</i></div>
      <div class='line in6'><i>THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, Hickory Hall.</i></div>
      <div class='line'><i>THE DESERTED WIFE.</i></div>
      <div class='line in2'><i>HAUNTED HOMESTEAD.</i></div>
      <div class='line in4'><i>THE LOST HEIRESS.</i></div>
      <div class='line in6'><i>THE SPECTRE LOVER.</i></div>
      <div class='line in8'><i>THE WIFE’S VICTORY.</i></div>
      <div class='line in10'><i>THE FATAL SECRET.</i></div>
      <div class='line'><i>THE CURSE OF CLIFTON.</i></div>
      <div class='line in2'><i>THE TWO SISTERS.</i></div>
      <div class='line in4'><i>THE ARTISTS LOVE.</i></div>
      <div class='line in6'><i>LOVE’S LABOR WON.</i></div>
      <div class='line in8'><i>MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW.</i></div>
      <div class='line in10'><i>RETRIBUTION.</i></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above Books are Bound in Morocco Cloth. Price $1.50 Each.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>☞ <i>Mrs. Southworth’s works are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies
of any one, or more of them, will be sent to any one, postage prepaid, or
free of freight, on remitting the price of the ones wanted, to the publishers</i>,</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>T. B. PETERSON &#38; BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CONTENTS.</h2>
</div>

<table class='table0'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth19'>
<col class='colwidth69'>
<col class='colwidth11'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <th class='c008'><span class='small'>CHAPTER</span></th>
    <th class='c009'>&#160;</th>
    <th class='c010'><span class='small'>PAGE</span></th>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>I.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE MOUNTAIN HUT</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_17'>17</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>II.</td>
    <td class='c009'>CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_42'>42</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>III.</td>
    <td class='c009'>MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_54'>54</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>IV.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE TIDE OF FATE</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_65'>65</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>V.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_75'>75</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>VI.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE RUPTURED TIE</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_84'>84</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>VII.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE SEVERED HEARTS</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_102'>102</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>VIII.</td>
    <td class='c009'>LOST AFFECTION</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_115'>115</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>IX.</td>
    <td class='c009'>WOMAN’S PRIDE</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_142'>142</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>X.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE SISTERS</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_156'>156</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XI.</td>
    <td class='c009'>MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_161'>161</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XII.</td>
    <td class='c009'>SUSPENSE</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_169'>169</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XIII.</td>
    <td class='c009'>ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_176'>176</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XIV.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_185'>185</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XV.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE BLACK SEAL</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_195'>195</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XVI.</td>
    <td class='c009'>MR. CLIFTON’S RESOLUTION</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_203'>203</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XVII.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE WIDOWED BRIDE</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_208'>208</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XVIII.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE YOUNG MOURNER</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_217'>217</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XIX.</td>
    <td class='c009'>CONFESSION</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_228'>228</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XX.</td>
    <td class='c009'>A DOMESTIC SCENE</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_235'>235</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXI.</td>
    <td class='c009'>IN THE CITY</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_245'>245</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>XXII.</td>
    <td class='c009'>LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_255'>255</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXIII.</td>
    <td class='c009'>ZULEIME</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_265'>265</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXIV.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE CATASTROPHE</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_276'>276</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXV.</td>
    <td class='c009'>“IN PALACE CHAMBERS.”</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_294'>294</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXVI.</td>
    <td class='c009'>GEORGIA</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_313'>313</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXVII.</td>
    <td class='c009'>CATHERINE</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_324'>324</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXVIII.</td>
    <td class='c009'>WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_329'>329</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXIX.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE RETURN</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_338'>338</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXX.</td>
    <td class='c009'>BETROTHAL</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_348'>348</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXXI.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE POISON WORKS</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_363'>363</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXXII.</td>
    <td class='c009'>DEDICATION</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_371'>371</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXXIII.</td>
    <td class='c009'>“THE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.”</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_380'>380</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXXIV.</td>
    <td class='c009'>CATHERINE’S REGENCY</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_397'>397</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXV.</td>
    <td class='c009'>CATHERINE’S PROGRESS</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_406'>406</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXXVI.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE NIGHT JOURNEY</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_415'>415</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXXVII.</td>
    <td class='c009'>THE GOAL</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_436'>436</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXXVIII.</td>
    <td class='c009'>CONCLUSION</td>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_453'>453</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span></div>
<div class='chapter ph1'>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div>THE CURSE OF CLIFTON.</div>
  </div>
</div>

</div>

<div>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER I.<br> <span class='large'>THE MOUNTAIN HUT.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in16'>A lonesome lodge</div>
      <div class='line'>That stands so lowe in lonely glen,</div>
      <div class='line'>The little windowe, dim and darke,</div>
      <div class='line'>Is hung with ivy, brier and yewe.</div>
      <div class='line in20'><span class='sc'>Percy’s Reliques.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Upon a glorious morning, in the mid-summer of 18—, two
equestrian travellers spurred their horses up the ascent of
the Eagle’s Flight, the loftiest and most perilous pass of the
Alleghanies.</p>

<p class='c006'>Though the sun was near the meridian, and all the sky
above was “darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,” and perfectly
clear, yet all the earth beneath was covered by a thick, low-lying
fog.</p>

<p class='c006'>On reaching the highest point of the pass, both travellers
drew rein and paused, looking—North, South, East, West—over
the ocean of vapor rolling from horizon to horizon below
them! And while they so pause, let us catch that nearly vertical
ray of the sun that falls upon them, lighting up the group
like fire above the fog, and daguerreotype them as they stand.</p>

<p class='c006'>Both are young men of about the same age, probably
twenty-five; both are well mounted upon fine bay horses,
and both wear the undress uniform of the ———— Regiment
of Cavalry; and here all resemblance between them ceases.</p>

<p class='c006'>He on the right hand, who holds in his horse’s head with
so tight a rein, causing the gallant steed to arch his beautiful
neck so gracefully, while he lets fly a falcon-glance around
<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>the shrouded horizon, is Archer Clifton, of Clifton, now holding
the rank of Captain in the —— Regiment of Cavalry.
His form is of middle size, strongly built, yet elegantly proportioned.
His complexion is dark and bronzed as by exposure;
his features are Roman; his hair and whiskers
trimly cut, are of the darkest chestnut, with what painters
call <i>cool</i> lights, which is to say, that there is no warmth of
coloring even where the sun lights. Indeed, there is no
warmth about the looks of the whole man. His eyes are
singularly beautiful and brilliant, combining all those dark,
shifting, scintillating, prismatic hues, that would drive an
artist mad, for want of colors to portray, or an author to
despair, for lack of words to describe. He wears the dark
blue uniform of his regiment, and manages his noble charger
with the ease and grace only to be found in the accomplished
cavalry officer.</p>

<p class='c006'>He upon the left hand, who, with languid air and loosened
rein, inclines his body forward, permitting his graceful horse
to droop his head and scent the earth, as in quest of herbage,
is Francis Fairfax, of Green Plains, a Lieutenant in the company
under the command of Captain Clifton. He is of about
the same height of Clifton, but his figure is slender almost to
fragility. His features are delicate and piquant. His complexion
is fair and transparent. His hair is also very fair,
and waves off from a forehead so snowy, round and smooth,
as to seem child-like, especially with those clear blue eyes,
that now brood roguishly under their golden lashes, as in
profound quest of mischief, and now light up and sparkle with
fun and frolic. He <i>miss</i>manages his spoiled pet of a steed
with the charming <i><span lang="fr">insouciance</span></i>, only to be seen in the amateur
poet, painter, player, musician, etc., etc., etc. And yet
there is sometimes an earnest, thoughtful aspect about the
youth, that surprises one into the suspicion that all his levity
is superficial, and hides his deeper and better nature, as stubble
sometimes covers and conceals a mine of precious metal.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well!” at last spoke Mr. Fairfax, “it is now about
twelve hours since we were emptied out of that atrocious old
stage coach, which, for a week past, has been beating us
about in its interior, from side to side, and from seat to ceiling,
as if we were a lump of butter in an old woman’s churn,
and whose kindest turn of all to us was, when it turned over
<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>and shook us out down the precipice, and into the trough of
the Wolf’s Lick, as if we had been apples fed to the pigs.
Oh! by the lost baronetcy of the house of Fairfax, my self-esteem
will never recover the effects of it! Perdition seize
the picturesque at this price! And ever since long before
daybreak this morning, have we been wandering about over
those mountain tops, with the earth below us hidden in mist
and only the highest peaks looming through the sea of vapor
like islands in the ocean! And <i>we</i> plunging wildly about in
the fog, like death on the pale horse riding the waves! And
to the momentarily recurring risk of riding over some hidden
precipice of a thousand feet perpendicular. If this be
your glorious mountain scenery, to the demon with it!
For I had as lief be on the open sea with the ‘Ancient
Mariner!’”</p>

<p class='c006'>To this half petulant, half laughing philippic Captain Clifton,
while his glance still roved over the shrouded hemisphere,
replied, with an indulgent smile—</p>

<p class='c006'>“You cannot see the face of the country for the morning
veil she chooses to wear. But wait till high noon, when the
sun, her royal lover, in the meridian of his glory, shall raise
that gauzy covering, and she, like a right royal bride, shall
smile and blush in light and glory.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“By my soul, I could fancy the lady earth wore this veil
to conceal fast gathering tears, rather than smiles or blushes!
<i>Anglicé</i>, I think we shall have rain soon—though blistered
be my tongue for saying it!—not about the rain but about
the veil! For, look you! Fret as I may at this journey
through the mist—yet this fine scenery, under a cloud as it
literally <i>is</i>, gives me a feeling of breadth, grandeur! I expand,
spread out over the vast area of its shrouded solitudes.
Oh! it is only on the boundless sea or on the mountain top,
with a hemisphere below me, that I feel as if I had room
enough to live in! And you give me a feeling of suffocation
by drawing in this awful shrouded world to the simile of a
lady’s veiled face! But it is not to be wondered at! No,
by the shade of Marc Antony, and all other great men, who
held the whole world light in the balance with a woman’s
evanescent smile or tear! everything is <i>apropos du femmes</i>
with you now. Could the music of the spheres suddenly
burst upon your astonished ears, as soon as you had recovered
<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>your senses, your highest note of admiration would be to
compare that universal diapason of divine harmony to Lady
Carolyn’s silver laugh!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not recollect ever to have heard ‘Lady’ Carolyn
laugh.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Ten thousand pardons!</i> A Clifton of Clifton never
laughs. But tell me, Captain, whereabouts in the world—I
mean in the clouds, <i>are we</i>? And when shall we see this
pure pearl of beauty and the rich casket that enshrines her,
this stately lily of the mountains and the parterre where she
blooms;—when shall we behold Paradise and the Peri—Clifton
and Lady Carolyn?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Without replying to this mock-poetic strain, Captain Clifton
remained with his eyes still wandering from East to West,
and back again over the rolling vapor. And Fairfax continued—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I suspect now, by your abstracted air and wandering
eye, that you have lost your way in the clouds—not the first
time such a thing has happened to a lover, nor would it be
strange in a place like this, where the only land-marks are
mountain tops sticking out of the fog with a day’s journey
between each!”</p>

<p class='c006'>At this instant a distant group of peaks broke suddenly
through the mist like new isles thrown up by the sea, and
glittered whitely in the sunlight against the deep blue
horizon.</p>

<p class='c006'>“See!” exclaimed Clifton, roused from his apathy by the
sudden apparition. “Look, Fairfax! I will show you White
Cliffs! Look straight before you to the Western horizon—a
little North of West. You see a crescent of seven peaks
rising through the mist against the sky. That is White
Cliffs.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Looking white enough at this distance—quite like snow-capped
mountains, in fact.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes. They are of white quartz, and their peaks rising
from the girdle of dark evergreens around their base and
sides, have quite a cooling effect in hot weather.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! just so. Now how far off are those same blessed
refrigerators?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“About twenty-five miles in a bee-line. But the mountain
road is very circuitous, and makes the distance nearly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>forty. However, if we ride well, we shall be able to reach
Clifton in time to surprise Mrs. Clifton at tea.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Heaven be praised for that possibility!” ejaculated
Fairfax, as they prepared to descend the mountain
side.</p>

<p class='c006'>As they rode down, Captain Clifton, warming slightly from
his cool reserve, said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I think, Fairfax, that you, poet and artist as you claim
to be, will rather like Clifton. Tourists, who have visited
our part of the country, think the scenery there very fine.
It impresses <i>me</i> merely as being unique. There is something
formal—but, to myself, not therefore unpleasing in that
crescent of seven peaks—the tallest being in the centre and
gradually declining thence to the lowest, which may be called
the horns of the crescent, and point Southward. Those
peaks rise from a forest of—first elms and oaks around their
base; then pines farther up their sides; and last of cedars,
above which rise the pinnacle of white quartz. This crescent
of mountains surrounds and shelters from the North winds
the family mansion, which is situated in the woods at its foot.
North of the peaks, the country is wild and rugged, but
partly covered with thick forest, and affording the best hunting
grounds in the world. There you may course the hare;
track the deer; or if your tastes aspire to a fiercer conflict,
hunt the wolf, the wild cat, or the bear—!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“—Or the rattle-snake, copper-head, or moccasin! Thank
you, I have no inclination for crusade against those mountaineers,”
laughed Fairfax.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Perhaps you like angling? There is a trout stream at
the foot of the wooded lawn, in front of the house. I must
tell you about that, for it is the head waters of a fine
river.</p>

<p class='c006'>“From the Western cliff there springs a torrent that with
many a leap, and fall, and rebound, tumbles tumultuously
down the side of the mountain, and falling into a channel at
the foot of the lawn flows calmly on, until it meets a second
fall, from whence it goes hurrying on, through forests, fields
and rocks, taking tribute from many a mountain torrent, and
many a meadow-stream, and widening as it goes, until it becomes
a mighty river, rushing on, to pour its floods into the
majestic James. After which, they both go on, breaking
<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>through range after range of mountains, and so conquer their
passage to the sea—even as in the feudal days of the olden
country, some mountain chieftain, gathering his vassals together,
came rushing down from his highland home, and
laying all the country under tribute in his course, hurried on
to throw all his treasures at the feet of his sovereign, and go
with him to the wars.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Clifton!” said Fairfax, more seriously than he had yet
spoken, “all your illustrations—all your metaphors—all
your thoughts, fancies and imaginings are—not ‘of the earth,
earthy,’ but worse—far worse—of the <i>world</i>, <i>worldly</i>! Of
the world, its castes, customs and conventions—its pomps,
vanities and falsities! You speak of the grandest, the most
imposing—oh! let me call it at once, the most magnificent
area of mountain scenery in the hemisphere, with all the
earth, below and around, covered with a sea of vapor that
rises and falls, rolling from horizon to horizon, like the waves
of the ocean, and you compare it to a veiled royal bride!
You describe a mighty mountain-river, rending its passage
through the everlasting rocks, overleaping, uprooting, bearing
down and bearing on all obstacles to its resistless rush
towards the sea, and you liken it to a chieftain going to pay
tribute to a King! Ah, Clifton of Clifton, the beauty, the
glory, and the majesty of the <i>earth</i> pleases you, but the
‘pomp, pride, and circumstance’ of the <i>world</i> inspires you!
But when was it otherwise with a Clifton, of Clifton? ‘The
spirit of intense worldliness has ever been their bane and
curse—their sin and its punishment!’” he concluded, relapsing
into his mock-tragic air.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! so you are familiar with the popular legend that
you have just quoted,” said Captain Clifton. “But,” he
added, with a sarcastic smile, “were Georgia here, I think
she could refute the charge, and prove one Clifton, at least,
has been guided by any spirit rather than that of ‘intense
worldliness.’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Georgia?</i>”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I beg her pardon! Mrs. Clifton, of Clifton.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! your aunt! but by my soul, Captain, that was a
very irreverent way of introducing the old lady! Do young
men in your patriarchal part of the country call old gentlewomen
by their Christian names?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>“Old gentlewomen!” repeated Clifton slowly, with a
musing smile, adding—“Georgia is about seventeen years
of age, and the most beautiful woman in the world!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Whe-e-e-ew! I’m amazed! I’m confounded! I’m
stunned! Then—the present Mrs. Clifton is the <i>second</i> wife?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, sir—Georgia is my uncle’s fourth wife.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Overwhelmed!—annihilated!” exclaimed the young man.
“The—the—old Blue-beard! the old Henry VIII.! Four
wives! Are they all living?—if not, where does he bury his
dead?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Fairfax!</i>” exclaimed Captain Clifton, in a tone, and
with a look, that speedily recalled the young man to himself—then
he added, rather haughtily—“My Uncle Clifton is a
simple, gentle-hearted old man, excessively fond of women,
but mark you, sir!—it is the affection of the patriarch, not
of the pacha.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Hang me if ever I saw any difference between Solomon
the king, and Solimaun the caliph; Abraham the patriarch,
and Aroun the pacha, in that respect,” laughed the young
man, until, stealing a furtive glance at the cold and haughty
face of Clifton, he held out his hand, and suddenly exclaimed—“Pardon
me, Clifton! or call me out! I—can’t help a
jest, to save my soul! but I’ll fight or apologize, or render
any other sort of satisfaction afterwards!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Captain Clifton remembered that Francis Fairfax was his
guest, going to spend a long mid-summer furlough at his
mother’s house, and so he cleared his brow and answered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nonsense!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Now tell me about Henry VIII.’s fourth Queen—how
long has she been married—I mean the present Mrs. Clifton?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“About two years. My uncle wedded her when she was
fifteen—she is now seventeen—and, as I said, the most beautiful
creature that you, or I, or any one else, ever did, or
ever shall see, anywhere.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Allons</i>—stop there! False knight and recreant! whose
colors do you wear while you uphold the peerless beauty of
Georgia? What would Miss Clifton of Clifton say to your
admiration?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ridiculous, sir! Miss Clifton is herself very beautiful
but not the <i>most</i> beautiful. Miss Clifton has <i>other</i> and
<i>rarer</i> distinctions, I am proud to say?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>“Oh, I understand—her family <i>name</i>!—nevertheless, be
hanged if I don’t believe you have been in love with
Georgia!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Impossible, sir! The perfect beauty of the young girl
struck me forcibly, as it strikes <i>all others</i>—nay, more—impressed
my imagination deeply perhaps. I confess to a
<i>penchant</i> for female beauty—and—observe—it is the artist’s
taste, sir, not the sultan’s. But in love with Georgia! Impossible,
sir! She was a girl of humble parentage!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! then you think it quite ‘impossible’ that a gentleman
born, should be in love with a girl of ‘humble parentage?’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Preposterous, sir!—utterly preposterous! Pray, let us
hear no more about it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yet your uncle—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My uncle married such an one, you would say. Old
gentlemen, living on their own estates, will do such things.
And the world charitably ascribes it to dotage, smiles and
forgives them. You will oblige me by changing the subject,
Frank.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Fairfax fell into reverie, and Clifton dropped into thought,
and they rode on for some time in silence, and in—joy—until—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Floods and furies! Fire and flames!! Lightning and
tempests, and sudden death!!!” exclaimed Fairfax, rearing
and backing his horse with a terrible jerk, and throwing himself
from the saddle, bathed in perspiration, and shaking with
terror. “Look! Look there! There at your feet! Back!
Back your horse, unless you wish to ride straight to the
kingdom of Heaven, or—to the other place! Oh, blessed
Lord! I shall never survive the shock!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Captain Clifton backed his horse, dismounted, and following
the index of Fairfax, approached the brink of the awful
abyss, and looked down a perpendicular precipice of more
than a thousand feet, with the remaining distance lost in
shadows and dim vapors, while faintly to the ear came a low
and hollow murmur, as of the roaring of many waters at a
vast depth!</p>

<p class='c006'>“This is the head of the Devil’s Staircase! We have lost
our way!” said Captain Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Devil’s Staircase! I should think it was! Ugh! Oooo-oo-ooh!
<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>I shall never survive it! Where does it lead to?
Tell me that! To the infernal regions, I suppose, of course.
Ur-r-r-r-r!” exclaimed Fairfax, with his teeth chattering.</p>

<p class='c006'>“We have indeed made a very narrow escape,” said Captain
Clifton, gazing thoughtfully down the horrible pit.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Narrow escape! Ur-r-r-r-r!” exclaimed Frank, shaking,
shuddering, and streaming with cold perspiration. “I tell
you, when I was providentially led to look down, and saw the
fog roll away from beneath my horse’s feet, and reveal that
ghastly—Ur-r-r-r-r! Ur-r-r-r-r! I believe I shall chatter my
teeth to powder!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come, come, Fairfax! this is really unmanly. Thank
an ever-watchful Providence, that has preserved you from a
sudden and horrible death, and calm yourself. Be a
man!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Be a man! You might as well say to my shuddering
horse, there—be a horse! This is unhorsely! Ur-r-r-r-r.
I tell you it has given me the tertian ague!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, Frank! Really!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Look at my horse—look even at that dumb beast! Yes,
look at that gallant steed, who would charge upon a phalanx
of fixed bayonets, and impale himself upon their points, if
spurred to it—look at him! Positively frozen with terror!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Fairfax, you astonish me—certainly you are not really
so much overcome.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Overcome! My nerves are shattered to atoms, I tell
you! Ur-r-r-r-r! It has given me the tertian ague, and
the St. Vitus’ dance! both together! Ur-r-r-r-r!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Now who would have supposed you to be a—of such a
nervous temperament! Come, let me assist you to mount,
and then away.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What! And at the end of the next hundred yards, ride
headlong over a precipice of fifteen hundred feet, and before
night find sepulchre in the maws of fifty turkey-buzzards! I
tell you there is neither a glorious death, an honorable burial
nor an immortal fame to be found in such a fate! Heavens
and earth, no! For instance—‘Whatever became of that
poor devil, Fairfax?’ asks one. ‘Oh, one day, crossing the
mountains in a fog, with his head in a mist, he had the awkwardness
to pitch himself headforemost down the Devil’s
Ladder, in the Alleghanies,’ answers t’other. ‘<i>Poor creature!</i>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>He was always a miserable—but where was he buried?’
‘He wa’n’t buried—the crows eat him up,’ etc., etc., etc.!
Oh! I know what my posthumous fame would be in such a
case. Quite different from that of the future Major-General
Francis Fairfax, who, fifty years hence, at a good old age,
shall die in his downy bed, with the archbishop praying by
him, and be buried with the highest honors of war, and have
a national monument raised to his fame, emblazoning his immortal
services to his grateful country, in receiving her
honors and emoluments for more that half a century! Can’t
give up that glorious future for the sake of dashing myself
to pieces this afternoon, Clifton. No!” said the young man,
folding his arms, and striking an attitude <i>a-la-Napoleon</i>,
“I have a destiny to fulfill, and shall not stir from this spot
until the mist rises or falls.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mr. Fairfax! It is now drawing late in the afternoon. We
shall have a storm before night; and a storm on the mountains,
let me tell you, is a much more delightful thing to read
about in Childe Harold, while stretched at your ease upon
the settee in your shady piazza, than to take in <i><span lang="la">propria
personæ</span></i> on the Alleghanies,” said Captain Clifton,
quietly.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Only warrant me from bringing up suddenly to the
jumping-off place before I know it—and I’ll make an attempt!
Yea! let him only insure my body unharmed by
fire or water, and I’ll valiantly follow my leader through
flood and flame!” replied Frank, recovering himself with a
few more shudders, and preparing to mount.</p>

<p class='c006'>“We have left the right road about two miles behind,”
said Captain Clifton, turning his horse’s head and leading
the way.</p>

<p class='c006'>The fog below was condensing very fast. From the North-Western
horizon black clouds were rising behind masses of
foaming white vapor. The air was still and oppressive, and
from all around came a faint, low moaning sound, as if nature
cowered and trembled before the coming of the terrible
“storm king.” The fog was now rolling down and gathering
into clouds below them—revealing the majestic features
of the landscape, mountains, vales and forests, rocks, glens
and waterfalls, in wild and magnificent confusion—all wearing
now a savage and gloomy aspect under the shadow of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>the coming storm. Captain Clifton’s eye had been constantly
on the alert in hope of discovering some mountain
cabin, which might shelter them from the fury of the tempest,
but as yet his search was unsuccessful—no human
dwelling even of the humblest description was to be seen.
At length the attention of the travellers was attracted by
the faint tingling of a bell—then by the bleating of sheep—and
then from the deep clouded glen at their right, sprung
up into their path a bell-wether followed by two—five—ten—a
whole flock of sheep; and driven by a girl on a pony;
a little coarse, sun-burned girl, in a boy’s coarse straw hat
and a homespun gown, riding on a little rough-coated, wiry,
mountain pony.</p>

<p class='c006'>“A shepherdess, by all that is romantic,” exclaimed Fairfax,
vaulting aside to let the sheep pass. Then springing to
the side of the rough-coated pony, he doffed his hat to the
rider and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My good girl—for the love of Providence, will you tell
us where we can find shelter from the storm?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The child raised her fine eyes to the stranger’s face with
the look of a startled fawn—and dropped them again instantly.
Fairfax repeated his question. The child stole
another furtive glance at the fine gentleman in the very fine
uniform, and then at her own coarse raiment, and blushed
deeply. But before Fairfax could reiterate his request, she
said, quietly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Grandfather’s cabin is not far off, if you and the other
gentleman will come with me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“With great pleasure—and ten thousand thanks, my dear
little girl. Be so good as to lead the way.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The flock of sheep had gone on before. The girl put her
pony in motion, and the gentlemen followed—Mr. Fairfax
addressing all his conversation to his little companion; and
Captain Clifton riding on in silence and abstraction.</p>

<p class='c006'>The sky was darkening very fast, and great single drops
of rain occasionally falling. They quickened their pace, and
after riding briskly several hundred yards, came to the head
of a glen, deep down in which was seen a small, lone cabin.
At this instant the sheet lightning glared from horizon to
horizon, followed by a report as of exploded and falling
rocks, and then the rain came down in a deluge. The darkness
<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>was so dense now as to hide their way. The girl jumped
from her pony, and giving him a little slap that sent him
travelling down the path, went up to the head of Clifton’s
horse and said, shyly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“You can’t see the way, sir, and you don’t know the
road—let me lead your horse.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“By no means, my good girl,” replied Clifton, speaking
in a tone of haughty astonishment.</p>

<p class='c006'>Without reply the child turned from him and went towards
Fairfax. And at the same instant a thunderbolt was
hurled from Heaven with a terrific crash, riving the ground
on which she had just stood. When the panic was over, the
first thought of Captain Clifton was for the safety of that
presumptuous child. A glare of lightning revealed her
lying on the rock. He hastened to her side.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear child, are you hurt,” he asked, dismounting
and stooping to lift her.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! sir, I am so glad to hear you speak! I thought
you were struck.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Are you hurt?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh no, sir, I was only thrown down,” replied the child,
lightly springing to her feet.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, yes! Exchange your mutual condolences and congratulations.
But who the mischief cares whether I am
hurt or not?” exclaimed Fairfax, stumbling along towards
them—for he also had dismounted.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You were entirely out of danger,” replied Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Out of danger! Who the deuce is out of danger within
a hundred miles of these infernal mountains?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The rain was still pouring down in floods, and in the interval
of the thunder, the roar of the swollen torrents was
deafening. The question now was, whether to remain standing
there exposed to all the fury of the storm, or to attempt
the now dangerous descent into the glen.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I could lead your horses down in safety, if you would
let me, for I know every inch of the road so well,” said the
girl.</p>

<p class='c006'>Another blinding glare of lightning, another terrific peal
of thunder, and another deluge of rain, put a stop to all reply.
At last the child repeated her offer, saying that she
could lead the horses down very well, “one at a time.” But,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>of course, that was not for a moment to be thought of by
the young men. And her plan was rejected at once.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, then, the only way will be to go down on foot,
and leave your horses here to follow. For you will need
your hands as well as your feet in groping down the slippery
rock through the darkness,” said the girl.</p>

<p class='c006'>After a little more consultation, her last proposition was
adopted, and they began the descent on foot.</p>

<p class='c006'>After some twenty minutes’ toil and struggle through
darkness and deluge, thunder and lightning, they reached
the lowly door of the cabin, pushed it hastily open, and hurried
in.</p>

<p class='c006'>It was very dark, and nothing was to be seen but the red
glow of a few smouldering embers on the hearth. Towards
these the girl went.</p>

<p class='c006'>“And what do you think has become of your flock of
sheep, my good girl?” inquired Frank, kindly, remembering
her interests while he stood there wringing the water out of
his coat skirts.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, the bell-wether has led them all into the pen long
ago, sir. They are always safe when they are once in the
glen,” replied the child, as she lighted a candle.</p>

<p class='c006'>The sudden glare of the light showed a rude apartment,
with an earth floor, log walls, and a fire-place of unhewn stone.
On the right of the fire-place stood a poor bedstead, upon
which lay a venerable, white-haired old man, covered with a
faded counterpane, and near the bed sat an old, chip-bottomed
arm-chair. On the left of the fire-place were two
rough plank shelves, the lower shelf adorned with a few
pewter plates and mugs; the upper one filled with——books!—piles
of old dingy, musty books; and near these
shelves stood a spinning-wheel, with a broach of yarn on the
spindle, and a basket of broaches under it. At the opposite
end of the room, one corner was occupied by a little old oak
table, and the other by a ladder leading up through a trap-door
into the loft overhead. A few rude stools were ranged
along the walls, junks of smoked venison, ropes of onions,
bunches of dried herbs, hanks of yarn, and the old man’s old
hat and coat garnished the walls. All this was seen at a
glance.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Is your grandfather sick?” inquired Frank.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>The girl turned her eyes wistfully towards the venerable
sleeper, and did not reply.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Is your grandfather sick?” repeated Fairfax.</p>

<p class='c006'>The child raised her eyes sorrowfully to the face of the
young man, and remained silent.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Is he so <i>very</i> sick?” earnestly reiterated Frank.</p>

<p class='c006'>“He is not sick, sir,” answered the girl, in a low, sad
voice.</p>

<p class='c006'>“What is the matter with him, then?” thoughtlessly persisted
Frank.</p>

<p class='c006'>Without reply, the girl dropped her eyes, and blushing
deeply, turned away. Setting the candle down upon the
table, she took a pail of water and went up the ladder, and
into the loft. After an absence of a few minutes, she returned,
and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“If you will go up stairs now, you will find two suits of
grandfather’s and Carl’s Sunday clothes. They are not fine,
but they are clean and dry.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Our wet and jaded travellers thanked their young hostess,
and prepared to accept her offer.</p>

<p class='c006'>“And if,” she added, “you would like to rest after so
much fatigue, there is a bed.”</p>

<p class='c006'>They reached the loft, and found it a small, low place,
with a little window, and a little, clean bed. On the bed
lay the two suits of homespun, and two coarse towels. And
on a stool near, sat a pail of water and a tin basin.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do believe that little girl has given us her own sanctuary.
What a dear little thing she is!—so full of courage,
and shyness, too! If she were two or three years older, and
a great deal prettier, I could fancy myself writing poetry
about her,” said Frank.</p>

<p class='c006'>Clifton made no comment—he was engaged in divesting
himself of his wet garments, and thinking about—Miss
Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>When they had refreshed themselves by washing and
changing their dress, Frank threw himself upon the bed,
stretched out his limbs luxuriously, and declared that the
rustic’s clothes were very loose and comfortable, and his own
position truly delightful. Captain Clifton walked to the
window, and looked out at the storm, which was now
abating.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>Frank was already sound asleep.</p>

<p class='c006'>And while Clifton stood at the window, drawing comparisons
between the meanness of the hut in which he found
himself, and the magnificence of the mountain scenery around
it, he heard—in that small, shell-like cabin—he could not
help hearing—what follows. First a heave and plunge, as
if the old man below stairs had started violently from his
bed and fallen again, and then a fearful, shuddering voice
exclaimed, “Kate! Kate! they’re coming again! They’re
after me, Kate! They’re on me! They’re on me! Save
me, Kate! Save me, Kate! Save—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Grandfather—dear grandfather,” said the soothing voice
of the girl, “there is no one here but me—there, there, be
quiet—be still; nothing shall hurt you here—nothing can
you know.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Look! Look, Kate! Look! They’re not men now
but devils!” A violent plunge, struggles, exclamations of
terror and despair which the low, soothing tones and gestures
of the poor girl vainly assayed to tranquillize for some time,
and then—silence for a few minutes—which was again interrupted
by—“Snakes! snakes, Kate! Snakes! <i>Green</i>
snakes! See! see how they dart! They fly! They’re on
me! They’re on me! Help! Help!” And the sound of the
maniac laying about him furiously. Captain Clifton started
up with the intention of going to the poor girl’s assistance—but
by the time he reached the head of the ladder, the voice
of the child had again calmed the infuriated man.</p>

<p class='c006'>All was quiet for a quarter of an hour, and then another
violent start and throw that seemed to shake the little hut,
and a horrible shriek of—“A dragon! A dragon. Kate! A
green dragon belching flame!” Then a succession of violent
shrieks and struggles, which aroused Frank, who springing
up in bed, exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“What the deuce is the matter? Has the Major got
another fit of <i>mania-a-potu</i> on him?” Then, as all again
was quiet, he rubbed his eyes and said, laughing, “I do believe
I have been talking in my sleep! I dreamed we were
in our mess, and the Major was drunk again.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“A part of your dream was real. The old man below
stairs has a fit of <i>mania-a-potu</i> upon him.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>“What! and you staying here! I must go down and
help the girl.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You had better not as yet. She seems to have the power
of soothing him. Your presence might, by exasperating
him, do more harm than good.”</p>

<p class='c006'>At this moment another outbreak of fury from the madman
caused Frank to spring to his feet, and, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I can’t let that maniac tear my dear little hostess to
pieces—” rush to the head of the ladder.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I tell you you had best not <i>intrude</i>—his mania seems
perfectly harmless to the child.”</p>

<p class='c006'>But Frank was at the foot of the ladder, where, however,
an impediment met him. The girl, who had just succeeded
in again soothing the madman, came and stood before him,
saying, “Pray do not come in, sir, just yet.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But, my good girl, I must come in and remain to protect
you,” gently trying to pass her. She stood her ground
firmly; her <i>lips</i> said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am not in any danger. I beg you, sir, do not come in
yet;” but her steady and rather threatening <i>glance</i> said—“Do
not dare to look upon the old man in his degradation!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank turned back, and went and perched himself at the
top of the ladder to watch over the safety of the girl, and
be ready in case of exigency.</p>

<p class='c006'>He saw the old man lying, clutching the cover around him,
while his terror-dilated eyes glared out like a wild beast’s
from its lair—all ready for another start and spring! He
saw the girl mix a mug of strong vinegar and water, and
take it to him, and the old man grasp and quaff it with fiery
thirst; three times she filled the mug, and three times he
gulped its contents with voracity. Then she laid his aged
head tenderly down, and went and saturated a cloth with
vinegar, and placed it about his burning forehead and temples.
Next she took a rustic fan of turkey feathers and
stood by him and fanned him until he fell into a sleep, that
every moment became deeper and deeper. Finally she gently
laid down the fan, sunk upon her knees by the bedside, and
bowed her head upon her clasped hands in silent prayer.
At last she arose, pressed a light kiss upon the furrowed
brow of the sleeper, and silently went about her household
work.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>From a shed at the back of the house she brought wood
and water, made up the fire, filled and hung on the teakettle,
set an oven and oven-lid to heat, and again disappeared
through the back door into the shed. In about
fifteen minutes she returned with a tray of dough and a pan
of venison steaks. She made her dough into a loaf and put
it in the oven to bake, and prepared her venison steaks to
lay upon the coals. She set her table with milk and cream,
and butter, brought in, doubtless from a rude, but cool
spring-house, near at hand.</p>

<p class='c006'>When all was done, she sat down to knit, seeming to wait
the coming of another—for she often paused and listened
with her head turned towards the door, and at length got up
and drew from under the bed a trunk, whence she took an
old, well-patched but clean suit of homespun clothes, with a
shirt and a pair of socks, and hung them over a chair.</p>

<p class='c006'>Soon after a step was heard without—the door was thrown
open, and a thin, dark young man, dressed as a farm laborer,
entered. Throwing his coarse hat to the other end of the
room, he approached the fire, when seeing the situation of
the old man he stopped short, and placing his arms akimbo,
gazed on him, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Drunk again, by ——!” and then turned, with an
interrogative look, towards the girl.</p>

<p class='c006'>A short wave of the hand—a quick, distressful nod, and
the choking down of a sob, told him that it was so.</p>

<p class='c006'>The young man let down his arms, and with a frown of
mingled sorrow and anger approached and gazed upon the
sleeper.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Have you had much trouble with him, dear Kate?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The same choking sob and quick nod answered him.</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Where</i> <span class='fss'>DID</span> he get the liquor? What has he laid his
hands on and sold now—any of my books?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No! no!—it was my bonnet—but never mind, I can
wear your old hat, you know!—it doesn’t matter for me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, now, by all that’s—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Hush, hush, Carl! Don’t swear—he is our grandfather,
you know; and besides,” she added, suddenly dropping her
voice, “there are strangers up stairs.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Strangers! What strangers?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Two gentlemen who came in here out of the storm.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>“Umph!” said the young man, dropping himself into the
arm-chair and falling into deep thought, from which he was
aroused by the voice of Kate, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Carl, don’t sit down in your wet clothes; take those on
the chair, and go in the shed and put them on. And make
haste, please, Carl, because supper is nearly ready, and the
gentlemen up stairs must be hungry.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The young man arose, with a heavy sigh, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I’ll only change my jacket, that I can do here. Oh!
Kate!” he continued, as he divested himself of his wet jacket,
and drew on the other—“Oh! Kate! what between one thing
and another this is no home for you! <i>Indeed, indeed</i>, every
morning I go away from you with a heavy heart, and all day
long I can hardly work for the dread that’s on my mind
about you. If I could only find a place for you to wait on
some lady, or to nurse a baby—but, Lord! what with the
niggers there is never a place to be got here for a poor white
girl.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Carl, if you could get me the best place in the world—even
a place to sew—I wouldn’t leave <i>him</i>. Why, Carl, it
would break his heart. He would grieve himself to death!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And better for him that he should be dead! And better
for you and all concerned!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, don’t say so, Carl! Don’t say so! Come and look
at him, and let the sight soften your heart to him,” said the
girl, taking the youth’s hand, and drawing him to the bedside.
“Look, now, at that poor old wrinkled face—it has
not got very long to live, anyhow—and see the two or three
thin, white hairs on his temples—and see the poor, <i>poor</i>
withered hands—so helpless! Oh! I think it is all so pitiful.
And now see, he is asleep, but how much trouble there
is on his poor old face—no, no! don’t say hard things of
him, it cuts me to the heart! And, Carl, no matter how bad
his fit may be, he never offers to hurt me or anything else.
Only terror and horror is all that is on him! He is a gentle,
harmless, poor old man. And I always pity him like I pity
any one very ill.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Kate! I dare say you think this is all tender-heartedness,
and you give yourself a great deal of credit for it! But I
tell you it’s nothing but weakness. And it may be the ruin
of you, too, before long. And now I tell you, I’m going to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>get a place for you, if I can. Yes, and make you go to it, too.
I can do without you—that is, I <i>must</i> do without you! I
can get the breakfast before I go away in the morning. And
I can leave something for the old man’s dinner, and come
home time enough in the evening to get his supper! And
to-morrow I am going down to the turnpike gate to thrash
Scroggings, and bring your bonnet home. And I’ll tell him
if ever he lets the old man have any more liquor, I’ll kick
him round his groggery till he hasn’t got a whole bone left in
his body. Yes, and I’ll do it, too!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate was placing the supper on the table, but she turned,
with the same expression of countenance with which she had
stopped Fairfax at the foot of the stairs, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I should be very sorry for any violence from you, Carl.
But of one thing be sure—do what you may, I will never,
<i>never</i> leave our grandfather!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“There! now, whenever you get that hateful Maria Theresa
look, I <i>hate</i> you, Katterin! I hate to see strength in women!
It don’t belong to them, nor grace them, anyhow!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Strength of <i>affection</i> does, Carl. But now please call
the gentlemen down to supper,” said Kate.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carl rapped at the foot of the ladder, and summoned the
travellers accordingly.</p>

<p class='c006'>Now, though Fairfax had honorably withdrawn from the
trap-door, the moment he found that his services would not
be required, and that the conversation between Kate and
Carl was growing confidential, yet every word of that conversation
had been distinctly heard by both young men, and had
produced an effect upon both. Frank with difficulty withheld
himself from exclaiming aloud, as pity, disgust, anger or approbation
moved him in turn. Captain Clifton, far less impressible,
and more reserved than his companion, had remained
perfectly quiet and silent, though his thoughts were
more practically busy with the case than those of his companion.
They went down, and were received at the foot of
the ladder by Carl, who, with a sort of rough politeness,
placed stools at the table, and invited them to be seated.
They placed themselves at the board, at the head of which
Kate already presided, with folded hands and downcast eyes.
Then to their utter astonishment, the rude, irreverent young
man, Carl, stood up and asked a blessing, saying, afterwards,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>that he was no parson, nor no Methodist, but Kate would
have it so, and he thought it was best upon the whole, not to
oppose females in such notions, And then he began to wait
upon his guests.</p>

<p class='c006'>Their supper consisted of good coffee, with cream and maple
sugar; good bread, with fresh butter and cheese; venison
steak and broiled chickens; and lastly, of a dish of baked
pears, cold, and a pitcher of milk. Frank was surprised to
find such excellence of fare amid the ragged poverty of the
mountain cabin; but, on afterwards expressing this surprise
to Captain Clifton, he was told by the latter, that such contrasts
were by no means rare. Mr. Fairfax applied himself
with zeal to the good things before him, until the sharpness
of his appetite was sated, and then lingered long over the
meal, conversing with his host upon the state of the country
in his region, the climate and soil, productions, market, etc.,
and receiving from the young mountaineer the information
that there was no great amount of produce about there, except
in the glens, grazing for the cattle, and that the roads
were so bad, and the towns and villages so distant, that nothing
was raised for market, except such kind of produce as
could walk thither, to wit: flocks and herds. That his
grandfather, before the infirmities of age had come upon him,
had raised herds of kine and hogs, which he drove fifty miles
to market every year; but that was some years ago, when he
himself was a child. That now they only had a few sheep,
which his sister tended while he was at work on a plantation
at the foot of the mountain. In reply to a question Frank
put while leisurely using his gold tooth-pick, the young man
informed him farther that himself and his sister were of German
and Irish descent. That the old man, their grandfather,
was a German by birth, but had lived nearly seventy years
in America. That his name was Carl Wetzel, and his only
daughter, Caterina, had been married to an Irish emigrant,
of the name of Kavanagh. That <i>they</i> were the parents of
himself and sister. Finally, that they had been dead nearly
seven years. It was farther ascertained that old Carl Wetzel
had been a man of considerable education; and it was
easily seen that Carl Kavanagh had inherited much of his
father’s Irish quickness of intelligence, and much of his
grandfather’s German love of knowledge.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>Frank, on his part, was equally communicative, and, in
spite of the haughty reserve of Captain Clifton, informed his
host that he had come up in that neighborhood for the purpose
of acting as groomsman at the approaching marriage of
his friend, Captain Clifton, of the —— Regiment of Cavalry,
to his cousin, Miss Carolyn Gower Clifton, of Clifton
Place. That their journey, so far, had been rather disastrous;
that they had set out from Washington City on horseback,
but had become so fatigued by the excessive heat, that
they had been obliged, on arriving at Winchester, to take
places for themselves in the stage for Staunton, and to hire
a man to bring their horses after them—riding one and leading
the other, and so alternately. That before reaching
Staunton, they had been thrown from the stage—without
serious injury to themselves, however, and had been obliged
to walk some ten miles to a village on their route, and wait
the arrival of their horses, which, fortunately, were not
many hours behind them. That they had ridden all day in
a thick fog, lost their way, came near going over a fearful
precipice, and finally got caught in the tempest that drove
them for shelter to the cabin.</p>

<p class='c006'>During all this time, Captain Clifton had seemed lost in
thought, and only once spoke to inquire of the young mountaineer
whether it were possible for them to pursue their
journey that night. To this the young man replied that it
would be impossible, even if it were then daylight, inasmuch
as the torrents were swollen so greatly. And at the thought
of pursuing their journey, a pang of remorse for his forgetfulness
of his horses shot through the breast of Frank,
and—</p>

<p class='c006'>“What the devil can have become of Saladin?” he exclaimed,
starting up.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, he is safe,” answered Clifton. “I saw them
both in the shed as I looked from the little window up
stairs.’</p>

<p class='c006'>“Who put them there?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I tended them,” answered the girl, quietly.</p>

<p class='c006'>They all now arose from the table. The girl cleared the
board, and carried all the things out to wash up. Carl
begged his guests to excuse him, and went out to give the
horses a rub down and another feed.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>Captain Clifton threw himself into the arm-chair, crossed
his legs, took out his tablets, and began to make memorandums.</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank impertinently peeped over his shoulder and read—“Mem.
Ask my mother if she can take a little girl as a
companion.” Clifton closed the book instantly, in silent
rebuke of Frank’s impudence. And Frank himself walked
about fidgety and unhappy for not knowing what to do with
himself, until, at a restless movement of the old man, he went
and poured out a mug of water, and carefully keeping behind
the eye of the patient, lifted up his head and gave him
drink, and after setting down the empty mug, fanned him till
he went sound asleep again.</p>

<p class='c006'>The brother and sister soon returned. Carl sat down and
begun his best efforts at entertainment. But Frank, who
amused himself by seeing everything, saw Kate go up stairs
into the loft and bring down and carry out his own and his
friend’s regimentals.</p>

<p class='c006'>After which she came in, and drawing a stool to the table,
sat down and began to knit, as quietly, as silently, as if no
strangers were in her hut.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carl took down and laid upon the table a rough draught
board, and invited his guests to play with each other.</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank eagerly caught at the opportunity, but Captain
Clifton declined, on the plea of distaste to the amusement.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Play with me, my dear fellow, for pity sake,” said
Frank to Carl, “and don’t mind my friend there! You see,
he doesn’t want to play, neither does he want to talk, nor to
do anything but sit and think about Miss Clifton.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do play with him, and keep him quiet, if you can, my
good youth,” said Captain Clifton, turning his chair slightly
aside from the table, so that his face was in the shade. Opposite
to him, at the other corner of the table, sat Katherine,
with the light shining full upon her face and head, as she
bowed it over her work. Captain Clifton did not fall into a
brown study, he fell into a study of the brown girl. Let no
one presume to misinterpret him. It was not likely that a
man of twenty-five should fall in love with a girl of fourteen.
Dotards do such things, not men. Then it was
utterly preposterous to suppose that Archer Clifton, of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>Clifton, Captain in the —— Regiment of Cavalry, the fastidious
amateur in female beauty, should be smitten with a
hard-featured, sun-burned girl, in a coarse, homespun frock,
that the all-accomplished scholar should be charmed with
the little ignoramus; that the arrogant conservative of rank
should condescend to a low-born mountaineer; or that the
expectant bridegroom of the beautiful and haughty Carolyn
Clifton, of Clifton, should wish to marry a girl who united
all these repulsive qualities of ignorance, ruggedness, and
low birth. Yet if he could have looked only two short years
into the future!</p>

<p class='c006'>But Clifton was a physiognomist, and liked to study a
novel individuality. A new and very curious subject was
before him now. At first he had seen in Kate nothing more
than a coarse-featured, dark-skinned country girl. Now, as
he sat and watched her at her quiet work, with her countenance
in the repose of thoughtfulness, he saw that her features,
though certainly not beautiful or classical, were even
of a higher order of physiognomy, combining the rarest
elements of power and goodness. The broad and massive
forehead, straight nose, and square, firm jaws, were the strong
and ugly features—the rugged frame work, as it were, of her
countenance, and indicated great force of character. But
her hair, eyes, and lips were beautiful. Her hair, of rich
dark brown, with golden lights, rippled around her forehead,
shading and softening its stern strength. Her eyes, large
and shadowy, with drooping lashes, and her lips sweetly
curved, full, and pensively closed, suggested a profound depth
of tenderness. Indeed the brooding brow, the downcast eyes,
and the compressed lips seemed to be habitual with her, and
gave her countenance an expression of grief and care beyond
her years, and of thought and intellect above her station. As
Clifton sat and studied her, he thought—not of</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Full many a flower that’s born to blush unseen,</div>
      <div class='line'>And waste its sweetness on the desert air,”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>for the girl did not resemble a flower so much as a hardy,
pine sapling of her native mountains. No; that look, strength,
intellect, and self-balance—in a word—that look of <span class='fss'>POWER</span>,
suggested rather—<i>girl</i> as she was—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>“Some village Hampden with undaunted breast.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>*  *  *  *  *</div>
      <div class='line'>Some mute inglorious Milton,  *  *  *</div>
      <div class='line'>Some <span class='sc'>Cromwell</span> guiltless of his country’s blood.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>It <i>was</i> a Maria Theresa face without the wickedness.</p>

<p class='c006'>Captain Clifton’s physiognomical studies were interrupted
by the abrupt starting of Frank, who exclaimed vehemently—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Beaten in four games! Now, that’s what I call outrageous!
Don’t you know, my dear fellow, that there are
three persons in the world who should never be beaten—a
guest, a woman, and a monarch?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Carl laughed and chuckled, and beating the draught-board
tambourine-like above his head in triumph, carried it off and
put it away.</p>

<p class='c006'>The whole party then arose to retire. Carl took the
candle and showed his guests up into the loft and left them
to repose.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Now where will that child sleep, for we have got her
room?” asked Frank, with concern, as soon as they were
alone.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh-h!” replied Captain Clifton, indifferently, “anywhere—on
a pallet—perhaps, down stairs.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But the old man and the young one—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh-h!” again drawled Clifton, in a bored tone, “if you
expect to meet with refinement among the mountain people,
you will be disappointed.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Long after the travellers had laid down to rest, they heard
the sound of footsteps moving about in the room below.
They moved quietly and cautiously, as if fearful of disturbing
the guests; but, as I said before, all sounds, even the
lowest, could be distinctly heard through that shell of a
house.</p>

<p class='c006'>On awaking the next morning, the young men found their
own clothes well cleaned, dried, and pressed, ready for them
to put on.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, ha!” said the sagacious Frank, “that is what the
poor girl was at work at so late last night.”</p>

<p class='c006'>On going down stairs they found the lower room neatly
arranged, and breakfast ready for them—hot coffee, corn
pone, hot rolls, rashers of fried bacon, eggs, potatoes, etc.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>And there, in the arm-chair, in a clean homespun suit, sat
the old man, looking as calm, as self-possessed, as noble and
venerable as a Roman senator. He arose and bowed to the
gentlemen, and offered his chair to one of them.</p>

<p class='c006'>No wonder it bowed the young girl’s head with grief and
shame—it pained and humbled even these strangers, to know
that this most reverend white-haired patriarch was often
transformed by drunkenness into the beast! It was a disease,
Kate had often said, wringing her hands with anguish,
while seeing his degradation.</p>

<p class='c006'>It <i>was</i> a disease, and never till vice is treated as such, will
an effectual remedy be applied.</p>

<p class='c006'>Immediately after breakfast, the gentlemen took leave of
the family, and mounted their horses to pursue their journey.
Frank, in the thoughtless kindness of his heart, would have
offered the poor people some remuneration for their entertainment,
but Clifton, who knew the habits and feelings of
the mountaineers better, arrested a purpose that might have
given offence. But on parting with Carl Kavanagh, Captain
Clifton expressed his thanks for the hospitality that had been
extended to himself and friend—adding, that if he could
then, or at any time, in any manner, be of use to his kind
host, he should be happy to serve him, etc., etc. To this the
young man replied—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I thank you, sir. I know Captain Clifton by report, and
feel that I can trust to his generosity. I have a heavy care—my
young sister. If you could hear of a place at service
for her among the honorable ladies of your family or acquaintance,
I should feel very grateful indeed, sir.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Captain Clifton kindly gave his promise to make inquiries.
Frank again shook hands with Carl, bowed to Kate, nodded
to the old man through the window, and then the travellers
turned from the door of the mountain hut, cantered briskly
up the glen, and took the road to <span class='sc'>White Cliffs</span>.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER II.<br> <span class='large'>CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES.</span></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in30'>“Against the cliffs</div>
      <div class='line'>See’st thou not where the mansion stands? The moonbeam</div>
      <div class='line'>Strikes on the granite column, and tall trees</div>
      <div class='line'>Group shadowy round it.”—<span class='sc'>Anonymous.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>A most portentous trial waits thee now—</div>
      <div class='line'>Woman’s bright eyes and dazzling snowy brow.—<span class='sc'>Moore.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>The torrents had been so terribly swollen and overflowed,
and the roads so dreadfully washed and guttered by the tempest
and flood of the preceding evening, that the travellers
found the greatest difficulty in pursuing their journey, often
having to turn back miles on this road to take another way,
and often being obliged to search leagues up and down the
course of a river, to find a practicable ford.</p>

<p class='c006'>Therefore it was near night-fall when they crossed the last
range of forest-crowned mountains, and descended into the
wooded valley that lay between them and White Cliffs. A
winding road through the woods brought them to the house.
The full moon was rising East of the cliffs, and casting their
shadow back across the house and lawn. The mansion was
a lofty edifice of white stone, with terraced roof, and many
irregular, projecting wings. The tall trees surrounding the
buildings, the lofty cliffs rising behind them, the dark shadow
falling on all; the hour, the silence, and the solitude, gave
an air of refreshing coolness and deep repose to the scene.
On turning an angle of the building, they saw the drawing-room
windows open, and the light from them gleaming out
cheerfully across that part of the lawn. At that moment a
servant, waiting at the hall door, came down to take their
horses.</p>

<p class='c006'>“All well at home, Dandy?” inquired Captain Clifton, as
he dismounted, and threw him the reins.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Sarvint, sir. All very well,” replied the man, touching
his hat.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>Captain Clifton led the way up into the hall adjoining the
drawing-room, where they were met by an old gentleman,
who seized both of Clifton’s hands, and shook them slowly
and cordially, as he said, dropping each word separately,
with a hearty, luscious emphasis—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why—my—dear—boy—how glad I am—to see you!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And I am very happy to be with you, sir; and to find
you looking so well. Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance—Lieutenant
Fairfax, of my company,” said Captain
Clifton, presenting his friend.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Glad to see him! Glad to see Mr. Fairfax! Glad to
welcome any friend of my nephew’s to Clifton. How-do-you-do, sir? Knew your relative, Lord Fairfax, of Greenway
Courthouse. Excessively fond of hunting. Kept bachelor’s
hall. Very great mistake, that—very! Hope you won’t
follow his example! Fine man, however, and I honor his
memory! Come in, sir! come in! Come in, Archy! My—dear—boy—I’m—so—del—<i>ighted</i>
to see you!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Whenever he spoke to his nephew, he seemed to dwell
upon each separate syllable with a cordiality impossible to
describe.</p>

<p class='c006'>He was a large, old gentleman, clothed in a fresh, fragrant
suit of pale blue linen, with his hair as white as cotton, his
fresh, rosy complexion, fine teeth, and clear, kind, blue eyes,
making a most refreshing picture of simplicity, cheerfulness,
and cleanliness of soul and body in old age. He was of a
sanguine temperament, and under great provocation, could
get into a passion, too. And what old father of a family,
with two grown daughters, and a young wife, all under
eighteen years of age, and all beauties, has <i>not</i> enough combustible
material to burn the house down, or set his own temper
on fire?—yet such was the kindness of his heart, that
even when in violent anger, stamping up and down the floor,
grasping desperately at his own white temple locks with both
hands, and vociferating in stentorian tones—it was all, as
Frank afterwards said, <i>shooting with blank cartridges</i>—he
never said a word, or did a thing, to wound a single soul.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I trust the ladies are all well, sir,” said Captain Clifton,
as he followed his uncle.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes—yes—that is to say, <i>Carry</i> is well, but not well
<i>pleased</i>. She expected you yesterday—didn’t consider the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>storm any excuse for your absence. Ah! you dog—you sad
dog—at your age would <i>I</i> have kept a lady waiting? Nay,
would I do it <i>now</i>? But come, shall I present you to the
ladies now, or do you prefer first the refreshment of the bath
and a change of dress? Your own and your friend’s baggage
arrived this morning by the wagon, and has been conveyed
to your rooms.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, a change of dress, by all means!” suggested Frank.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dandy—<span class='sc'>Dandy</span>!” exclaimed the old gentleman, raising
his strong voice, till the servant appeared, “show Mr.
Fairfax to General Washington’s room.”</p>

<p class='c006'>General Washington had slept one night at Clifton, and
from that time to this, the room he occupied has been
“General Washington’s room.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The servant conducted Mr. Fairfax up stairs. And then
the old gentleman, turning to his nephew, took his hands
again, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear boy, once more I must say, I’m—so—<i>glad</i>—to—see
you! <i>You</i> are at home, you know. So go and find
your room, and ring and give your orders, <i>my son</i>, for you
are so. And I will go and let the ladies know that you have
come, though I dare say they know it already.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And shaking his hands, he let them go and turned slowly
away.</p>

<p class='c006'>Half an hour sufficed the young gentlemen to make themselves
presentable. At the end of which time they descended
the stairs, and were met in the hall by old Mr. Clifton, who
ushered them into the drawing-room.</p>

<p class='c006'>This apartment was a most delightful summer room. It
was very spacious, occupying the whole first floor of one
of those irregular wings of the house. The ceiling was lofty,
the walls were covered with pearl white paper, and the floor
of white oak was waxed and polished to an ivory smoothness.
On three sides were tall windows, reaching to the
floor, and opening out upon the piazza or the lawn, and
draped with snowy, flowing curtains. On the fourth side
was the open fire-place, whitened inside, and having on its
marble hearth an alabaster vase of lilies, whose fragrance
filled the air. The walls were adorned with tall mirrors, and
with choice paintings, all of a cool, refrigerating character,
such as: An Alpine Scene, A Green Forest Glade, with
<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>Deer Reposing, A Mountain Lake, A Shaded Pond, with
Cows, A Farm Yard in a Snow Storm, etc. A piano stood
at the farthest end of the room. A harp reclined near it.
A few marble-topped stands and tables, scattered over with
rare prints, books, <i>virtu</i>, <i><span lang="fr">bijouterie</span></i>, etc., stood at convenient
distances. A lady’s elegant work-table, with its costly trifles,
was a pleasing feature in the room. Sofas, ottomans,
divans, and lounging chairs, “fitted to a wish for study or
repose,” were everywhere at hand.</p>

<p class='c006'>Through the open windows came the evening wind, laden
with the fragrance of flowers, the murmur of falling waters,
the whisper of leaves, and the cheery chirp of insects—those
night songsters who begin when the birds go to sleep—nature’s
vesper choir. While <i>from</i> the open windows could
be darkly seen the tall shadowy trees, the towering white
cliffs, and, in the distance, a bend of that great river which
took its rise here, and which there sleeping among the dark
green hills, with the moon shining full upon it, seemed a resplendent
mountain lake, flashing back the moonbeams from
its bosom in rays of dazzling light. The whole effect of
the room and the scene was delightfully cooling and refreshing.</p>

<p class='c006'>When Mr. Clifton conducted his guests into this saloon,
it was occupied by three young ladies, who, immediately on
their entrance, arose to receive them; and whom, in presenting
his visitors, Mr. Clifton severally named as, my wife,
Mrs. Clifton,—my daughter, Miss Clifton, and my second
daughter, Zuleime. Captain Clifton, in turn, saluted his aunt
and cousins. Miss Clifton, his betrothed, received him with
cold hauteur.</p>

<p class='c006'>So, these were the beauties—and beautiful, passing beautiful,
they were indeed, though differing from each other in
beauty, as “one star differs from another in glory.” But
let me describe them.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn Clifton is tall and elegantly proportioned, and
moves with high-bred dignity. Her features are Grecian—her
complexion is dazzlingly fair, save when the pure rich
blood mantles in her cheek, and crimsons the short and scornful
lip. Her eyes are blue, and half veiled by their fair
lashes, as in disdain of aught that might seek their glance.
Her fair hair is carried up from her forehead, and falls in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>bright tendril-like curls around the back of her neck, lending
an intellectual and queenly grace to the proud head.
The costume of that day closely resembled the prevailing
mode of our own. Miss Clifton wore a dress of pale blue
silk, made low in the neck, with a long-waisted stomacher,
tight sleeves reaching to the elbows, and ample flowing skirt.
The neck was trimmed with a fall of deep lace, then called
a “tucker,” and answering to the present <i>berthè</i>. The tight
half-sleeves were trimmed at the elbows by deep lace ruffles,
shading the arm. A necklace of large strung pearls around
her throat, a bracelet of the same on her arm, and a pearl-headed
pin run through the Grecian knot of ringlets at the
back of her head, completed her toilet. She carried in her
hand and toyed carelessly with a beautiful fan of marabout
feathers. She was the daughter of the <i>first</i> Mrs. Clifton, of
Clifton, a fair, proud Maryland lady, one of the haughty
Gowers, who lived long enough to augment by precept and
example, the double portion of family arrogance Carolyn
Clifton had inherited from both sides of her house. Miss
Clifton had “received her education” at a first-class “Ladies’
Institute” at Richmond.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime, the younger sister, was about fourteen years of
age, but well grown and full-formed for her years. She was
the daughter of the second Mrs. Clifton, a beautiful West
Indian Creole, who died in giving her life. She had the
snowy skin and damask cheek of her father’s fair race,
and the glittering black hair and sparkling black eyes of her
Creole mother. Her dress was of plain white muslin, with
short sleeves and low neck, and coral necklace, which well
set off the exceeding brilliancy of her complexion. Zuleime
was home for the mid-summer holidays.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton, of Clifton, Georgia!</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, she is indeed the most beautiful woman in the whole
world,” exclaimed Fairfax, to himself, as he turned from the
fair and dignified Carolyn—the brilliant and sparkling Zuleime,
to the dark and graceful Georgia. She is of medium
height. Her complexion is a rich, dark, uniform olive, her
very cheeks being of the same hue, but so transparently clear,
that that which would mar the perfection of another face,
adds deeper beauty to hers. Yes! the delicate bloom of
the fair Carolyn, and the bright damask blush of the brilliant
<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>Zuleime, seem common-place beside the perfect beauty
of the pure, clear olive cheek of the dark Georgia. Her
hair is intensely black, with depths under depths of darkness,
lurking in the labyrinths of irregular curls that cluster
around, and throw so deep a shadow over her witching face.
Her eyebrows are black and arched. Her eyelashes are long,
black, and drooping. Her eyes are—pause—I have been
trying to think of something to which her wondrous eyes
may be compared, for darkness, profundity and power. Midnight?
No, her eyes are darker, stiller, and more solemn
yet. Thunder clouds? No, for her eyes are more stormy
and impending still—and their electric stroke is silent as it
is fatal. In short, her eyes resemble nothing but themselves.
Her dress is of black gauze, over black silk, made high to
veil her neck, and finished with a narrow black lace, within
which gleams around her throat a necklace of jet and gold.
She wears no other jewelry. A large black lace mantilla is
carelessly thrown over all. When she moves her every
movement is undulating grace—her motion might be set to
music. And when she sits still she is <i>so</i> still, and dark, and
beautiful—<i>and something else, besides</i>, that the gazer experiences
something like the fascination and terror one feels in
looking down the depths of a dark chasm.</p>

<p class='c006'>She was the daughter of a portrait painter in Richmond,
and this was what Captain Archer Clifton, in his arrogance,
called humble parentage. Mr. Clifton had met her under
the following circumstances: On finally withdrawing his eldest
daughter from school, he wished, before carrying her
home, to have her portrait taken, and went for that purpose
to the studio of Mr. Fuller, portrait and miniature painter,
where he chanced to see her for the first time, the artist’s
beautiful child, Georgia. He took so strong a fancy to this
bewitching creature, that he delayed his departure—prolonging
his stay in the city for three weeks, at the end of which,
besides the accomplished Miss Clifton, with her elegant
wardrobe, splendid jewels, costly presents, and finished portrait—he
took home the artist’s daughter as the fourth Mrs.
Clifton, of Clifton much to the indignation of the haughty
Carolyn, who never ceased to treat her beautiful young stepmother
with scorn and contempt.</p>

<p class='c006'>Supper was announced, and the old gentleman, rising,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>requested his nephew to lead in his wife, while he himself,
took the arm of his eldest daughter, and left Zuleime to Mr.
Fairfax. They crossed the hall and entered a large and
pleasant dining-room, where stood an elegant table, laid with
a damask table-cloth, set out with silver plate, and Sevres
porcelain, and laden “with all the luxuries of the season.”
Waiters of perfect dress and <i>ad</i>dress were in attendance.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I assure you, Miss Zuleime, that contrast is all the seasoning
of existence—and <i>this</i> is a high seasoning. For yesterday
we sat down to eat supper off of pewter plates, on a
bare board, in a mean hut, in company with rude mountaineers,
and to-night we sit at the elegant tea-table of
Clifton, surrounded with beautiful, refined, and accomplished
ladies,” said Frank, as he handed his lively companion into
her chair, and took the seat by her side.</p>

<p class='c006'>The sprightly Zuleime laughed, and said she doubted
whether he would find more substantial or savory fare here
than he got at the mountain hut.</p>

<p class='c006'>After all were seated, and all served, the conversation
became general and vivacious—old Mr. Clifton being evidently
“the life of the company.” He chatted, jested,
laughed, told anecdotes, and finally, inspired Frank, who
gave a laughable description of their adventures on the Alleghanies;
of being upset in the stage coach, and pitched into
Wolf’s Lick; of being lost in the fog, and near going down
the Devil’s Staircase; finally, of being caught in the tempest,
and shut up in a mountain hut with a raving maniac. At
this the old gentleman began to rally his proud daughter on
her gratuitous ill-humour of the preceding evening, at the
said delay, and then to scold the young men for their effeminacy
and want of gallantry, courage, in suffering themselves
to be deluged by the storm. Now, to be charged, all at
once, with effeminacy, and want of gallantry, and courage,
even in jest, was too much, and in Frank’s case, too near
the truth to go without reply. So he began vehemently to
clear his fame, assuring the assembled company that it was
<i>not</i> altogether effeminacy, for that they had been hospitably
sheltered in the cabin of a beautiful shepherdess.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes,” said Frank, maliciously, “<i>so</i> beautiful that <i>Clifton</i>
there couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and while I sat and
played checkers with her brother, he sat and studied her
<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>face, ‘and it were a book’—<i>for hours</i>. I wish you had seen
him, Miss Clifton—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in6'>“‘Never gazed the moon</div>
      <div class='line'>Upon the water as he sat and read</div>
      <div class='line'>As ’twere her eyes.’</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>Fact, my dear lady, and I should be guilty of misprision of
treason, to conceal it!” laughed Frank, shaking his head at
his friend.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah-h-h! H-a-a-ah!—are you <i>there</i>, my fine fellow!”
chuckled the old gentleman, gleefully rubbing his hands,
and pointing his finger at his nephew, greatly enjoying his
discomfiture.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I assure you, sir,” began Captain Clifton, gravely.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! don’t assure <i>me</i>! don’t assure <i>me</i>! Assure
Carolyn! What d’ye think o’ that, Carolyn? What d’ye
think o’ that? More cause for ill-humor last night, than
ye thought, eh! What think o’ that?” he continued, mercilessly.</p>

<p class='c006'>And Carolyn—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Oh, what a deal of scorn looked beautiful</div>
      <div class='line'>In the contempt and anger of her lip!”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>There are some women who cannot bear jest upon such
subjects—who cannot tolerate that their lovers should look
with common curiosity—far less gaze with interest or admiration
“for hours,” upon any other young female face. And
such a woman was Carolyn Gower Clifton. Captain Clifton
knew this, and adoring her above all things, silently wished
Frank and the mountain-girl both at the bottom of the Devil’s
Staircase.</p>

<p class='c006'>The old gentleman chatted and laughed; Frank jested
and blundered; the sprightly Zuleime sparkled and overflowed
with fun and frolic, and the meal went on merrily,
notwithstanding.</p>

<p class='c006'>When supper was over they adjourned to the airy summer
drawing-room, where they distributed themselves according
to their several humors. Miss Clifton passed imperiously
down the room, and took her seat upon a distant divan.
Captain Clifton followed, with a troubled air, and sat down
<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>on the low ottoman at her feet. They doubtless thought
if they thought at all—that they were in a very obscure
nook. But Frank had the impertinence to see them. There
sat the haughty and scornful girl, with chin erect, lip
curled, and eyelids cast down in disdain upon her suppliant.
And there sat Archer Clifton, with his high, proud face
turned up to hers, with an earnest, pleading, passionate
gaze!</p>

<p class='c006'>“Now, by the venom of Cupid’s shaft!” exclaimed Frank,
to himself, “I cannot see what Clifton finds to worship in
that arrogant girl. If it were this bright, warm Zuleime,
here, now! But <i>her</i>! I might really suspect <i>him</i> of being
a fortune-hunter, and <i>her</i> of being an heiress, if I didn’t
know that Archer Clifton is himself the heir of the entailed
estate of Clifton, and that if his uncle were to die to-night,
he might, if he pleased, turn all these penniless women out
of the house to-morrow! Can’t understand it, for my life!
But I suppose the bond of sympathy between them is their
name and their pride!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do you find talking to yourself a very amusing pastime,
Mr. Fairfax,” asked Zuleime, touching him on the elbow.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, my dear, delightful little girl, I don’t. What a
delightful thing, in a country house, is a beautiful girl of
fourteen, home for the holydays—a black-eyed, red-lipped
girl, in a white muslin gown and a coral necklace!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Are your soliloquies as good natured as your conversation,
Mr. Fairfax,” inquired the laughing Zuleime.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Not quite, I’m afraid, my dear.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do you know how to play chess, Mr. Fairfax?” she
asked, opening the chess-board.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know how to play <i>anything</i> you wish me to play, my
love—even the fool!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Oh!</i> the latter is not so rare or difficult an accomplishment,”
laughed the maiden, taking her seat, and beginning
to arrange the chess-men. Frank sat down, and they commenced
the game in earnest.</p>

<p class='c006'>All this time the old gentleman, with his white head and
rosy face, and kind smile and glance, had been walking
leisurely up and down the floor slowly, rubbing his hands
with an air of great enjoyment—pausing now by the work-table
at which sat his beautiful wife, and gazing on her
<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>fondly while he toyed with the elegant trifles of her work-box—then
sauntering off towards the chess-table, and patting
the head of his “little black-headed darling”—as he called
Zuleime—or passing a jest with Frank as he overlooked the
game—until the boy came from the post-office somewhat late;
when taking the paper he went and ensconced himself in an
easy-chair on the opposite side of his wife’s work-table, and
was soon busied in the perusal of the debate on Mr. Jefferson’s
bill for cutting off entails. Frank felt very much
pleased that the old boy, as he mentally called him, was
quieted at last, and that he himself had at length an opportunity
of initiating his charming companion into the mysteries
of flirtation, while she imparted to him the secrets
of chess.</p>

<p class='c006'>The room was now very quiet. And Frank was soon deeply
immersed in his game. Yes—the room was very quiet, it
seemed the sanctuary of domestic love and happiness! At
one extremity sat the betrothed lovers, conversing in a low
tone, softer than the hum of far-off bees. At the other extremity
sat the graceful young wife, placidly pursuing her
quiet work, and seeming more like the darling spoiled child
of the old man, her husband, who sat reading by her side,
and whose kind eyes often wandered from the paper and
rested fondly upon her. About midway of the room, sat
Frank and his bright companion, too deeply interested in
their chess to notice the happy lovers, or to observe the quiet
contentment of the old man with his beautiful darling. Yes,
this room seemed a temple of domestic truth and trust—of
family peace and joy. At least so thought Frank, until
raising his eyes from his game, his glance chanced to fall for
an instant upon the face of Mrs. Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>It might have been the darkness of her surroundings,
which threw into such strong relief that fearful countenance,
for the black dress and flowing black mantilla veiled all her
form, while the clustering deep black curls darkly shaded
her face. Her form was turned from the table and bent
over the arm of the chair—her bosom was heaving, her lips
apart and humid, her nostrils slightly distended, and her
eyes, those dreadful eyes, fixed with a passionate, fierce,
devouring gaze upon some distant object.</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank impulsively followed the direction of that consuming
<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>gaze, to where the betrothed lovers sat fully reconciled.
Clifton, unconscious of all eyes, but those blue orbs that
smiled so graciously upon him, was pressing Carolyn’s hand
to his lips in an ecstacy of love and gratitude. Frank
turned again to Mrs. Clifton. Her countenance had changed
as by the passage of a thunder-cloud. Her bosom was still
as death. Her brow and cheek was darkened, her teeth and
lips clenched together, her eyes fixed upon the lovers with
the baleful glare of a demon. If the head of the fabled Medusa
had suddenly met his astonished gaze, he could not
have felt a deeper thrill of horror. And yet it was only a
look—the look of an instant—it came and went like the
swift swooping past of a fiend’s wing—but the shadow on all
things seemed to remain. No more did that room seem the
blessed retreat of household faith and love—no! a deadly
serpent lay coiled among its flowers—a deadly poison lurked
in its cup of joy—the shadow of a demon’s wing was brooding
in the air—the house was <span class='fss'>CURSED</span>!</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank was of a highly honorable nature, but nervous and
impressible—he could no longer confine his attention to the
game; he misplayed awkwardly—ridiculously. Zuleime
laughed at him—and her silver laughter struck almost unpleasantly
upon his ear. He lost the game, and finally,
complimenting his young antagonist upon the excellence of
her own play—an excellence which he admitted he had not
fully brought out—Frank arose from the table and sauntered
out into the piazza, exclaiming inwardly—“Ugh! I believe
in Satan, since I’ve seen that woman! Ugh! Whe-ew!
Every time I think of her I shall feel hot and smell brimstone!”
I said that Frank was of an extremely impressible
nature. He stood now upon the piazza at the back of the
house, and the majestic crescent of cliffs was before him.
The quiet of the night, the freshness of the dew, the coolness
of the breeze, the beauty and sublimity of the mountains
rising from their girdle of forest, with their peaks bathed in
moonlight—the distant glimpse of the bend in the river,
where it lay like a silver lake among the hills—the divine
peace and holiness of nature fell soothingly, refreshingly
upon his excited nerves. And after sauntering up and down
the piazza for some twenty minutes, he returned to the parlor
in a happier mood. There he found the family grouped
<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>around the table on which sat a silver basket of pine-apples
with cut-glass plates, and silver fruit knives and napkins.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come, Mr. Fairfax, my dear fellow, we are waiting for
you,” said the old gentleman, beckoning him.</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank joined them at the table, and after this repast was
over, the family separated and retired to bed.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER III.<br> <span class='large'>MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN.</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='c014'>She is a lady of confirmed honor, of an unmatchable spirit, and determinate
in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate affront, nor
show to feel where just provocation is given.—<span class='sc'>Charles Lamb.</span></p>

<p class='c004'>Clifton by the morning sunlight! Oh! that I could
show it to you as Fairfax saw it from the balcony of his
chamber on the morning after his arrival! The whole face
of the country was very high, yet even this elevated land
was broken into hills and valleys, rocks and glens. Behind
the house arose the white cliffs so often mentioned, shutting
out the Northern view, but before the house lay the valley
in which the plantation was situated, and around that, East,
West and South, stretched a magnificent panorama, ridge
beyond ridge of mountains, covered with gigantic forests,
clothed with the richest verdure, rolling on until they gradually
faded away in the distance, their forms lost among the
clouds of the horizon. It seemed a vast, boundless ocean of
greenery, of which the vales and mountains were the stupendous
waves, charmed to sleep.</p>

<p class='c006'>It was a magnificent solitude. Not a human dwelling to
be seen. The planters’ mansions—if there were any in the
neighborhood, were low in the vales, and hidden from sight.
The mountain torrent, as it came leaping down the side of
the cliff, running through the wooded lawn, losing itself in
the forest vale, and reappearing as a mountain lake among
the distant hills, was a beautiful feature in the landscape.
The deep intense blue of the clear skies, the early splendor
of the sunlight, the murmur of the breeze among the waving
trees, the joyous songs of birds, gladdened all the scene,
and put to flight Frank’s blue devils, long before Dandy
called him to breakfast.</p>

<p class='c006'>The breakfast-table was set in the lawn under the shadow
of the pine elms.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>The old gentleman, in his suit of cool white linen—the
sisters in neat morning dresses of white cambric, and the
dark Georgia, in her usual dress of black, were assembled
on the piazza. They greeted Mr. Fairfax with lively welcome,
telling him that Clifton had not yet made his appearance.
But even while they spoke, Captain Clifton joined
them, and they sat down to breakfast. Those breakfasts on
the lawn! How many times in after years, in the sultry
heat of the city hotel, did Fairfax recall them!</p>

<p class='c006'>Soon after breakfast, Captain Clifton invited Mr. Fairfax
to accompany him in a ride up the ridge to his mother’s
farm. And after taking leave of the ladies they set out.
They left the house by the back way, and took a winding
bridle-path up the side of the cliffs. The day was very fine
and cool, and their path was shaded by overhanging trees.
It was altogether a delightful ride, and as they went up,
Clifton, who led the way, turned his head around and inquired—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Frank! what instigated you to romance so last night
about our sojourn at the mountain hut?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Romance? I didn’t romance, except in saying that the
girl was beautiful. I said <i>that</i> for your credit!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! I ought to be <i>exceedingly</i> obliged to you!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes—I think so, too—but what malicious Puck gave
<i>you</i> a love-weed, and fooled you into sitting and studying
that ugly little girl’s hard face all the evening?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I did not think her ugly at all. She has a noble countenance.
A <i>most</i> noble countenance. One, of which an
empress might be proud of!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! <i>I</i> saw nothing but a
mountainous forehead, and a strong portcullis jaw! ‘Noble!’
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I said you’d taken the love-powder!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yet even you cannot find any but a <i>noble</i> simile in speaking
of her ‘ugly’ features!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! what will Miss Clifton think of this admiration?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Sir, Miss Clifton has my deepest homage, and when she
is my wife, she will indulge no follies. But, Fairfax, you
are absurd, and I beg you will abandon this ridiculous conversation.
You know that I have always had a proclivity
to the study of character. Nature made me something of a
physiognomist. And if there be any truth in my favorite
<span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>science, that mountain-girl’s face presented the most extraordinary
combination of power and goodness I have ever
met with.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! then you only studied the maiden as the botanist
would study a new plant, the geologist a new fossil, or the
naturalist a strange animal?—”</p>

<p class='c006'>—“Or the astronomer a new <span class='fss'>STAR</span>? Precisely, sir! Except
that the human being is the highest and most absorbing
study of all!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Really! really! this passes belief—the proud, fastidious
Archer Clifton, to be smitten with an ugly mountain-girl!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Frank! Nonsense—you really anger me. Listen, then,
and I will tell you why that child—for she is but a child—interested
me so much. I saw in her face the signs of wonderful
force of character, as yet undeveloped, and I saw in
all her actions that which corroborated their testimony. I
was surprised to find all that in the humble mountaineer,
and speculated as to what, in her <i>very</i> humble situation, it
might lead. That was simply all!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And did you not wish to be a providence to the mountain
girl, and open a field for so much energy?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Perhaps such a thought might have presented itself to
my mind. If so, it was dismissed at once. A highly gifted
<i>man</i> of low birth must have extraordinary talents indeed,
and be placed in extraordinary circumstances, to elevate
himself above his condition—for a <i>girl</i> in such a case it is
impossible. But, Fairfax, really this conversation has taken
a more serious tone than I designed it should. Really,
nobility of character, though very rare among the lower
classes of society, is yet not so impossible as to excite our
wonder. There are others like Kate Kavanagh—”</p>

<p class='c006'>—“How pat you’ve got her name! Now <i>I</i> had forgotten
it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Pooh! I say there are others like her. They are born
great—they live and die, and the world hears nothing of
them. And talents that might have swayed the counsels of
a monarch, and decided the destinies of an empire, have
been employed to direct the household of a shepherd, and
determine the fate of a sheep! Such is the order of society,
and better, far better so, than that its boundaries should be
thrown down, its ranks intermingled!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>“There spoke a Clifton of Clifton!” said Frank.</p>

<p class='c006'>They were now at the top of the ridge, and entering upon
a hard, stony, half-reclaimed farm, in the midst of which
stood a rude, but substantial house, built of hewn rocks of
every shade of gray, and surrounded by trees. Below them,
all around, rose the forest-crowned hills; behind them the
white cliffs concealed the mansion of Clifton from their sight,
all around them lay fields of stunted corn.</p>

<p class='c006'>“This is Hardbargain,” said Captain Clifton, opening a
rude farm gate, and holding it open, while his companion
passed through.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Hardbargain! a most appropriate name! I should think
it the hardest of all bargains, to receive this farm as a precious
gift,” replied Frank, looking around upon the stony
field and stunted corn.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes,” admitted Captain Clifton, “it is a well-merited title.
It was once called Rocky Ridge. A poor man got a grant
of it, and settled there first—spent all his health and strength
in trying to bring the rugged soil under cultivation—failed—christened
the place Hard<i>scrabble</i>, and sold it to my grandfather
for thrice its value. My grandfather repented the
purchase, re-christened the ill-starred farm Hard<i>bargain</i>,
and, as the Clifton estate was entailed upon his eldest son,
gave this farm as a portion to his younger son, my father.
My father was then a subaltern officer in the Continental
Army, and absent with Washington, at Valley Forge. My
mother, with myself, then an infant, was a temporary
sojourner at Clifton. No sooner had my grandfather made a
gift to my father of this nearly barren farm, than my mother
set all her faculties at work for its cultivation and improvement.
My mother was nearly penniless, being the daughter
of a family of decayed fortune. My father was unable to
send her anything except the Continental notes, with which
he himself was paid, but which would scarcely pass farther.
But being determined not to eat the bread of dependence by
remaining at Clifton after my grandfather’s death, my mother
sold all her jewelry and plate, which had been left her by a
deceased maiden aunt, and applied the proceeds of the sale
to the improvement of Hardbargain. She hired laborers.
There was a rude log hut, built by the first settler upon the
land. She hired a woman, and placed her in that hut to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>keep house and cook for them. She read books on agriculture,
and consulted my uncle’s overseer upon the same subject.
And every morning she rode up and spent the day at
Hardbargain, overlooking the laborers. She was her own
overseer! Frank! you appreciate high worth when you see
it. I may, besides, tell you anything—you are my only
companion—I tell you that my dear mother was one in ten
thousand. She was a true heroine, a heroine of domestic
life. Abandoning all her habits of elegance and refinement,
despising luxury, ease and comfort, disdaining the sneers of
the world, and giving herself to toil and hardship, and weariness
of body and mind, that she might win from the desert
an independent home for her family! My dear mother had
no reason to suppose, and never admitted the possibility that
my uncle would not be blessed with a male heir, that <i>I</i>, her
son, for whom she toiled to secure a rugged farm, would be
the inheritor of entailed Clifton! And so she toiled, year
after year, until at the end of the war, when the army was
reduced, and my father came home, he found a comfortable
house, and a productive farm.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Clifton seemed to have fallen into one of his fits of reminiscence;
scarcely conscious that he was talking to his true
but volatile friend, scarcely conscious that he was talking <i>at
all</i>, he went on—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My first recollection of my dearest mother, is of a very
noble looking lady, of dark complexion, black hair, and gray
eyes. I recollect, when an infant of four years old, being
brought out from the mansion-house of Clifton every morning,
to the back road gate, where she sat upon her horse
awaiting me, with a little basket, containing our dinner,
hanging on the horn of the saddle. I used to be lifted to
the saddle before her, and while her left arm encircled me,
with her right hand she would guide her horse around the
base of the cliff, and take the winding bridle-path that led
up the Rocky Ridge, upon which lay her sterile farm of
Hardbargain. Oh! I remember how she used to ride from
field to field, making investigations, and giving directions to
her rude workmen—and with what deference the rough men
were used to address her—hat in hand. I remember, too,
our cold dinners, taken under the shade of an elm tree,
whose lowest branches sheltered a fine spring—the head
<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>waters of that very torrent, which, in course of time and
space, swells into the mighty river I told you of. Oh! my
noble mother! how few would have displayed her courage
and fortitude!—not one in a million but would have rather
sat down in the luxurious ease and abundance of Clifton,
where she had a long welcome for as long as she should
choose to stay—rather than have dared the toil and hardship
that she endured. The land was at last cleared up, the
farm laid off in order, and brought under the best possible
cultivation. A comfortable house was built, and my mother
moved into it to receive my father when he should come
home, at the disbanding of his company. He came at last—it
was a happy time—and well I remember how my mother’s
young, but stern and weather-beaten face, bloomed and
softened again into youth and beauty and womanhood, by her
soldier’s side. But, ah! he had survived all the horrible
perils and sufferings by cold, hunger, and the foe, endured
by our army during that long and terrible struggle, and returned
safe, to die in a time of peace—to die at home, where
every care and comfort surrounded him. Yes, he came home
in the winter of —82. Towards the spring, he took a slight
cold—it was neglected as of little account—it settled upon
his lungs—before winter came again, he died, and the first
snow that fell, fell upon his grave. My honored mother was
a strong-minded woman. After what I have told you, you
know that she was! She loved him as only the strong can
love. She suffered as only the strong can suffer. She rose
above that death-blow to her happiness as only the strong
can rise. But she has never been the same woman since.
When a few years had passed, and her son’s welfare demanded
her care, she aroused every faculty of her mind and body,
for the ‘purpose of insuring’ his greatest good. Even at
that epoch of time, there was no reason to suppose that I
should inherit the Clifton estate. My uncle was then in the
prime of manhood, had married his second wife, and by no
means despaired of male issue. My dear mother taxed soul,
body and estate to the utmost, to defray my expenses at
college, during the seven years of my residence there. It
was also to her persevering exertions, as well as to the late
military services of my deceased father, that I owed my commission
in the army. They say that <i>misfortunes</i> never come
<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>single. <i>Good fortune</i> certainly ne’er does, if I may judge
of our own experience of both. When I had left college,
the heaviest tax was raised from our income, and when I obtained
a commission in the army, my year’s pay more than
doubled the annual income from the proceeds of the farm.
At this time also my mother received a legacy from an aged
and distant relative, which enabled her to stock her farm
well, and furnish her house comfortably. Furthermore, my
uncle having lost his <i>third</i> wife, and at last given up all
thoughts of a son of his own, began to take quite a paternal
interest in me—insisting, when off duty, I should spend all
my time with him—and finding neither myself nor my mother
disposed to forego each other’s society, would have persuaded
the latter to take up her abode under his roof. But
that arrangement did not suit my mother. She, who in her
young womanhood had too high a spirit for dependence—preferring
to give herself to severest toil and privation, rather
than live in easy luxury under another’s roof—could not in
her stern maturity be bribed to give up her well-earned independence.
Nor indeed, under any circumstances, should
I have consented to the plan. We compromised the matter
by my agreeing to spend half the time of furlough at Clifton.
This was the more congenial to my feelings, as my cousin
Carolyn had now left school permanently. As for my uncle,
he consoled himself for his disappointment in not getting my
mother’s society at Clifton, by marrying a fourth wife.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am impressed with the idea that your mother is a very
proud woman, Clifton!” said Frank, taking advantage of
Captain Clifton’s first thoughtful pause.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, no,” he answered, slowly, as in half reverie, “no—she
is not what the world calls proud—she is no conservator
of rank, as I am. She is the only <i>true</i> republican I know
in this whole Republic. Sprung, herself, from an ancient,
noble, and haughty race, she yet honors talent and virtue,
when met with in the lowest ranks, as much—nay, I verily
believe, <i>more</i>, than when found in the highest circles, where
it is natural they should be more frequently seen.</p>

<p class='c006'>——“But here we are, and you shall judge for yourself,”
concluded Captain Clifton, as he opened a gate admitting
them into a shady yard, in the midst of which stood the house.
They alighted at the gate and gave their horses into the charge
<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>of a negro boy, and walked on to the house. It was a plain
oblong stone building, of two stories, with a deep, shady
piazza, running the whole length of the front. It was divided
through the centre by a wide passage way, the front and
back doors of which were both open and drawing a fine draft
of air, and from which opened four large airy rooms, two on
a side. They stepped up on the piazza, and were met at the
front door by a neatly clothed negro girl, who admitted them
into the passage, and opening a door on the right hand next
the front, showed them into a cool, breezy, but plainly furnished
parlor; the walls and ceiling being simply white-washed,
and the floor bare but highly polished with wax, as
was the summer custom of the country at that day. The
fire-place was open and filled with green bushes. The window-curtains,
and the lounge, and easy-chair covers, were
all of chintz. There was a reality of substantial and permanent
comfort about the place, that Frank thought he had
never seen elsewhere. And when Clifton invited him to be
seated, and he rested himself in one of those cool arm-chairs
in that shaded room, he declared that a feeling of at-home-ativeness
came over him, such as he had never experienced
since he left his own mother’s house, and never hoped to feel
again until he should have a house of his own. The negro
girl whom Clifton addressed as Hennie, then left the room to
summon her mistress, and shortly after the lady of the house
entered.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, was now about fifty years
of age—tall, and inclining to <i><span lang="fr">en bon point</span></i>, but not more so
than well became her years. Her complexion was dark, and
her hair and eyes black. Her features were strongly marked
and commanding, indicative of great strength of will and
indomitable firmness of purpose, all moderated, however, by
the expression of her countenance, which was at once composed
and gracious. Her manner was marked by unaffected
dignity and courtesy—her dress was of very plain dark silk,
made high to the throat, and with sleeves coming down to
the wrists, a small ruff set closely around her neck, fastened
with a mourning pin. Her only head-dress was her own
black hair, which, though slightly mingled with gray, was
worn uncovered. Indeed, cap or turban upon that noble
head would have looked impertinent. She advanced into the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>room and greeted her son with affection, and welcomed Mr.
Fairfax with courtesy, though her words were so few, and
her manner was so calm, as to seem cool. Frank thought
her a very noble looking woman, though somewhat stiff and
cold. Indeed, all strangers, and superficial observers, thought
her cold and proud. Never was a greater misapprehension
of character—never did a larger or more generous heart live
in the bosom of woman—albeit, its pulsations were of the
calmest and most regular character. She sat down and entered
into an easy conversation with her son and his friend,
inquiring into the particulars of their journey, and making
comments as they were related. Once during the recital her
cheek almost imperceptibly changed. It was at the telling of
the hair-breadth escape at the brink of the Devil’s Staircase,
but upon that she made no observation whatever. She rang
a little hand bell, which was answered by the entrance of
Hennie. She took a bunch of keys from her pocket, and
giving them to the girl, directed her to bring refreshments.
Hennie left the room, but soon returned bearing a large
waiter with home-made wine, cake, and a basket of fine
peaches and pears. While they regaled themselves upon
these luxuries, she inquired after the health and well-being
of the family of White Cliffs, and having received satisfactory
answers, turned to Mr. Fairfax and hoped that he was sufficiently
well pleased with their neighborhood to favor it with
a long sojourn. Frank assured her that he should never
grow weary of the delights of his visit, and should conclude
it only when compelled to do so, and <i>then</i> with great regret.
The conversation then became of more general interest. The
weather, the condition of the roads, the health of the neighborhood,
&#38;c., were discussed. And then the discourse took
a higher tone, and the agricultural and political condition
and prospects of the whole country, and the great probability
of another speedy war with Great Britain, were debated.
And Mr. Fairfax wondered at the extent of information, the
strong grasp of mind, and the depth and justness of thought,
displayed by this recluse lady upon subjects apparently so
foreign to her daily experience.</p>

<p class='c006'>They made quite a long morning visit, and before their
departure, Captain Clifton took an opportunity—while Mr.
Fairfax was walking around the room and staring at some
<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>old family pictures, among which hung a portrait by ——,
of Oliver Cromwell, as Lord Protector of England—to draw
his mother aside, and say to her—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Madam, I have a proposition to make to you, or a favor
to ask—as it may turn out.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What is it, my son?” gravely inquired the lady.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You heard Mr. Fairfax speak of the young mountain-girl
whom we met just before the storm, and who kindly conducted
us to her grandfather’s cabin?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is of her that I would speak, and for her that I would
enlist your sympathy and protection—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Go on, I attend, my son.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You have given me some credit for insight into character.
If my judgment is worthy of your consideration, this young
girl is deserving of your kindest offices.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Does she deserve them?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Madam, she impressed me as being a child of high moral
and mental endowments, and the trying experience of one
night proved the truth of that impression.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Does she need my good offices?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mother! with the finest intellectual capacities, she is
nearly destitute of all opportunities of intellectual culture.
That is bad—but not so deplorable as what follows. Kate
Kavanagh—that is her name—is far removed from all of her
own sex. Her young brother, her only protector, is absent
from home from earliest dawn till late at night. Her only
companion is an old man, an habitual drunkard, subject to
frequent and furious fits of <i>mania-a-potu</i>. Her case, upon
my showing, may not be so exigent. But if you had seen
her as I did, it would seem so. Her brother being best acquainted
with the circumstances, is the best judge in the
premises, and is very anxious upon his sister’s account, and
wishes to get her a place at service.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But if she is a girl of so excellent a nature as you have
supposed, will she leave her aged relative?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Not willingly, certainly—but—I wish the opportunity
of improving her condition afforded her, indeed, I promised
her brother Carl that it should be presented.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know Carl Kavanagh—he worked for me during the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>last year. I formed a good opinion of him. If his sister is
equal to him she must be a meritorious girl.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“She is very superior to him, madam.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The lady was mistress of great promptitude and decision
of action. With her eyes fixed upon the ground she reflected
for a few moments, then lifting them, said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Write to your friend Carl Kavanagh—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Not my <i>friend</i>, dear madam, an’ it please you!” haughtily
interrupted her son.</p>

<p class='c006'>A slight shade of disapproval or of displeasure clouded the
lady’s brow for a moment, and she said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Write then to your dependent, Carl Kavanagh, and let
him know that I am willing to receive his sister into my own
service on trial—and that he may bring her hither as soon
as is convenient.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Thank you, dearest madam, I will write to-day, and send a
messenger with the letter. I am really pleased and grateful
for this kindness,” said Archer Clifton, pressing his lips to
the cheek she offered to his salute.</p>

<p class='c006'>The young men soon after took leave, being engaged to
dine that day at home at White Cliffs.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Clifton!” said Mr. Fairfax, as they rode along, “excuse
me for telling you freely how highly I honor your mother.
Yes! you may stare! <i>I</i>—the irreverent—the rash said—<i>excuse</i>
me for telling you how highly I honor your mother—for,
by my faith, she is a lady whom to praise is presumption!
But, my dear Clifton, how is it that she resembles so
closely that old portrait of Oliver Cromwell, which hangs,
besides, between two family portraits. It is not possible you
claim descent from <i>him</i>?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My mother does, by the female line. I do not think I
have much of his nature. In his time I should have been a
royalist. My mother venerates his character very highly.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“By my soul! she is like him enough in feature.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, and in many points of character, she is strikingly
like him.”</p>

<p class='c006'>In conversation such as this the friends reached White
Cliffs, and Mr. Fairfax retired to his chamber to dress for
dinner, and Captain Clifton entered the library for the purpose
of writing a letter to Carl Kavanagh.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER IV.<br> <span class='large'>THE TIDE OF FATE.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>There is a tide in the affairs of man,</div>
      <div class='line'>Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.—<span class='sc'>Shakspeare.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“There is a tide in the affairs of ‘woman,’</div>
      <div class='line'>Which, taken at the flood, leads—” God knows where.—<span class='sc'>Byron.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Captain Clifton had written to Carl Kavanagh, informing
him of the situation he had procured for the sister of the
latter, at Hardbargain. And within this letter he had inclosed
a longer one, to Kate, filled with good counsels and
urgent reasons why she should yield to the wishes of her
brother, and accept the place offered to her. After having
dispatched these letters by a boy, who left White Cliffs
that afternoon, on horseback, he delivered himself up to the
delights of Miss Clifton’s society, forgetting all about the
mountain-girl, until the next day, when, being seated in the
library, his messenger returned, entered his presence, and
handed him a packet. It was a letter from Carl Kavanagh,
enclosing one from Kate. He read Carl’s epistle first. It
began by expressing much gratitude to his benefactor, for
his kindness in having procured a situation for his sister, and
went on by expressing much sorrow that he could not prevail
upon Kate, either by entreaties or threats, to accept it, and
unbounded indignation at what he called the girl’s wicked
stubbornness. The letter closed by reiterating the thanks
of the writer. Captain Clifton held the letter open in his
hand, and lifting his head, fell into deep thought. It was
strange how much this little matter depressed him. Account
for it, any philosopher that can. Some proud people have a
proclivity to patronage—Captain Clifton was very proud,
and perhaps he was piqued at being prevented playing the
patron. Perhaps it was really disappointed benevolence.
Only it is certain that Archer Clifton did not possess that
quality to an immoderate degree—and having once done his
duty of charity, would be likely to content himself with any
<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>result. Perchance he felt a deeper interest in the rugged
little mountaineer than he would have acknowledged, even
to himself. Perhaps it was prescience—the shadow of coming
events. Be that as it may, Archer Clifton walked up
and down the floor in silent thought, occasionally broken by a
slight sigh. It was wonderful how much the knowledge that
he should not have this child at home in his mother’s house
vexed his soul.</p>

<p class='c006'>At length he recollected Kate’s own letter, yet unopened.
But of what avail to read it! It would certainly be the
counterpart of Carl’s. He opened it. It was not, however.
In the first place, the paper was perfectly clean; and in the
second, the writing, spelling, and style, were rather better.
She acknowledged the goodness of Captain Clifton, in taking
thought of her humble wants—expressed regret that she
could not avail herself of his kindness—could not leave her
grandfather, who needed her services, and subscribed herself
Captain Clifton’s obliged and grateful servant. It <i>was</i> very
much like Carl’s, after all. But here is a postscript. What
more can she have to say, after what she has said, thought
Clifton, as he turned to it. It read thus—</p>

<p class='c015'>“P. S.—I hope Captain Clifton will pardon me, if he thinks
that I am doing wrong—but it has come into my head, that
as Captain Clifton is about to marry, and reside in future at
White Cliffs—and as Mrs. Clifton of Hardbargain, will then
be quite alone—and as she is not so young, or active, or
able to ride about her plantation, overseeing her field hands
as formerly—perhaps she will be thinking of getting a farm-manager—if
so, will Captain Clifton kindly remember my
brother Carl, and speak a favorable word for him to the lady
of Hardbargain, who already knows and trusts him? If
Carl gets a situation as overseer, I can keep house for him,
and we can both take care of our grandfather. Indeed I am
afraid Captain Clifton will be justly angry with me for this
liberty.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What a letter!” exclaimed Archer Clifton, as his face
alternately lighted up with satisfaction, or became clouded
with thought. “What a letter for a rustic girl of fourteen!
Yet characteristic of <i>her</i> and of her situation. Showing the
germs of reflection, forethought, courage and promptitude,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>the gifts of nature, mingled with that frankness bordering
upon presumption, which belongs to total ignorance of the
world. To dare to speak familiarly of our domestic affairs!
But yet how naïvely she deprecates my displeasure, at what
she feels may be received as presumption.”</p>

<p class='c006'>So deeply did Captain Clifton study Kate and her letter;
Kate’s remarkable countenance, with its breadth of brow and
gentleness of eyes, haunted him.</p>

<p class='c006'>He was a man of prompt decision and action—so, having
once admitted the idea that his mother needed an overseer,
he exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, my mother must be relieved from her arduous occupation—unbefitting
a lady of her rank, and especially of
her age. Why could I not think of that before? Why
should I never have seen the necessity, until Catherine held
it up before me? Yes—my mother must have a manager on
her farm, and Carl Kavanagh shall be the man. I will pay
his salary myself.” And he rung the bell, ordered his horse,
and in less than fifteen minutes was on his way to Hardbargain.</p>

<p class='c006'>As he rode up to the house, he met a girl with a pail on
her head, going to the spring, and inquired of her where her
mistress was to be found. He was told, “down in the wheat
field.” So, turning his horse’s head a little to the left of the
house, he rode down the slope of the hill, to a wide harvest
field, where he found Mrs. Clifton, seated on her mule, superintending
the operations of some fifteen or twenty laborers,
who were employed in stacking wheat. He rode up to his
mother’s side, alighted, and held out his hand, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“How-do-you-do, to-day, madam? Busily engaged as
ever, I see, mother.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“How-do-you-do, Archer? Yes, very busy.”</p>

<p class='c006'>While Captain Clifton was revolving in his mind the best
way of introducing the object of his visit, which he had
reason to believe would be distasteful to the energetic, independent
lady—she quite unconsciously anticipated his intention,
and relieved him from his embarrassment, by saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“The heat is extremely oppressive, and I begin to find
this business too much for me, Archer. This continuing out
in the fields day after day, and all day long, throughout
<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>this burning weather, begins to tell, even upon my constitution.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Archer Clifton looked at his mother and noticed for the
first time a slight but certain change in her countenance,
invisible, perhaps, to an indifferent glance, but seeming to
the eye of affection, fearfully like the very earliest premonitory
symptoms of decay. That look pierced him to the
heart. The fainter sound of her voice, too, had vaguely
suggested failing strength—it fell upon his ear like a prophecy,
a warning, a knell. He realized then, for the first
time, that his mother was mortal—was growing old—that
some day he should lose her. He felt then, for the first time,
how much <i>he</i>—a man—had rested on this good mother—and
his heart was troubled within him. And yet it was all caused
only by a transient weariness in the look of her face, and a
faintness in the tone of her voice. But more than all things
else on earth—more <i>deeply</i>—though less ardently—than his
own fair expectant bride—did Archer Clifton love his mother!
It had even been said, some years before, by one who
knew him best, that Clifton could never love any woman
with the full force of his nature unless in qualities of mind
and heart she resembled his mother. But of course, Captain
Clifton had disproved that prophecy by adoring his cousin,
the haughty and beautiful Miss Clifton. This is a digression—to
return—</p>

<p class='c006'>As the new pang of fear for his mother’s health sped
through his heart, Archer Clifton took her hand—he had a
singularly sweet and persuasive voice and manner, when
moved by his affections, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“There is no necessity for it, dear mother. Surely, the
motive that prompted you when I was a lad, and when this
farm was our only prospect, has long ceased to operate.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know it, Archer. For some years past this personal
superintendence of the fields has been more a matter of
habit, than a matter of necessity. If I could find a good
manager I might try one.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What do you think of Carl Kavanagh in that capacity,
mother?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Carl! I never thought of him at all. He has never
managed a plantation.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But yet he has been a farm laborer many years—has a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>practical knowledge of agriculture, and is, besides, a man of
more intelligence than is usually to be found in his class.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes—he is,” said the lady, thoughtfully.</p>

<p class='c006'>“He is also a man of excellent moral character, and faultless
habits—qualities not too frequently met with among
those of his grade.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“True—most true—but yet he is young, and has had no
experience in overseeing.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And never will have, dear madam, unless some one gives
him the opportunity of making the trial. And as for his
youth, mother—why his youth is positively an advantage—for
with his practical knowledge, intelligence and honesty,
he will be free from the conceit and crotchets of an old
manager, and will the more readily fall into your system.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“There is something in that,” said the lady. “And now,
Archer, you will remain and dine with me to-day. And remember,
that when this week is out, the next week belongs
to me. You must bring your friend with you when you
come. Where did you leave him?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Playing battledore with Zuleime. But, dear mother,
about this Carl Kavanagh—I hope you will consider the plan
favorably, and try him.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I will think of it, Archer, because you propose it, if for
no other reason. And now the horn is blowing for the hands
to go to dinner, and my task for the day is relieved. Let
us return to the house.”</p>

<p class='c006'>They turned their animals’ heads, and rode up the ascent,
and entered the shady yard. Then the lady alighted from her
mule, gathered up her riding skirt, and leaning on the arm
of her son, entered the house. A plain but substantial dinner
was soon served. Archer Clifton enjoyed his mother’s
plain meals more than the most luxurious dinners—not but
that he had a taste for luxury—what man has not?—but that
there was a home comfort about his mother’s table, that gave
him appetite and spirit. And then, after dinner, he could
go and stretch himself upon the best lounge in that large,
shady, breezy parlor, with a book, and read or doze until she
had attended to the putting away of her things, and had
locked up her pantries. Then she would come and sit in the
rocking-chair by his side, while he could stretch himself at
ease, in any ungainly attitude he pleased, and feel what a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>refreshing thing it was to throw off his dignity in the presence
of the only one with whom he could do so—his own
familiar mother. Not but that he honored—nay, <i>revered</i> her—but
that he enjoyed only in her house, that deep, full
sense of home freedom, which not only her son—but to a
certain degree all others felt, who possessed the privilege of
the lady’s friendship.</p>

<p class='c006'>This afternoon, then, he was lying at his ease on the cool
lounge between the two front windows, which were drawing
strong drafts of air, and flapping the festooned curtains lazily.
He had thrown himself out at full length upon the lounge,
in the most delightfully <i><span lang="co">degagè</span></i> attitude, albeit it was somewhat
angular and awkward—his head being thrown back
over the end of the lounge, his hands clasped above his forehead,
and his elbows very prominent, one foot, minus a slipper,
hoisted upon the window-sill, and the other slippered
foot dangling on the carpet. But the picturesque beauty of
his dark, handsome face, atoned for all the rest. His mother
sat in an easy-chair near him, with her feet upon a footstool,
and a work-stand by her side. She was engaged in stitching
wristbands—for that vigorous woman never required a lounge
in the day-time—but though she never took one, yet she
never blamed the indulgence of that habit in others for which
she herself felt no inclination. She was the most liberal and
benevolent of all human beings, in every act of her daily life.
She was happy in seeing others comfortable around her. She
was ever pleased to see them enjoying those relaxations which
her own strong nature did not need. Indeed, courage without
asperity, fortitude without indurancy, strength without
hardness, self-denial without sternness, power without arrogance,
formed the peculiar excellence of her character. No
wonder that her son revered her. No wonder it had been
said of him, that he never could love a woman with all the
power of his nature, unless in mental and moral endowments—she
resembled his mother. As they talked together this
afternoon, the hours slipped away till late in the evening,
before the image of the beautiful Carolyn had power to draw
him from the <i><span lang="fr">tête à tête</span></i>. During the afternoon he had prevailed
with his mother to receive Carl Kavanagh as her overseer—and
to have the comfortable log cabin which had been
<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>occupied by the first proprietor of the soil, prepared for the
reception of the family.</p>

<p class='c006'>When Archer Clifton at length arose to take his leave,
he pressed his mother to his heart with so much fondness
and power, that the quiet, calm lady laughed, a little, low,
jolly laugh, and jested about Carolyn’s jealousy—even of his
mother.</p>

<hr class='c016'>

<p class='c006'>Captain Clifton returned to White Cliffs, and gave himself
up for the rest of the evening, to the charms of Carolyn’s
conversation.</p>

<p class='c006'>The next day was one of festivity. Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain,
came over to dine at White Cliffs, and to meet a
large party of the neighboring gentry. The day after that,
the whole party dined and spent the evening at Hardbargain—and
this was the commencement of a series of neighborhood
entertainments in honor of the approaching marriage,
which were kept up for several weeks. The wedding was
to come off in the course of a month—the present delay being
owing to this circumstance: old Mr. Clifton had sent to
England, by the good ship Rockbridge, Captain Cater, an
extensive order, including a splendid outfit for the bride;
and they were now awaiting to hear of the arrival of the
Rockbridge at Norfolk. In all the excitement of social
enjoyment, Captain Clifton had found time to ride to the
mountain hut, and arrange with Carl Kavanagh to come and
take the situation of overseer at Hardbargain. He agreed
to pay the latter a liberal salary, and to provide a comfortable
house for his family. One thing surprised and annoyed
him. Kate, who had written so freely, frankly, almost presumptuously
to him—received him with the old cold shyness
and reserve—not even expressing the least gratitude for the
kindness he had shown in getting the situation for her brother,
or the trouble he had condescended to take in coming personally
to inform them of it. He agreed with Carl, that the
latter, with his grandfather and sister, should remove to
Hardbargain in the course of the week—and on his own part
he promised to have the log-house prepared for their reception.
He shook hands with the old man and Carl on
parting, but when he offered the same civility to Kate, she
<span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>turned pale and trembled, and when he took her hand he
found it cold.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not think you are well, my dear girl—your mountain
air does not engender chills, does it?” he asked, pressing
the cold fingers.</p>

<p class='c006'>She raised her eyes one brief instant to his, and dropped
them quickly again, while her pale check and brow became
suffused with crimson, and her hand that he held in his own
throbbed like a heart.</p>

<p class='c006'>“When we get you to the plantation you will be better,
my dear girl,” said Clifton, kindly, shaking her hand and
letting it go.</p>

<p class='c006'>Captain Clifton rode away full of thought—speculating
more upon Catherine’s reserve than became a gentleman of
his station and importance. What was it to him that a rustic
girl was too shy to express in person, her thanks for a favor
received, even though she had “screwed her courage to the
sticking place” to write to him and solicit it? Many people,
more conversant with the world than Catherine, can write
that which they never can bring their lips to say. Besides
it was no matter—what was that lowly maiden to him, the
heir of Clifton, and the prospective husband of the highest
and haughtiest lady in the land? Yes—what to him except
an object of his high patronage could be that girl of—not
only “humble parentage,” but indubitably <i>low birth</i>? He
rode on dissatisfied, he knew not wherefore, with her and
himself.</p>

<p class='c006'>As for Catherine, she stood—lost—where he had left her—lost
to the consciousness of her grandfather’s and of Carl’s
presence—with her eyes fixed upon the ground, blaming herself
for her awkwardness and seeming ingratitude; wondering
if <i>he</i> blamed her too; wondering why it was that when
she saw him enter she grew cold and trembled so; and when
he spoke to her in that gentle tone, and looked at her with
that gentle gaze—her whole nature shrank away in fear and
trepidation—and though she would have given the world for
the ability to express her gratitude and regard, all power of
uttering a grateful word or of lifting a grateful glance to his
face, deserted, and left her pale and trembling before the
man whom she had no cause to fear, and every reason to
trust. Catherine stood with her mind deep in this problem,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>until the harsh voice of Carl startled her, saying, in rasping
tones—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well! are you going to stand there burrowing your
eyes in the ground all day? A pretty way you have behaved!
Please goodness, you’ve got no more manners than a dumb
brute. I take my oath I am ashamed of you! Now there
was Captain Clifton, a gentleman of so high rank, condescending
to come here and tell us himself of the place he
had got for us, even after your unmannerly refusal of that
first place—and here were you with not one <i>word</i> of thanks
to give—no! please Heaven, not so much as one civil <i>look</i>!
I wonder what he’ll think of you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What, indeed?” repeated Catherine, very meekly.</p>

<p class='c006'>But Carl scarcely recognized her voice. It was no longer
the childish treble—it was the deep, full, melodious voice of
rich womanhood.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, the <i>kindest</i> thought he can have of you, will be to
think you are a <i>fool</i>—that is all.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Carl, I was in fear of him.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“In fear of him! In fear of Archer Clifton! A man
whom all the country knows to be of the highest honor—and
one to whom even <i>I</i>, cautious as <i>I</i> am, could trust you
with, to go from one end of the world to the other!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know that, Carl—I know he is a gentleman of honor,
but—but—I tremble before him, and have not courage to
lift my eyes—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But that is so confoundedly ridiculous, now! <i>why</i> are
you afraid of him?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate shook her head and waved her hand in that quick,
short manner which was peculiar to her, and turned away—repeating
in her own heart the question—“Yes, why, <i>why</i>,
<span class='fss'>WHY</span>?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Whether the maiden found an answer to her question or
not, remained a secret to Carl; this was the first and last
conversation they ever held on the subject; and whatever
phenomena the opening heart of the maiden revealed to herself,
were carefully shrouded away from the eyes of all.</p>

<hr class='c016'>

<p class='c006'>How beautiful was Carolyn Clifton! So fair, so purely,
so divinely fair, so radiant, so refined, so stately! How fit
<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>a consort for the proud Archer Clifton! How his heart
swelled with admiration and pride as he gazed upon her
queenly form—and how it glowed to think that in a very
few days that fair and stately lady, who never deigned to own
a passion, whose love he only guessed by her proud exaction
of exclusive service, who scarcely condescended to extend her
snowy hand to his salute—would be his own, his own, his wife,
his property, his other self—whose form he might press to
his bosom in the fullest freedom of possession! And as he
sat by her side and held her hand, and gazed upon her inaccessible,
delightful beauty; oh! how slowly, slowly, to his
impatient, burning, throbbing heart—how slowly, dragged
the days and hours.</p>

<p class='c006'>Well—oh very well would it have been for Archer Clifton,
could he have rent his gaze from his magnetic idol a moment,
and caught a certain pair of evil eyes upon him. Their
baleful glare might have shed upon his path some light to
the pitfalls in his way.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER V.<br> <span class='large'>The Old Man and His Bride.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>There is a divinity that shapes our ends,</div>
      <div class='line'>Rough hew them as we will.—<span class='sc'>Shakspeare.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Carl Kavanagh and his sister were settled in the log cabin
on the farm of Hardbargain. Carl, as an old acquaintance
of the mistress, and a late laborer on the plantation, fell
readily into his new business of overseeing it. Catherine
began to busy herself in the management of her new and
very comfortable home. Their cabin contained a sitting-room,
kitchen, and two chambers. Mrs. Clifton had gratified
her own kindly and benevolent disposition by adding several
plain articles of furniture to the small stock possessed by the
poor family. She had, besides, given Catherine a set of half-worn,
white dimity curtains, and a pair of coarse, home-made,
white counterpanes. These gave an air of neatness, approaching—I
had almost said refinement to the sitting-room,
and two little bed-rooms. Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain,
was not addicted to taking sudden likings—indeed, though a
lady of perfect frankness, benevolence and liberality of judgment,
she was cool and prudent—yet, notwithstanding this
her kindest affections were at once attracted towards Kate.
It is true she had been prepared to think well of the child
from an intimate knowledge of her brother Carl’s honesty
and intelligence, but at the first sight of Catherine, the noble
countenance of the mountain-girl riveted her esteem. There
are some faces which we know at a glance cannot belong to
other than a fine, high-toned character. And such a countenance
was that of Catherine. And it won upon the lady
every day, as no merely beautiful face could ever have done.
For hers was a brow—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Where every god did seem to set his seal to give the world assurance of—”</div>
    </div>
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</div>

<p class='c013'>a peerless woman. Often Mrs. Clifton invited Catherine to
bring her work and sit with her through the afternoon, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>seldom did she let the girl return without placing in her hand
some book just suitable to her very age, and the stage of
progress of her mind. And oh! did not the heart of the
maiden kindle and glow with love and admiration for the
noble lady, who, without one particle of pride, or the least
pretension to condescension—condescended so much. And so
Catherine grew to understand and appreciate Mrs. Clifton,
and to look upon her with a feeling amounting almost to
worship. How happy were those afternoons spent with her
in the cool and breezy parlor. How deeply grateful was
Kate for all her benefits—how anxious to prove her gratitude—to
do something for her benefactress. But Kate was
very shy, and her love only spoke in the stealthy look of affection
fixed upon the lady, and withdrawn with a deeply
blushing cheek if discovered. But by these tokens sure did
Mrs. Clifton know the sweetness and the tenderness, the
modesty and the sincerity of the maiden’s hidden heart. And
all this time was Catherine wishing for the ability to tell her
friend how much she thanked and loved her. One afternoon
she mustered up the courage to tell the lady that she should
like to read to her any time that it would be agreeable; also,
that she had some skill in doing up laces and such things
and that she should be happy if she could assist Mrs. Clifton
in such matters. Mrs. Clifton placed her hand affectionately
on Catherine’s head, and declined all her offers of
service except that which related to the reading—which she
accepted—hoping thereby to improve her protégé in many
ways—to direct her choice of books, to correct her elocution,
and to awaken her understanding of what she read by questions
and comments. So they began a course of historical
reading with Rollin’s Ancient History. And that which
this excellent lady commenced as a duty of kindness soon
became a matter of daily recreation. It was indeed a rare
intellectual pleasure to arouse, cultivate and hold communion
with a fresh, vigorous, original enthusiastic mind like that
of Catherine. And those afternoons were almost as happy
for the lady as for her protégé—happier for Catherine they
could not have been. Once, the shy girl was entirely carried
out of herself and her reverie by the following circumstance:
The lady had inadvertently let fall that she was a
descendant of Oliver Cromwell, when Kate, hurried beyond
<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>her consciousness, clasped her hand and gazed fervently up
in her face, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Descended from Oliver Cromwell! Descended from
Oliver Cromwell, that friend of man? that friend of freedom?
Oh! it is no wonder, lady, that you are so noble, so superior
to all the world!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My Catherine,” said the lady, calmly withdrawing her
hand “You know too little—far too little of the world, to
judge how I stand in comparison to others. And what know
you of Oliver Cromwell? Our reading has scarcely reached
the invasion of Britain by the Romans.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, lady! lady! lady!” said Kate, warmly, being not
yet recovered from her trance—“lady—Carl and I had not
many books, so we read what we had over and over again!
And one of the books we read the most was the life of Oliver
Cromwell!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You are generally so shy, Catherine, that it is a blind
work in me to direct your studies, not knowing what you
have read and what you have not.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Yes—very delightful to both were these seasons, and very
strong was the affection beginning to cement between the
lady and the maiden. There was only one thing that disturbed
Catherine in the perfect enjoyment of these afternoons.
When Archer Clifton would surprise them by
suddenly entering the room, and throwing himself into
an arm-chair or upon a sofa, her heart would stand still,
and her whole frame tremble with an agitation as impossible
to comprehend as to conquer. And yet much as his
arrival disturbed her, his departure failed to make her
happy. On the contrary, it left a strange sadness and yearning
she could not shake off. But then these things were of
rare occurrence. Captain Clifton very seldom found time to
visit his mother—he was contented to know that she had a
companion;—and as for Kate, he never thought of her at
all—she was provided for and forgotten. Body, soul, and
spirit were taken up—absorbed in the contemplation of his
promised bride, and in the anticipation of her possession.
Catherine knew he was soon to be married, but what of that?
She was a child, with no knowledge at her tender years to
understand her own heart, and no skill to define its first developments.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>At White Cliffs “all went merry as a marriage bell.”
The “Rockbridge” was at length telegraphed at Norfolk.
A letter with an invoice was received by Mr. Clifton, who
immediately dispatched a special messenger to receive his
valuable portion of the cargo. The wedding-day was fixed
for that day week, and great preparations were on foot.
The gentry of the neighboring counties were invited. The
mansion-house was “swept and garnished” from garret to
cellar. Frank and Zuleime were daily rehearsing their parts
as bridesmaid and groomsman, which Frank declared to be
only an apprenticeship to the business of enacting bride and
groom. Some city guests from Richmond had arrived by
particular invitation, four or five days before the expected
wedding. Last of all came the wagon with the boxes from
Norfolk. They were opened in the hall—such treasure of
splendid attire, and such sets of jewelry! And, above all,
such a trousseau for the bride—conspicuous in which was the
bridal dress and veil—the bridal dress and train of richest
white brocade heavily embroidered with silver, after the gorgeous
fashion of that time—the bridal veil of finest lace—the
orange flower wreath of pearls and emeralds—the pearl
embroidered gloves and slippers—the pearl and silver mounted
fan, and all complete in correspondence. And richer still
was a ball-dress of blue silver-embroidered brocade, with its
elegant coiffure of ostrich feathers, the sight of which Zuleime
declared was enough to precipitate <i>any</i> girl into matrimony.</p>

<p class='c006'>Every one was too happy, too busy and too self-important
to notice the deathly hue of Georgia’s cheek, far less to detect
the fitful glare of the well-guarded eye. Every one but
her husband, who, leaving his daughters and their maids to
unpack the boxes, followed her into her own chamber, saying,
as he fondly laid his hand upon her shoulder—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My darling doesn’t seem to be merry.”</p>

<p class='c006'>She shrank—shuddered from his touch, exclaiming, almost
shrilly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Leave me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Leave you, my dear!—my child,—why leave you?” he
asked, passing his hand gently around her shoulders.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Leave me, leave me!” she cried, sharply, casting off
the arm and springing back—her cheek blanched, her teeth
snapping, her eyes sparkling fire, more like a terrified wolf
<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>than a woman, “have I not told you never, <i>never</i> to come
near me in my dark hour?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But why should my cherished pet have dark hours?” he
persisted, approaching her.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Keep off! keep off! old man, you know not what you
do!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, I’m old—I know I’m old—I wish I wasn’t, for I
love you, my darling. Yes, I love you more tenderly and
less selfishly than if I was younger. I love you entirely—altogether—your
little dark face—your little fiery ways—your
little outbursts of temper that no one sees but me, who
look upon it with indulgent eyes. Would a young man love
you so tenderly, Georgia?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Driveller! you make me loathe you! ‘My little fiery
ways.’ ‘My little outbursts of temper,’ forsooth! How
little do you understand me! You sting my soul to frenzy
with your dotage, and then twaddle about liking my ‘<i>little
outbursts of temper</i>,’ forsooth.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dotage! Yes! I really do suppose you consider it
dotage!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! drivelling! idiotic! imbecile dotage!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! I do suppose you think it is! I am too old for you,
Georgia—I know it, alas! too well, now that it is too late—and
yet you did not raise the least objection to becoming my
wife, Georgia.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! <i>Objection!</i> I was but
fifteen years of age when you bribed me to your arms with a
set of jewels, and a gold mounted work-box! I was a child,
delighted with glittering toys! and fond, yes! <i>very</i> fond of
the grandfatherly old man that poured them into my lap!
Did <i>that</i> child-fondness deceive you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It did, it did! You were very fond of me when you
were a child! Would to God I could have spell-bound you
to that age, so you never could have grown older! Oh! I
could find it in heart to shame my manhood, to shame my
gray hairs and weep! I should not have married you, Georgia,
child! I should not have sacrificed you to my selfish
love—yet, no! It was <i>not</i> selfish love! I wished your
greatest good. I wished to surround you for life with all the
means and appliances of happiness. I wished to lavish
wealth upon you—ay, wealth of gold, and wealth of affection,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>too! I wished to give you a sumptuous home, splendid
apparel, costly jewels, carriages, servants—all those things
which women value so much, and scheme, and plot, and endeavor
for so perseveringly! I wished to give them all to
my darling, before she should have time to feel the need of
them!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!” bitterly laughed the girl. “Oh!
do you know what women value more than gold and jewels,
and dress, and carriages, and horses, and servants?—I’ll tell
you—the ungalled, unfettered heart’s freedom!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know it! Oh! I know it! My love has destroyed
your happiness. Oh, Georgia! did you never see a beautiful
bird, and long to have it for your own, only to caress and
pamper and pet it? Oh, Georgia! my child, my pet, my
bird! that was the reason I wanted you! I wanted to cherish,
and fondle, and make you happy!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Ah-h!</i> And did <i>you</i> never see such a bird as you spoke
of, in spite of all the petting, and pampering, and fondlings,
beat out its weary life against its prison bars and die?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Don’t die, Georgia! Don’t die! Hope! Alas! I
wished only to make you happy—I have failed! I have
made you miserable!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘<i>Miserable</i>,’ ruined! despairing! desperate!” she cried,
wildly wringing her hands.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nay, not despairing, Georgia! I am an old man, as you
justly said—<i>quite</i> an old man. I have not very long to live,
and when I die, Georgia, you will still be a very young woman.
Bethink you, you are scarce seventeen—in ten years
more you will be but twenty-seven, and is it even likely that I
shall live so long as that? No! And after my heart is
cold, and my head is laid low, Georgia will be a beautiful
young widow—ay, and with a rich jointure, too! I shall
take care of that!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! <i>pathetic!</i> I tell you, that if you
were to die to-morrow, my life is not the less ruined—despairing!”
bitterly exclaimed the young woman.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nay, but that cannot be, Georgia. Ruined? Despairing?
What! at seventeen years of age? Nonsense, my
love! <i>Nothing</i> but crime can make the youthful despair!
Nonsense, my child! You are hysterical!” he said, moving
towards her with outstretched arms.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>“Dotard! driveller!” she cried, turning fiercely upon
him, with eyes blazing with scorn and malignity. “<i>Imbecile!</i>
Will you leave me to myself?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old gentleman turned away, walked several times
slowly up and down the floor, and finally saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, I know I am a dotard! I know it, and I grow
ashamed of dotage—” clapped his hat upon his head and
walked out.</p>

<p class='c006'>Bitterly did the old man rue his folly, yet, alas! he knew
but half the cause of that ingrate and wretched woman’s
fierce outbreaks of temper.</p>

<p class='c006'>She followed his retreating form, with a glaring of mingled
rage and fear, gnawing her white lips, while she muttered, in
a low, fierce tone—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I could tear my heart out! I could bite my tongue off,
for thus betraying me! Shall I ever have power to chain
and guide the tiger in me? But <i>he</i> with his doting, and <i>they</i>
with their dalliance, goad me to extremity? <i>But</i>,” she exclaimed,
clenching her fist, setting her teeth, and glaring,
while all her countenance darkened with rage and anguish—“<i>But</i>,
before they shall <span class='fss'>MARRY</span> under my very eyes, and live
here, maddening my soul and senses, day and night, by the
view of their love and joy, I will pull down ruin on the heads
of all! Yes, although myself should be the first to fall!”
She paused in silent thought some time, then rising, said,
“<i>Down</i>, tiger heart! <i>Down!</i> crouch! Be smooth, brow!
Be smiling, lip! Be tender, eyes! Be soft, voice! And
now to go and pacify the old man, before his vexation betrays
me to the others. Ah! it is well <i>they</i> have never witnessed
my excitement! Come! in time I shall learn to curb wild
impulses, and only spring upon my prey when time and place
is fit!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Soft, smooth, fascinating, seductive, she glided from her
chamber out into the upper piazza, where the old man’s slow
and heavy footfall was heard—she glided after him, and with
an air of sweet, familiar, childish freedom, she raised his arm,
and putting her beautiful head under it, drew his hand
around her neck and over her bosom, and looking up pleadingly,
simply, into his benevolent face, murmured, merely—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am so sorry Mr. Clifton!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>“Never mind! never mind, my dear!” said the old gentleman,
stooping and kissing her brow.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, but I <i>am</i>! <i>so sorry</i>!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You, child! Do you think I mind your little petulance?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! you are good, you are good. Indeed, I’m quite
unworthy of you!” she whispered softly, pressing her head
against his bosom, and clinging close.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You, darling!” cried the old man, stroking her curls in
delight.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am such an irritable, petulant child! I am sure no one
would have patience with me but you—that is the reason I
love you so!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You do love me then?” gazing fondly in her witching
face.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, dearly! dearly! look in my eyes and see if I
don’t!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! I know you do, my pet! And I love you
entirely!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! how can you then! I have so many faults!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I love your little faults, and all! Come! Brighten
up! Never mind! I love to see my darling bright and
cheerful.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! how can I, when I remember my fit of ill
temper!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Say no more about it, my love! That’s the reason why
I love you! For those very little gusts of temper! They are
followed by such a sweet reaction! and then my child is so
frank, so ingenuous in her little penitence!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! But then I am such a spoiled child! And
always was! Father spoiled me. And now you spoil me
worse than ever!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My sweet! you can’t be spoiled! you are so ingenuous!
But now tell me, what vexed my little girl this evening?
Come, let me hear?” asked the old man, caressing the
syren.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well! now it was this! I thought you loved Carolyn
and Zuleime better than me!” replied the artful woman,
gazing half-reproachfully, half-pleadingly up into his smiling
face.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Love Carolyn and Zuleime better than you! Why you
<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>jealous little witch!” exclaimed the old man in rapture.
“Love <i>them</i> more than you! Why, I have to pray Heaven’s
pardon daily, for not loving them a hundredth part as
much!—kiss me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Georgia nerved her loathing heart to give the demanded
kiss, and then went and joined the party in the parlor, as
beautiful, smooth, seductive, dangerous as ever; while the
old man walked up and down the piazza, smiling to himself
and saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“She is a child—nothing but a child!—a sweet, willful,
witching child!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Alas! little recking of the household treachery, the household
wreck that “child” was preparing!</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER VI.<br> <span class='large'>THE RUPTURED TIE.</span></h2>
</div>

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  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Alas! they had been friends in youth,</div>
      <div class='line'>But whispering tongues can poison truth;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And constancy lives in realms above,</div>
      <div class='line'>And life is thorny, and youth is vain,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And to be wroth with one we love</div>
      <div class='line'>Doth work like madness on the brain.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>What ruin a single spark of fire may spread, if carelessly
or designedly dropped amid combustible or inflammable
material.</p>

<p class='c006'>What desolation a single word may cause, if thoughtlessly
or intentionally let fall into a passionate, impetuous heart.</p>

<p class='c006'>The three scenes I am about to describe, took place very
nearly as they are related.</p>

<p class='c006'>But first a few words of explanation.</p>

<p class='c006'>I feel that I have scarcely done justice to the character
of Carolyn Clifton, in presenting her only by that cold and
frosty crust of pride, which was but the superficial covering
of a high-spirited, honorable nature. Her manners were cold
and haughty—almost scornful and arrogant—it is but too
true. And most people, her family included, supposed her
to be destitute of sensibility. Perhaps she was lacking in
warmth of affection for her immediate domestic circle. Her
whole heart, with all its deep, profound, untold, unguessed
devotion, was given to Archer Clifton. And while secretly
bestowing upon him her entire, undivided love—she openly
exacted a full, unshared return—an exclusive worship.</p>

<p class='c006'>In truth, in her proud, secret heart, she <i>was</i> a little jealous
of Clifton’s affection for his mother! <i>She</i> did not love her
<i>father</i> so devotedly!—why should <i>Clifton</i> worship his <i>mother</i>
so? To this jealousy she had never given breath, of
course—indeed, to her own passionate love, she had never
yet given word—preferring, in her high toned, maiden pride,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>to leave it to be inferred. She had never even <i>looked</i> her
jealousy, yet Mrs. Clifton, with the fine instinct of a woman
and a mother, guessed it, and in her presence, skillfully
eluded all demonstrations of affection from her son. And so
well was the proud, exacting spirit of Miss Clifton known in
her own family, that even the sprightly and mischievous outlaw,
Zuleime, dared take no childish liberty with her sister’s
betrothed. Thus it happened that Frank Fairfax’s unlucky
jest had deeply offended the arrogant lady, the more especially
as in that day, and in that neighborhood, the term
“mountain-girl,” was too often the mildest name for an evil
woman.—This fact, of course, Frank was not acquainted
with. And, therefore it was, that he could not understand
Carl Kavanagh’s excessive anxiety to send his young sister
off the mountain; and could not in the least comprehend the
intense indignation of Miss Clifton, and the difficulty Archer
Clifton had in restoring her good humor. Even now, Carolyn
Clifton had not forgotten the circumstance. And truth
to tell, she was not well pleased at the continued interest
displayed by Captain Clifton for his protégé, in bringing her
and her family upon his mother’s plantation. But she was
too proud again to allude to the subject. Carolyn Clifton
had never known a care or a contradiction in her life. Her
heart was a sound, strong, high, proud thing, and therefore,
very like to break itself without fear, full tilt against the first
impediment that opposed it. She was, besides, like all women
of her fair complexion and fine tempered nerves—“a discerner
of spirits.” And this quick, delicate, and sure perception
never failed her, except when she was agitated and
blinded by inward passion. Thus, perhaps, quite unconsciously,
she read the heart of her betrothed—and knew it
better than he did himself—and thus, perhaps, involuntarily,
she afterwards acted on that knowledge.</p>

<p class='c006'>At all events, there was quite enough combustible material
on hand for a single spark to ignite it and spread a conflagration.</p>

<p class='c006'>And the spark—and many sparks were not wanting. A
thoughtless jest of Frank’s—a slight word dropped by
Georgia at exactly the right, or rather the <i>wrong</i> time and
place—and the whole neighborhood of R—— County
were agog with gossip. And Captain Clifton and his protégé,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>were the subjects. Some, right in the face of his well-known
engagement to Miss Clifton, did not hesitate to say
that she, his protégé, was a beautiful girl, whom he intended
to educate and marry, and that his republican mother was
highly in favor of the plan. Others told how tastefully the
overseer’s house had been furnished and adorned, and—without
the slightest foundation in truth—how many hours a
day Captain Clifton now spent with his interesting pupil.
The suspicious and malignant circulated a still darker tale,
and wondered how long it would last, and how it would all
end. And then they denounced Captain Clifton, blamed his
mother, and pitied Miss Clifton! And all this time, while
the whole county was ringing with various and contradictory
reports, the persons most concerned knew nothing about it.</p>

<p class='c006'>Until the day before the wedding, it was suddenly
brought to the knowledge of both parties, in the following
manner:—</p>

<p class='c006'>The company assembled at Clifton, consisting of old Mr.
Clifton’s brother-in-law and sister, Judge and Mrs. Cabell,
of Richmond, with their three daughters and son, Frank
Fairfax, Zuleime, and Captain Clifton, had gone over to dine
by previous engagement with Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain.
Carolyn Clifton had been compelled, by a slight headache,
to remain at home. And Georgia had chosen to stay to keep
her company. The two ladies sat in the dressing-room of
Miss Clifton. Carolyn was silent and abstracted, yet her
countenance betrayed more of inward joy than she suspected.
A great contrast was her fair, placid face, to that of Georgia,
dark, and traversed by spasms of pain-like clouds hurling
past a stormy sky. But if Carolyn lifted her fair lashes a
moment, instantly that dark face cleared, ere its expression
could be detected. At length she ventured, in a sweet tone,
to say—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Carolyn, my dear, to-morrow is your wedding-day. And—but—there
is something which you ought to know beforehand,
and which for weeks past I have been trying to gain
courage to tell you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, madam?” asked Miss Clifton, slowly lifting her
snowy lids.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I should—that is, I <i>might</i> expose myself to the resentment
of all your family by telling you.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>“Then you had best not tell me, madam.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And yet you ought to be informed, and must. <i>I</i>
should never forgive a friend for keeping such a secret from
me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>A vague fear and tremor seized upon Carolyn Clifton, and
kept her silent. The dark lady went on—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I think the honor, the happiness, even the tranquillity
of your married life, depends upon your previous knowledge
of this circumstance.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Madam—the honor, happiness, and tranquillity of my
married life pass into the keeping of my husband, Captain
Clifton, and in him I have the utmost confidence,” remarked
Carolyn, coldly and proudly, though, alas!—not <i>truly</i>.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Heaven forbid that I should unnecessarily mar that confidence!
But, my love, you will be sure to hear it, when
too late, and from less friendly lips than mine!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Will it please you, then, madam, to speak out frankly
and honestly, and let us know what it is,” said Carolyn,
scornfully, at the same time that her heart was rising with
emotion.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Is it possible you do not guess?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not take the trouble to do so, Mrs. Clifton.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! you have always treated me with scorn and hauteur,
Miss Clifton. Yet that, alas! does not relieve me of the
painful duty of putting you on your guard. In a word, then,
do you understand the nature of the relations subsisting
between Captain Clifton and the sister of his mother’s overseer?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The brow of Carolyn Clifton flushed crimson—but she
answered, coldly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Madam, I believe that young person has been the object
of Captain Clifton’s benevolence.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! I believe so too! His benevolence is certainly indisputable,
and his honor <i>should</i> be above suspicion!” exclaimed
Georgia, fervently.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Madam—<i>it is</i>!” coldly replied Miss Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes—and yet, Carolyn, my love, a poor and beautiful
young maiden cannot continue to be the recipient of a handsome
young officer’s beneficence with credit to herself, honor
to him, or <i>peace</i> or safety to his wife!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>“Is she so very beautiful?” was the question surmised
from the haughty girl.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Passing beautiful, I think, Carolyn, and this it is that
makes the country gentlemen jest so about the matter. <i>They</i>
give a far different motive than <i>benevolence</i> to the kindness
of Captain Clifton to his lovely charge. <i>I</i> know that they
do him gross injustice! But this thing should not go on. It
is a dangerous relation—dangerous to Archer’s own fidelity,
dangerous to your peace, and most dangerous of all, to the
poor girl’s reputation. I advise you to speak to Archer. I
would do so myself, but it is too delicate a matter for me to
speak to a young gentleman about. Now in these palmy
days of courtship, he may listen to you as he never would,
perhaps, afterwards, and you will be able to prevail with him
to send this dangerous young beauty, his protégé, away.
Yes! and you may tell Archer that <i>I</i> advise this, for the
good of all parties. Tell him that the whole neighborhood
is ringing with gossip that may become slander. Tell him
that I say the parties most concerned in this rumor, or in
any rumor, will be ever the last to hear it. Tell him that I,
his friend, Georgia, venture to do him this service, informing
him through you. Let there be no concealments. Let all
be open candor. I did feel afraid, when I began to tell you
this—but now it is out, I feel relieved—I have more
courage.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Madam!” said Carolyn, more haughtily than before—“Captain
Clifton is quite capable of directing his own conduct!
And if he were <i>not</i>, I should never resign to him the
future control of mine! And, farthermore, madam!” she
added, sarcastically, “I too highly honor the man about to
become my husband—I have too much self-respect and delicacy,
to inquire into the nature of Captain Clifton’s individual
and private amusements, whether they relate to
hounds, horses, or beggar girls! I leave such investigations
to——<i>the daughter of the sign-painter</i>!” and with an air
of the greatest possible scorn and arrogance, she arose, and
left the room. Yet under that proud, disdainful bearing, a
thousand scorpions, of doubt and jealousy, maddened her
soul. She went at once into her own room, and having
locked the door, that no rash intruder should look upon her
weakness, gave herself up to the anguish of her emotions—now
<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>pacing up and down the floor, wringing her hands in
distraction—now throwing herself, face downward, upon the
bed, in despair. And yet she had no confidence in Mrs.
Clifton’s honesty of purpose either.</p>

<hr class='c016'>

<p class='c006'>In the meantime, the party assembled at Hardbargain
were enjoying themselves and the hospitalities of their hostess,
to the fullest extent.</p>

<p class='c006'>The late dinner was over; the ladies were lounging about
in arm-chairs, or on sofas, in the breezy parlor—dozing,
reading, or chatting in low tones, all serenely enjoying that
pleasant feeling of home freedom and repose, into which Mrs.
Clifton ever charmed her guests.</p>

<p class='c006'>The gentlemen had left their wine, and in parties of two
and three were strolling about the shady yard, or out
through the fields and orchards, to cool their heads, previous
to joining the ladies at the tea-table.</p>

<p class='c006'>Archer Clifton, with his cousin, Major Charles Cabell, and
Frank Fairfax, took the wooded path leading down the South
side of the ridge to a fine spring in the hollow. They came
to a log cabin, half hidden by surrounding and overhanging
elms—and literally covered with climbing and creeping vines.
Before the door sat a girl, spinning on a little wheel, who, at
the first glimpse of strangers, instantly arose, and taking up
her wheel, retired into the house. Captain Clifton left his
companions, and going up to the door, called, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine, my good girl, bring me a gourd here.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate Kavanagh came, and with her eyes fixed upon the
ground, and her face suffused with a deep blush, handed the
required article, and instantly disappeared within.</p>

<p class='c006'>“By all the angels, what a fine face!” exclaimed Major
Cabell, gazing after her.</p>

<p class='c006'>Archer Clifton shot a quick, piercing glance at the speaker,
who, meeting it full as he turned, laughed, exclaiming, as if
a new discovery had been made—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! Ay! Soh! you are <i>there</i>, are you? So then,
this is the mountain-beauty, the hidden treasure of Archer
Clifton, that has set all the country ladies agog with scandal,
and all the country gentlemen mad with envy?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The hot blood rushed to Clifton’s brow.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>“Oh! now, don’t be jealous! Don’t be alarmed! Your
treasure is safe from me—though, by all the queens of chivalry,
hers is a noble face—a face to bleed and die for!
None of your pretty lily and rose baby beauties that may be
seen by hundreds anywhere—but a noble girl, fit for a monarch’s
love and counsellor!”</p>

<p class='c006'>In an instant Archer Clifton strode up and stood with
bended brow and folded arms before him; and said, in a low,
deep, stern tone of concentrated passion—</p>

<p class='c006'>“You are my relative, friend, guest! Your three-fold
claim upon my forbearance should protect you from any resentment
for words spoken against <i>my</i> honor. But, I charge
you, retract your words! And if you harbor one single suspicion
against that young girl, you are a villain! S’death,
sir! Has the world come to such a pass, and is the honor
of Archer Clifton of so little worth, that he cannot protect a
poor young maiden without injury to her? By Heaven! be
warned! For if you do but breathe one breath to dim the
lustre of that girl’s good name—by the good Lord that made
us good, and the demon that turned us to evil! relative,
friend and guest as you are, I will slay and drag you to her
feet to die!”</p>

<p class='c006'>So sudden, so mighty—so appalling was this burst of passion,
that for a moment after it was over, Cabell and Fairfax
stood as if transfixed with astonishment. Then Cabell, in
the frankest way in the world, held out his hand, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I like that! D—d if I don’t! Come, Clifton—I was
wrong, forgive me! give me your hand! By my soul, I like
a man that will stand up for—there! by all that’s fatal, I
had liked to have tripped again!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Understand me, sir,” said Archer Clifton, sternly. “You
know me to be on the eve of marriage with our cousin. She
is my liege lady, and never for one instant in thought, word
or deed, has my allegiance swerved from her service. And
more, gentlemen, both! A single word touching the fair
fame of <i>her</i>—of Catherine, I mean—touches <i>me home</i>.”</p>

<p class='c006'>They were here overtaken by two or three other gentlemen,
and the conversation took another and less perilous
turn, as they wandered down towards the mineral spring.
After slaking their thirst, the party divided. Major Cabell
<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>joined the three latest comers, and Clifton and Fairfax turned
towards the farm-house.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You seem to be moody this evening, Archer,” said
Frank, after they had pursued their way for some time in
silence.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes—that foolish jest of Cabell’s has annoyed me. It
is villainous! It is diabolical! Such light words, in which
a young girl’s fair fame is laughed and jested away, may be
thoughtless, but they should be punished with death!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“That’s a harsh sentence!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“A <i>just</i> one!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You feel this bitterly!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I <span class='fss'>DO</span>. For <i>her</i> name has been used! Frank! you believe
that if a word of disrespect were to be breathed by any
man against my mother, I would lay that man dead at my
feet without an instant’s grace?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! I thoroughly believe that you would send such an
one to his last account in a great hurry.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And if any one were but to <i>look</i> an insult to Catherine,
it would rouse all the ferocity of the demon in me to overthrow
and trample him to death!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘All this I steadfastly believe,’ as the catechism says
about total depravity!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And, Frank! you, yourself have sometimes spoken flippantly
of my regard for that girl—never so insultingly as
Cabell did just now, else you would not now possess my
esteem and friendship—but you have <i>trifled</i> with the subject.
Now understand, Frank, that I shall consider it a deep personal
affront in future if you repeat it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You haven’t heard me joke to you about Kate for a long
time.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No—I certainly have not.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No—for be hanged if the matter is not getting far too
<i>serious</i> for jesting!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What do you mean?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Archer! Have you never heard it said that those whom
it concerns <i>first</i> to be made acquainted with an injurious report
are usually the <i>last</i> to hear it, and when they are <i>innocent</i>,
they are the more exposed for <i>being</i> innocent, because
they never <i>suspect</i> the slander, and never <i>guard</i> against it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“In Heaven’s name, what do you mean?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>“<i>This</i>. Cabell’s jest was but the echo of the whole county
talk. I have been asked, I suppose, twenty times, by twenty
different young men, to tell them all about our adventure
upon the mountain.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“That was because <i>you</i> first of all represented it as an
adventure.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I confess it! In shame and confusion I confess it—but
then many times I am also asked what is the precise nature
of the relations subsisting between yourself and this girl?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, <span class='fss'>NO</span>!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, I tell you!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No! no one dares to question that!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But they <i>do</i>, I tell you! Ay, and <i>answer</i> their own
questions in a manner that reflects very little honor upon the
parties!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Would God I had never seen the girl! Would God I
had never brought her here! I would give my right hand
rather than evil should befall her! But who is it that dares
slander her? Tell me! Give me some name! Let me
have <span class='fss'>SOME</span> one to make an example of!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nay, Clifton! you can’t make an example of women and
children!” said Frank, evasively.</p>

<p class='c006'>“By Heaven, sir, they have husbands and fathers, who
shall be held accountable for the license of tongue they allow
their wives and daughters!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nay, now, Archer! This is a mere matter of gossip,
that will die out, if you are discreet!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“To dare to talk of <i>her</i>! They never looked upon her
face! Else they never could associate the thought of evil
with that noble brow, those thoughtful eyes, and serious lips!
To slander <i>her</i>!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nay, nay—it is <i>not</i> slander; only what I am afraid
should <i>become</i> such. It is only fun—joke—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“To dare to joke of <i>her</i>!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘<i>Her!</i>’ Verily, Clifton, any one to hear you breathe
‘<i>her!</i>’ with your full soul’s volume poured into the little
word, would think there was but one ‘<i>her</i>’ in the world!
Archy, you take a very strange interest in that girl. Are
you sure that you are not in love with her?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“In love with her! Nonsense—she is a child!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>“Well then, are you sure you should not be in love with
her, if she were a woman?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ridiculous! She is a low-born girl!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh I forgot! I beg pardon! You demonstrated that
to me before.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And, besides, sir, please to remember that all my love
and faith are due to my cousin, Miss Clifton; and that <i>she</i>
has my whole heart! I love, admire, honor, my beautiful
betrothed bride—nor for her proud sake will I brook that
any one should think it possible that I could even in thought
fail in full loyalty to my liege lady! But, Frank! my soul’s
dear brother! as I tell you everything, I will tell you this!
that I feel the very deepest interest in Catherine’s welfare!
If you ask me <i>why</i>—I tell you I do not know! It surprises
and confounds myself! But from the first moment I looked
upon her noble face, I felt that interest stir within my deepest
soul. And it has never since ceased!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I swear you are enamored of her!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Preposterous, Frank! you make me angry! It is a
very different thing from being enamored of her, let me tell
you! There is my beautiful, but cold and scornful bride, up
at Clifton! Well, I am the most patient of all adoring
slaves! I wait upon her sovereign eyes all day long! I
am proud to submit to her whims—to do her lightest bidding,
and pick up her lap-dog—or to obey her severest
command, and exile myself from her gracious presence all
day long! But now observe the difference! I feel a deep,
strong, strange interest in Kate. I cannot account for it.
I feel a sort of unratified right of property in her. I wish
to do her good. But I wish that all the good she may ever
possess in the world, may come from only me! and that for all
good things with which I cannot supply her, she may <i>suffer</i>
the want rather than owe their possession to another! Very
like <i>love</i>, is it not? But I wish to control her destiny! I
wish to have her in my power!—<i>in all honor, however!</i> It
galls me to think that I have no right of authority or guardianship
over her! I ardently desire such a right! I long
to have the disposal of her person and fate! I crave with a
frantic craving, to have more than a father’s—more than a
husband’s—more than a master’s right over her! I would to
God she were born mine—my own—body, soul and spirit!
<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>My own to use or abuse—to crown or kill, as I listed!”
exclaimed Clifton, passionately, while his cheeks and very lips
were white and dry, and his eyes burned with a fierce, consuming,
inward fire. And forgetting all things real, he felt
as in a vision, a girl’s spirit swoop down upon his bosom, and
a dream voice murmur in his ear—“Oh! if it will give you
one instant’s joy to press me strongly to your heart—crush me
to death in the fold, and my soul will exhale in rapture to
Heaven.” The fervid vision came and passed like lightning,
and Clifton roused himself from reverie, with a smile and a
sneer, saying—“Very like love, all that! is it not?”</p>

<p class='c006'>But as Frank did not reply, and as they had now arrived
at the gate leading into the yard, the conversation ceased.</p>

<p class='c006'>The early tea-table was set out under the shade of the
great oaks, and the ladies were walking about, taking the
evening air in the yard. As supper was only waiting the
arrival of Captain Clifton and Mr. Fairfax, it was now speedily
served.</p>

<p class='c006'>After tea was over, the carriages were all brought round
and the company took leave of Mrs. Clifton, and departed.</p>

<p class='c006'>Captain Clifton and Mr. Fairfax were the last to leave.
They mounted their horses and took the bridle-path down
the mountain side. This separated them from the rest of
their party, who went by the road. They did not, however,
converse. Frank was thoughtful, and Clifton himself buried
in a deep reverie.</p>

<p class='c006'>It was quite early when they arrived at White Cliffs; and
the remainder of the party had not yet arrived. Mr. Fairfax
joined Mrs. Clifton in the garden, and Archer Clifton sought
his lady-love, where he was informed he would find her,
namely, in the Summer saloon. He threw down his hat and
entered hurriedly, intending to surprise from her a hasty kiss.
Carolyn was standing looking out of the window upon the
rich sunset scene—the last sun that would set upon her
maiden life, perhaps, she thought. On seeing Clifton she
moved away, and retreated to the work-table at which she
seated herself. Clifton approached, and with an air of gallantry,
half serious, half playful, kneeled upon one knee
and kissed her hand. She drew it coldly away—but that
was the custom of the “proud ladie,” and did not surprise
her lover. He arose and drew a chair to her side and seated
<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>himself, and began to affect an interest in her little lady-like
occupations. Her right hand rested upon a pile of beautifully
fine linen cambric handkerchiefs—an item in the imported
trousseau. He laid his hand upon hers, and asked her some
trivial question about them.</p>

<p class='c006'>Now, Carolyn, after a day’s extreme suffering, had almost
gained a victory over her passion. Her haughtiness had almost
saved her. Not to one soul in that house—not to Georgia,
had she betrayed the least sign of the cruel suspicion that
had nearly maddened her brain. Not for all Clifton—not
for all the world would she have betrayed her passion to her
lover—or condescended to admit that she could be jealous
of him; for she felt that once to accuse him would be to
impose upon her the necessity of breaking with him. How
could she, in honor, marry a man to-morrow whom to-day
she had accused of treachery?—besides, she was not sure—could
never be sure of his moral dereliction. And while
there was a doubt in his favor, she must conquer or
conceal all suspicion, or, letting escape, must break with
him, even at this last moment—must break with him forever!
At least so her high spirit and her pride argued.
She could not part with him—pride forbade that also.—What!
the marriage of Miss Clifton of Clifton broken off at
the last moment, and all about a mountain-girl? Pah!
Forbid it, all the shades of all the buried Cliftons! Hearts
might break, but haughty heads must not be bowed! Better
lost peace than lost place! And then she loved him!—loved
him the deeper for suppressing all signs of love!—and
she could not bear to lose him! And banish him she must,
if she should once betray the jealous passion of her heart.
This mighty motive kept down the rising storm. Yet all
depended upon her vigilant self-control. Should a look, a
word of suspicion, escape her then, she felt the curbed frenzy
of her soul would have broken all bounds; even as by the
smallest fracture in the dyke, the mighty and irresistible sea
is let in upon the land, carrying destruction and death before
it! All depended on her silence. So, to keep her lover
from noticing her mood,—or fatally inquiring its cause—and
to give him employment, she pushed the pile of handkerchiefs
towards him, saying calmly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mark them for me.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>Clifton smilingly took them, found the little vial of indelible
ink, and went to work—himself well pleased to have
some service to perform for his liege lady, that would, without
disrespect to <i>her</i>, deliver <i>him</i> from the duty of keeping
up a running conversation, for which he felt indisposed.</p>

<p class='c006'>She need not have feared that Archer Clifton would observe
her mood. He himself was too abstracted, too thoughtful,
to be critical or inquisitive. He was deeply troubled by
the recollection of the conversations of the afternoon, affecting
Kate Kavanagh. Instead of benefiting, had he really
wronged that excellent girl?—darkened the very morning
of her just opening life with the clouds of suspicion? And
was even his mother’s protection insufficient to shield her innocence
from such attacks of slander? Yes!—for the <i>fact</i>
of his mother’s protection was not even acknowledged.
Slander shuts its eyes to truth, while it opens its lips to falsehood.
Should he send her back to the mountain, and expose
her to all the evils of that life? No, no!—his whole heart
protested against that course. Yet what to do to save her?
He could not decide then. He could not even get his own
consent to consult his mother. What! wound <i>her</i> ear with
the repetition of such a story? Never! His usual promptitude
of decision and action forsook him quite. A cry was
in his heart, and he could only repeat to himself her <i>name</i>
in deep sorrow,—“Oh, Kate! Kate! Kate Kavanagh!”
until her very name “<i>Kate Kavanagh</i>,” became the refrain
of a plaintive <i>silent</i> melody! Meantime he pursued his occupation
quite mechanically, marking and laying down, one by
one, the handkerchiefs, until the whole dozen was complete.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn Clifton watched his complete and mournful abstraction
with increasing suspicion.</p>

<p class='c006'>When all the handkerchiefs were marked, he took the
parcel, and shaking off sad thought, smilingly laid them before
his lady’s eyes, gayly entreating her to examine his work,
and reward him with a kindly word if it should please her.</p>

<p class='c006'>Miss Clifton took up the parcel, her eyes fell upon the
topmost handkerchief, and she started violently. She swiftly
turned it over and looked at the second, and the blood rushed
to her brow! At the third, and it receded again, leaving
her pale as death! She hurriedly went through the dozen,
then springing to her feet, she hurled the parcel to the floor,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>and setting her heel upon it, lifted her proud form to its
loftiest height, and stood, her chest expanded, her head
thrown back, her cheek kindling, her eyes blazing,—full!
full!—yet proudly suppressing all utterance of passion!
Captain Clifton started to his feet, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Carolyn, my dear cousin!”</p>

<p class='c006'>But spurning the parcel beneath her heel, she turned imperiously
away, and walked up the room.</p>

<p class='c006'>He followed her, repeating—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Carolyn, my dearest Carolyn! what is it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Turning and flashing upon him her fierce, imperious eyes,
she stretched out her arm, and pointed in scornful silence to
the handkerchiefs on the floor.</p>

<p class='c006'>He went and picked them up to examine them. Oh!
treacherous absence of mind! Oh! fatal refrain of the
mental melody! Oh! horror of horrors! Catastrophe of
catastrophes! Upon every handkerchief was beautifully
marked—“<span class='sc'>Kate Kavanagh</span>.”</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in6'>“Confirmation strong</div>
      <div class='line'>As proof from Holy Writ.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>Ay, and a great deal stronger, as sight is more convincing
than faith! What was to be done? It was in vain to deny
or attempt to explain it! Yet he must try, even if he should
make himself ridiculous. Hurling the fatal “handkerchiefs”
down with virulence, he sprang to the side of the outraged
and indignant beauty; seized her hand, exclaiming, vehemently—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dearest love—pardon! pardon! This is all a mistake!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Spurning his clasp from her hand, she turned away in
arrogant silence.</p>

<p class='c006'>Dropping upon one knee, he took her hand again, and
looking up in her face, said, in a voice of entreaty—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My Carolyn! this is all a mistake!—the most absurd
mistake! The effect of the merest absence of mind! The
most ridiculous thing!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, sir!” she answered, with slow and withering scorn,
drawing her hand away again, “I do not doubt it was a mistake.
I never supposed you would dare an intentional insult
to my father’s daughter!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>“But, Carolyn, my dearest cousin, only permit me to explain—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, sir, I <i>entreat</i> you spare me the humiliation of hearing
the story!” she sneered, with curling lip.</p>

<p class='c006'>“But, Carolyn, my dear, loved bride! My bride, that
will be, to-morrow—if you will allow me to tell you all the
simple truth—the <i>reason</i> why this young girl’s name ran in
my head so.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, sir,” she exclaimed, raising both hands, and turning
away her head in loathing—“I <i>implore</i> you!—I most <i>humbly
beseech</i> you to forbear! Spare me <i>details</i> that might shock
my—delicacy!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Carolyn,” he said, gravely and reproachfully rising, and
taking her hand—“this does not become you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Throwing off his hand, with scorn and indignation, she
replied—</p>

<p class='c006'>“It would less become me, sir, to listen to the history you
would tell.” Then subsiding into a mood of contemptuous
irony, she said, with a sneering smile—“Believe me, sir, I
feel more disgusted at your bad taste than shocked at your
sin, or wronged by your bad faith. <i>A mountain-girl!</i>
Truly, I am humiliated to think so base a rival should have
moved me—even to contempt. I am dishonored, sir, in that.
Had your wandering fancy fixed upon one of my cousins—one
of the elegant Misses Cabell, I might have mourned your
infidelity, but should have been saved this deep humiliation
for myself, and this utter contempt for you—but <i>a mountain-girl</i>!
A coarse, ignorant, ill-bred mountain-girl! <i>Oh-h-h!</i>
that you should have stooped, or I should have been moved,
by so low a creature as that! I could bury my head with
shame!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Carolyn!” he said, sternly, “permit me to inform you—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, <span class='fss'>SIR</span>!” she exclaimed, scorn writhing her lips, indignation
flashing from her eyes—“No, <span class='fss'>SIR</span>! You shall tell
me <span class='fss'>NOTHING</span>! It would ill-become my mother’s daughter to
listen to the revolting history of—your base amour with the
mountain-girl!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Yes, in the bitterness of her passion, she forgot her maiden
delicacy, and spoke those shameful words to his astonished
ears!</p>

<p class='c006'>“Miss Clifton!” he replied, severely, folding his arms
<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>and gazing sternly and steadily into her blushing face—for
she was already blushing for her temerity—until she quailed
before him—“Miss Clifton, you mistake my purpose—I have
no intention, <i>now</i>, to explain anything—the man who would
condescend to <i>deny</i> so base a crime as you have charged upon
<i>me</i>—is not too high or pure to commit it. Therefore, I deign
to say nothing for myself. But for the admirable girl that
you have slandered—I will say <i>this</i>: Had a <i>man</i> dared to
asperse the fair fame of Catherine Kavanagh—though that
man had been my bosom friend—he should have expiated his
falsehood with his life:—Had any other <i>woman</i> breathed a
breath of slander on her—her husband or her father should
have atoned for the fault:—For yourself, Miss Clifton—you
shall retract your words, before ever I shall call you wife!”</p>

<p class='c006'>This roused her passion to ungovernable fury. Turning
ghastly white, while the light seemed to leap from her eyes,
she exclaimed, in a low, deep, intense tone—</p>

<p class='c006'>“<span class='sc'>Death</span>, sir! Do you threaten me? Insult me in my
father’s house? Leave it! You are unworthy to stand
upon this floor! <span class='sc'>Begone!</span>” And reaching out her hand,
she seized the bell cord, and rang a peal that presently
brought a servant to the door. The advent of a third party,
though that party was a menial, constrained the lady to remember
herself. Miss Clifton was her cold, serene, dignified
self again. Turning to the servant, she said, haughtily,
“Show Captain Clifton to the front door, and bring round
his horse, instantly. He returns to Hardbargain, to-night.”
And she bowed to Clifton, and calmly and imperiously walked
from the room.</p>

<p class='c006'>The man stood waiting and bowing. Captain Clifton
snatched his hat, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Let my horse be brought round, without delay, Dandy,
and tell your master, when he returns, that he shall hear
from me at Hardbargain.”</p>

<p class='c006'>When the man had bowed and retired, Captain Clifton
passed out through the open leaf of the window, into the
piazza, and thence down into the lawn, to speak to Frank,
who was just entering from the garden with Mrs. Clifton on
his arm.</p>

<p class='c006'>Georgia saw at a glance, that her train of gunpowder had
caught, and the magazine had blown up, and her dark, beautiful,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>demoniac, witching face lighted up with a lurid joy for
one unguarded instant, and then all was self-recollection,
self-control, and sweet, smooth, serene, alluring glamour.</p>

<p class='c006'>Bowing deeply to Mrs. Clifton, he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Madam, an unexpected event sends me from Clifton this
evening. Pray make my adieus to my uncle and cousin.
And permit me to commend my friend here to your hospitable
care until such time as he pleases to become my guest
at Hardbargain—if, indeed, he will not ride thither with me
to-night,” he added, turning to Frank.</p>

<p class='c006'>Fairfax was too surprised to speak.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton, who was not surprised at all, yet affected
much interest, said, archly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, but we shall see you back very early to-morrow
morning!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I regret to add, madam, that it is not likely,” he said,
with another bow; then turning to Frank, he asked—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Will you ride with me to-night, Fairfax?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank glanced at the lady on his arm, and then looking
rebukingly at Clifton, begged to be excused.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, then, you are my guest, Fairfax, and my mother
has often pressed you to give her a few weeks of your company.
Join me at Hardbargain as soon as possible—the
sooner the better. To-morrow even—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>To-morrow!</i>” archly smiled the wily lady. “<i>To-morrow</i>,
I fancy, his attendance and your own will be required <i>here</i>.
Do you <i>forget</i>?—Well, that is the worst instance of absence
of mind I ever saw or heard of! A young bridegroom to
forget, for an instant, his wedding-day! Too bad, even for
<i>you</i>, the notoriously-absent-minded Archer Clifton!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Not wishing to enter into explanations, Captain Clifton
merely replied with another bow—a most convenient, safe
and polite manner of answer, since, without lack of courtesy,
it committed nothing.</p>

<p class='c006'>Then, taking leave of both lady and gentleman, and repeating
his invitation to Frank, he turned and went to take
his horse from the servant that held it, threw himself up into
the saddle, and, with a parting wave of his hat, rode away at
full speed.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Clifton looks darkly—what can be the matter?” asked
Frank.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>“Oh, nothing! probably Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain,
has been troubled with some refractory servant, and has sent
for her son to come up and reduce him to order—or possibly
there may be some dispute or difficulty in settling the demands
of the hired harvest hands. They are often even
dishonest in their extortions.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Deferring to your better judgment, madam, still, I fear
not! I think such trifles would scarcely have raised so dark
a thunder-cloud upon Clifton’s brow,” said Frank.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, well! At worst it is but some lover’s quarrel with
his most exacting queen, Carolyn!” playfully replied the
lady.</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank was not satisfied—he was pained. This most dangerous
dark beauty fascinated and frightened him by turns.
He had never seen the fiend in her face since that first night,
and her witching power had almost erased the remembrance
of it from his mind. Indeed, if he had ever recollected it, it
was with wonder and remorse that he should have ever read
such fearful meaning in a lady’s frown, and he ascribed it to
the phantasmagoria of his own fatigued nerves and over-excited
brain. But now he felt vaguely anxious, suspicious,
foreboding—he scarce knew wherefore. He had no reason
to reply to the lady again, for at the instant she finished
speaking, the carriages drove into the yard, bringing the
company from Hardbargain, and they walked forward to
welcome them home.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER VII.<br> <span class='large'>THE SEVERED HEARTS.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Alas! how slight a cause may move</div>
      <div class='line'>Dissension between hearts that love—</div>
      <div class='line'>Hearts that the world in vain had tried,</div>
      <div class='line'>And sorrow but more closely tied;</div>
      <div class='line'>That stood the storm when waves were rough,</div>
      <div class='line'>Yet in a sunny hour fell off,</div>
      <div class='line'>Like ships that have gone down at sea,</div>
      <div class='line'>When Heaven was all tranquillity!</div>
      <div class='line'>A something light as air—a look—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A word unkind or wrongly taken;</div>
      <div class='line'>Oh, love that tempests never shook,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A breath—a touch like this hath shaken.—<span class='sc'>Moore.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Some hours after the arrival of the company, old Mr.
Clifton sat alone in his study, examining piles of accounts,
merchants’, mechanics’, and hired laborers’ bills, that had
come in as usual upon the first of July, many weeks before,
yet had not, up to this night, been settled. For many years
past the financial affairs of the Master of Clifton had been
falling behindhand. The cause of this was that no plantation
and plantation house can thoroughly succeed without
the personal superintendence of an efficient <i>mistress</i> to assist
the master’s effort. Often, indeed, it happens, that while
the master himself is engaged in state politics, or off at the
legislature, or at congress, or on the circuit as a judge of the
court, or in the metropolis of the state, or of the nation,
holding some high office under the government—the mistress,
at home upon the plantation, is the main-spring of all its
business—superintending—not only the house and house-maids,
with their multifarious cares and avocations, such as
a city housewife cannot conceive of, but managing the plantation
also—keeping the overseer to his duty, adjudging
equitably all difficulties that may arise between him and the
slaves under his charge—looking over all the numerous
accounts, paying debts, and, when necessary, retrenching
<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>expenses. Now the Clifton plantation had been singularly
unfortunate in a series of inefficient mistresses, even before
it fell in regular succession to the present Mr. Clifton. And
after that, affairs were worse than ever. His first wife, the
haughty Miss Gower, the mother of Carolyn, was far too
great a lady to look after a housekeeper and overseer, and
her successors had been all young girls, very worthless, except
as pets and playthings, and who had, besides, to be
indulged every year with their winters in Richmond, or in
Washington—a two-fold evil, as it took the master from his
plantation and men, and the mistress from her house and
maids, and laid them, besides, under the heavy expense of
city hotel living, dressing, dinner-giving, theatres, balls,
concerts, etc. Once in awhile, as a bridal treat, or at the
successive “coming out” of daughters, a winter in the metropolis
may be well enough. But when continued year
after year, through a lifetime, to the total neglect of the
plantation, the revenues of no ordinary estate will hold out.
So it followed, that as the master and mistress ceased to
look after the overseer and the housekeeper, the overseer
and housekeeper ceased to look after the men and maids,
and the men and maids grew careless and indolent in the
performance of their duties. Thus, as the expenses rose,
the income fell. And thus, at the present time, old Mr.
Clifton was almost irredeemably in debt, and all the Clifton
property, except the land, mortgaged to its full value. The
mortgage might foreclose at any instant. And at this present
moment, the poor old master of great Clifton had not
the ready money to pay his harvest hands. The extent of
his liabilities was, however, so little known in the neighborhood,
that his credit was still good, and almost high—and
the estate of White Cliffs was still considered as one of the
most prosperous in the county, and the owners still held as
very enviable people. While old Mr. Clifton sat pondering
most dismally over his impracticable accounts, the study
door was suddenly thrown open, and Miss Clifton entered,
in great excitement, and threw herself into a chair before
her father, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Father, I have been insulted!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man, never indifferent to his children’s cry—ever
ready in the midst of his own real cares, to hear and sympathize
<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>even with their fantastic griefs—looked up from his
papers in perplexity, inquiring—</p>

<p class='c006'>“What is it? What did you say, my child?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I have been insulted!—outraged, sir!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man gazed at her in surprise, repeating—</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘Insulted, outraged!’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir! contemned, despised, scorned, insulted, outraged,
<i>rejected</i>!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man placed his hands upon the arms of the chair
and gazed in astonishment, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘Insulted!—outraged!’ Whom? You, my daughter
Miss Clifton! <i>Impossible.</i>”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir! me, your daughter—Carolyn Clifton!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Who has presumed—who has dared—?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Captain Clifton, sir, ‘has dared!’” replied the indignant
beauty, rising in her excitement.</p>

<p class='c006'>The old gentleman stared at her in blank wonder for a
minute, and then—taking her hand—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Sit down—sit down—sit down—sit down,” he kept repeating,
“and tell me all about it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn drank a glass of ice water that stood near her on
the table, and then, in a cooler manner, told her father exactly
what had passed, and how it had finally ended.</p>

<p class='c006'>The old gentleman scratched his snow-white head in vexation
and perplexity, but the winter bloom of his broad, rosy
face, was neither heightened nor lowered at the hearing of
the tale. He did not by any means display the indignation
the offended beauty had expected.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, sir!” at last she said, rather haughtily, “what do
you say to this?”</p>

<p class='c006'>He put his arm fondly around her waist, and drew her to
him, saying, caressingly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“You’re a fool, Carolyn! A vain, jealous little fool,
that’s all! Nay, now!—no airs with your old father! According
to your own showing, it has been Archer that has
been ‘contemned, despised, scorned, insulted, outraged, rejected!’
and the rest of it—and upon no just grounds, either!
as I can easily prove to you. I am very much mortified—deeply
humbled, indeed, to hear that my daughter, a highborn
young maiden, should have forgotten her feminine pride
and delicacy, and approached her lover with an intimacy with
<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>a mountain-girl—a race of women, with very few exceptions
so low and wretched, that a young lady should ignore their
very existence. Oh, my conscience, Carolyn! why do you
not cover your face, and die with humiliation? I do not
wonder a man of such high honor and delicate sensibility as
Archer Clifton, should have been shocked and disgusted.
Nay, my child!—no airs with me! No tossing of the head,
and curling of the lip with me! I am your father. You
must listen to me. You have done Archer the most outrageous
injustice. And your jealousy is as ridiculous as it is
indelicate. In the first place, this girl, though brought up
on the mountain, comes of respectable, if humble parentage,
and possesses, by all accounts, a higher toned moral and intellectual
nature than most young <i>ladies</i> are endowed with.
She is as far removed from vice as my own Carolyn! In the
second place, she is the protégé of <i>Mrs.</i> Clifton, as well as
of Captain Clifton, and enjoys that excellent lady’s esteem
and friendship, spending half of every day in her company,
except when visitors are at the house. In the third and last
place, she is not a beautiful woman, but an ugly child—being
scarcely fourteen years of age, and having the ugliest face I
ever saw in my life—at least <i>I</i> think so, though Mrs. Clifton
says it is a noble face. It has large features, and is full of
strength and expression, like a boy’s. There, now, that’s
all! Now! what do you think of yourself?”</p>

<p class='c006'>During this short explanation, Carolyn’s beautiful countenance
had changed expression as rapidly and as variously as
during the lay of the minstrel the harp changes and varies
its notes. At its close she dropped down by the side of the
old man, and throwing her arms and her head upon his knees,
in utter weakness and dejection, sobbed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Father! how shall I <i>ever</i> be forgiven?”</p>

<p class='c006'>He raised her to his knee, and putting his arm around her
waist, drew her head upon his bosom, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is an ugly lover’s quarrel, certainly, my love! And
Archer Clifton is as proud as you are! But it must be made
up! It must be made up! A very ugly quarrel, indeed.
And on the eve of your marriage, too! But it must be made
up! It must be made up! Ah, doubtless he will be over
to-morrow night! He feels as bad as you do, I’ll warrant
<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>he does! I’ll warrant he does! <i>I</i> should, I know, if I
were he!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, father! no he does not! He was in the right! I
was in the wrong!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! you were wrong, Carry! And I hope it will be a
lesson to you! But that makes no difference in <i>his</i> feelings,
not a whit! He suffers as much as you do! Why, when I
have a difficulty with my poor little pet, Georgia, if she is
ever so wrong, and I ever so right, I am nevertheless the
most miserable man alive!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, father, but there is a great difference—I am not
Archer’s pet, but was to be his consort. We—Archer and
myself, are nearly equal in station, ay, education, disposition,
and so are more responsible for our conduct towards
each other!” sighed Carolyn, dropping her head dejectedly
upon his bosom.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, well! now if you are so full of doubts and fears!
it is but ten o’clock! I will mount my horse, and ride up to
Hardbargain, and knock the young gentleman up—I doubt
if he is asleep!—and bring him back here, to-night!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Not for the world! Not for ten thousand worlds!” exclaimed
the proud girl, vehemently.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, then I don’t know what to do with you—go to bed,
and try to sleep, and if you can’t do that, ring for the housekeeper,
and make her give you some of her nostrums, to put
you to sleep! And go into a state of non-existence, that
shall obliterate the time between this and to-morrow morning.
And to-morrow, I’ll warrant Archer will be here to
breakfast with us, and to beg <i>your</i> pardon for the sins that
<i>you</i> committed! for that’s the end of all lovers’ quarrels!
No matter who’s right and who’s wrong—who’s sinned
against, and who’s sinning, the gentleman has to do the penance!
There! kiss me, and be off with you!—and hark ye,
Carolyn! don’t forget to kneel down and pray Heaven to
give you the grace of a meeker temper!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn Clifton went to her room and retired to bed, to
heat her pillow with her feverish head, to wet it with her
hot tears—to sigh, and groan, and toss, and sob all night.
This bitter, bitter quarrel, was the first trouble the girl had
ever had in all her favored life. And she was impatient
<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>with it, indignant at it. She was angry with herself for her
injustice and indelicacy; angry with Clifton for not forcing
upon her the explanation she would not consent to receive,
but which, had she been forced to hear, would have arrested
the quarrel, and saved this cruel suffering; angry at the tedious
night, that lingered so long, keeping her in agonizing
suspense; angry at the morning, that delayed its coming,
and bringing her the peace and joy of a reconciliation. And
so she tossed, and groaned, and suffered, like one in high
fever, while the long, long night was slowly, slowly passing
away.</p>

<hr class='c016'>

<p class='c006'>In the meantime Captain Clifton had ridden away, not so
angry as shocked, repulsed and alienated by the unprecedented
behaviour of his lady-love. He disliked all demonstrations
of emotion, and detested all exhibitions of evil
passion in a woman. It was the high-bred delicacy and refinement—the
queenly placidity—the cool reserve and stately
dignity of Carolyn Clifton, that had attracted his first admiration.
And though he sometimes gallantly complained of
her cruelty, he would not have had her manner one degree
warmer. But now this fair, cool, peerless queen o’er herself
and her emotions, had yielded to passions that might
govern a serving-maid—to suspicion, jealousy, and fierce
anger—had descended to virulent, vituperative abuse! And,
henceforth, she was discrowned, and degraded from her pride
of place.</p>

<p class='c006'>He arrived at Hardbargain—gave his horse in charge of
a servant, and entered the house.</p>

<p class='c006'>The candles were just lighted in the parlor, and Mrs. Clifton
and her favorite Kate sat sewing by the work-stand. As
he entered, Kate arose as usual with the intention of withdrawing,
but he signed to her with his hand, and said in a
tone of command—</p>

<p class='c006'>“No—stay, Catherine, and once for all give up that habit
of retiring as soon as myself, or any other visitor enters.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The young girl returned to her seat and resumed her work.
Then with a sort of spirit of persecution upon him, as one
would think, he went to the maiden and inquired, impatiently—</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>“<i>Why</i> do you always do that? <i>Why</i> do you always rise
and leave as soon as any one enters the room?”</p>

<p class='c006'>She glanced up at him with those large, shy eyes, and instantly
veiled them again, while the blush deepened on her
cheek. Her heart—her disobedient, rebellious heart, that
would not be calm when she bade it—was beating fast against
her bosom, as it ever beat, when he looked at her, or spoke
to her. To have saved her soul alive, she could not have
put her motive into words, and told him that she ever feared
her society, or even her presence, might not be as acceptable
to Mrs. Clifton’s visitors as it was to that kind lady herself.
She only bowed her head and blushed the deeper that she
could not answer, and yet deeper still, that she felt him
gazing on her. He <i>was</i> gazing on her!—gazing down on
that beautiful, dark auburn hair, rippling and glittering under
the light of the lamp—on that broad monarchal forehead, on
those even eyebrows and long eyelashes, dropping fine
shadows on the glowing cheek—yes! gazing and thinking of
Major Cabell’s enthusiastic admiration, and wondering why
all the world did not agree with him in thinking that countenance
grandly beautiful! Yet even while admiring her so
much, he spoke angrily, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine! You have a second habit even worse than
the first! Lately you have taken up the practice of not replying
to me when I ask you a question—and when you are
obliged to raise your eyes to mine, you drop them instantly
as if mine burnt them. Now I have always disliked and
suspected eyes that cannot look freely into <i>other</i> eyes!”</p>

<p class='c006'>At this the very forehead of the girl burned with a crimson
flush. Clifton took hold of her hand, which fluttered in his
own like a frightened bird, and said, in a kinder tone—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come, my child! see now if you can look me honestly
in the face, and tell me why you will not talk to me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>But Kate’s distress became so great that Mrs. Clifton interposed,
and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Do</i>, Archer, leave her alone! It does seem to me, son,
that you take a malicious pleasure in tormenting that poor
girl because she is so shy! Don’t mind him, Kate! He has
been a tease ever since he was a boy, when he used to pull
the ears of kittens and puppy dogs. Take up your work,
child, and hurry on with it. And you, Archer! I am as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>much surprised as pleased to see you back here to-night. To
what am I indebted for the pleasure?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear mother, I will tell you after awhile—let me be
quiet now a little time.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And Mrs. Clifton looked up in surprise, and noticed, for
the first time, how deeply troubled was Archer Clifton’s face.
After watching him a few minutes as he sat and watched
Kate, she said, suddenly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! I have a letter for you—arrived by the afternoon
mail. Henry brought it from the post-office this evening
after you left. Perhaps it was in quest of that you came,
and its contents may dispel your uneasiness,” and rising, the
lady went to the card rack, hanging above the mantle-piece,
and brought him a letter, which he tore open and read hastily.
Then starting up, he exclaimed, “Good! Good! Most excellent,
most opportune!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What is it, my dear Archer? I am very glad it gives
you such satisfaction, at any rate! What is it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“An order from head-quarters to join my regiment immediately,
to take command of a detachment to march within
ten days for the Indian frontier—to put down an insurrection
there!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No!” exclaimed the lady, in amazement.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, indeed, my good mother!” replied Archer Clifton,
exultingly.</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>No!</i> You astonish me! Ordered upon active duty—upon
distant and dangerous service at the very time you are
about to be married! Call you that opportune—fortunate?
I call it most <i>in</i>opportune, <i>un</i>fortunate!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! madam, you do not know! What, and if my marriage
were already broken off! Is it not lucky—I mean
providential, that I can join my regiment immediately, and
depart for a distant scene, and active service, in which I may
forget the sorrow and the humiliation!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Your marriage broken off? What? Now, at the last
moment? A marriage that has been looked forward to for
so many years? To be broken off when every thing is ready!
Impossible, it cannot be!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I assure you upon my word, madam, it is but too
true!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why—what—<i>do</i> you tell me?” exclaimed the lady, in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>increasing astonishment. “When did it happen? What
caused it? Had Mr. Clifton anything to do with it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It happened this evening after my return to Clifton. Mr.
Clifton had nothing whatever to do with it—not having
reached home at the time it occurred. It was occasioned by
a most humiliating quarrel between myself and Miss Clifton!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, a quarrel! A lovers’ quarrel! That is nothing!
Though, in truth, it surprises me that the calm, proud Carolyn
should descend to such a thing, as it does that my own
son should deign to take a part in it. But it is really nothing!
Such things occur in almost every courtship!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And those who quarrel in courtship should never venture
upon matrimony.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! that is an inhuman, unfaithful sentiment, my son!
Young people are like other young natures, petulant, vain,
irascible, exacting—but life trains them into modesty, sobriety,
forbearance. For this quarrel, Archer, it must be
adjusted! It shall be to-morrow morning!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, madam, it shall not! This quarrel is irreconcilable,
believe me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Pooh, pooh! <i>What! with Carolyn?</i> Nonsense!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mother! you shall judge! She has descended from her
high place of maidenly pride and delicacy, and betraying the
most revolting phases of suspicion, jealousy and fierce anger
she has charged me with infidelity, base treachery and vice!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dreadful! dreadful! as all angry words and acts ever
are! <i>But not unpardonable!</i> Spoken in the frenzy of passion—they
will be retracted to-morrow! And then you must
be reconciled. Things must go on as they have been planned.
There must be no discreditable exposure of this affray. The
marriage must take place, as proposed, to-morrow evening.
Then, if you <i>must</i> join your regiment, why it will be easily
<i>understood</i> that you must. And there will be no reproach
under those circumstances in leaving your newly wedded
bride under her father’s protection!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Impossible, madam! Miss Clifton has to-night exhibited
her character and disposition in such revolting colors, that I
can never, never take her to my bosom!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You are angry now, Archer! You will think better of
it! I trust in Heaven you may do so before there is an exposure.
Think what will be the astonishment of the wedding-company
<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>who will assemble to-morrow evening—the
mortification of the family at Clifton, and worse than all, the
scandal! the nine days wonder!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I thought my dear mother had too strong a mind to fear
these bugbears of the little, when a just occasion for meeting
and braving them occurs.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But I do not consider this an adequate occasion. That
this quarrel will be finally adjusted, I firmly believe. And
I think it a pity and a shame that to-morrow evening, three
hundred guests should be disappointed and dispersed, to
spread a subject of speculation and scandal all over the
country. And this merely because you will yet a little
longer indulge your anger!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am not angry, mother. If I were only angry I should
let the marriage go on, if Miss Clifton thought proper to do
so, for I should know that my anger would pass away. No,
I am not angry, mother, but shocked, repulsed, and totally
estranged. I could no more marry Miss Clifton now, than I
could take any other loathed object to my bosom! The idea
makes me shudder!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Still I affirm that all this is intense anger, nothing else,
and that there will come a reaction. Why in anger, Archer,
the object is as much loathed as in love it is desired—but
<i>that</i> is temporary, and <i>this</i>, I hope, you will find permanent.
I hope, at bottom, you respect Carolyn? <i>I esteem</i> her. She
has been a spoiled child, but has so many undeveloped good
qualities, that she only wants the discipline of a little affection
to make her a very excellent woman. I shall say no
more about this affair to-night, but wait to see what disposition
I shall find you in to-morrow!”</p>

<p class='c006'>At this moment there was a knock at the door, and instantly
afterwards Henny came in and informed her mistress that Mr.
Kavanagh had come to take his sister home.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ask Mr. Kavanagh to sit down in the hall. Put up
your sewing, Catherine, my dear!” said the lady.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine arose to fold up her work, while Captain Clifton
looked very much as if he would like to stop her again.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Does she not remain with you at night, madam?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Certainly not—her brother always comes for her at bedtime.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“How early does she come in the morning?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>“She never comes in the morning. Catherine has her
own domestic affairs to attend to during the forenoon. She
never gets here till late in the afternoon.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Then I shall not see her to-morrow—not see her again
for many months—perhaps <i>never</i> see her again! Come here,
Catherine!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine came to his side, and stood, as usual, with her
eyes fixed upon the ground, and her cheek painfully flushed.
He took her hand and pressed it in his own, while he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine! you have heard all that passed between myself
and Mrs. Clifton, this evening?”</p>

<p class='c006'>A quick, short, but not ungraceful nod was all her answer.</p>

<p class='c006'>“And you know that I am going away on a distant and
dangerous service; I leave here very early in the morning—I
may never come back, Catherine,” he said, slowly, looking
at her steadily.</p>

<p class='c006'>Her hand in his grew cold—her cheek paled—her heart
stopped still as death—but no word did she speak in reply.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine! before I go, I intend to give you a command—do
you hear me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>A spasmodic nod was her reply.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I may be gone many years. In the meanwhile you will
grow up to womanhood, Catherine; do not have any lovers—<i><span lang="fr">beaux</span></i>—as
young girls call them, while I am away—and above
all things, do not choose a husband without first consulting
me through my mother.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Not knowing what to reply to this, Catherine remained
perfectly silent.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Will you obey me in this, girl?” he asked, rather impatiently.</p>

<p class='c006'>A low, earnest choking “Yes sir,” was her answer.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Kiss me, then! for I may never return,” said Archer
Clifton, folding her for one moment to his bosom, and pressing
a kiss upon her full lips.</p>

<p class='c006'>But her lips grew cold at the touch—her face paled and
fell away from his bosom—her form drooped and sank back
over his arm, where she lay like one dead, in a swoon.</p>

<p class='c006'>Surprised, alarmed, Clifton raised her in both arms, and
hastened to the lounge, where he laid her, calling to his
mother. The lady came forward without any trepidation,
and bringing a bottle of Hungary water, began to chafe her
<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>temples and face, and finally gave that task to Clifton, while
she herself loosened Kate’s dress.</p>

<p class='c006'>“What could have been the cause of this, mother? Is
she subject to these attacks?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I never knew her to faint before, though I have seen her
under very trying circumstances with that old man, her
grandfather.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What could have occasioned it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, the sudden news of your going away on dangerous
service, of course,” said Mrs. Clifton, as she resumed the
bottle, and continued to chafe the girl’s face and hands.
“The child loves you, Archer; she has a very grateful,
affectionate heart, and very strong feelings. She loves us
both. And when you bade her good-bye, for a long and
perilous absence, is it strange she should have been overcome?
When <i>soldiers</i> talk of danger, <i>children</i> may be
forgiven for being frightened. Do go and tell Kavanagh
that Kate must remain here to-night, and dismiss him.”</p>

<p class='c006'>He went, and before he came back again, Kate, with a
long drawn sigh, had opened her eyes and recovered.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You must raise her, and take her up stairs, my dear
Archer. She must suffer no more agitation to-night,” said
Mrs. Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>And he lifted the form of Catherine, and took her up stairs,
while his mother called Henny. When they had laid the
young girl on a bed, and left her to the care of Henny, and
had returned to the parlor again—Captain Clifton said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mother! take care of that girl! She has been the innocent,
unconscious cause of my trouble to-day, but I cannot
feel dislike or even indifference towards her. Take care of
that humble maiden, mother, as if she were your daughter
and my sister. Don’t let any rustic beaux come near her,
mother. I cannot endure the idea of her marrying, or even
being wooed by any low, miserable fellow of her brother’s
grade. And do not permit any young gentleman of the
neighborhood to trifle with her heart, or endanger her good
name. You know how easily, even without her fault, that
sole possession of a poor maiden is lost. The thought that
such an unmerited misfortune should befall Kate, exasperates
me beyond measure, and I feel like quarreling with the
whole order of society!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>“What, you! the proud conservator of rank! Truly
Archer, one would think Carolyn <i>had some little ground</i> of
complaint!” said the lady, with her little, low, half dignified,
half jolly laugh.</p>

<p class='c006'>“This from <i>you</i> mother!” exclaimed Archer Clifton, reproachfully.
“I thought you knew me better. You <i>do</i>
know me better! But I must have some hand in this girl’s
good fortune.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton, who was walking about the room, quietly setting
things in order for the night, made no reply, but only
smiled. And soon after she lighted a night lamp, and
placing it in the hand of her son, bade him good-night, and
retired to her chamber. Captain Clifton remained pacing up
and down the room, in troubled thought, some time after she
had left, before seeking his own couch.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER VIII.<br> <span class='large'>LOST AFFECTION.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in18'>“Oh! cast not thou</div>
      <div class='line'>Affection from thee! In this bitter world</div>
      <div class='line'>Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast;</div>
      <div class='line'>Watch—guard it—suffer not a breath to dim</div>
      <div class='line'>That bright gem’s purity.”—<span class='sc'>Mrs. Hemans.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Morning came at length. Carolyn Clifton arose unrefreshed,
weak, dizzy and sick. This was the first night’s
rest she had ever lost in her life. And on looking in the
glass—habitually the first thing the beauty ever did after
rising—she was shocked to see what havoc one night’s evil
passions had made in her appearance. What a fright she
had become! How pale her cheeks, how dragged the
muscles, how red, dim, and sunken her eyes! And this
upon her wedding-day—and when she had a quarrel to make
up with her intended husband, too! When, in fine, every
circumstance pressingly demanded that she should appear in
the highest beauty. Would Archer Clifton—would that
fastidious, artistic worshiper of the beautiful—feel inclined
to a reconciliation with such a spectre as herself, she mentally
inquired, as she gazed wonderingly, deploringly, upon her
haggard face? Carolyn was vain and proud and scornful—so
vain and proud and scornful that she did not know—could
not imagine that that very haggard face—haggard with sorrow
for the estrangement and the separation, would be a
stronger appeal, make a deeper impression upon the heart of
her lover, than all the glory of her beauty had ever done.
And thus vanity, pride and scorn punish their subject, not
only by depriving her of very much respect and affection she
would otherwise have, but by making her insensible of that
love and esteem that really does surround her.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn at length rang for her woman. And after some
little delay she came in, evidently just aroused up out of her
<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>sleep, and wondering that her young mistress should summon
her before sunrise. But as soon as she saw her lady, her
wonder gave way to alarm, and she exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My good gracious alive, Miss Carolyn! What’s der
matter, honey?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Has——<i>any one</i> arrived this morning, Aunt Darky?”
inquired Miss Clifton, without noticing the old woman’s
alarm.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, chile, sure not! Who should ribe at dis onlikely
hour ob de mornin? Ledst it war de doctor. Has you
sent for de doctor, honey? But Lord, indeed, chile, you
better lay down agin. Don’t keep on standin’ dere holdin’
up your hair, weak as you looks, an’ I’ll run an’ see!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Aunt Darky, I am not ill. I have had a bad night’s
rest—that’s all. Go—and—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“A bad night’s res’, an’ like enough, honey! I had a
<i>berry</i> bad night’s res’ de night afore, me an’ Old Nick took
up ’long o’ each oder! ’Deed chile, I was sort o’ scared
an’ sorter happy, ’cause I <i>was</i> scared! An’ deed, chile,
‘tween so many con<i>try</i>dictions, I could’n onderstan’ myself
and kept awake all night! Lord, honey, it’s nat’ral! We’s
all alike, ’cept ’tis de collor, an’ dat’s only outside show,
skin deep. But bless you, honey, that wan’t nothin’ to the
night ’resses I’se lost since dat, with long o’ cryin’ babies an’
teethin’ babies, an’ sick chillun, an’ ole man Nick comin’
home drunk ebery time ole Marse give him any holyday
money to spen’ on hisself! Now praise be de Lor’, de chillun’s
all raise’ an’ married an’ settle’ off, an’ I’m a free
‘oman! An’ I tell my galls how I ain’ gwine be bother’
long o’ <i>der</i> chillun, now in my ole days!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Aunt Darky,” said Miss Clifton, feeling in no way flattered
by the parallel, “go and get my bath ready, and have
a cup of strong coffee brought the instant I leave it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, honey—an’ hadn’t de baff’s water better have de
air tuk off o’ it, as you’se not so strong dis mornin’?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, yes—what makes you trouble me by questions?
You ought to know what is proper to be done.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“An’ so I allus does know, honey—ony when I does my
mos’ properess’, you doesn’n alluz’ see it into dat light an
you fines fau’rt long o’ me,” said the old body, as she left
the room.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>When Miss Clifton had left her warm bath, and had partaken
of the rich strong coffee—strong as the essence of
coffee, and made rich and thick by being half cream and
sugar, and brought to her in a tiny porcelain cup, she felt
sufficiently refreshed to be able, with the assistance of her
woman, to make her morning toilet.</p>

<p class='c006'>When she had finished dressing it was still very early, and
two hours remained before breakfast—but she left her room,
and met her father, who was an early riser, in the upper
hall.</p>

<p class='c006'>He came forward and kissed her. Then held both her
hands, and looked in her face, exclaiming—“What! pale,
my child? Oh, tut! tut! tut! tut! tut! That’s <i>all</i>
wrong! All wrong!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Father! has he come yet?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, no—it’s quite early yet! He’ll be here anon! You
should not have risen these two hours!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Father, I could not sleep! I could not even lie in
bed!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, pooh! pooh! pooh! All folly! All nonsense!
Go back and rest.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Father, I cannot! My words to him were so wrong! so
bitter! so insulting! I feel them to have been such, and I
can never rest until I have told him so!” said Carolyn,
dropping her head upon the only bosom to which her
haughty heart could bear to confide its sorrow and its repentance.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, so you were wrong, very wrong! It will teach
you a lesson that will benefit you for the future. And for
the present it will blow over. There, there, there—if you
can’t be still, go and amuse yourself by making me a nice
mint-julep! I want it before I go out in the fields—the
morning air on my empty stomach isn’t good for me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>He then kissed Carolyn and let her go. As she left him,
he saw to his surprise Frank Fairfax emerge from his chamber,
with a portmanteau in his hand. Frank immediately set
it down, and advancing, said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, sir! I was just about to seek you, to let you know
that, to my infinite regret, I must leave you to-day.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“To-day? You astound me! What is up now? You
mustn’t go—you shan’t!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>“Sir, I have received an order to join my regiment without delay!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh-h-h, that’s bad! That’s bad! Devil fly away with
military life! That’s what was always hiking away Archer
at the very time I wanted him most. But no frantic hurry!
You needn’t go to-day! You <i>mustn’t</i>. Why, this is the
wedding-day, you rascal!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know it, sir! But, to my everlasting regret, I must
forego the pleasure of being present upon that occasion. My
order is a peremptory one, to join my regiment instantly.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, well! To-morrow’ll do! To-morrow’ll do! <i>One</i>
day cannot make so much difference!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear sir, I surely need not tell you that soldiers
should be ‘minute men’ in their obedience. Besides, if I
do not seize the opportunity of meeting the Staunton stage
as it passes through L—— to-night, I shall have to wait
three days for the next stage. So, you see—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, yes; I see! I am always called upon to see something
I don’t want to see! Ah! here comes the mint-julep!
Did Miss Carolyn mix it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>This was addressed to the colored boy who brought a pint
tumbler on a little waiter.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yez, zur,” said the boy.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do you take julep in the morning, Frank? Try this.
Another julep for me, Nace!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, no, I thank you, sir! I never do. I wish you
good-morning till breakfast time,” said Frank, taking up his
portmanteau, and going down stairs.</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank put his little burden down in the lower hall, and
went into the summer saloon, where he was sure, by the precedent
of the last thirty days, of finding Zuleime at the
window, doing her sampler-work. Yes, there she was, in her
white muslin and coral, with her jet black hair and damask
cheeks! He went and sat down by her, (after saying
“Good-morning,”) and sat for some minutes in perfect
silence, watching Zuleime work the word Love, in crimson
silk. At length—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Whom do <i>you</i> love best in the world, Zuleime?” he
asked.</p>

<p class='c006'>“How can you ask? Whom does <i>everybody</i> love best?—‘her
<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>nain sell,’ as the Welchman says, of course!” exclaimed
the merry maiden.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Humph! Well, whom do you love the <i>next</i> best to
yourself?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, let me see,” said the girl, pausing thoughtfully,
with her needle poised in her hand; “I think, that next to
myself, I love—Zuleime Clifton best of all the world!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I thought so! And I can lay my hand upon my heart,
and say, that you don’t love Zuleime Clifton a whit better
than I do!—no, nor half so well! I’ll throw down my gage
on that, and fight it out to extremity! Come!—What have
you to say to that?” asked the young man, with all the
earnestness in his face and manner that his light words
wanted—“say, speak! What do you say to that?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, that you are as foolish as Zuleime herself, in
loving such a little, out-of-the-way baggage, that is neither
woman nor child, nor good nor bad, nor any thing else in
particular.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, at any rate, we both agree in loving and worshiping
Zuleime, however we may differ in our opinion of her—<i>I</i>,
for instance, thinking her a beautiful, joyous, delightful
girl. So, it’s settled, isn’t it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What is settled?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, you know, you tease!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know the weather is settled, if you mean <i>that</i>!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Pooh!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I <i>don’t</i> know that the naval trouble with Great Britain
is settled, if you mean <i>that</i>!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Pooh, pooh!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know that the marriage dower of thirty thousand dollars
is settled upon Carolyn, if you mean that!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Pooh, pooh, pooh!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, I shall not try to guess again, lest you should say,
‘Pooh, pooh, pooh, <i>pooh</i>!’—four times!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime!” said the young man, earnestly, “I think,
without presumption, I may say that I know your disposition
towards me. Zuleime, I wish that we should pass all our
lives together, side by side! I would like to open my heart
and bid you look into it and read for yourself. I hate to
say, ‘I love you,’ (though if you could look into my heart!)
Oh, that phrase, ‘I love you,’ Zuleime, is so fallen, is so
<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>prostituted, so degraded from its high meaning—‘I love you’
so often means ‘I need your wealth,’ ‘need your family influence,’
‘I desire your delightful beauty!’ Oh, Zuleime,
dearest girl, how then shall I express my true, sincere, earnest
devotion to you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You needn’t—I know you like me, Frank,” murmured
Zuleime, very low. And then she added, lower still—“But
I am nothing but a wild school-girl, and, seriously, I fear it
isn’t right for me to listen to such words for years to come
yet. And I fear father might not like it, only that he likes
<i>you</i> so very well.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And Zuleime bent over her sampler, diligently, commencing
the next word, hope, in azure silk.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know it, Zuleime! Dear, candid girl, I know it all—all
the seeming error! But, Zuleime, I am going away to-day,”
(she looked up in surprise,) “and I may be gone for
several years. When I come back I shall certainly return
a captain, if not probably a major, or possibly a colonel.
Before I go, I wish to have a fair understanding with yourself
and your father, so that I may go away with some feeling
of security. I want you both to promise that when I
return you will give me your hand.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You may speak to father, Frank. But I tell you frankly
now, what I wish you had heard before. It is this:—that I
have been promised to my grim cousin, Major Cabell, ever
since I can remember anything. And till you came, I have
always, whenever I have anticipated the future at all, looked
forward to being his hum-drum wife, and living in a grim
three-story red brick, in a row, and opposite another row of
stiff, prison-like red brick houses, each one of which, taken
singly, is more dreary than all the rest. I didn’t like the
prospect, Frank; but I thought it was my fate, and the best
father could do for me, and so I thought of no other possibility
but the grim red brick house in the city and Major
Cabell. Besides, father is so good a father, and so fond and
indulgent, that it seemed <i>too</i> wicked to think of disappointing
his gentle wishes, that never take the form of commands.
And so, Frank, although whenever I would think of the
grim brick house, with tall dark chambers, and the narrow,
stony, distracting street before it, and Major Cabell, my
heart would sink very heavy, and I would think, young as I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>was, that there was scarcely any hope for me at all—yet, I
would recollect my dear good father wished it, and I would
pluck up my spirits and feel blithe as a bird again. It was
all understood at the school where I am getting finished, as
they call it. And father left word that Major Cabell should
be admitted to visit me. So when I am there he comes to
visit me frequently, and takes me out riding, or driving, and
to concerts. And the girls whisper together, and say that I
am engaged—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Stop—stop—stop—stop! Pardon me, Zuleime! Pardon
me, dear girl! But, I am giddy—indeed, I am ill!
Have you yourself promised to marry him?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, surely not; and that is the reason why I consider
myself in some sort <i>free</i>—but of my duty to my good father.
No, he has never even asked me. He considers my father’s
promise quite sufficient, and our marriage quite a matter of
course. And so I used to consider it, too. These things
are often done, Frank. These betrothals, I mean. Any
one might suppose the custom obsolete—having died in the
dark ages. It is not. It prevails here to a considerable extent.
It is done to keep family property together, or family
interest closely cemented. And, Frank, he has never courted
me yet. You see he considers me a child still. And so I
am, compared to him, in years. And so I should be, in all
things, a child, but that the shadow of that grim brick house
is always falling on my heart!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And yet, with all this, you are a very, very merry
maiden!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, so I am. I try to be! I keep a din up in my
head to prevent me hearing what my heart wants to say!
Goodness! I can do nothing for the poor thing, you know,
and what’s the use of stopping to listen to its cry?—<i>that</i>
would only encourage it to complain the more. Don’t look
so sorry, Frank! It is not all effort! It could not be, you
know. I’m naturally of a glad, elastic temper; and but for
this drawback, Heaven knows what I should be! the wildest,
maddest, most harem-scarem, most heels-over-head, skip-over-the-moon
madcap that ever turned a quiet home topsy-turvy,
and drove a quiet family to distraction! The Bible
says,—‘God loveth whom He chasteneth, and scourgeth
every son (and daughter) whom He receiveth.’ Then I think,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>(I <i>do</i> think, sometimes, young and volatile as I am,) I think
that every one whom God redeems has <i>some</i> sorrow, and
that sorrow is always the precise one fitted to cure their besetting
sin! As the proud are still kept down by poverty
and oppression, the vain lose their charms, or the power of
enhancing them, etc., etc., etc., among all the erring whom
God designs to set right. And I, who am naturally so wild
and thoughtless, must be sobered and made thoughtful by
the prospect of that prison before me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime, does this man love you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Frank, if I say he does not <i>hate</i> me, it is the extent of
all favorable things I can say about the state of his mind
towards me. No, he does not love me. It is entirely a betrothal
of convenience. Sometimes I look forward to my
future life in that great unknown city, which I should dislike
under any circumstances, and especially to pass my whole
life in, with one I do not like, and who does not like me, and
I <i>wonder</i> how I shall contrive to exist,—<i>I</i>, who love to be
in the country, on this dear old homestead, with my fond old
father and my tender old nurse, and the colored folks who
love me so well,—and where I have so many occupations,—and,
oh, my soul and body! I think how <i>shall</i> I ever put
life through in that packed up city! Sometimes I think—for
I <i>must</i> have something to occupy my whole soul with—that
I will be very gay and worldly, and dress, and visit, and
give balls, and go to balls, and theatres; but then again I
reflect that it would be wicked to spend all one’s time and
attention upon such things. And then I think I shall try to
grow serious enough to join a church, and that I will be a
leading member, and a Sunday School teacher, and a patroness
of the Bible Society, and of the Missionary Society, and
a getter-up of new kinds of benevolent associations, and
Dorcas circles, and be a Committee woman, and a distributor
of tracts, and a collector of subscriptions, etc. One <i>must</i>
do <i>something</i> to fill up the long, long days; one <i>must</i> live
<i>somehow</i>, and, upon the whole, I thought this latter plan
might do, as it would occupy me entirely, and is not so
wicked as the other.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, I don’t know that, Zuleime! But, my dearest girl,
cease all these troubled thoughts about the future, unnatural
to your age, and unwholesome to yourself! This whole
<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>cloud must be swept away like a cobweb. He doesn’t love
you. You don’t love him. He has never asked you to
marry him. You have never promised to do so. It is a
mere betrothal of convenience, made by the parents of both
for the purpose of keeping family property together, and
cementing family interests. Oh, it is all wrong! And there
is nothing in it! I will speak to your father. I will enter
the lists with this Major Cabell, as a competitor for your
hand. In all worldly circumstances, which are ever of the
greatest value in a Clifton’s estimation—in family, wealth
and social position, I am his peer. Besides, I wear my lady’s
favor, which he does not! I will go to your father now and
tell him as much, shall I, Zuleime?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The young lady was busy threading her needle with golden
yellow silk, and did not answer. He repeated the question.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes,” murmured Zuleime, beginning to embroider the
last word of the trio,—<span class='blackletter'>Faith</span>,—in sunbeam silk. No time
was to be lost. He raised her hand to his lips, and darted
out upon the lawn to meet old Mr. Clifton, whom he saw approaching
the house.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear sir!” exclaimed Mr. Fairfax, rather excitedly.
“I have something of the utmost importance to say to you.
Will you take a turn with me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear sir!” repeated the old gentleman, smiling,
“breakfast is ready! Let’s go on to the house!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But my <i>dear</i> sir! my business is urgent!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My <i>very</i> dear sir! the coffee is getting cold!” said the
old man, laughing at Frank’s excitement.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mr. Clifton,” said the young man, gravely and sadly,
“immediately after breakfast I must leave here. This, then,
is the only opportunity I have or shall have of communicating
to you what is on my heart to say—and it really <i>is</i> on my
<i>heart</i>.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Say on then, my dear boy! say on!” exclaimed the
benevolent old gentleman. But Frank, now that he had got
leave to speak, was struck dumb. He thought it was perfectly
easy and simple to ask for Zuleime, but now the request,
like Macbeth’s amen, stuck in his throat. “Come,”
said the old gentleman, running his fat arm through Frank’s
slender one, “give me the support of your arm, for I am not
so young and active as you are, and let us take a little walk
<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>up the path towards Hardbargain. Perhaps we may meet
Archer, and bring him back with us to breakfast. He is not
at the <i>house</i>, is he?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, sir,” said Frank, glad to recover the use of his
tongue.</p>

<p class='c006'>“We expect him here to breakfast. We shall probably
meet him. Come! Well, now! what is it?” he asked, as
they turned their backs on the house.</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank had plucked up his courage, and now spoke to the
purpose.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mr. Clifton, as I am going away immediately after breakfast,
and as I am to be absent for an indefinite length of time,
I wish before I leave to tell you that which lies upon my
heart—” here he paused a little time to collect his thoughts
and fine words, while the old gentleman attended with an
encouraging expression of countenance. Frank resumed—“Mr.
Clifton, I love your daughter Zuleime. And I have
come to beg your sanction to our engagement!” As the old
man only said, “Whew-w-w-w!” Frank continued—“You
know my rank in the army, and my prospect of promotion.
You are acquainted with my family, and are aware of their
interest and influence in the country. Allow me farther to
add, that my own private fortune amounts to fifty thousand
dollars. And I will settle thirty thousand on my bride.
Besides which—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Stay, stay—my <i>dear</i> fellow, stay!” interrupted the old
man, with a troubled look. “This is all nonsense, now!
Zuleime is a child. And you have not known her more than
six weeks. Love Zuleime! Pooh, pooh! You young men
are so flighty and fickle in your fancies! You get frantic
about every new face you see, and think yourselves in love!
Pooh, pooh! Now, Frank, my boy, come! let’s hear no
more of it! It’s all nonsense! You young officers are always
in love, or fancying yourselves so! I dare say, you have
been in love with all the daughters of all your commanders,
and Heaven forefend, a little platonically smitten with all
their wives, too! Come, I know you! Nonsense! Let’s
hear no more of it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mr. Clifton, I am no trifler in matters of the affections.
I never <i>have</i> been. I never <i>shall</i> be, I hope! And when I
tell you, upon my sacred honor, that never in my life have I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>‘flirted,’ as it is called, with a woman—that never in my life
have I either loved or addressed the language of love to a
woman—except Zuleime—you will believe me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Oh-h-h-h!</i>” exclaimed the old gentleman, with an exceedingly
bored look. “It’s all <i>folly</i>, all <i>nonsense</i>, I tell
you! A sudden fancy! Nothing more! Let’s drop the subject.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mr. Clifton,” said the young man, gravely and sorrowfully,
for he saw that the old gentleman rather evaded than denied
or accepted his suit, “I have never, in my whole life, been
addicted to taking sudden and evanescent fancies, as you
might judge, from what I told you! And when I tell you
that I love your daughter Zuleime, I mean that I love her
sincerely and earnestly, with my whole heart and soul—and
that I shall love her to the last hour of my life!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Bah! bah! It’s all <i>tom-foolery</i>, I tell you! You get
yourself shut up in a country house with a pretty girl, and
<i>of course</i> you fall in love with her! <i>To be sure!</i> What else
could you do? It’s expected of you! You’d disappoint us if
you didn’t! But it is such love as will not outlast your
journey to your regiment.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It will outlast my life! I know it will! I feel it will!”
said Frank, earnestly, vehemently.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Tah! tah! tah!—you’ll fall desperately in love with the
first pretty squaw of the friendly tribes who shall come to
bring moccasins to your frontier fort!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, God!” groaned the young man, bitterly, dropping
his face into his hands. “There is no way of making a
serious impression upon you, and I am going away in two
hours!” His tone and manner so affected the really impressible
and benevolent old gentleman, that he half embraced
him with his fat arm, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Now <i>don’t</i>, Frank! <i>Do</i> be a good boy! <i>Don’t! Do!</i>
It’s all <i>folly</i> now! <i>Indeed</i> it is! <i>Do! Don’t!</i> Now consider—how
many pretty girls there are in the world! <i>Don’t</i>,
Frank! A great deal prettier than my girl. Never fret
about her. <i>Do</i>, Frank. Besides, she’s so young! A mere
school-girl. Only fifteen last Monday. Pooh, pooh! Not
to be thought of, you know! Far too young!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Sir, I can wait. I only wish your sanction to our engagement.
I can wait three or four years, if necessary, or any
length of time at all, if I may hope to get her at last!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>“She is too <i>young</i>, I tell you, Frank! Too young to
know her own mind. Only fifteen. Ridiculous!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But, sir, I have heard of gentlemen older and more
settled than myself who have actually <i>married</i> girls of fifteen.
<i>I</i> only ask an engagement!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You mean <i>me</i>, you dog! I know you do! I see you do!
But, Frank, seriously and solemnly, I wouldn’t do so again!
And for the very reason that <i>I</i> committed that egregious
folly, that bitter wrong against a young girl, I will not suffer
any one else to do the same wrong to my child, if I can help
it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, Mr. Clifton—pardon me, but are <i>you</i> not about to
commit a more grievous wrong to your own lovely, gentle
child? Have you not? Pardon me! Pardon me! But <i>have</i>
you not promised her hand where she cannot give her heart?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No! Heaven forbid! I promised her to Charley Cabell.
She used to like him very well. I did the best I could for her
happiness. I have secured it—unless—unless—oh, my God,
Frank!” suddenly exclaimed the old man, in his turn extremely
agitated, and wiping the perspiration from his brow,
“I <i>hope</i>—I <i>trust in God</i> you haven’t entrapped her affections!
Frank! Frank! She <i>is</i> engaged to Major Cabell!
I didn’t tell you so when you first asked me for her, because—because—for
many reasons—” (wiping the streaming perspiration
from his brow) “it is—it is—disagreeable to remember
and to talk about it! But—but—she <i>is</i> engaged to
Major Cabell, and—and for many reasons—family reasons—it
is necessary that the engagement should be fulfilled!
Unless—unless—some inevitable, <i>insurmountable obstacle</i>
was to arise and prevent it! Frank! Frank! I am in a
great strait! a dire, doleful strait! but—but—sooner than
make my girl <i>un</i>happy, or stand in the way of her perfect
happiness, I would—I would—I would <i>die in a jail</i>! Where
I may die! Where I may die!” Nothing could exceed the
force of the emotion that agitated the old man, shaking his
huge form, and choking up his utterance.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mr. Fairfax looked at him with mingled astonishment,
wonder and compassion.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Boy—boy—you <i>haven’t</i> entrapped my dear child’s
heart?” again inquired the old gentleman, trembling with
excess of feeling.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>“<i>Entrapped</i> is not exactly the word, sir,” said Frank,
proudly and mournfully. “I learned to love her, and I
won her love without designing to do either!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Lost! Lost!” cried Mr. Clifton, dropping his head upon
his bosom. He walked on in silence so desponding, that
Fairfax could not bring himself to intrude upon it. They
went on until they suddenly met <i>Major Cabell himself</i> coming
down the hill, apparently from Hardbargain.</p>

<p class='c006'>The Major was walking slowly, with his head down, and
twirling around his finger a topaz necklace. As soon as he
perceived Messrs. Clifton and Fairfax, his forehead flushed,
and he hastily crammed the necklace into his vest pocket.
Frank thought the whole thing strange, but, but stranger
still was the conduct—the metamorphosis—the transfiguration
of Mr. Clifton, who, upon observing the Major, instantly
put a violent constraint upon himself, and became the broadfaced,
rosy, smiling, blue-eyed, debonnair old gentleman, so
lavish in the display of his fine teeth, and hearty, cordial
words and smiles. Frank was provoked that their conversation
was so completely arrested.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, good-morning,” said Mr. Clifton, addressing the
Major. “Been to Hardbargain this morning so early? How
are all the folks up there? See, Archer? Why didn’t he
walk with you? Eh? Expected him!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I have not been to Hardbargain, sir,” replied the Major,
rather morosely.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Been out taking a morning stroll then, eh? Fine appetite
for breakfast, no doubt. And it is waiting for us, too.
Come, Frank, let’s turn about.”</p>

<p class='c006'>They did so. Frank now noticed for the first time that
the manner of the old gentleman was conciliating, while that
of the Major was surly.</p>

<p class='c006'>They soon reached the house, and the breakfast-room,
where the ladies were awaiting their arrival.</p>

<p class='c006'>As they entered, the countenance of Carolyn Clifton was
flushed and eager. But when they had all got in, and were
seated at the table, the color died out of her face, leaving
her pale as marble. She merely trifled with her breakfast,
pretending to eat, but no morsel passed her lips. When
breakfast was over, and the company dispersed about the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>room, Carolyn almost reeled past her father in going out, and
muttered with pale lips—“Father! Not come yet?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Never mind! Never mind, my dear! I will ride up to
Hardbargain and fetch him.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Not for the universe, father! if he never comes!” replied
the determined girl, plucking up her spirit, and sweeping
proudly past and going into the piazza, where she sat,
by-the-bye, with her eyes strained up the mountain-path by
which he ought to come.</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank got no opportunity of speaking alone with Zuleime.
Old Mr. Clifton met him, however, when he came in from
looking after his horse, and said, kindly patting him on the
shoulder—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Indeed, my dear boy, I don’t see the least necessity for
your leaving us until after dinner. The stage coach doesn’t
pass through L—— till eight o’clock at night, and five or
six hours is ample time in which to reach there!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir! I grant it, but I have to go this morning to
Hardbargain to take leave of Mrs. Clifton, and of my friend
Archer, if, indeed, the latter is not ordered on the same duty
as myself, which, upon Miss Clifton’s account, I am inclined
to fear!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! Are you going to ride to Hardbargain? Then,
perhaps, you will be pleased to learn that Zuleime is going
there this morning, also, to assist Mrs. Clifton in putting the
last finishing touches to her dress for this evening. And you
can escort her!” said Georgia, smoothly gliding between them,
and laying her head and hand with child-like freedom and
affection upon the old man’s shoulder.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! I shall be very happy!” said Frank, “<i>really</i> happy—nay,
<i>overjoyed, intoxicated</i>, with the prospect of an uninterrupted,
farewell <i><span lang="fr">tête à tête</span></i> with Zuleime.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Old Mr. Clifton looked rather disappointed, but he was
not of a very combative disposition—especially had he no inclination
to contradict Georgia. Besides, he at once reflected
that there was really no danger. They couldn’t be married
in the neighborhood, because they could get no license, and
no clergyman dare marry them without one. And it was not
probable, or even possible, that Frank would elope with his
daughter on the very eve of joining his regiment for a distant
and dangerous service. In truth, he felt it was folly to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>cherish a misgiving. And yet he <i>had</i> misgivings, nor could
he banish them—the utmost extent of his self-control was—not
to <i>act</i> upon them—not to forbid their riding together.
While Zuleime was putting on her hat and riding habit,
Frank got the ear of the old gentleman once more, and for
the last time. The old man had sunk into his broadbottomed
flag chair in the hall, with his thick gold-headed
stick between his knees, and his two hands and his chin resting
upon it, when Frank stood before him with folded arms
and head dropped upon his breast, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mr. Clifton—once more, and for the last time, I ask you,
and I implore you to answer me candidly. Is there any possibility
that, under any change of circumstances, at any future
time, I may hope for your consent to my union with Zuleime?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The earnestness, deepening almost into solemnity, of the
young man’s manner and words, impressed Mr. Clifton very
deeply, but he replied—“Mr. Fairfax, it is best to speak the
plain, harsh, cutting truth, though that truth is the axe laid
to the root of all your hopes of Zuleime. No. Yet I regret
this, Frank! You do not know how much! But you must
forget her! I hope you will <i>soon</i> do so! I know you <i>must</i>!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank shook his head in despairing negation. And farther
colloquy was arrested by the coming down of Zuleime equipped
for her ride.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come here, my daughter! Now you must be <i>sure</i> to be
back by dinner time, do you hear?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Certainly, sir!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Promise</i> me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Of course I do.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Upon your <i>honor</i>!” said the old man, seriously.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Upon my honor, sir, I will return by dinner time! But
what makes you so emphatic about it, dear father?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“A notion of mine, my child! but I have your promise!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Of course you have, sir!” said Zuleime, drawing on her
gloves.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mr. Fairfax was taking leave of Mrs. Clifton. Presently
he turned to bid adieu to Mr. Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>The old gentleman shook his hand warmly, wishing him
all the success he desired, and affecting to laugh and jest,
while he exacted a like promise from Fairfax, namely, that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>he should take his girl to Hardbargain, and leave her there
to return by dinner time.</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank gave his word very cheerfully. The young couple
then mounted and rode away. The old man watched them
from the piazza in sorrowful love, murmuring—</p>

<p class='c006'>“God bless them. I wish they <i>could</i> be married. Poor
things. If they <i>do</i> love each other so much, or if they <i>think</i>
they do, which is quite as bad while it lasts—why, it is but
kind to let them have this last little parting comfort of a ride
together! And it was well, too—” chuckled the old gentleman—“to
tie them up with promises, so that they can’t run
away, which they might else be tempted to do in their parting
hour. But they will neither of them ever break their
word, and I shall have her back safe by dinner time. For
it is utterly impossible for them to get married without a
license, and it is quite impracticable to get a license this side
of L——, or to ride to L—— between this and noon,
much less to ride thither and return here in time for dinner!
Ah! I have them there! And yet, I am sorry for them, too.
Poor things!”</p>

<p class='c006'>All this time Carolyn Clifton had sat like one dead, only
with her eyes strained up the mountain bridal-path.</p>

<p class='c006'>In the meantime, Frank and Zuleime pursued their ride.
As soon as they were out of sight and hearing of a band of
field laborers, employed in cutting grass, and had entered the
shady mountain-path, Frank said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, Zuleime, my dearest girl, I spoke to your father—”</p>

<p class='c006'>—“And his answer—I almost dread to hear it—yet I
know what it was, too.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank nodded his head, and they rode on in silence for
some minutes, broken at last by Frank, who suddenly exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime! you bear this so well!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Frank, you know this is no new thing to me; I have
known it, and been prepared for it all along!” replied the
girl, with a look of resignation.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Zuleime! is there no way to prevent it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“None that I know of, Frank!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime! I was in every way his equal—why, when that
is the case, and when I was supported by your voice, too—<i>why</i>
was I rejected?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>The maiden shook her head.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime, when is this hideous marriage expected to come
off—do you know?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Whenever Major Cabell chooses to demand my hand,
I believe!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Really! Upon my word! He is a personage of tremendous
importance! Whenever <span class='fss'>HE</span> chooses to demand your
hand!! Zuleime! that is passing strange! This affair
seems then to rest entirely with Major Cabell!!!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, it does entirely.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Bless his Majesty. Zuleime, <i>what hold has that man on
your father</i>?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime shook her black ringlets mournfully, but did not
reply.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do you know, my dear girl, that I am impressed with
the idea that your father does not at heart wish to give you
to Major Cabell, but rather yields to a strange power the
man holds over him?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“At times I have thought so, too. But then my dear
father at other times really seems so set upon the marriage,
that the thought has been driven out of my head again! I
do not know what to think! But what I <i>do</i> know is, that I
will never willingly do anything to give my dear father
pain!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dearest girl, do you know that I believe, from my
soul, that your marriage with Major Cabell will give your
father more pain than any other circumstance could?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The young girl looked up in surprise.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime! he told me to-day, that though he had promised
you to Major Cabell, he would rather die than see you <i>un</i>happy,
or stand in the way of your <i>perfect</i> happiness!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear father! My dear, gentle father! My fond,
old father!” exclaimed Zuleime, with the bright tears rolling
on her damask cheeks, like dew on the red rose. “My kind,
generous father! He shall never know that I am unhappy!
And neither <i>shall</i> I be unhappy when pleasing him!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear, excellent girl! listen to me! You shall not
be unhappy any way! Do you suppose, Zuleime, that I could
ride by your side so cheerfully, if I thought you were going
to marry that man, on whom your father no more wishes to
bestow you, than he wishes to send you to perdition? Listen,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>my darling girl! When your father told me what I have
repeated to you, he went on to say, that for certain <i>family</i>
reasons, it was incumbent on him to fulfill his promise, and to
bestow your hand upon Major Cabell, <i>unless some insurmountable
obstacle should interpose to arrest the union</i>!  Zuleime!
a flood of light broke on me then! and I felt and knew that
the old man would yield his darling daughter to the mysterious
power exercised over him by Major Cabell, rather than
bestow her with esteem and affection! Zuleime! without
vanity, I think that he loves me better, and would prefer me
for a son-in-law, if he were free to choose. I think, indeed
I do, that he would hail with secret joy “an insurmountable
obstacle,” which would prevent the marriage, and not implicate
him in any manner. I think that was what he meant
when he said what he did. Still, I am convinced that the
words slipped from him unintentionally. I am certain he
did not mean to give me the hint, which nevertheless, I take,
for he is a man of strict honor, I know, and would never
tamper with the <i>spirit</i> of a promise any more than he would
break the <i>words</i>!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! no, he never would, indeed!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And again, my dearest girl, when I asked him just before
we came away, whether, at any future time, under any
possible contingency, I might hope to obtain his consent to
our union, he assured me that I might not, and earnestly entreated
me to forget you! That further convinced me that
he had no design in giving me the hint upon which I am
about to act—do you hear me, dearest Zuleime?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime did not, or at least did not appear to.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime, my darling, my love,” said Frank, dismounting
in the path, and lifting her from her saddle. “I am about
to raise ’an insurmountable obstacle’ to your marriage with
the Major!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime turned deadly pale with surprise and terror, and
glanced wildly around, while she fell upon his arm and seemed
about to faint.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, Zuleime! Come, come. What is the matter?
Don’t be afraid! What, afraid of <i>me</i>, of <i>Frank</i>, your playmate?
Why, look up in my face and see! Come lift up
your head! I want to talk to you! There! there! Why,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>what are you afraid of? I will take <i>no</i> step without your
consent, sweet Zuleime!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The infinite tenderness of his words, tones and manner,
reassured the frightened girl, and she raised her face, now
suffused with blushes. He supported her with his arm
around her waist, while he pointed down into a narrow glen
to the right, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“There! Look there, Zuleime. Do you see that little
stone house—there in the bottom of the glen—there by the
spring—but so much like the rocks, near it, and so deep in
the shade, as hardly to be distinguishable! Do you see it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes,” breathed the maiden, very low.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do you know who lives there?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“A good old man! A saintly old man! A poor Baptist
missionary preacher, who lives in that hut quite alone, and
<i>preaches</i> there every Sunday to an humble congregation,
composed of poor mountaineers and negroes. He has devoted
his life to labor among the mountain people, and has
done wonders in reforming them! Is it possible that <i>you</i>,
living in the neighborhood, knew nothing of him?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, yes! I have heard a great deal about Mr. Saunders,
only I did not know where exactly his hut was. There are
so many of them, you know!” said the girl, somewhat recovered,
and much interested.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dearest Zuleime! we will go down to that hut! ‘I
see by the smoke, that so gracefully curls,’ that the old man
is at home. We will tell him the whole story, as far as we
know it, and get him to raise that required insurmountable
obstacle!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! Frank!” exclaimed Zuleime, shocked, delighted,
terrified, overjoyed.</p>

<p class='c006'>“But, my dearest Zuleime! my dearest love! I have
recorded an oath in Heaven, to save you from that marriage
with Cabell! And I will never leave you until you are my
wife. If you refuse <span class='fss'>NOW</span>, I will throw up my commission in
the army, and live there in that hut with the old parson,
until you <i>do</i> consent!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But, my father, Frank! My dear father!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dearest girl, he will be glad!” Here Frank went over
the whole story again, and added—“And Zuleime, have you
<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>no love, no pity left from your father to bestow upon the
poor soldier who loves you so, and who is going out to the
Indian frontier, where he may lose his scalp, or be burned
alive, or eaten raw within a month by the red-skins? Will
you refuse his last prayer?” etc., etc., etc. Over and over
again, fervently, earnestly, imploringly, despairingly he repeated
the argument and the prayer, while he held the maiden
“half willing, half afraid.” “She who hesitates is lost,” it
is said.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime hesitated a long time, and, consequently, was lost
to all eternity. What could she oppose, indeed, to what
seemed so right and reasonable? With a deep sigh she
yielded at last. There was no path that way down into the
glen, and the descent was deep and precipitous, and overgrown
with stunted cedar, pine and thorn bushes. So,
Romeo and Juliet began to clamber down, by foot-holds of
jagged rocks, and fist-holds of thorn bushes, to the great
risk of wounded hands and torn pants and petticoats. And
so it was in rather a disordered state of attire, as well as in
an excited state of mind, that they at last arrived before the
door of Father Lawrence’s cell, and rapped. While they
waited for the old man to appear, Frank, very much to the
surprise of Zuleime, drew from his vest pocket a license—a
regular <i><span lang="la">bona fide</span></i> license, signed by the clerk of R——
county, and sealed with the county seal. Resting his foot
upon the door-step, he took off his hat, turned it down on his
knee, laid the license upon its top, and drawing from his
other pocket a travelling pen and ink case, proceeded to
write the names of Francis Rutland Fairfax and Zuleime
Dovilliers Clifton in the blank spaces.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You look surprised, my dearest girl,” said he, as he returned
the pen and ink case to his pocket. “You wonder
how I came by this license? I will tell you. I have it by
a stroke of the rarest good fortune. You know, being
groomsman, I was entrusted with the duty of riding to
L——, and procuring the marriage license for Archer and
your sister. Well! when I arrived at the clerk’s office, by
the strangest caprice of memory, I entirely forgot Miss
Clifton’s middle name; so I got the clerk to give me one
license filled out with the names of Carolyn Clifton and
Archer Clifton, and then knowing how extremely punctilious
<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>you all are here, in this county, I procured another license
regularly signed and sealed, but leaving blank spaces for the
proper names of the parties! There, darling! that is the
manner in which I came by it! Now, this blank one I fill
up with our names, which I really think look quite as pretty
as the others would! As for Clifton and your sister, if they
want a license, they will have to put up with the first, which I
will hand to Archer as soon as we get to Hardbargain. Bless
my soul! what has become of that old man?” he exclaimed,
rapping loudly, then trying the door and pushing it open.
The house was empty. Frank looked dismally disappointed,
but Zuleime plucked him by the sleeve, and whispered, hurriedly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Here he comes—behind you!”</p>

<p class='c006'>And he turned to see the old preacher coming from the
spring, bending under the light weight of a small pail of
water. Frank immediately went to him, greeted him respectfully,
and took from his hand the pail, and carrying it,
walked by his side, till they reached the house. Lieutenant
Fairfax then introduced himself by name and station, and
presented Miss Zuleime Clifton. The old man bowed and
offered his hand, with a courtly grace, in strange contrast to
his rude garb and rough habitation. He invited them to
come in and sit down. And when they had entered, and
Zuleime was seated, Frank took the old man aside, communicated
the object of their call, and produced his license.
The old man glanced from the earnest countenance of Frank
to the blushing, downcast face of Zuleime, shook his bald
head, and looked very grave.</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank drew him off to the farthest corner of the little hut,
made him sit down on the foot of his bed, seated himself by
his side, and in a fervid, earnest, eloquent manner, told him
their little story.</p>

<p class='c006'>Many times the old man shook his thin, gray locks. They
were not good things—these secret marriages—they never
prospered. Marriage should be open as day—with the
blessing of God—with the blessing of parents—with the
sympathy of friends—with the good wishes of acquaintances
to hallow and prosper the union.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh!” said Frank, but this was an extraordinary occasion,
the father was really at heart not opposed to this marriage,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>but circumstances compelled him to withhold his open
consent—he himself, (Frank,) was about to depart on a long
journey, and merely wished to secure his bride against a
forced marriage of convenience during his absence. In short,
Frank recommenced the argument, and told it all over from
beginning to end.</p>

<p class='c006'>Still the old man shook his bald head and demurred.</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank began the story over again, recited the whole of it,
with many additions and improvements.</p>

<p class='c006'>To no purpose—the old man was obdurate. Frank, then
half angrily, arose and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come Zuleime! We must go on to the frontier together,
and find somebody to marry us on the route, and let Mr.
Saunders here be responsible for all trouble that may ensue,
since with the license before him, he refuses to unite us.”
At this, Zuleime burst into tears and wept heartily.</p>

<p class='c006'>The old preacher dropped his head upon his breast in troubled
thought for some moments, and, whether the arguments
of Frank had after all produced some effect, or whether he
feared to encounter the responsibility of sending this wild
young couple on their way unmarried, or whether he was
moved to pity by the tears of Zuleime, or whether, as is
more probable, <i>all</i> these considerations actuated him, I know
not; but he slowly rose to his feet, uncovered his head, and
lifted up his eyes in silent prayer awhile, then bade the
young pair stand up, for that he would marry them.</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank clasped the hand of Zuleime, and led her forward.
And in less than fifteen minutes more, by the magic of a few
words, the youth and maiden were man and wife. And while
Mrs. Fairfax, with trembling white fingers, was tying her
hat, Mr. Fairfax would have emptied the whole contents of
his purse in the minister’s hands,—but, though that money
might have supplied the poor old preacher with many necessaries
for which he really suffered, and made him very comfortable
for a long time, yet he turned away his head, and
put it away from him, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, young man, I cannot take your gold; I may have
erred in what I have done, but I did not do it for money.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But you always take a fee, do you not?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“From others I do—not from you. It would not be
blessed.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>The boyish brow of Frank clouded and darkened, but it
cleared again instantly as he turned towards his bride.</p>

<p class='c006'>They were about to bid the old minister adieu, when he
took a hand of each, and joining them again, held them in
his own, while he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Children, if this thoughtless act bring you into much
trouble, in the long, weary years of trial and suffering that
may result from it, reproach <i>me</i> for my share in the rash
deed as much as you please, but,—” he paused and looked
solemnly from one to the other,—“never, as you value love,
and fidelity, and peace,—never, as you value the favor of
Heaven, never reproach each other with it! So may God
forgive, and bless, and prosper you! Good-bye!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The young bride and groom had bowed their heads during
this benediction, and at its close responded with a silent,
heartfelt amen. They then left the cabin.</p>

<p class='c006'>If the minister of God grievously erred in performing this
secret marriage ceremony, he was soon called to account for
it; the old man died that night.</p>

<p class='c006'>As Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax left the cabin, they perceived
Kate Kavanagh, on her little rough-coated mountain pony,
coming straight down into the glen—her sure-footed little
animal treading with perfect security the precipitous descent
down which they had been obliged to clamber. Kate was
looking very pale and care-worn, so that her ponderous
abutting forehead, in its pallor, reminded Frank of a barebleached
cliff. And, indeed, he thought that Kate’s face
looked more like that of an anxious politician, with the affairs
of a nation on his shoulders, than of a grieved girl.
But this was the fault of her marked features. But little
time or thought had Mr. Fairfax to bestow upon the mountain-girl;
so as soon as he caught sight of her, he turned in
another direction, to avoid being recognized, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“By all that’s fatal, my dearest love, we were near being
detected! And by all that’s fortunate, we have escaped!
Come, this way, we will take a stroll down the glen and
into the forest for a little while, until this girl is clear of the
way.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, but it will delay us so much, I shall not have time
to go to Hardbargain, and assist Aunt Clifton, and get back
home to dinner, as I promised!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>“<i>My dear!</i>” said Frank, reproachfully, “do you grudge
me these last few hours of your society, when we are about
to be separated so far and so long? Besides, you know you
are my own dear wife now. Will you refuse?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, no, I cannot! But, oh, let me return to father—my
dear, fond, confiding father,—as soon as I promised!
Let me keep the word of promise to his ear, if I have broken
it to his hope!” cried Zuleime, bursting into a passion of
tears.</p>

<p class='c006'>Safe tears, and unobserved but by him who kissed them
away, for already they had entered the thicket, and were
veiled from the sight of Kate Kavanagh, who now dismounted
before the door of the hut, and taking from the
horns of the saddle a basket and a bundle, entered the poor
preacher’s humble habitation. We will turn from the erring
pair and enter with her. None but God knew how much disinterested
good the poor mountain-girl did in this world.
Even the minister, who loved and respected her, knew little
beyond the good she did for him. He knew that she knit
new stockings and darned old ones for him—that she took
his scanty clothing every week, and mended, and washed,
and ironed it for him—and that when she brought it back,
she would always bring him butter, cream and cheese of her
own making, and a fresh loaf of rising bread of her own
baking, and often some little rural luxury besides, as a jar
of honey or a piece of venison. And that she would stay
and clean up his house before she left. He knew that she
was his good spirit.</p>

<p class='c006'>As Kate entered the room, the old man came and met her,
and took the basket and the bundle from her hands and set
them down, and set a chair for her, and made her sit down
in it, while he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear child! my excellent child, you do too much for
me! You hurt yourself, Catherine, and make me too deeply
your debtor!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate waved her hand in that quick, short way peculiar to
herself, silently beseeching him to stop.</p>

<p class='c006'>“But it is the truth, Catherine, my child! I shall never
be able to repay you!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, sir! you have reversed the case! It is <i>I</i> who am
<i>your</i> debtor! If I were not <i>particularly</i> your debtor for all
<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>the education—mental, and moral, and religious, that I have
ever received, up to the time of my coming to Hardbargain—still
I should be <i>generally</i> your debtor, as youth is the general
debtor of age—owing it all the service it can give.”
Then, to change the subject, the girl laid off her straw hat,
drew off her sheep-skin home-made mittens, and arose and uncovered
her basket, saying—“Instead of a loaf of rising bread,
Mr. Saunders, I have brought you some fresh biscuits; I
thought they might be an agreeable change. There is also
a fresh print of butter, and a bottle of cream, and a beef’s
tongue, boiled—I thought the last would give you an appetite—I
think you have not had a good appetite, lately!”
And without more ado Catherine put the things away in the
cupboard, setting the bottle of cream in a bowl of water, to
keep cool, and wishing to herself that she had a lump of ice
to put on the old man’s print of butter. Next, she unrolled
the bundle, took the old man’s nicely washed and mended
clothes, and put them neatly away in the chest of drawers.
Then she set the empty basket aside, rolled up her sleeves,
stooped down upon the hearth, and began to make the fire,
saying—“You know I have come to dine with you to-day,
Mr. Saunders!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know you have come to bring me many comforts,
and to cook my dinner, and clean up my house, and
make me very comfortable, you good girl, my dear little
Brownie!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine moved about, in her quick and quiet way—filled
and put on the kettle—for the old man would always
have his cup of tea—and set the table, placing all the little
rarities she had brought upon it. When all was ready, and
they sat down, the old man found leisure to observe that
Kate ate nothing, and looked pale and thoughtful.</p>

<p class='c006'>“What is the matter, my dear Kate?—you who are <i>always</i>
serious, are <i>now</i> positively sorrowful! What is it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate, who was truth itself whenever she spoke, chose for
that reason to give no answer.</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man looked more and more disturbed, and laying
down his knife and fork, said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nay, but Catherine, my dear child, there is something
the matter! I do not wish to intrude on your confidence,
but if you have any trouble that you think I may possibly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>be able to soothe—confide in me, as if I were your own
father, my child.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Mr. Saunders, don’t trouble your good heart about
my cloudy face. Sure and hasn’t a poor girl the same right
to her smoke that a wealthy young lady has to her vapors?”
said Kate, smiling.</p>

<p class='c006'>The old minister did not press his question, but resumed his
knife and fork with a look of mortification that worried Catherine,
so that she said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I will tell you, then, what troubles me. My dearest,
best friend and patron, Captain Clifton, has bidden me good-bye,
and departed for the frontier! That is bad—oh, yes!—very
bad. But that is not the worst. He has gone away
very unhappy. I might as well tell you what everybody
will soon know:—his marriage is broken off! He has gone
away in anger with his promised bride. He has gone away
so wretched! Mr. Saunders, when I saw him last night,
looking so pale, and stern, and proud—and knew the haughtiness
and the anguish of his heart, I thought I could have
died to have restored peace and joy between him and her he
loved so strongly.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Merciful Heaven!—those Cliftons! This is another instance
of their fatal subjection to passion! Do you know,
my dear child, what caused this quarrel?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know nothing but this—the marriage is broken off for
the present! I do not know wherefore.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Some jealous suspicion of one party or the other!
Those Cliftons all have Spanish blood in them, and the Spanish
character is uppermost in their nature. They are all
haughty, reserved, jealous, suspicious.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, but they are full of courage, magnanimity and benevolence,”
said Catherine.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Archer Clifton is of a very jealous and suspicious nature—was
his betrothed inclined to coquetry?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, I do not know, sir, but the misunderstanding did
not originate in any charge against Miss Clifton. It was
something of which Miss Clifton accused <i>him</i>, but of what, I
do not know!—he did not say. My dear Mr. Saunders, I
told you what troubled me, to satisfy your kind heart, and
allay your benevolent anxiety on my account. And now
please forgive me, for beseeching you not to question me
<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>farther upon the subject. They—the parties, I mean—are
far removed above my sphere of thought and action—and the
investigation of their motives of action, by me, seems to involve
a certain indelicacy—I fear even impertinence of interference,”
said Catherine, gently.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yet, far above your sphere of thought and action as you
say they are, they are not—at least <i>one</i> of them is not—above
your sphere of sympathy and emotion. <i>His</i> sorrow
affects <i>you</i> with sorrow!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The blood rushed to Kate’s brow, and she remained silent.</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man and the maiden soon after arose from the
table. She washed up the dishes, tidied up the house, and
collected the poor preacher’s soiled and broken clothes, and
tied them in a bundle to take away with her to wash and
mend. Then she tied on her hat, and took leave of him;
the old man calling her back, again and again, with vague,
prophetic meaning, to repeat over and over—“God bless you,
my child! God bless you!” It was his dying benediction.</p>

<p class='c006'>A poor mountaineer, that called early the next morning
to get the poor minister to the poor to come and bury his
wife—found the old man dead.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER IX.<br> <span class='large'>WOMAN’S PRIDE.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The bird when she pineth may hush her song,</div>
      <div class='line'>Till the hour when her heart shall again be strong;</div>
      <div class='line'>But thou—canst thou turn in thy woe aside,</div>
      <div class='line'>And weep midst thy sisters? No, not for pride.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>May the fiery word from thy lip find way,</div>
      <div class='line'>When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring to-day?</div>
      <div class='line'>May the grief that sits in thy weary breast,</div>
      <div class='line'>Look forth from thine aspect, the revel’s guest?</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>No! with the shaft in thy bosom born,</div>
      <div class='line'>Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn!</div>
      <div class='line'>Thou must fold thy mantle, that none may see,</div>
      <div class='line'>And mask thee with laughter, and say thou art free!</div>
      <div class='line in46'><span class='sc'>Mrs. Hemans</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>All the forenoon, Carolyn Clifton sat in the same place and
in the same attitude in which we left her, affecting to read,
but really watching the mountain-path with heart-sickening
anxiety. Every distant sound of a horse’s hoofs that struck
upon her ear, sent an electric shock to her heart, causing her
to start violently, tremble, and turn deadly sick and faint,
with accelerated hope and fear, until its nearer approach revealed
some neighbor going on his way, or some negro coming
from the mill or the village, to her despairing sight.
Even the sound of carriage wheels, as they occasionally rolled
by, made her heart pause in its pulsations until it passed, and
proved to be some family going on a visit or a shopping errand.—For
still she hoped that if he did not come down the
mountain-path on horseback, he might come round the road
with his mother in her carriage. He came not. And oh,
the wedding-day was almost over! No one saw the strife of
hope and fear, like the struggle of life and death, going on
silently in her bosom. Mrs. Georgia Clifton spent the whole
forenoon in her own apartment, professing to be engaged
with many elegant preparations for the evening; but really
full of triumph for the success of her wicked scheming, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>anxiety and wonder for the events of the evening, and dark
regret also for the absence of him who, if lost to Carolyn
forever, was lost to herself for a time at least. With all
these passions and emotions striving in her bosom, she dared
not show herself, lest her conscious heart and conscious face
should betray her—for Georgia was yet young in wickedness.</p>

<p class='c006'>The Misses Cabell were in their own chamber, putting a
few finishing touches to their dresses for the evening, for
they, with Zuleime, were to be the bridesmaids.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime herself had not yet returned, although it was near
noon.</p>

<p class='c006'>Old Mr. Clifton had been out, as was his daily habit of a
forenoon, riding around his plantation.</p>

<p class='c006'>He came in to-day a little earlier than usual, and finding
his daughter exactly where he left her, but looking still more
pale, haggard and anxious than in the morning, he sat down
by her side, put his arm tenderly around her waist, and
gazed lovingly into her whitened and sharpened countenance,
before he said interrogatively—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Not come yet, Carolyn?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, sir!” answered the young lady rising and putting
off her father’s caressing arm, and her own humiliating despondency,
with a proud and queenly air.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well!” said the old man, with sudden energy, “<span class='sc'>I will</span>
certainly now ride up to Hardbargain and know the reason.
<span class='sc'>Dandy</span>!—my horse, there! Bring him back!—I’ve not
done with him!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Father!” said Carolyn, seizing his hand, and detaining
him, while she raised her head and looked and spoke in a
manner that reminded him more strongly than ever of her
arrogant mother, “Father, <i>no</i>, you will not go! No, no,
father, if you have any love for <i>me</i>, any respect for the
memory of my dead mother, <i>do not</i> subject her daughter and
yours to such a mortification! No, father, if he <i>never</i> comes,
never go after him!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You’re a fool, girl!” cried the old man, breaking away
from her, “a palpable fool!—You were a fool for quarreling
with him and sending him away, and now you are a greater
fool for persisting in the quarrel. ‘Mortification,’ indeed!
Who’ll be the most mortified this evening, I wonder, ‘if he
never comes?’ What the deuce are we to say to the people
<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>who will come here this evening to see you married? Tell
me that?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Before she could say another word, a large family carriage
rolled down the road, and turned and entered the lawn.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn sank back in her seat, nearly swooning with the
swift hope and fear that strove almost to agony as she gazed.</p>

<p class='c006'>It looked so like Mrs. Clifton’s carriage.</p>

<p class='c006'>It was not, however. It contained the very earliest of the
wedding guests, who, coming from a distance of thirty miles,
had set out early enough to arrive in time to secure a whole
afternoon’s rest and refreshment before dressing for the
evening. This was customary with those coming from afar.</p>

<p class='c006'>Old Mr. Clifton went down the steps, to receive his guests.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn arose and withdrew into the house, fortunately
before she had been recognized by the visitors; for it would
have been shockingly out of all etiquette for a bride to be
visible on her wedding-day before the wedding-hour.</p>

<p class='c006'>When Mr. Clifton had ushered his guests into the drawing-room,
he returned to the piazza to give some directions concerning
the stabling of the horses, for where so many animals
were expected to be provided for, it required some extra
thought and care in their bestowal. While still giving his
orders, he saw his younger daughter riding slowly up to the
house. Pleased to see her return in safety, in spite of his
evil forebodings of the morning, and thinking besides that
she could give him some news of the laggard bridegroom, he
hastened to meet her and lift her from the saddle, with a
joyous—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, my darling! well, my damask rose-bud! Back
in time, according to promise, eh?”</p>

<p class='c006'>But at the sight of her father, the girl’s face flushed and
paled so swiftly, her bosom rose and fell so rapidly, her
whole frame was so agitated, her manner so confused, that
the old man was seized with alarm and exclaimed, hurriedly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“In the name of Heaven, my dearest child, what is the
matter?”</p>

<p class='c006'>But Zuleime, incapable of reply, looked as if she would
sink into the ground.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mr. Clifton’s first definite thought was that some accident
or catastrophe had befallen the bridegroom.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>“Good Heaven, Zuleime, what has happened? Where is
Archer Clifton? Speak—has he come to any harm?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Much relieved that her father’s suspicions had fallen out
of the true track—yet still considerably shaken, Zuleime replied,
in a faltering voice, that Captain Clifton had received
orders, and had departed that morning with Lieutenant
Fairfax for Winchester, where their regiment was quartered,
and that Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, desired to see Mr.
Clifton as soon as possible. Without another word—totally
unsuspicious that Mrs. Fairfax stood before him—the old
man threw himself on horseback, and rode furiously toward
Hardbargain.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Frank Fairfax, our runaway daughter, and widowed
bride, stole to her own little room to weep in secret, a little
over her fault, but a great deal over the absence of and the
danger about to befall her husband.</p>

<p class='c006'>Dinner was served without Mr. Clifton, Miss Clifton,
Zuleime, and the Misses Cabell. Mrs. Georgia Clifton alone
entertained the newly arrived company. This did not occasion
remark. Mr. Clifton was known to be absent, and it
was customary, as I said before, for the bride and her
attendants to be invisible.</p>

<p class='c006'>In the meantime, Carolyn Clifton sat in her chamber—pride,
love, regret, anger, hope, fear—all good and evil passions
striving in her soul, or in turn holding the mastery over
it. It was drawing near the hour when she should commence
her bridal toilet, if indeed any bridal array was to be assumed
that evening. Amidst all her keen anxiety, she dreaded lest
some one should come in and tell her it was time to dress.
What should her proud heart permit her to explain to such
a one. She need not have feared interruption, however.</p>

<p class='c006'>The Misses Cabell, her bridesmaids, it is true, sat together
in their chamber very impatiently awaiting a message from
the bride—very impatiently, indeed, for after her ceremonious
dressing, they had their own very elaborate toilet to make.
But they would not enter her dressing-room unsummoned,
or at least until they should receive from some member of the
family a suggestion that it was now proper to do so. And
no one thought or remembered to give them the hint.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Georgia Clifton—self-convicted of being the originator
of all the great trouble that had befallen, and the greater
<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>that was about to befall the house—kept herself as much as
possible aloof.</p>

<p class='c006'>And Zuleime was as yet too deeply absorbed in the contemplation
of her own recent bridehood, and the sorrow of
her widowhood, to think of anything else.</p>

<p class='c006'>Meanwhile old Mr. Clifton had ridden as for life up to
Hardbargain, thrown himself from his horse, flung the bridle
upon his neck and let him go loose, while he himself rushed
up the stairs and into the hall, and without the ceremony of
a rap, burst into the quiet presence of Mrs. Clifton as she
sat sewing in her shady parlor. She arose calmly to receive
him; and the very quietness of the lady threw the excited
old gentleman off his guard, and out of his politeness, and
into a rage.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, madam!” he exclaimed, throwing his hat down
with a thump into a chair, and tramping up and down the
floor. “<i>Here’s</i> a pretty state of affairs!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mr. Clifton, you are excited.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, madam, <span class='sc'>I am</span> excited!” interrupted the old man—“very
<i>much</i> excited, madam! Very much excited, <i>indeed</i>,
madam! Where is Archer Clifton? tell me that!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mr. Clifton, sit down and compose yourself!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Compose myself! Compose myself with a prospect of
three hundred people pouring into my house to-night, each
one of them agape to see a wedding, and to have to tell them
there will be no wedding!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mr. Clifton, you can’t regret this circumstance more
than I do!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I <i>don’t</i> regret it at all, ma’am! I rejoice at it, ma’am!
I congratulate myself and my daughter, ma’am! But I’ll
have satisfaction, ma’am! I’ll have satisfaction, ma’am!”
said the old man, wiping the perspiration from his red face.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Satisfaction for what you <i>rejoice</i> at, Mr. Clifton?” inquired
the lady, smiling at his unreasonable anger with herself.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I’ll—<i>yes</i>—I’ll have satisfaction, ma’am!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“From whom? From me? Do you intend to call me
out as my son’s representative? Do you wish to compel me
to fight a duel; or to make an apology—which?” inquired
the lady, coolly.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dem it, mem, I’ll—I’ll have satisfaction,” exclaimed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>the old man, growing shorter and shorter in his syllables.
“I’ll—I’ll write to the Colonel of the regiment! I’ll—I’ll
make the matter known to the Major-General of the Army!
I’ll—yes, dem-me! I’ll go to Washington and tell the President!
I’ll have that young rascal cashiered, and broken and
dismissed from the service!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What! <i>all three</i>! Why, that is passing cruel! Quite
as bad as being killed and murdered, and mortally wounded!”
said the lady, smiling at his insane vehemence.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dem it, mem! don’t take my words up!” he exclaimed,
stamping up and down the floor, and then breaking out into
vituperative abuse of Archer Clifton, all addressed to Mrs.
Clifton, who, though becoming very much agitated, now preserved
a dignified silence.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mr. Clifton forgets that he is a man, and that he speaks
to a woman!” said a stern, but low-toned voice.</p>

<p class='c006'>And the old gentleman turned to see Kate Kavanagh,
‘severe in youthful beauty,’ standing within the door; yes,
in <i>beauty</i>, for her slight figure was drawn gracefully up—her
bosom heaving, her fine head erected, her cheeks crimson,
and her eyes intensely brilliant with the just indignation that
moved her soul, as she walked straight up to Mrs. Clifton,
and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dearest lady, allow me—<i>do</i> allow me to attend you to your
own room, and be your substitute here, in waiting upon Mr.
Clifton.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, Kate—no, my dear girl. I have to talk rationally
to the man as soon as he comes to his senses,” replied the lady.</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Who is</i> that girl?” inquired the old gentleman, not recognizing
Kate under the new aspect—or affecting not to do
so. “Who <i>is</i> that girl, Mrs. Clifton?” he repeated, while
the lady gazed fondly on her protégé.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Miss Kavanagh; my son’s ward, and my own adopted
daughter,” replied Mrs. Clifton, without withdrawing her
fond gaze from the face of Kate, who was blushing under it.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Miss Kavanagh, your son’s ward, and your own adopted
daughter! A promising relationship all around, that is—up—on—my—word—it—is!”
said Mr. Clifton, very deliberately.
“However,” he added, “she has brought me to reflection,
for which I thank her. And Mrs. Clifton, I feel
sorry and mortified that I have been betrayed into some violence
<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>of speech and manner; it is a family failing, you know.
Pray pardon me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mr. Clifton, please to sit down near me. My voice is
not strong. It may be disquietude, but I find a difficulty in
raising it, or in keeping up a running conversation.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear sister, I am afraid your lungs grow weak. I am
indeed! I have noticed it before. I have said the same to
Georgia and to Carolyn! Indeed, my dear sister Clifton, I
wish you would take care of yourself. I was a brute to throw
myself into a passion in your presence. I was, indeed! I
see it has overcome you! Kate Kavanagh, my dear, you
were perfectly right. I <i>did</i> forget myself. And you were
a fine girl to recall me. Give me your hand, my dear.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Blushing deeply, as was her wont when praised, Kate gave
her hand, saying—half apologetically, half appealingly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mrs. Clifton is not strong, sir. She should not be
agitated, especially so soon after her son has left her.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know she is not strong! My dear sister, I wish you’d
be careful of yourself! I do, indeed! You’re not strong.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“After fifty, we do not grow strong as we grow old,” said
the lady, pointing to a chair by her side, and indicating that
he should take it! He did so. And then Mrs. Clifton
turned to Kate, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Now Catherine, my dear, I wish you to go up into my
chamber and amuse yourself with a book, while I have a
confidential talk with Mr. Clifton.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate immediately arose, curtsied, and left the room.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton turned to her brother-in-law, and said, inquiringly,
“You know the cause of this lovers’ quarrel?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Of course I do, madam! Satan fly away with them
both! I know all about it! It was about <i>her</i>—up stairs!”
he replied, indicating Kate Kavanagh by a crook of his thumb.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes; it was about Kate. But it was very absurd!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Now, I don’t know that ma’am!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But it certainly <i>was</i>—ridiculous! Mr. Clifton! <i>she</i>,
Catherine, knows nothing about it! Does not even dream
that <i>she herself</i> had the remotest connection with the quarrel,
and I do hope and trust, that she never may suspect it. What
I wish to say to you, is plainly this: That I know enough
of human nature generally, and of young people particularly,
and of Archer and Carolyn individually, to feel sure that this
<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>very absurd and extremely inconvenient quarrel and separation—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, <i>very</i> extremely inconvenient, indeed!” emphatically
interrupted the old man.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Is only temporary—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, ma’am, but that don’t make it the less embarrassing—the
less inconvenient!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know it! Hear me out!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What the deuce, ma’am, are we to do with the people
who are coming to the wedding even now?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am about to tell you, if you will quietly listen to me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well! well! Yes, ma’am! I beg your pardon—I am
all attention.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Carolyn, I am sure, already regrets her hasty violence
of temper.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! that she does! It’s easy to see that!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And Archer, who is slower to anger and slower to repentance—though
deeper and stronger in both for being
slow—Archer, in a very few days, will bitterly repent the
step he has taken, more especially as being on his Western
march, it will be impossible to retrace it. Under these circumstances,
this is what you must say to the assembled
company to-night:—You must tell them, that last night a
peremptory order arrived for Captain Clifton to join his regiment
immediately; and that the marriage is deferred for the
present. Let the company then enjoy themselves as at a ball.
And all will go off well, and without scandal. I will be
present myself, as the representative of our side of the house.
I sent for you, Mr. Clifton, to give you this advice, and to
suggest this plan of action in meeting the embarrassing difficulties
of this evening. I should not propose this, if I were
not sure that the marriage <i>is</i> only deferred—that if the parties
live, it will assuredly take place. I am <i>certain</i> it will,
Mr. Clifton! I am willing to pledge my own truth and honor
on it, and become responsible for it! The plan I propose to
you for meeting the guests this evening, is truest, wisest and
best—think of it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not think of it at all! I see its excellence at a
glance. I spring to meet it! I embrace it! I hug it to my
heart! Oh, Mrs. Clifton, you are our deliverer! Oh, Mrs.
Clifton! you are the great-grand-daughter of Oliver Cromwell,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>the general, the conqueror, the deliverer, the statesman, the
politician, the diplomatist, the everything at an emergency!—You’ll
see how gloriously I’ll execute your orders! You’ll
make me Lieutenant-General when you are Lady Protector
of the Commonwealth!” exclaimed the old man, starting up
and clapping his hat upon his head, and joking like a boy,
for very joy that his difficulty was smoothed. He shook hands
with Mrs. Clifton, begging her not to be late, as he should
want the encouragement of her presence in order to enable
him to make his speech. Then he mounted his horse, and
rode rapidly away down the mountain-path to Clifton. When
he arrived at home, he found the lawn already covered with
carriages, horses and servants, and the piazza, halls, and all
the first floor rooms, thronged with company. He passed
through them all, bowing right and left and hastened to his
daughter’s room. Mr. Clifton had some doubts about getting
his proud daughter to consent to the wise plan suggested by
his sister-in-law. But he meant to carry his consent by a
coup-de-main. So he pushed open her door, burst into her
chamber, and threw himself, puffing, blowing, and perspiring,
into the nearest chair, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“He’s gone, Carolyn! He’s clear gone, confound him!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn drew nearer her father, and gazed into his face,
to read there the confirmation of what she scarcely could believe.
The old man wiped his streaming face with his handkerchief,
and stuffed it again into his pocket, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! he’s gone! gone! gone! gone!” Then opening
wide his arms, he murmured, “But never mind, my dear
child! you’ve got your old father left to love you, and to
avenge you, too, if needful! Don’t grieve! Come to my
bosom! Don’t grieve!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘<i>Grieve</i>,’ sir!” exclaimed the imperious girl, elevating
her queenly head, “we do not <i>grieve</i> for a traitor! We
pronounce sentence on him, and execute it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“True! true! my noble girl! There spoke your mother’s
daughter! Yet—” suddenly cried the old gentleman, as by
a quick recollection and revulsion of feeling, “what a devil
of a kettle of fish this is, my dear! Blame the fellow, what
are we to do? Deuce take the man—what are we to say to
the people down stairs? <i>Say</i>, Carolyn! Woman’s wit is
quick! Can you think of anything?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>Carolyn stood in proud and bitter thought for some minutes,
and then she smiled, with a scornful smile, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do nothing, sir! Let all go on as was planned! Let
the band of music take its place in the saloon! Let the
wedding guests come, and be received! And <i>then</i> leave all
the rest to me! And now, my dear father, pray excuse me,
as it is time to dress.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“To dress! Why, Carolyn, what do you mean? Are
you mad? Dress for what?” asked the old gentleman,
anxious to know if perchance <i>her</i> idea in any way resembled
the plan adopted by himself, from Mrs. Clifton’s suggestion.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, sir! I am not mad. ‘My pulse, as yours, doth
temperately keep time,’” said the young lady, extending her
hand to the bell-rope, and ringing a peal that presently
brought her woman hurrying up stairs and into her presence.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Darky!” said she addressing her attendant, “go to Miss
Zuleime, and to the Misses Cabell, and let them know that I
have waited for them some time.” The old handmaid went
out, and Carolyn turned to her father, and said, “My dearest
father! when I am dressed I will send for you, and we
will have a conversation, in which I will tell you my simple
plan for getting through the evening. I have not quite matured
it yet! Ah! here are the girls! Good evening for a
couple of hours, father!”</p>

<p class='c006'>She opened the door for her father, who just escaped the
young bridesmaids, who were coming in.</p>

<p class='c006'>He went out muttering—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I don’t know what she means. I suppose I can have
confidence in her. At least I must for the <i>present</i>, and then,
there is Mrs. Clifton’s plan.” He went into his own room
and arrayed himself in festive garments for the occasion, and
then went below stairs to groan inwardly over the numerous
arrivals of guests, whose carriages thronged the lawn, and
whose servants crowded the piazza, hall and entries. Presently
a servant approached him, and said, respectfully, in a
low voice—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Miss Clifton’s compliments, sir, and will see you in her
own room.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old gentleman hastened thither. He found his daughter
ready dressed, and quite alone. Her bridesmaids had
gone to make their own toilets.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>“Father!” she said, “I will not wear the willow for a recreant
lover! I have determined that the festivities shall go
on to-night. I will go down and lead off the first dance myself.
You, my father, may explain, as you please, that the
marriage is broken off, but that the music, dancing, and feasting
are not arrested for that reason.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man had determined within himself what to speak
but he answered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear child, are you <i>equal</i> to it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Equal sir?</i> Try me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Very well, my dear. Come! And I will say—what is
proper upon the occasion.”</p>

<p class='c006'>In the meanwhile the splendid company assembled in the
brilliantly lighted saloon, awaited with great impatience the
entree of the bridal train.</p>

<p class='c006'>Made conspicuous in that gorgeous assembly by his black
gown and bands, sat the clergyman who was to perform the
ceremony.</p>

<p class='c006'>Georgia—darkly, resplendently beautiful as ever, moved
gracefully through the crowd—full of gracious courtesy, yet
flushed, anxious, feverish—half fearing that the bridegroom
would appear at this last moment. This fear was aroused
by the presence, and the calm, cheerful, self-possessed looks
of Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain. At length light steps were
heard in the hall. The doors of the saloon where thrown
open. And all eyes were turned to see the wedding procession
enter. But instead of a bridal train, came old
Mr. Clifton, leading in his daughter Carolyn. The surprise,
the wonder of the company was at first silent and breathless
as it was profound. But soon a low whisper arose, and like
a low breeze in the leaves, passed from one to another, until
the room was in a general buzz.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mr. Clifton led his daughter into the centre of the saloon,
and with her still hanging on his arm, turned and faced the
company, waiting until they should be silent before he would
speak. The father and daughter, as they stood there, presented
a fine, imposing appearance. Both were arrayed with
the gorgeous splendor that prevailed at that day.</p>

<p class='c006'>The old gentleman had his snow-white hair turned back
off his forehead, and carried all down to the nape of his
neck, where it was plaited into a queue, and adorned with a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>large white satin bow, both snowy plait and bow in pleasant
relief against the back of the dark crimson velvet coat—his
vest and small clothes were of white satin, and his long hose
of white silk were fastened to the small clothes below the knee
with white satin bows and gold buckles—his slippers were
of crimson morocco, with high heels, large bows, and gold
buckles. His dress was rather antiquated even for that day.
And he stood there waiting for silence with the suave and
stately courtesy of the old school gentleman.</p>

<p class='c006'>Very much like a queen looked the beautiful Carolyn, but
very little like a bride, either in her dignified self-possession,
or in her magnificent array. Her fair hair was carried up
above her forehead, and dressed high, in the regal style of
that day. Its rich waves and bands were wreathed with
pearls, and adorned with a plume of white ostrich feathers,
powdered with minute silver spangles. Her neck and arms
were bare, but adorned with pearls, and softly shaded with
the finest lace at the edge of the boddice and sleeves. Her
dress was of rich blue satin brocade, made with long waist,
sharp pointed stomacher, and flowing sleeves and flowing
skirt—the edges of the skirt finished with a very deep border
of silver embroidery; a lighter border of the same running
around the sleeves; the stomacher was embroidered with silver
and pearls. Over her skirt she wore a train of splendid
lace, lightly embroidered with a running vine of silver. She
toyed with an elegant fan of carved mother-of-pearl and
marabout feathers. She stood there, as I said, not at all
like a bride, either in her gorgeous apparel, or her self-asserting
manner. She stood there with a gay, proud air, beneath
which none could have discerned the deeply humiliated spirit
of the arrogant woman, or suspected the wounded and
breaking heart of the forsaken bride.—When the murmur of
voices which had greeted their entrance had subsided, and
silence was restored, Mr. Clifton bowed deeply, and—in the
somewhat high-flown grandiloquence of style he had once
seen exhibited by a manager of a city theatre, when apologising
for the non-appearance of the evening’s star—spoke
as follows: “Ladies and gentlemen, the distinction of your
presence here this evening, has been prayed that you might
give the honor of your countenance to the espousals of my
nephew and daughter. You have graciously accorded us the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>dignity of your society here for that purpose.” (An embarrassed
pause, while the assembly listened in breathless curiosity
and expectation, and he continued,) “Ladies and gentlemen,
‘man <i>pro</i>poses, but God <i>dis</i>poses.’ The great Arbiter
of destiny has ordained the issue of events otherwise than
as we had hoped, planned, and expected. Even last night
suddenly came a peremptory order from head-quarters, to
Captain Clifton, to join his regiment instantly for the purpose
of taking the command of a detachment of cavalry, to march
immediately to the Indian frontier to put down an irruption
of the Shoshowanawas! Ladies and gentlemen!” (continued
the old gentleman, warming up with his subject,) “you know
the stern, uncompromising duty of the soldier at such a crisis.
One syllable—one single syllable comprehends his insupportable
obligation—‘Go.’ The man, the lover, the
bridegroom must give place to the soldier. As our greatest
poet, Walter Scott, has it,—the soldier at the sound of the
trumpet must</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“‘Leave untended the herd,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The flock without shelter,</div>
      <div class='line'>The dead uninterred,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The bride at the altar.’</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>“Ladies and gentlemen, our gallant Captain Clifton has
literally left his ‘bride at the altar.’ But soldier’s love may
not mourn bridegroom’s loss. Nor may we deny ourselves
the distinction and joy of your presence for the whole night—nor,”
(the old man was unconsciously sliding from his
lofty magniloquence down to the plain vernacular,) “nor
must I disappoint these young men and maidens of their
dance to-night. Ho! music there! Strike up the liveliest
quadrille air upon your list. Let them dance to the briskest
music while they are fresh. Charley Cabell, my boy, come
here and lead out your cousin Carolyn!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Cabell advanced, and with much grace and dignity
led Miss Clifton to the head of the quadrille, as the music
pealed forth.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Young gentlemen, select your partners!” exclaimed the
old man, adding example to precept, by choosing the youngest
and prettiest girl in the room, and leading her to the place
right opposite his nephew and daughter. Soon all the surprise
and disappointment were forgotten in enjoyment. The
<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>evening was spent in the gayest hilarity—Carolyn Clifton,
the forsaken bride, apparently the gayest of the gay. So
gay, indeed, was Miss Clifton, that she drew upon herself the
severe animadversions of several ladies present, who affirmed
that her conduct was heartless in the extreme; to laugh and
sing and dance and jest with such thorough abandonment to
pleasure, just after the departure of her lover to brave the
ghastly horrors of Indian warfare. Much more did they
approve of the pensive manners of Zuleime. Poor Zuleime
was all unskilled in self-control—her heart was “exceeding
sorrowful,” and so she let it appear. The company separated
at a very late hour that night, or rather a very early hour
of the next morning. Those in the neighborhood departing,
those from a distance retiring to the chambers to take some
sleep before breakfast, after which they were to set out for their homes.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER X.<br> <span class='large'>THE SISTERS.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Sister! since I met thee last,</div>
      <div class='line'>O’er thy brow a change hath past;</div>
      <div class='line'>In the softness of thine eyes,</div>
      <div class='line'>Deep and still a shadow lies;</div>
      <div class='line'>From thy voice there thrills a tone,</div>
      <div class='line'>Never to thy childhood known;</div>
      <div class='line'>Through thy soul a storm hath moved,</div>
      <div class='line'>——Gentle sister, thou hath loved.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Overtasked, weary and exhausted by her long efforts,
Carolyn Clifton sought her own chamber, and threw herself,
all splendidly arrayed as she was, upon her bed. She had
no fear of interruption, for it was not yet daybreak, and her
woman would not be up for several hours. So she was surprised,
and not at all pleased when a gentle rap came to the
door. She would not answer or move to let the rapper know
that she was awake. She was weary, weary with acting for
one night, and needed rest. But after the unknown had
rapped two or three times, the door was gently opened, and
the sweet voice of Zuleime was heard to say—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Sister, I know you are not asleep—will you let me come
in?” And without waiting for an answer, she entered, and
softly closed the door, and came to the bedside, saying—“I
heard you when you came up and threw yourself down on
the bed, and I knew you were not asleep—let me stay with
you, dear sister, won’t you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, no, Zuleime, I wish to sleep,” said Carolyn, still
pressing both hands to her throbbing temples.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, then, dear Carolyn, let me undress you, you can
never compose yourself in that dress;” and the affectionate
girl began to take off her slippers and stockings, saying—“I
can take off all the small articles, and unlace your stomacher
without disturbing you, sister, and then you need not stand
up more than a minute to disrobe.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>In indifference or abstraction, Miss Clifton permitted the
gentle girl to unclasp all her jewels, and loosen her dress,
without ever removing her hands, clasped tightly upon her
temples, till Zuleime, wishing to take down the elaborate
<i><span lang="fr">coiffure</span></i>, gently withdrew them, and unwound the strings of
pearls, and unfastened the plume of feathers. When the
affectionate girl had laid aside all these glittering gewgaws,
and freed her long, fair hair, and relieved her oppressed and
fevered head, the proud and scornful Carolyn, subdued by
the gentleness of her sweet, only sister, looked in her face,
read there a strange sympathy, delicate as it was deep, and
suddenly put her arms around her neck, drew her head down
to her own, and kissed her fondly, murmuring—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Zuleime! my child, my child! if you knew—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I <i>do</i> know, dearest Carolyn! Dearest sister, I <i>do</i> know
it all! all! and feel it—feel it from the bottom of my heart!
That is the reason I came in, Carolyn! But I did not come
in to disturb you, even by my sympathy. I came in to put
you to sleep. Stand up, dearest Carolyn, and drop these
heavy robes, and I will throw this light wrapper around you,
and then you can lie down again—there!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! sleep!—when shall I sleep again?” bitterly asked
Carolyn, as Zuleime laid her head tenderly back upon the
freshened pillow.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, don’t talk, dear Carolyn, and you will see that
God will send sleep.” And Zuleime cooled her brow by
passing over it several times a lump of ice in a napkin, and
laid down by her side, and fanned her, in that measured,
monotonous time, so inducive to slumber. So slowly she
fanned her, resisting all her attempts to enter into conversation,
until wearied nature yielded, and Carolyn was asleep.
Then, as it was morning, Zuleime hoisted the windows, to
admit a fresh current of air, but left the blinds closed, to
exclude the light. Next, she put all Carolyn’s things carefully
away, and silently restored the room to order. Then
she laid a folded napkin, dipped in ice water, over the still
burning brow, and cautiously left the room, to go and order
tea and toast to be ready for Carolyn as soon as she should
awake. She found the house below stairs in a great but
comparatively silent bustle. The servants, who had scarcely
retired the night previous, were engaged in clearing away
<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>the disorder of the saloon, parlor and dining-room, and in
laying the cloth for breakfast for the numerous visitors who
had remained over night. Zuleime passed on to the kitchen,
and gave her orders, and then silently stole up stairs again
to her sister’s room.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn slept long and heavily. Several hours passed
before she awoke. When she opened her eyes, and fixed
them gratefully upon Zuleime, she raised her arms, again
embraced her, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“You have comforted me, dear Zuleime.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And I will comfort you more, dear sister. I know how
to do it. How do you feel, Carolyn?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Better—my head clearer—my nerves steadier—but a
weary weight at my heart.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It shall go away, Carolyn. I know how to drive it away.
But first you must take something.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And Zuleime rang the bell, and told the servant who appeared,
to bring Miss Carolyn some <i>fresh</i> tea and toast.</p>

<p class='c006'>While he was gone after it, Zuleime bathed her sister’s
face and hands, and combed out her hair, and by the time
she was made comfortable, the servant re-appeared with the
refreshments.</p>

<p class='c006'>After Carolyn had breakfasted lightly, (and this was the
first food she had taken for thirty-six hours,) she fell exhausted
back upon her pillow, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I cannot appear this morning, Zuleime! I am tired of
acting a part!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You need not do it, dear Carolyn! The people have
breakfasted, and are almost all gone—and the others are
going. Carolyn, dear, I saw <i>Archer</i> when he went away—”</p>

<p class='c006'>Miss Clifton was still too proud to make a comment.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Carolyn, he looked broken-hearted, despairing—indeed
he did! Oh, Carolyn! I think if he could have hoped that
you would have made up with him, he would have let his
regiment go to perdition rather than not hastened to your
feet!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why did he not try, then?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, sister, you banished him, and men have some pride.
He waited for your relenting, I feel sure!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn remembered, with bitter regret, her refusal to let
her father go and recall him.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>“Carolyn, write to him. The detachment under his command
does not march from Winchester for nine days yet.
Write, Carolyn—there is abundant time for him to get your
letter and answer it before he goes. Then you will be reconciled
and happy. Everything will be restored, and you
will comfort yourself by remembering that he would have had
to have gone, any way, and that he is gone reconciled!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Miss Clifton shook her head.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, Zuleime! I cannot! I should not know <i>how</i> to
write such a letter! What could I say to him?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Say! <i>I</i> should know what to say! If you have banished
him, revoke your sentence of exile. If you have ascertained
that you have done him injustice, tell him so. If you are
sorry that you parted in anger, let him know it. If you wish
to hear from him before he goes, ask him to write to you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I could not!—I could not! I never could write such a
letter! My heart-strings would crack in the attempt.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And are you <i>so</i> proud? And will you let him go forth
to that ghastly Indian war—oh, God! my flesh creeps only
to think of it!” said Zuleime, shuddering. “And will you
not retract your false accusation, and revoke your cruel sentence
of banishment, and express kind feelings and kind
wishes for him about to be exposed to such horrors?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I can’t! I can’t! I <i>cannot</i>! My heart-strings would
snap with the effort! I can bear sorrow, but not humiliation!
I can die, but I cannot be humbled!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You cannot be humbled by an act of justice, sister. That
letter would be only an act of justice. And, oh! it would
give him such happiness, and bring you such sweet peace, in
place of all this heart-burning. Think of it, dear Carolyn!”</p>

<p class='c006'>While Zuleime spoke, a rap was heard at the door, and a
servant appeared, and said that “Marster wished to see Miss
Zuleime in the parlor.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Think of it, dear Carolyn,” said Zuleime, in a cheerful
voice, kissing her sister’s forehead, and then hastening out
of the room.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn <i>did</i> think of it! The idea once presented, she
could not banish it again;—the hope of a reconciliation once
raised, could not be suppressed! She could think of nothing
else. “It was but an act of common justice—it was a
duty,” she repeated to herself, many times, to answer the objections
<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>of her pride, which argued, “It is undignified, unwomanly,
to make this overture.” Then her love, her benevolence,
her fears for him, pleaded, “It will make him so happy—it
will fill his heart with courage, and his arm with strength
for the battle! And suppose he should be killed?—what
intolerable remorse will be added to your sorrow for him
when you reflect that he died without a relenting word from
you, who have been so cruelly unjust to him! That he died
under your own sentence of exile! Besides, if none of these
things happen, can <i>you</i> bear these weary, weary days of
estrangement, absence, and suspense?—weary, weary days,
that will slowly, slowly drag themselves through weeks, and
months, and years of time?” Oh, no! No, no! She cannot
bear that prospect! She will be just—she will do her duty,
and satisfy her affection at the same time. <i>Down, pride!</i> for
she will write that letter. She did write it. She did not read
it over again, lest scorn should rise and compel her to hurl it
down and set her heel upon it. She set her teeth almost
grimly in her determination to protect that gentle, loving
missive of sorrow and affection from an assault of her besetting
sin, as she sealed and directed it. She then slipped on
her dressing-gown, and stole down the back stairs, where she
found a boy lounging. She ordered him to saddle a horse
immediately, and take that letter to the post-office. Nay,
she waited till she saw the boy off, and was sure that none
had seen him or the letter he carried. Then she returned
to her own room, determining that no soul—not her father—not
even Zuleime, should share her confidence and know her
condescension.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XI.<br> <span class='large'>MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>A father suffering, and a step-dame false,</div>
      <div class='line'>A foolish suitor to a wedded lady.</div>
      <div class='line in16'><span class='sc'>Shakspeare—Cymbeline.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Zuleime went into the parlor and found her father alone.
He was sitting in an easy-chair, doing nothing, but apparently
waiting for her.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come hither, Zuleime,” he said.</p>

<p class='c006'>And when she went up to him, he drew her upon his knee,
and passed his left arm around her waist, while, with his
right hand, he smoothed her black hair.</p>

<p class='c006'>And he gazed fondly in her face. He noticed that her
cheek was pale, and her countenance pensive, but hoped that
it was from the excitement of the night before. He could not
bear to think of its being regret for Frank. He feared to ask
her the cause of her seriousness. He disliked to recall Frank
in any manner to her recollection. He wished her to forget
him, if possible. At least, <i>he</i> would do so.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime,” he said, after he had stroked her hair some
time, “you know, my love, that your aunt Cabell, and your
cousins, are going back to Richmond to-day.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Are they, sir? I did not know it,” said Zuleime, turning
paler, with apprehension of something that might be
coming.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, my dear, they are. And, Zuleime—” here he
paused—then he went on, “you have been thinking, I suppose,
that you should have to return with them, to enter
upon your school duties again, as the first of September is
so near.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I had not thought of it, sir! So many things happening,
put it out of my head. But I am quite willing to go,
and can be ready in half an hour.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>“Thank you, my dear child. I am very glad to see you
so prompt to oblige me; but, my dear Zuleime, I have good
news for you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Good news, sir?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, girl! the best news! the <i>very</i> best news! news that
young ladies always rejoice to hear!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What news, sir?” she asked, fearfully.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Don’t whine, girl! it is not your sentence of death! It
is your deed of emancipation! Your ‘free papers,’ as the
niggers would say. You are not to return to school any
more! Are you not surprised? Are you not rejoiced
now?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime was not. She was anxious, foreboding.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why don’t you speak, my dear? Ain’t you glad you’re
not going back to school, to leather shoulder braces and back
boards, and square and compass rules and regulations, that
mean nothing, unless they mean persecution and torture!
Say, ain’t you glad?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I think I had rather go back to school for the present,
sir.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nonsense, now, my dear! Ah! I see how it is! You
want to return with your dear aunt Cabell, and the dear city
cousins—especially cousin Charley! Eh, you monkey! You
grow tired of the country and your old father, as soon as
ever your aunt and cousins talk about returning to the city!
Ah! you rogue,” said the old man, chucking her under the
chin, and devoutly praying that he might be right in his conjecture—for,
oh! that child’s happiness! It lay nearer his
heart than anything else on earth or in heaven.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear father!” she said, embracing him, “I do not wish
to leave you, indeed I do not. I prefer the country. And
I had rather <i>never</i> leave you, or my home.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear little rogue, now don’t tell me that! I know better
you know! And it is quite natural, and nobody blames you.
The young bird must leave its nest, and the young girl her
home, when she becomes a wife. Your mother left her parents
and came home here with her husband. So do not
think, my love, that your old father will charge you with
selfishness for wishing to leave him—no, not wishing to <i>leave
him</i>, but wishing to go with one who is to be your husband.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>Zuleime dropped her head, to conceal the deadly pallor
that crept over her face.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, dear Zuleime, you will soon return to Richmond,
though it will be not as a school-girl—but as a happy bride—as
Mrs. Major Cabell! What a sonorous name and title for
my little, romping Zuleime! Here, Charley Cabell! I have
broken the ice, now come and speak for yourself!” exclaimed
Mr. Clifton to Major Cabell, who was going by the door.
Major Cabell came in, passing the old gentleman, who had
seized his hat, and not trusting himself to look at his daughter,
rushed out of the room. Zuleime remained standing
where he had placed her, when he put her off his knee—panic
struck—stupid—until Major Cabell took her hand,
and attempted to lead her to a seat, then snatching her hand
away with a shudder, she asked almost wildly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Cousin Charles, when does father want this marriage to
come off?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“As soon as my dearest Zuleime will consent to make me
the happiest of men!” replied the common-place wooer, attempting
to re-capture her hand, but she retreated shuddering,
and asking, in a frantic tone and manner, in great contrast
to her calm words—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Cousin Charles, do me a favor! Do not press this matter
for a week or so.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Heaven forbid that I should hurry a lady, though that
lady be my own little cousin and betrothed—only fix the day
and I will rest content—so that it is not a far distant day,”
he said, re-capturing her hand, throwing his arm around her
waist, and drawing her towards him.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Please, don’t! Let me go, cousin Charles!” exclaimed
the girl, in great distress, struggling to free herself.</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘Please, don’t let me go, cousin Charles!’ I don’t intend
to, pretty cousin, until you tell me when you will give
yourself to me!” replied Major Cabell, kissing her all the
more heartily because she strove to escape.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You know what I meant! Let me alone! It is unmanly
to behave so! Don’t make me hate you!” was on
her quivering lips and in her flashing eyes, as by a sudden
effort she threw his arms off and sat down; but then she recollected
her father, and the cruel power Major Cabell seemed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>to possess over him, and she choked down the indignant
words, and said instead—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Please, don’t hurry and worry me, cousin Charles!—this
is so very sudden! I am sure I never dreamed you
would ask for poor me for years to come yet. I am so
young.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘So young!’ Ah, Zuleime, that is a piece of pretty little
womanish hypocrisy—a little finesse that belongs to your
character, and is inherited from your French mother! ‘So
young!’ Now, my pretty childish cousin, you know you
have received an offer of marriage this very week! And
that, indeed, has accelerated my proposal. Fair Zuleime, a
man does not care to see his young betrothed bride courted
by another!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>I know that!</i>” replied Zuleime, in a peculiarly sad voice,
moving to the other end of the room.</p>

<p class='c006'>The slightest gesture of avoidance of him by the girl,
seemed to act as a provocative on him, so he followed her,
and clasped her in his arms, and laughing, almost rudely
kissed her, begging her between the kisses not to set his
heart on fire by her charming prudery and petulance, but to
fix the day, like a good, sensible girl as she was. Almost
frantic with rage and shame at being so freely handled, the
Clifton blood rushed to her brain, and forgetting her father’s
interest and everything else, she dashed her hand violently
into his face, and before he recovered from his astonishment,
broke from him and escaped—her heart beating with one
thought—one sudden, joyous thought—that come what might,
she never could be either forced or persuaded into a marriage
with Major Cabell, because she was already a wedded wife—no
set of circumstances, whatever, could make it her duty,
or make it even possible for her to marry Major Cabell. In
all her sorrows, that was one blessed truth to sit down and
rest upon. All her duty was now due to her husband. And
with a youthful wife’s enthusiasm firing and strengthening
her heart, she thought she should stand as upon a rock,
secure against a sea of troubles. Poor child, she had yet
to learn that no position founded on a fault is for a moment
safe. Several things soon forced themselves upon her memory
and grieved her heart;—her father’s unknown but
certain danger, her own promise of secrecy in regard to her
<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>marriage, the necessity of giving some definite answer to
Major Cabell, and the obligation pressing upon her to prevent,
by all and any means, the highly improper and extremely
offensive demonstrations of passion from her suitor.
She determined to write to Frank, tell him all that had
occurred, and ask his advice and direction; and to do this it
was necessary to gain time, and to give no false promise in
the interim. Already was Zuleime beginning to taste the
bitter fruits of her stolen marriage, and might have exclaimed,
in the perplexity of her distracted heart and brain—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Oh, what a tangled web we weave,</div>
      <div class='line'>When first we venture to deceive.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>While Zuleime’s heart was beating so fast with many emotions,
her father sauntered into the parlor, where he found
Major Cabell caressing and soothing his afflicted face.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, Charley, boy! How is it with you, eh? Could
you win a hearing from my little girl, eh? Give her time,
you know, eh?” said the old gentleman, affecting a lightness
of heart which he was very far from feeling.</p>

<p class='c006'>To his surprise, Major Cabell laughed heartily, still coaxing
his ill-used phiz.</p>

<p class='c006'>“What’s the matter, Charley? What’s amused you, eh?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Your girl! By my soul, Governor, I shall end in falling
seriously in love with that girl! I didn’t fancy her much at
first to tell you the truth! She was entirely too good humored—always
laughing. And I had a fancy for marrying a shrew,
just for the spicy fun of taming one! The same instinct,
Governor, that makes me like to spring upon the back of the
most vicious horse I can find, and ride and lash and spur
and fatigue the soul out of his body, until I break his back
or his temper, one—eh, Governor?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man’s florid cheeks became pale with rage, and he
felt an impulse to kick the puppy out, but a terrible necessity
tied his tongue and hands, and Charles Cabell went on
laughing and talking to this effect:—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Now, then, having a fancy to marry and tame a shrew—real live, vicious, beautiful vixen—I did not want the
spiciest part of the sport taken out of my hands by fathers
and mothers and pastors and masters. I shouldn’t have
thanked any of you for presenting me with a model wife,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>already smoothed down and polished to my hand. D—n
your pretty pieces of perfection! I’ll none of them—flat,
insipid nonentities!—formed and <i>re</i>-formed, and modelled,
and <i>re</i>-modelled, and rubbed down and polished until they
all look as much alike as beads on a string! No, none of
your polished gems for Charles Cabell!—the bright, pure,
rough, sharp ore! Now, of Zuleime, I thought her far too
much educated—too good humored, too polite, too docile,
too much of the young ‘lady,’ too little of the wild young
animal—and flat and insipid in consequence; so I cared very
little about her. But, ha, ha, ha! I never was more mistaken
in my life! She’s a prize, I tell you! A prize of the
first class! Look you! I coveted a shrew! I’ve found a
virago! full of blood and fire! strong and vicious, I tell you!
ha, ha, ha! Think of her dashing her little hand in my face
when I went to kiss her, and before I recovered my eyesight
and senses, throwing me off as if I had been a child, and
escaping! Ha, ha, ha! I under-estimated her strength!—Never
mind! let the little tigress look out for the next time
I get her in my arms!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man’s bosom was filled to bursting with suppressed
passion, but he answered, calmly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! she’s young—she’s young, a spoiled child—a spoiled
child; be patient with her—she means well—give her time—be
patient with her.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘Patient, with her!’ Why, uncle, I wouldn’t have her
a bit different from what she is! She’s charming, delightful,
piquant, spicy! ‘Patient with her!’ Why, Gov’, I
shall end in falling desperately in love with her! But I say,
nunc! make the little virago fix our marriage day, will you?
I have got to go out now and have Spitfire saddled; those
fellows never draw the girth tight enough, or fix the bit firm
enough—and I have to pull her head off to stop her sometimes,
for she is the foul fiend incarnate when she gets to
running. I’ll make Zule ride her sometime, to see which
will get the better of the other. Say, Gov’, let me have my
answer when I get back—do you hear.” And seizing up
his riding-whip and cracking it against his boots, he went
out.</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man boiled over—he clenched his teeth, and
shook his fist—nay, shook his whole person, as he turned
<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>livid with rage; then his arms fell helplessly by his side—he
sank into a chair—dropped his face upon his hands, and
groaned aloud. He felt a pair of arms encircling his neck,
and a sweet voice murmuring in his ear—and he raised his
head to see Zuleime, and to hear her ask in loving tones—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Father, what is it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>He put his hand tenderly around her waist, and drew her
gently to his knee, and said, while he gazed remorsefully
into her face—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am a villain, Zuleime! A hoary-headed villain!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime placed her hand upon his mouth to stop the dreadful
words, and pressed her lips to his brow, with a look and
manner of the profoundest love and veneration.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, a hardened, persevering sinner, Zuleime! For I
intend to persevere! I intend to give you to Charley Cabell,
my child,” he said, gently removing her hand, and still
gazing on her. He continued—“I love you so much, Zuleime!
I love you so much! But, dear child. He’s coming!
Dear child, tell me when you will marry Charley—Tuesday
three weeks or four weeks? Don’t let it be longer than four
weeks, my girl!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Father! will you tell me <i>why</i> you wish me to marry
cousin Charles?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I cannot! I cannot! <i>My child</i>, I cannot. It is for
your good, I hope! Some day I will, perhaps. Tell me
now, <i>that’s</i> a good girl. What day will you give this little
hand to cousin Charley?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Father, I can’t possibly give an answer for a week yet,
indeed, father, I cannot!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come, now, nonsense, my child; why can’t you? Here
is Charley now! come!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I cannot, father!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old gentleman kissed, and coaxed, and almost wept;
a manner of attack so hard to be resisted, that had Zuleime
been really free, she would have sacrificed her own and
Frank’s hopes, and yielded. But Zuleime was not free, and
therefore was as firmly proof against persuasion, as she would
have been against force. Two powerful motives operated in
preventing her from confessing her marriage—first her promise
to keep it secret, and then the fear of precipitating
some violent scene between her father and cousin, or some
<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>fatal catastrophe to the household. To end the conflict, and
to gain time to consult Frank, by writing, was what she
most wished now. Finally, she promised to give Major
Cabell his answer in a week, and to marry him—<i>if she should
ever marry anybody</i>.</p>

<p class='c006'>With this promise, Major Cabell seemed satisfied—and
with his mother and sisters took leave of Clifton. And Zuleime
retired to her own room, full of self-reproach for her
own deception.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XII.<br> <span class='large'>SUSPENSE.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in25'>Uncertainty!</div>
      <div class='line'>Fell demon of our fears! The human soul</div>
      <div class='line'>That can sustain <i>despair</i>—endures not <i>thee</i>.—<span class='sc'>Anon.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>A weary week passed away. Zuleime had written to
Frank, and Carolyn, we already know, had despatched a
letter to Archer. But the week had passed away, and no
answer to either had come from Winchester. Had the sisters
confided in each other, such mutual confidence might have
soothed the soul-sickening anxiety of <i>one</i> at least. Carolyn
would have known that some accident <i>must</i> have prevented
Frank Fairfax from receiving or answering the momentous
letter of his youthful wife, and she would have felt that the
same cause had probably operated in the case of Archer
Clifton. But the sisters did not entrust their secrets to each
other. Zuleime was withheld by her sacred promise. Carolyn
by her pride. But the wife bore the pain of suspense far
better than the maiden. The wife had perfect faith in her
young husband, and knew that some adverse chance had
hindered his getting or replying to her letter. The maiden
knew that she had unjustly banished her lover. And she
had no faith in the love that endureth all things. Carolyn
had never suspected the depth of that calm, secure, habitual
affection—which had from childhood grown—until now.
While life and love and hope had flowed smoothly on, her
emotions were serene and moderate. But now that the quiet
stream had been stemmed by rocks and breakers, it was
lashed into fury and roared in whirlpools. The calm sentiment
rose to turbulent, maddening passion. Her days were
restless, her nights sleepless, until, as the week wore away,
her nerves were wrought to such severity of tension, that you
might know that at the end of uncertainty, whether that were
<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>joy or sorrow, they must alike suddenly give way. Towards
the last of the week, she had privately besought her father to
ride to Winchester, and see the detachment off, and bring
her the last news of it. The request had been confidential—yet
do you feel all that it had cost her haughty heart?
During the absence of Mr. Clifton, suspense was wrought up
to agony. Her days and nights were feverish, delirious, and
so confused into each other, that she scarcely knew the fitful,
disturbed visions of the night, from the wild and anxious
broodings of the day. The day upon which her father was
expected back, was the acme, the crisis of her suffering.
Oblivious of pride and caution, careless of exposing herself
to the malign sneers of Georgia, or the rude comments of the
servants, she sat in the piazza, watching the road by which
the carriage should come—one wild, anxious, despairing hope
possessing her. “The drowning catch at straws”—and she,
in her despair, had clutched one mad possibility, and clung
to it, until to her weakened, confused, insane soul, it seemed
a probability, and then almost a certainty. It was the hope
that Clifton might return with her father! Oh, yes! That
Clifton might resign his commission and come back to her.
Oh! if indeed he loved her, as he had a thousand times
sworn, if he sorrowed over their estrangement only half as
much as she did, no hope of glory, no fear of disgrace would
keep him back. The more she brooded over this, the more
likely, the more certain it appeared to be. And she sat and
gazed up the dim forest road.</p>

<p class='c006'>The sun sank to the edge of the horizon, and lit up all the
mountain tops with fire, and then went down. And when
she could no longer see, she still sat and strained her ear to
catch the distant sound of wheels.</p>

<p class='c006'>The moon arose, and flooded all the mountain scenery with
silver light, and flashed upon that distant bend of the river,
until it seemed a silver lake, lying among the dark hills, and
pointed the peaks of White Cliffs, until they stood up and
glittered, like an enormous row of spears, against the deep
blue sky.</p>

<p class='c006'>At last, at last the very distant sound of wheels came
faintly like a doubt to her ear, and faded away again. Then
it came more distinctly, nearer, and a moving object appeared
upon the road. And she knew indeed it was her
<span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>father’s carriage. She saw and recognized it in the moon
light. It turned into the lawn gate, rolled rapidly around
the circular drive, and swept swiftly up to the entrance,
where it stopped. The steps were let down, the door opened,
and old Mr. Clifton got out, followed by—no one.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn had bent eagerly, unconsciously forward; now she
started up and caught her father’s hand, and gazed silently,
imploringly into his face, for the news she could not ask
for.</p>

<p class='c006'>“The detachment has marched, my dear child! Marched
the morning of the day upon which I reached Winchester,
and two days before it was expected to have gone. So, you
see, I could not get a sight of either Frank or Archer. They
were thirty miles on their road before I reached the city.
Can’t think what could have been the reason of the new
order, to anticipate their departure by two days. However!
cheer up! No use fretting, my dear! No use fretting! The
family have supped long ago, of course—have they kept my
supper hot for me? I am as hungry as an old wolf,” said
the old man.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn did not hear him. Her hold relaxed upon his arm,
her hands flew up to her head, and she turned, as one struck
with sudden blindness, and tottered into the house. It was
so dark in the shady piazza, screened from the moonbeams
by interlacing cypress vines, that the old man did not see her
state. He hastened into the house, where another awaited
him with equal anxiety.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime’s private hope had been that Frank would seize
the opportunity of Mr. Clifton’s visit, and confess his marriage,
and invent some way of delivering her father from the
toils of Major Cabell.</p>

<p class='c006'>“What news, father?” she asked, meeting him in the hall.</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘What news?’ Why, I am as hungry as a bear, my
pet! That’s the news! I stopped to supper at L——.
But, my life! They like to have poisoned me with <i>fried</i>
beefsteaks and heavy biscuits and green coffee. Couldn’t
touch a morsel, child! And now I am starved up to a savage
pitch! What have you got for supper?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Turtle soup and old crusted port, among other things,
father,” replied Zuleime, waving her own anxiety for the sake
of satisfying him.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>“<span class='sc'>Turtle soup!</span> And <span class='fss'>OLD CRUSTED PORT</span>;” exclaimed
the old man, in an ecstacy of delight. “Why, where on earth
did they come from?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“The turtle came from a ship at Norfolk, and was sent
hither by Major Cabell, who added a dozen of port of his
own importation,” said Zuleime, dying with anxiety to hear
from Frank.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah-h-h-h! <i>That</i> was kind! <i>He’s</i> a fellow! He’ll make
a magnificent husband and son-in-law, Zuleime! I hope you
know how turtle soup should be made?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Father, I know it should be eaten quite <i>hot</i>, and it is on
the table by this time. Come in.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man needed no pressing, but went into the dining-room,
and sat down at the table, with a face radiant with delight.
Zuleime waited on him, although there was a servant
in attendance. And when he had freely partaken of turtle
soup, devilled crabs, a roasted fowl, etc., washed them down
with port wine, she brought him a cup of fragrant Mocha
coffee and his case of cigars. And he sipped the coffee with
an air of infinite leisure, and then lit a cigar and puffed slowly
away, as if eternity was before him.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Father, what news from Winchester?” again asked Zuleime,
though her hopes had fallen very low. “What news,
dear father?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What’s that to you, my pet? Will you let me digest
my supper in peace?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime sat down, but looked so anxious, that her very
<i>looks</i> worried the old gentleman, and he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Don’t you know, girl, that indigestion is very dangerous
to a man of my time of life? It may bring on apoplexy!
Don’t worry me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime veiled her anxious gaze, but even then the paleness
of her cheeks annoyed her father, and he testily inquired—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Now, what is it to you? I can understand Carolyn’s
anxiety. I cannot comprehend yours at all! There, now.
Go and send my wife to me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime arose to obey, but before she went, she threw her
arms around his neck, and asked—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dearest father, <i>only</i> tell me! Were our friends well?
Have they gone? Did they send any message?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>“Only answer you three questions at a time! That is
reasonable! However, I can answer all in one. I have not
seen our friends. Their detachment left Winchester twelve
hours before I reached there. And now I’ll tell you what I
did not like to tell Carolyn, poor girl! Namely, that the detachment
marched two days earlier than was intended, upon
account of dispatches received from Fort ——, praying for
speedy succor in a reinforcement. The savages have been
massacreing and scalping there at a most tremendous rate!
It is really a very dangerous service, Indian warfare! God
grant that our young friends may return to us safe! Why
don’t you go along and tell Georgia to come to me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime kissed her father, settled the cushion under his
feet, and went on her errand. That dispatched, she sought
her own chamber, and lay down to collect her thoughts. No
letter or message from her husband, and her promise of
secrecy in regard to her marriage, binding on her as ever.
And next week she must give an answer to her father for
Major Cabell. She was confident that one of two things had
happened. Either her letter had never reached Frank, or else
his answer had been lost. And by the transaction only
one week’s respite had she gained for her father—for next
week her refusal must be decided and final, and then—what
might not the consequence be to him? These thoughts excited
her mind, and kept her awake. And despite her determination
to sleep, and her efforts to do so, she heard every
passing hour strike. It was soon after one o’clock that she
had fallen into a fitful slumber, when she was awakened by
the sound of a gay, high voice, intermingling merry words
and joyous laughter. Indeed, there seemed to be not only
one, but many voices, talking and laughing in the most jocund
manner. And strange—passing strange! it seemed to come
from her sister’s room, which adjoined hers! She listened
awhile; the words became fewer, but the laughter grew
wilder! And then it struck upon her frightened senses that
Carolyn was a maniac, talking, laughing to herself! Springing
from her bed, and without even waiting to slip on a gown,
she ran into the passage and knocked at her sister’s door,
and attempted to push it open. It was locked on the inside,
and all her efforts to force an entrance were vain, and all her
entreaties for admission were answered by peals of unconscious
<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>laughter. At last she ran to her father’s door, and
rapped loudly, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Father, father! Get up! get up! Something, I am
sure, has happened to Carolyn! Something dreadful! Get
up! get up!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man was hard to awaken, even by the efforts of
Georgia, who was aroused at once, and came and opened the
door for Zuleime! And all this time the sound of loud talk,
high laughter, and wild snatches of song, as from several excited
people, rather than from one, issued from Carolyn’s
chamber. At length, by the united exertions of his wife
and daughter, the fatigued and drowsy old gentleman was
aroused and placed upon his feet, and made to</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Understand a horror in their words—</div>
      <div class='line'>If not the words.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>He threw on his shawl gown and hastened to Carolyn’s
door, which was instantly forced open.</p>

<p class='c006'>And what a sight met their eyes!</p>

<p class='c006'>There stood Miss Clifton arrayed in her gorgeous bridal
costume, looking gloriously beautiful, though certainly as no
bride ever looked before! The raging fever had given the
brightness and richness of the carnation rose to her complexion,
and imparted a supernatural light to her eyes, that
burned and flashed, and seemed to strike fire as they sprang
from one to the other of the intruders, with a mad, joyous,
defiant glance!</p>

<p class='c006'>The alarm of her father was unlimited, unspeakable! He
darted from the room, and almost precipitated himself down
the stairs in his haste to mount and dispatch a servant for
the family physician. And while he was gone, Georgia and
Zuleime, by coaxing and humoring the phantasy of the poor
girl, succeeded in undressing her and putting her to bed—she
still raving about her marriage, and sometimes breaking
out into a wild laugh, and once telling Georgia that <i>she</i>,
being a married woman, had no right or business to be officiating
as bridesmaid.</p>

<p class='c006'>It was near morning when the doctor came. After examining
the state of the patient, he pronounced her disease to
be brain fever, brought on by over-excitement of the nervous
system. He wrote prescriptions, and remained with her until
<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>they were administered. And then he departed with a
promise to return early in the forenoon.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, was summoned, and lost no
time in hastening to the sick room of her daughter-in-law,
as she chose to call Carolyn.</p>

<p class='c006'>For many days the struggle between life and death went
on, and no one, not even the medical attendant, was able to
form an opinion as to which power would eventually conquer.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton had taken her station by the bedside of the
patient as permanent nurse, and she constantly refused to
yield her post to any other person. And it was to her vigilant
attention, quick perceptions, and intelligent treatment,
that all the family ascribed the recovery of the girl. For the
crisis came and passed, and Carolyn Clifton lived.</p>

<p class='c006'>But no sooner was the patient pronounced out of danger,
and the excitement of anxiety over, than the nurse herself
fell ill. And Mrs. Clifton, exhausted, prostrated, entered
her carriage, and was driven to Hardbargain.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XIII.<br> <span class='large'>ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The deepest sorrow that stern fate can bring</div>
      <div class='line'>In all her catalogue of suffering,</div>
      <div class='line'>An eating rust—the spirit’s direst pain—</div>
      <div class='line'>To love, adore—nor be beloved again,</div>
      <div class='line'>Or know between you lies a gulf that ever</div>
      <div class='line'>Your forms, your hopes, your destinies must sever—<span class='sc'>Mrs. Lewis.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>As soon as Mrs. Clifton reached home—leaning on the
arm of her maid, she walked up stairs and entered her son’s
deserted room, and when her attendant had relieved her of
scarf and bonnet, she lay down upon his lounge, and sent
Henny for Kate Kavanagh. In less than half an hour Kate
entered. And the lady turned to her and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine, my dear, I must take you into my confidence—yes,
and into other people’s, too, whether they approve it or
not. Draw Archer’s writing-desk up here to the side of the
lounge. I want you to write a letter to him.” Catherine’s
brow crimsoned, and she trembled very much as she obeyed.
“My dear Catherine, I am sure you will be discreet, and
never speak of what I am about to entrust to you. I can
rely on you?” said the lady, interrogatively, raising those
fever-brightened dark eyes to the girl’s face. Catherine
nodded quickly, in her usual way, when the words would not
come. “You see, my dear child, this most unhappy quarrel
between Carolyn and Archer, is causing a great deal of unnecessary
suffering to both—and Carolyn, as the frailer of
the two, is nearly dying under it. Her brain fever was
caused by it. And it was as much as Dr. Barnes and myself
could do, to bring her safely through it with life and
reason. This estrangement between them must not continue,
or she <i>will</i> die. She is not so strong as she looks to be.
Indeed, she is very delicate, like her mother. Archer is far
on his Western march now, and cannot return of course;
<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>but he must write to her, and comfort her. I wish you to
write and tell him so. Now, then, child, you know the object.
Open the desk, and lay out the paper, while I try to
think what I want said, and how I want you to say it.”
Catherine’s hands quivered as she turned down the leaf of
the desk, and mechanically laid the paper out on the top.
“Just date it, dear child, and then I will tell you how to begin.”
Catherine dipped her pen in ink, and was just about
to put it to paper, when something there caught and held her
eyes, and she gazed with dilating pupils, and trembled more
than ever.</p>

<p class='c006'>The paper before her was covered with a water-colored
sketch of Marguerite, of France, at the siege of Damietta.
And the ideal face of the royal heroine, was the real one of
the humble Catherine herself. And in the corner of the
paper were the initials A. C. He had taken <i>her</i> homely features
as his notion of those of the heroic Queen of St. Louis.
And as she gazed, her heart shuddered with a strange, wild
emotion of blended wonder, joy and remorse. The nature
of the maiden was becoming vaguely intelligible to herself.</p>

<p class='c006'>And Mrs. Clifton did not see her trance, but lay upon the
sofa very weary, with her hands pressed upon her temples,
trying to settle in what manner she should address her son
upon this delicate subject. And Catherine forgot everything
in the sketch before her, and the tumultuous, blissful, painful
emotions it excited. An abyss was suddenly thrown open
in the depths of her heart, whose existence was unsuspected
till now. <i>Now</i> was she sorry that the marriage between
Archer Clifton and his cousin, was broken off—by mutual
consent? She tried very earnestly to feel sorry, for she believed
it her duty to be so. She forced herself to remember
Carolyn’s illness, and Archer’s own suffering, in consequence
of the estrangement between them. But, oh! there lay that
picture before her eyes, with her own plain face idealized,
glorified up to a high, pure, divine beauty, such as it had
never, even in her highest, holiest, most inspired moods, possessed.
And a voice from her profound heart whispered—“Oh,
yes, and he could make me really beautiful and glorious
as his ideal there—for he could make me good, and glad,
and great beyond whatever I could make myself—if he
chose!” She reproached her heart severely for its seductive
<span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>whisper. She offered up a silent prayer to God to forgive
her, and save her soul from secret sin. She called herself
foolish, presumptuous, treacherous. But, oh! in spite
of all these, would sparkle up from the depths of her spirit,
sprays of gladness, as if there had suddenly sprung within
an everlasting fountain of joy. Yet again she blamed herself
most bitterly. She repeated that despairing complaint
or confession of David—“The heart is deceitful above all
things, and desperately wicked.” She almost realized its
truth. She silently cried to God to enter her heart, and expel
its secret sin.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, child! are you ready!” inquired Mrs. Clifton,
withdrawing her hands from her temples, and looking towards
the entranced girl. Kate did not hear or see, her soul and
senses were absorbed in the subject before her. Yet she did
not think or hope about the future. It was the present, the
present that absorbed her heart, despite of will, resistance
and conscience.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Kate! are you asleep or in a trance?” asked the lady,
gazing at her.</p>

<p class='c006'>The maiden started, and blushed deeply.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine! what are you thinking of?” she repeated,
fixing her dark eyes upon the girl, until they seemed to burn
into her soul.</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate looked guilty and bewildered, recovering herself by
an effort, and answered, almost at random—</p>

<p class='c006'>“This is not letter paper, madam, it is Bristol board.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, well! there is writing paper in the other department
of the desk, my child, get it out.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate examined the contents of the desk, and then replied—</p>

<p class='c006'>“There is no letter paper here, whatever, Mrs. Clifton.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What are those?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Only card boards and sketches, madam.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Sketches. That is just like Archer, to keep his sketches
in his writing desk. His writing material will no doubt be
found in his portfolio. But let me see those sketches, Catherine;
I have not seen them yet, and they will be something
new to me—almost like a recent letter from Archer. I like
to look over his drawings; they always mean something apart
from their subject, as it seems to me. I often think his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>sketches form a running commentary, though an involuntary
one, on his life and thoughts! Hand them to me, my child.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“These are only old historical subjects,” said Kate, with
visible reluctance to produce them.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Pass them over to me, my dear. If their subjects are as
old as the Chinese History of the Creation, they will nevertheless
be eloquent to me of my son’s present mood—of the
state of his heart, and the progress or the retrogression of his
mind. You cannot imagine, Catherine, the anxious curiosity
of a mother to catch furtive glimpses of the interior of that
heart she cannot always enter, and which is often hidden,
too, from its possessor! ‘We know not what manner of
spirit we are of,’ Catherine. For instance, do you know
your own heart or mind? In all hearts lie depths below
depths, never known to the owner until some earthquake of
sorrow, or of passion, throw them open to view! There are
in all minds powers beyond powers of achievement or of endurance,
unsuspected by their possessor until some emergency
calls them into action! But give me the drawings, Kate,
they will refresh me like a talk with Archer.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine lifted them, <i><span lang="fr">en masse</span></i>, and handed them to
Mrs. Clifton, who took and examined each separately and
leisurely.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Um-m-me,” she said, smiling gently, as she recognized
their subjects:—“‘Marguerite of France, at the Siege of
Damietta,’ ‘Joan of Arc, at Rheims,’ ‘Margaret of Anjou,
at St. Albans,’ ‘Last interview of Lord and Lady Russel,’
and all these battle-axe heroines, wearing the likeness of my
serious, domestic Catherine! In truth, Archer has put you
through as many characters and costumes as though he designed
you for a tragic actress, in the heaviest line.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate Kavanagh did not like that.</p>

<p class='c006'>“But two of these characters bear any affinity to you, my
dear. I cannot fancy any similitude between the tender and
fiery Marguerite—that ‘falcon-hearted dove,’ or her haughty
and remorseless namesake of Anjou, and my grave, gentle
Catherine. But the high and holy enthusiasm irradiating
Joan’s face, and the noble resignation of Lady Russel’s
countenance, suit your striking features very well. But I
am talking like a mediocre stage critic. Captain Clifton has
a very high opinion, of you, my Catherine. Pray try to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>merit it, my dear girl!” concluded the lady, with a little
pardonable motherly pride.</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate Kavanagh looked down, and fingered the pens and
wafers, for she felt the lady’s eyes gazing through and through
her—reading her very soul.</p>

<p class='c006'>“By the way, Catherine, have you seen Captain Clifton’s
last work of art?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, madam.” (I wonder why she calls him “Captain
Clifton” to <i>me</i>—she never did so before, thought Kate.)</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is a highly finished miniature of Miss Clifton, painted
on ivory. He had it set in a plain gold locket, and has
taken it away with him. I saw him hang it around his neck,
and lay it near his heart.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine honestly believed that she was glad to hear this,
for it seemed one more stay to keep her thoughts right.</p>

<p class='c006'>“And that, Catherine, is one reason among many others
I have, for knowing his indestructible love for Carolyn. And
that is why I feel no hesitation in having this letter written,
to end this foolish quarrel, and to restore peace to these two
unhappy young people,” said Mrs. Clifton, looking, Catherine
thought, very strangely at her—<i>so</i> strangely, that the
maiden felt her cheeks burn with a vague sense of humiliation.</p>

<p class='c006'>She asked herself—Could Mrs. Clifton have read what had
been passing in her mind? Well! if so—that was another
band to bind her thoughts to the right.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Now, then, to your task, my child. You will find paper
in Captain Clifton’s portfolio.” She spoke gently as ever to
Kate, but still called her son “Captain Clifton,” as if to
widen the distance between them.</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate felt troubled at this, and then took herself to task for
a state of mind so morbidly acute to impressions, that she
noticed everything, even that trifle. She searched and found
the writing materials in the portfolio, and went to work and
wrote, from Mrs. Clifton’s dictation, a letter, full of gentle
rebuke, and kind, motherly counsel, to Archer Clifton. And
all to the end that he should write immediately, and reconcile
himself to Carolyn, who was extremely ill, and whom his
mother felt assured, she said, that he must be most anxious
to propitiate. The letter was sealed and dispatched, and
the lady, thoroughly worn out, and leaning upon the arm of
Catherine, sought her own bed-chamber.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>The next morning, Mrs. Clifton was so weary that she
could only leave her bed-chamber to lie upon the sofa in the
shady parlor, where she could be at hand to direct the operations
of her house servants—now engaged in cutting out and
making up the Fall clothing for the negroes. Catherine
came early to assist in this onerous task. It was in the
afternoon while the lady was still reclining on the sofa, and
Catherine standing at a work-table basting a linsey-woolsey
frock-body—when a horse was heard to gallop up into the
yard, a man to jump off and hasten up the steps of the piazza,
and the instant after, old Mr. Clifton entered the parlor,
looking very much flurried and alarmed.</p>

<p class='c006'>“What is the matter? I hope Carolyn is no worse?”
asked the lady, anxious, yet calm.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No! Yes! A great deal better of course since the turn
last night! Most malignant form of the disease, and growing
rapidly worse every hour. <i>I tell you it is!</i> The doctor
affirms it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton gazed at him in a sort of self-possessed perplexity.</p>

<p class='c006'>“She has got the small-pox, madam.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“The small-pox!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, madam, the confluent small-pox, in its worst form.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You astonish me! I trust—I believe you are mistaken!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No—I wish to Heaven I was! No, madam! Doctor’s
opinion!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, how on earth. Sit down, Mr. Clifton! Kate, my
dear, wheel that arm-chair around.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine obeyed, and the old gentleman sank among its
soft cushions, and took out his pocket-handkerchief and wiped
his face.</p>

<p class='c006'>“How on earth could she have got it?” asked Mrs. Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! Lord Almighty knows! Came spontaneously, I do
suppose! You noticed those two pimples that appeared
upon her forehead after the crisis of her fever passed?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes; but I thought nothing of them.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nor did we at the time. But at any rate, that was the
first appearance of the eruption—little as we guessed it at the
time. You see, she naturally began to grow better when
this other disease began to break out, I suppose. Indeed, I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>have no doubt it was the coming of the small-pox, that arrested
the fatal termination of the brain fever. Well, you
see, last night after you had left her so much better, we entrusted
her to the care of Zuleime, who did not seem to be
so much worn out with watching as the rest of us. So Zuleime
sat up with her; and she tells me that before midnight
her face was sprinkled all over with those pimples. And
this morning, when I first saw her—” The old man’s voice
broke down for a moment. “Oh! it was dreadful! Her
beautiful, fair face, neck, bosom, arms, all covered over with
that horrible eruption! It had all run together in one mass.
We sent off to hasten the arrival of the doctor, who, when
he came, pronounced the disease to be confluent small-pox.
Oh, it is horrible! horrible, even, if her life be spared! Disfigured
for life! What a fate for a woman! I drove Zuleime
out of the room against her will—for she, dear, generous
girl, wished to stay and tend her sister. Georgia told me at
breakfast, that she had just got a letter from her father, who
was ill—and that she must have the carriage to go to Richmond.
She did not show me the letter, for she made haste
and started almost immediately. Everything falls out disastrously
at once. Now, what am I to do? I cannot procure
a nurse to that disease, for love or money, in this neighborhood.
Advise me what to do. The necessity is so urgent!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton was now sitting up, supporting her head upon
her hand, and essaying her strength.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I must go back, and nurse Carolyn myself.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You! Now, never suppose, my dear sister, that I have
been hinting for you to return and finish killing yourself for
us! I would not permit it, if you wished it ever so much!
I’ll lock and bar the doors and windows, to keep you out,
first. But think and counsel me as to the best thing to be
done. There is no one at home but Zuleime—and even if I
were willing she should risk taking the dreadful disease, she
is so very young and inexperienced that I should be afraid to
trust her sister’s safety in her hands. But I am not willing
that she should run any risk to <i>herself</i>—that’s flat. But
what’s to be done?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“There is not a servant on your plantation, or on this
farm, fit to be trusted in such a case. I must go and take
care of my daughter myself!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>“D—d if you shall, ma’am! I’ll bar my doors and windows
against you, first, I tell you! Why, in your weak state,
it would be suicide!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The lady maintained her purpose against Mr. Clifton’s vehement
opposition, and her calm persistence must have conquered,
but Kate Kavanagh mildly interposed, by saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Let me go.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You!” exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Clifton, in a breath.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes; I am not a bad nurse. I have had considerable
experience with sick people.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But—you’ve never had the small-pox—you’re not the
least marked!” said Mr. Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, sir, I have never had that disease!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And you are willing to risk taking it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What! and you a young girl! Ain’t you afraid of catching
it, and having your face spoiled?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir, I am afraid of contracting it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why that is a plain contradiction of yourself; you say
you are willing to risk it, and afraid of catching it. I do not
understand you at all.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine is so simply truthful and straight-forward!”
said the lady, smiling; “she means that she is perfectly conscious
of the extent of the danger of contagion, but that she
thinks it her duty to brave it, nevertheless! Is not that it,
my dear? But, Catherine, much as we thank you for your
generous self-devotion, we must not permit you to think of
going. I must do that, for I have had the disease. If you
were to persist in your purpose, my dear girl, you would
almost certainly get the small-pox, and then your life, or at
the very least, your beauty, would be sacrificed.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Beauty!—If I had it and were to lose it, dear lady,
there is no one to care for it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, <i>I</i> should care for it, my Kate,” said the lady, putting
her arm around the girl’s waist, and drawing her closer.</p>

<p class='c006'>“In fine, my good girl, you shall not go if you are afraid!
That’s certain!” said Mr. Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, sir, that would not interfere with the faithful discharge
of my duties as nurse. You had best let me go, and
go at once, sir! There is no time to be lost, surely. Is any
competent person with Miss Clifton now, sir?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>“No one but a colored woman, and I really <i>must</i> hurry
back. And, so if you really <i>do</i> feel disposed to go, my dear
girl,—is she a good nurse, Mrs. Clifton?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Excellent, sir! But indeed I do not like her exposing
herself in my stead. I should not permit her to do it, indeed,
if my power seconded my will,” added the lady, sinking
back fatigued upon her sofa cushions.</p>

<p class='c006'>Old Mr. Clifton was evidently inclined to accept Kate’s
services. Mrs. Clifton was obliged to yield,—more to the
weakness that overpowered her frame than to the arguments
set forth by Catherine. It was settled, then, that Kate
should go. And she quickly put on her little straw bonnet
and black silk scarf, and entered the gig that the old gentleman
borrowed from the lady to convey the girl to Clifton.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XIV.<br> <span class='large'>THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>When through the deep waters I call thee to go</div>
      <div class='line'>The rivers of wo shall not thee overflow,</div>
      <div class='line'>For I will be with thee thy troubles to bless,</div>
      <div class='line'>And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,</div>
      <div class='line'>My grace all-sufficient shall be thy supply;</div>
      <div class='line'>The flame shall not hurt thee, I only design,</div>
      <div class='line'>Thy dross to consume and thy gold to refine.</div>
      <div class='line in24'><span class='sc'>Paraphrase from Scripture.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>The mansion-house at White Cliffs was all but deserted.
The very house servants, pretty mulatto girls, more afraid
of destroying their good looks than losing their lives, had
retreated to their own dens, feigning illness as an excuse to
keep out of the reach of contagion. Catherine was introduced
at once into the sick room. That sick room! What
mind can conceive, or what pen <i>should</i> describe it. Only
those who have nursed a patient through that worst form
of the most loathsome pestilence, can realize its revolting
horrors. To see any human being looking as the once beautiful
Carolyn now looked. Her very features almost obliterated,
while——fill up the pause, you who have seen the
horrors of that pest. It was worse than any form of illness—it
was worse than death and decay. Disgust almost overmastered
pity, and Catherine turned away, shuddering with
sickness of body and soul. Old Mr. Clifton cast one agonized
look upon the ruin, and unable to bear the sight,
rushed from the room. Catherine turned to her duty. The
wretched patient was tossing about in high fever, and tearing
her arms and bosom under the intolerable irritation. That
work of destruction must be stopped first Catherine knew.
Catherine caught her right hand, and it took all her strength
to hold that hand, whose flesh seemed as if it would drop off,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>under the pressure, while she secured it to the bedstead.
Then she captured the other dashing, tossing hand, and confined
it in the same manner. And then she looked at the
state of her own palms. Oh, offensive duty! No wonder,
she thought, that the beautiful Georgia had fled to Richmond,
and the two pretty house-maids were extremely ill in their
attic! Had <i>she</i> a wish to follow their example? No—for
now all selfish fears were lost in deep compassion for the
poor, forsaken wreck of beauty, that lay there at her mercy.
She returned to her duty. She administered to her patient
an opiate, to soothe her restlessness. Took a sponge and
tepid water, and thoroughly cleansed the surface of the skin,
and anointed face, bosom and arms with a fragrant emollient,
to allay the intolerable itching. She then released her
hands, and laid them easily upon the counterpane. Lastly,
she ventilated and darkened the chamber, and took her seat
by the bedside, to fan her patient while she slept. And deep
was her satisfaction in watching that quiet, refreshing sleep.
It is not my intention to lead my reader through the dismal
days that followed in that sick room, until the “secondary
fever,” the crisis of the disease, came and passed. Catherine
nursed her patient tenderly, faithfully, night and day. Carolyn’s
life was spared, but her peerless beauty was gone
forever. Her luxuriant, fair hair was all lost, and her head
was as bald and discolored as her face—and that!</p>

<p class='c006'>In that darkened chamber, and in the midst of physical
suffering and weakness, Carolyn had had no opportunity of
ascertaining the extent of the ravages the disease had made
in her beauty—if indeed she knew the nature of the former,
or thought about the latter. But as she convalesced, and
became able to sit up in bed and converse, she felt an invalid’s
childish curiosity to look in the glass, and frequently
requested her gentle nurse to hand her one. But Catherine,
dreading the effect of the shock, steadily refused to comply
with her wishes in that respect, and perseveringly kept the
room darkened. And the sick girl, too weak to persist long
in any controversy, yielded the point.</p>

<p class='c006'>But one day, while Catherine was at her breakfast, and
old Darkey supplying her place by the bedside of the patient,
Carolyn said in a tone that admitted of no denial, or even
delay—</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>“Darkey, hand me that hand-glass from my dressing-table.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And the old woman impulsively, thoughtlessly obeyed
her, and brought it. Carolyn was propped up in bed. She
took the mirror, gave one interested look into it—plucked
off her little cap—gave another hurried glance—and uttering
a long, low cry of despair, sunk back insensible upon
her pillow.</p>

<p class='c006'>Old Darkey flew from the chair to the patient, and from
the patient to the bell, in great trepidation—ringing peals
that brought all the household hurrying in alarm to the room.
Old Mr. Clifton, being nearest at hand, arrived first. And
when he saw and understood what had happened, he seized
the hand-glass, and threw it out of the window, and laid hold
of the heavy toilet mirror, and sent it flying after. Then he
drove old Darkey from the room, forbidding her, for a stupid
and dangerous maniac, ever to show her face there again.
And all this time, Catherine, who had entered so quietly that
no one saw or heard her, was silently trying to restore the
swooning girl. As Carolyn, with a deep sigh, opened her
eyes, Kate motioned for every one to leave the chamber.
And all noiselessly withdrew. Carolyn shivered and shuddered
several times, as she raised her eyes appealingly, despairingly
to Catherine, who was bending tenderly over her.
Catherine thought it best to answer that silent appeal by
speaking at once to the point.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear Miss Clifton, you must not think that your face
will continue to look anything like it does now, for it will
not, indeed. For though it is very much discolored, it is not
much pitted, and the discoloration will wear off in a few
days. And as for your hair, Miss Clifton, that will grow out
very soon, and be even more beautiful and luxuriant than before,
on account of the renewal of the skin—so, dear lady,
take comfort and do not look in the glass again until you are
better.” And all this time that Catherine spoke in this
gentle manner, she was bathing the girl’s face and hands
with bay water, and her tender touch was even more soothing
than the sedative liquid. Catherine was almost impelled to
say—“Have patience—bow to the will of God, and try to
learn the lesson He intends to teach in this.” But she felt
the hour had not come for speaking such words. That she
<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>herself must have patience and wait for the time when she
might minister to her spiritual need.</p>

<p class='c006'>Up to this period, Miss Clifton did not know who her nurse
was. She had heard her called “My dear child,” or “My
good girl,” by the physician and by her father, and they were
the only visitors to the room, except old Darkey, who came to
relieve the nurse at meal times, and who simply called her
“Miss.” And if once or twice she had heard her called
Catherine—still she never imagined her to be Kate Kavanagh,
but some hired attendant. And, indeed, in the languor
of illness she thought nothing about it. A few days
after this, however, when she had grown more composed and
resigned, and while she lay watching Catherine’s quiet movements
through the room, she said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear, good girl—my gentle nurse—tell me your
name? I <i>do</i> pray sometimes, and I wish to know your name
that I may ask God to bless you for exposing life and health
and beauty for one whom mother, and sister, and servants
all deserted.” Just now, for the first time, it flashed like
lightning through Kate’s mind that all the danger of infection
was over, and that she might now thank God for preserving
her from contagion. Yes! she had forgotten herself for
some time past, but now her heart leaped for joy and gratitude,
and she thanked God before she replied to Miss Clifton’s
question, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My name is Catherine Kavanagh.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“So!—you are Kate Kavanagh! Hoist up the blind.
Come to me. Let me look at you,” said Miss Clifton, raising
on her elbow. Smiling, because unconscious of the
hidden meaning in her words, Catherine approached and sat
down by her bed. And Carolyn took both her hands, and</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Fell to the perusing of her face,</div>
      <div class='line'>As though she’d learn it off by heart.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>She pored over the broad, square forehead, looking strong,
but not beautiful, for all the bright chestnut hair was pushed
carelessly aside—she gazed upon those dark gray eyes under
their long black fringes—such deep, transparent wells of
darkness and light they were—she dwelt upon the beautiful
lips, and then her glance roved over the symmetrical form.
And she thought she had never seen so perfect a figure. And
<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>she sighed and raised her eyes again to the remarkable countenance,
with its large features, pale and cadaverous now with
a long season of confinement, fatigue and loss of sleep, and
grave with thought, and earnest with deep feeling. And she
could not settle it to her satisfaction whether Kate Kavanagh
was a sublime beauty or a fright. Upon the whole, the girl
interested and pained her. And she continued to hold her
hands with a nervous grasp, and pore over her face and form
as freely as though she had been only a dreadfully fascinating
statue—while Kate blushed under the infliction, and finally
drew her hands away and sat down.</p>

<p class='c006'>But every day Miss Clifton’s confidence in, and esteem for
Kate Kavanagh, increased. And every day Catherine sought
to draw her patient’s soul to the only true source of light,
strength and consolation; and to sanctify this terrible affliction
to her spirit’s good. The obligation to do this pressed
upon the girl’s conscience heavily, as if it were the hand of
God. It was in vain that she said to herself, “I am nothing
but a weak, erring girl. It would be presumption in me to
speak. It might be received as impertinence, and do more
harm than good.” Still the answer arose from the depths of
her heart, saying—“Speak the fitting words at the fitting
time, as they arise within your mind, for they are the inspiration
of God’s spirit.” And wisely, lovingly, reverently she
spoke them as occasion called them forth. The right thing
was always said at the moment it was needed. “Words
spoken in season are like apples of gold on plates of silver.”
Many a willing but bungling Christian would have failed to do
Carolyn any good, for Miss Clifton was a very difficult subject.
There is nothing so hard of impression as pride and scorn and
jealousy. It was the dominion of that infernal triumvirate
that made Lucifer an impracticable subject among the angels.
But Catherine was moved and guided by a higher power than
herself. Of herself she dared say nothing on Divine subjects.
She only spoke when strongly, irresistibly impelled
to do so. And her words were blessed to her patient and
sanctified to her own spirit.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine had a powerful coadjutor in her good work. It
was the sorrow in Carolyn’s heart. And ah, who could sound
the depth of that sorrow? Loving as passionately as she
had loved! Sinning against that love as cruelly as she had
<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>sinned! Punished for her sin as terribly as she was punished!
And now ruined and hideous in person, and wrecked
and despairing in mind, to whom could she cry in her sharp
agony but to God?—her Creator and Father!—Whose arm
was strong enough to lift her from that horrible pit but God’s—but
God’s? And the All-Powerful, the All-Merciful, was
helping her every day.</p>

<p class='c006'>The great strength, the great vitality of her sorrow, was
the thought of Archer Clifton. Could she have hoped for a
reconciliation with him, however distant, all else might have
been borne. But with that death’s head of hers, such joy
might never be hoped—ought never to be wished. No, she
was as the leper, set apart from human love—at least from
conjugal and maternal love—forever and forever! This was
hard—this was well nigh intolerable!</p>

<p class='c006'>She would no more grace the saloon with her surpassing
loveliness—the pride of her family—the ornament of their
house. Her heart would no more swell with exultation, when,
on entering the drawing-room, in the full glory of her peerless
beauty, she would hear a murmur of admiration pass through
the company. No. If she should ever enter a saloon again,
she would make a tremendous sensation, truly—but it would
be one of astonishment, pity, and perhaps disgust. And that
thought was dreadful, dreadful to the proud young belle! But
oh! it was as nothing to the feeling that her household gods
were broken and ruined forever—that her hopes of domestic
happiness were gone forever! For underneath all the pride
and vanity and scorn of the young belle had been the woman’s
thought, the woman’s hope of the coming long, calm days of
wife and mother joy. Yea, as surely as under the burnished
satin boddice had beat the heart of flesh! But all these were
over now; the proud, vain aspirations of the belle, and the
woman’s deeper, purer hopes! Both crushed by one fell blow!
All was lost in the world! Nothing was left but Heaven!</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in12'>“If God would take</div>
      <div class='line'>A heart that earth had crushed.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>Many are driven by the storms of life to the Heavenly Father’s
bosom. It is for this that the tempests of sorrow are
sent, and the sooner that Divine sanctuary is sought, the better,
for hard and harder will beat the storm until its end is
<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>answered. And too often all is lost, or seems lost, before
we consent to save ourselves. With Carolyn, all the treasures
of her youth were gone,—health and beauty, love and
hope. Something like this she breathed to Catherine, in a
weak, despairing mood,—for only in a miserably depressed
state of mind and body would the proud girl deign to complain.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear lady, do not say so sadly that ‘all is lost—forever
lost.’ Dear lady, <i>nothing is ever lost</i>. It is impossible.
The Lord, in His Divine Wisdom, may withdraw His gifts,
but they are not lost—they have gone into His keeping.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not comprehend you! My poor good looks, such
as they were, are surely gone forever. Nothing can restore
them! And oh, Catherine! you do not know—you cannot
understand all the blessings, the hope, and the joy of my life
fled forever! You are a child—you do not understand it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Perhaps I do not, lady, and perhaps I <i>do</i>! Seek all
that you have lost in God! He has withdrawn His gifts,
your treasures, that He may draw you to Himself! They
are safe in His treasure house. If you have lost the beauty
of the fair roseate complexion, He can endow you with a
higher beauty, emanating from the soul. If you have lost
human love, He can satisfy your soul with the richness and
fullness of Divine love that never faileth! And for your
broken earthly hopes, He can give you the Heavenly hope
that never dieth.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! but it is the lost earthly hope, personal beauty and
human love, that were so dear to me! So dear to me!” exclaimed
the poor girl, bursting into a passion of tears.</p>

<p class='c006'>“And He can restore even those! ‘But seek ye <i>first</i> the
Kingdom of Heaven, and all these things shall be added to
you.’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, child! <i>Nothing</i> but a miracle could give me back
dead happiness. And the days of miracles are over!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No! no! There is nothing in the Scripture to warrant
that saying. The days of miracles are <i>not</i> passed. Until
the days of human faith and Divine Omnipotence are past—the
days of miracles are not passed. Anything that <i>seems</i>
to me right that I should have, I will pray God—that if it
<i>be</i> right, He will give it me—though it should appear to my
ignorance utterly impossible!” Then Catherine abruptly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>stopped, fearing that she had said too much. And she
silently prayed for a faith that should be as far removed from
presumption, as from despair.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn convalesced very slowly. It was weeks before
she left her bed. And then many more weeks before she left
her room.</p>

<p class='c006'>It was a glorious day in Autumn, when she first walked
out upon the lawn, supported between Catherine and her
father. And as soon as she set foot upon the green sward,
some cattle that were browsing there—by some caprice to
which cattle are subject—started off as if seized by sudden
panic, and ran huddling together confusedly, and precipitating
themselves towards the outer gate. And so weak were
the poor invalid’s nerves, and so morbid her mind, that she
burst into tears, and declared that the very brutes fled from
before her face, as from one less human than themselves!
Nor could any argument of Mr. Clifton’s or of Catherine’s,
disabuse her mind of this absurd idea. She begged Catherine
to take her back to her chamber. And for many weeks
no entreaties could induce her to leave it.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime came freely to her sister now. She had her harp
brought into her room. And she soothed the recluse with
music every day. And at last Kate Kavanagh, who had
gradually merged from nurse into companion, added her own
rich, full-toned voice in accompaniment. The Misses Clifton
were both very much surprised to see this “gift of gracious
nature” thrown away upon a poor girl, with no hopes or
prospects but manual labor for her living. And Zuleime,
who could be thoughtful and benevolent in the midst of
anxiety and sorrow, proposed to give Catherine lessons on the
harp. But this was soon stopped. Both Zuleime and Catherine
perceived that the music, far from soothing, seemed to
irritate the invalid. And for this reason, Carolyn had lost
her voice. She could never sing again. And even in speaking,
her tones were harsh and rough. The harp was banished,
and books were brought. And while Zuleime worked,
and Carolyn fondled a little King Charles, that had been
bought for the childish invalid, Kate read aloud to the sisters.
And now it was that the world of <i>written</i> poetry
broke upon the maiden’s delighted view. Before this, she
had never read a line of poetry in her life, except hymns—for
<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>Mrs. Clifton had judiciously suppressed all books of that
nature. But now the treasures of Milton, Goldsmith, and
Cowper, were opened to her ardent mind! Oh, those days
that followed the convalescence of Miss Clifton—those evenings
after Carolyn had gone to rest, when she and Zuleime
would go into the summer saloon and spend the hours in music
or poetry, or in talk as musical, and as poetic. Those
evenings, spent with a refined, warm-hearted girl like Zuleime—they
were unfitting her for her prospective hard life
of coarse labor and coarser association. She felt that it was
so. And she determined to leave. She only waited until
Mr. Clifton went to Richmond and brought back his wife.
And then she bade them all good-bye and returned home—not
to the farm-house of Hardbargain, but to her brother
Carl’s cabin.</p>

<p class='c006'>She needed to commune with herself, and be still. She
wished to descend into the unsounded abysses of her heart,
and examine, though with awe, the mystery of iniquity that
in some unguarded hour had germinated there—this growing
passion for a man betrothed to another. No matter if the
marriage was broken off for the present. They loved each
other. And <i>that</i> was the true betrothal. As for herself, she
would, with the grace of God, turn out this dangerous bosom
guest, so divinely fair as to seem like an angel of light rather
than the tempting demon that it was! And to do this effectually,
she must break every tie that held her to that fair illusive
life she had lately led. She must forsake every association
connected with her sin and folly. She loved Mrs.
Clifton—loved her first for herself alone, and then as the
mother of—one whose name she dared not now to breathe
even to herself. She enjoyed the congenial society and occupations
at White Cliffs and at Hardbargain. And now she
was the most welcome visitor on the list of both families.
But she must forego the privilege this gave her. More than
all, she had enjoyed her pleasant life at Hardbargain. The
cheerful housekeeping cares she had shared with its mistress—the
conversations over the pleasant tea-table or the social
work-stand—the books, the newspapers, and the evening
music, and the society of the admirable Mrs. Clifton—these
formed the externals, the body of her happiness; but the
interior, the soul of her joy, was that <i>there</i> was the home of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>Archer Clifton—the place pervaded by his spirit! redolent
of him! But all these <i>must</i> be abandoned! They might
have affinity for her nature, but they did not belong to her
lot in life. And see what they had brought her to! Even
to an insane passion for her benefactor! And now it was
high time she had come to her senses and self-recollection.
She was a poor girl, of the humblest birth—born in poverty
and destined to poverty. She must leave off spending evenings
with refined and accomplished young ladies in elegant
saloons, if she wished to do her duty in that station to which
God had called her. And she must give up the society of
Archer Clifton’s mother, if she wished to forget him. And
she must betake herself to the coarse, hard, but dutiful life
of her brother’s cabin.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine went no more to White Cliffs or to Hardbargain.
And when Mrs. Clifton sent for her to come and spend a day,
she returned a gentle answer that she could not leave her
grandfather.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XV.<br> <span class='large'>THE BLACK SEAL.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide,</div>
      <div class='line'>Not once had turned to either side—</div>
      <div class='line'>Nor once did those sweet eyelids close,</div>
      <div class='line'>Or shade the glance on which they rose;</div>
      <div class='line'>But round their orbs of darkest hue,</div>
      <div class='line'>The circling white dilated grew—</div>
      <div class='line'>And there with glassy gaze she stood,</div>
      <div class='line'>As ice were in her curdled blood.—<span class='sc'>Byron.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>The evening was chilly—just chilly enough to make the
novelty of the first fire of the season a luxury. And so Zuleime
had ordered a bright little fire kindled in the parlor,
and the tea-table set out there. And she had changed her
white muslin dress for a fine crimson poplin one, and began
to think of the pleasant autumn evenings, when all the family
would gather around the hearth, with needle-work and books
and social chat. And, like a child, she was forgetting the
threatening dangers that lay before her, and those she loved—her
father’s trouble, Major Cabell’s expected arrival,
Frank’s peril in distant warfare, the difficulties of her own
position—all were for awhile forgotten, in the dream of
cheerful fireside affection and comfort, as she moved about
the room, closing blinds, dropping curtains, and wheeling
easy-chairs up near the fire, and thinking with what a fine
smile of genial satisfaction her father would come in and look
around upon the change before he dropped himself into that
largest easy-chair. Mr. Clifton had ridden to the village,
but was expected back to tea. And there sat the tea-table,
a little aside, to be clear of the chair, near the fire-place, and
radiant with snowy damask and shining silver.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn came in, pacing softly, slowly, and turning her
eyes around the room with a look of languid approval, she
sank into an arm-chair. Zuleime went to her immediately,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>and relieved her of the large shawl she had worn through the
chilly passages, and closed her dressing-gown, and settled
the lace border of the delicate little cap, and placed the
softest cushion under her feet, and then kissed her forehead,
but did not speak. Carolyn repaid her with a silent look of
affection. Since the departure of Catherine, Carolyn had
sunk into a sort of mute despondency, in spite of all the care
and affection of her sister, for it was her moral nature that
needed help, and the young Zuleime could not</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Minister to a mind diseased”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Georgia Clifton entered, and silently glided to her
seat. Unconsciously, Georgia became a dark and terrible
picture. She sat upon a low ottoman, at the corner of the
fire-place, her head supported by her hand, and all her glittering
ringlets falling like a glory down each side of her
darkly splendid face. And through that strong light and
shadow her form palpitated, her bosom heaved and fell, her
moist lips dropped apart, and her eyes gleamed with a set,
steady fire, as though some passionate trance wrapt and spell-bound
her soul.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime was moving about the room, and giving directions
to a servant, who had brought in cakes and preserves. Finally
she sat down, and took out her knitting—it was a pair of
white lamb’s wool socks, for her father—and knitted while
she waited. She had not long to wait.</p>

<p class='c006'>The door swung open silently, and Mr. Clifton entered,
with a newspaper in his hand, but looking so shocked and
troubled, that all, with one accord, raised their eyes in silent
inquiry.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Poor Frank! poor Frank!” exclaimed the old man, as
if he was ready to burst into a passion of tears.</p>

<p class='c006'>“What!—what of Frank?” asked a faltering, gasping
voice, which he could not recognize as belonging to either of
the three young women present—yet answered, mechanically—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Those bloody Redskins! Those ghastly, horrible Savages!”
he cried, throwing himself into a chair.</p>

<p class='c006'>“There—there has been some fighting! Is——Tell
me!—tell me! You know what I want to know. <i>Is
Archer safe?</i>” exclaimed Carolyn, bending forward. While
<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>sallow and fierce, the eyes of Georgia gleamed the terror and
anxiety she dared not express!</p>

<p class='c006'>“Archer is safe!” said Mr. Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>And the light of a sudden joy flitted across Georgia’s dark
face,—and Carolyn sank back, with a look of grateful relief.
And no one noticed Zuleime. And no one knew that she
had spoken.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! Archer is safe! Thank God! And a thousand
times <i>thank God</i>, that Archer is safe! But Frank!—poor
Frank! My God what a fate! Who shall tell his mother?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“For Heaven’s sake!—what has happened to Mr. Fairfax?”
asked Georgia.</p>

<p class='c006'>“There! There! Read for yourself,” replied the old
man, getting up, and handing her the paper. He did not
mean that she should read aloud, perhaps—but he forgot—he
was confused with trouble.</p>

<p class='c006'>And she took the paper, and read:—“<span class='sc'>From the Indian
Frontier</span>; HORRIBLE MASSACRE NEAR FORT
PROTECTION.—Dispatches from our Western frontier
bring the most painful account of a horrible massacre of a
part of our troops by the Indians, in the vicinity of Fort
Protection. On Monday, the 15th ultimo, a small reconnoitering
party left the Fort, under the command of Lieutenant
Fairfax. They had proceeded about a mile on their
way, when they fell into an ambuscade of Indians, and were
cut to pieces in the most shocking manner. The body of
Lieutenant Fairfax, in particular, was so horribly mutilated
as to be scarcely recognizable. The full particulars of the
massacre, given below, are copied from the ‘National Sentinel.’”</p>

<p class='c006'>Then followed a long account of the catastrophe, with
every revolting circumstance detailed with horrid distinctness.
The old man heard and groaned at intervals. Carolyn
shuddered and wept by turns. And even Georgia’s voice
broke down for pity and horror. But <i>she</i>—the wife—the
widow—she—the fearfully bereaved—she sat and listened to
all the murderous story. She heard all—all. How he had
been set upon by six or seven—how he had singly battled
with them, when all his party were lying dead around him—how
then he tried to escape such fearful odds—how he was
felled, and dragged down from his horse—the young,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>warm beating heart was cloven through—the fair hair torn
from the bleeding skull—the fingers chopped off for the sake
of the ring—Frank wore but one—a simple gold ring, with
a coral set, that she had taken from her slender fore finger,
and contrived to squeeze past the joint, and get it comfortably
upon his little finger. And they had cut it off in their haste
to get it. How real that trifle made the whole horror, that
might else have seemed like a nightmare! She sat and
heard it all—all. And no motion, no tear, no cry escaped
her.</p>

<p class='c006'>At last, when the reading was over, and they were released
from the spell of horror, old Mr. Clifton thought of
Zuleime, and feared its effect on her. He turned to look at
her. At first he saw nothing amiss.</p>

<p class='c006'>She sat so naturally, though still, with her knitting in her
hands, as though only stopped for an instant, and her face
turned in a listening attitude toward Georgia, who had ceased
to read.</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is all over—there is no more to hear, Zuleime, my
darling,” said the old man.</p>

<p class='c006'>But she did not move or speak. She seemed to look and
listen intently.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime,” said her father gently.</p>

<p class='c006'>She remained perfectly still.</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Zuleime!</i>” he exclaimed, in a louder tone. She did not
hear.</p>

<p class='c006'>“<span class='sc'>Zuleime!!</span>” he cried, a third time, going towards her,
to seize her shoulder.</p>

<p class='c006'>But he started back in affright. They were all gazing at
her now.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My God! she is <span class='fss'>DEAD</span>!” ejaculated the father.</p>

<p class='c006'>“She is <span class='fss'>MAD</span>!” exclaimed Georgia.</p>

<p class='c006'>They gathered around her. She knew it not. She sat
there as if frozen into that attitude—her face white and
hard—her lips bloodless and stiff, and her eyes still fixed
towards the spot from which Georgia had been reading, but
beyond it—beyond it—into the far distance, as if fascinated
by some spectacle there of unutterable horror!</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime! what are you looking at? Speak to me, my
child!” cried her father, in great distress.</p>

<p class='c006'>He might as well have expected a statue to speak.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>Carolyn took the knitting away, which, through all this,
had dangled between her stiff, unconscious fingers. Georgia
rubbed her hands. Carolyn bathed her face. The old man
cried to her—all in vain! They might as well have performed
these offices for the dead.</p>

<p class='c006'>They lifted her up, and laid her on a sofa—her limbs
hanging helplessly, like those of a dead or swooning girl.
But she was neither dead nor swooning. Wherever they
moved her, her eyes were still fixed, in that bright, burning,
horrible stare, upon the distance, as though the vision of the
ghastly spectacle that had been conjured up before her
imagination, followed her wherever she was turned.</p>

<p class='c006'>They took her up stairs, undressed and put her to bed.
All night long she lay in the same state.</p>

<p class='c006'>In the morning there was no change, except that the
muscles of the face had fallen, the cheeks sunken, the chin
dropped, and that concentrated, intense gaze into vacancy,
was more burning bright than ever. It was as though a
burning soul was consuming the unconscious flesh to death.
Or as if a body were turning to dust and ashes with the spirit
still imprisoned in it.</p>

<p class='c006'>“She is sinking, and must die, unless she can be moved
to tears,” said the doctor.</p>

<p class='c006'>But what should move her to tears? Was there anything
on earth that she could weep for now? Her old gray father
had knelt, weeping, by her bedside, and torn his silver hair
in anguish, without causing a single eyelash to quiver over
that fixed, burning eye! What should make her weep?
Plaintive music? She could not be made to hear it! The
very songs that she and Frank had sung together? The
sound was drowned in the groans from that scene of
blood!</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, had come over, but though
she was a woman of great skill and experience, all her efforts
failed to rouse the girl from that fearful trance, which seemed
likely to end in death.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Send for Catherine! If any one in the world can do
her good now, it will be Catherine. There is, besides, a
Free-Masonry between girls of the same age, that makes
them instinctively understand each other. If a child were
in a stupor, I should certainly send its favorite playmate—another
<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>child—as the most likely being to rouse it,” said
Mrs. Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! My Lord!—this is worse than any stupor! I
wish to Heaven she would fall into a stupor,” replied the
father.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know it! For her mind is not dulled, but seems
wrought up to the highest pitch, and intent upon some imaginary
vision of horror. She must be brought out of it.
She must be subdued. Send for Catherine.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Mr. Clifton went himself in the gig, to bring the kind
girl.</p>

<p class='c006'>When Catherine arrived, and while she stood by the
side of the stricken, insensible girl, Mr. Clifton said to
her—</p>

<p class='c006'>“You see, my dear child Zuleime seems to have been very
much attached to this poor young man. And the news of
his horrid death was broken to her suddenly, and it has just
thrown her into this state! Look at her eyes! What do
you think they see—in imagination, I mean?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“They see that scene of massacre—they see the death of
her lover,” said Kate, looking piteously at her friend—(for
Zuleime <i>was</i> her friend)—and brooding deeply over some
idea.</p>

<p class='c006'>“The doctor says she must die if she cannot be made to
weep! Oh, Katey, my dear, <i>dear</i> girl! If you can <i>only</i>
make her weep! I will give you—I was going to say—I
would give you half of all I have in the world! Come, try!
That’s a good girl! You girls all know each other’s little
fool-secrets and love nonsenses. Come, try. Do you want
to be left alone with her?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate shook her head in that quick way usual to her when
strong feeling kept her silent—but she added—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Give me her keys.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man seemed surprised, but looked about and discovered
the required articles in her little work-basket, and
handed them to Kate.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I only want to search and see if I cannot find something
that was his—some little token or keepsake, you
know.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man took his station at the foot of the bed, while
Kate pursued her search. She knew what she was looking
<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>for, it was a curl of fair hair. She had caught a glimpse of
it once—when Zuleime had opened a box in her drawer, and
had immediately shut it again with a deep blush. And now
she knew whose hair it was; and that the sight of it would
bring tears to those burning eye-balls, and consciousness to
that frenzied brain. She found it. She could have wept
herself as she raised it from its little hiding place. She took
it to the bedside—put her hand gently over those glaring
eyes to darken them, and break the spell if possible, and
then lifting her hand off again, she held up the lock of hair
by the end, letting it drop into a fair shining ringlet before
the eyes of the girl, as she said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime, do you know whose hair this is?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The poor scathed eye-balls fixed upon it—softened—melted
from their searching glare—a change came over her
face—she extended her hand, and caught the tress as if fearing
to lose it, and pressed it with both hands to her heart.
Then her bosom began to heave convulsively, as with a great
coming agony. Catherine caught her up, for she seemed
about to suffocate. It was only the coming of the flood of
tears—yes, the <i>flood</i>, for she fell upon Catherine’s sustaining
bosom, and sobbed and wept—such a deluge of tears, that
the girl’s dress was dripping wet, and it grew a wonder where
so much came from. And Catherine’s heart was smitten,
and she wept, too—wept till she grew so weak she could
scarcely sustain her burthen. And then old Mr. Clifton
came around and relieved her, taking Zuleime into his arms
and laying her head against his shoulder, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“There, cry! Cry on its father’s neck, as much as it
wants to! It shall cry its fill, poor thing! poor little heart-broken
thing!”</p>

<p class='c006'>And she <i>did</i>, abundantly!—but pressed and kissed her
father’s neck the while for his tender words. This melted
down the old man’s heart so that he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“They shan’t plague you! None of them shall! Charley
Cabell shan’t come here to trouble you! <i>That</i> he shan’t.
<i>Come what will</i>, you shan’t be forced to marry him! No,
no, my darling—my poor little heart-broken darling, you
shan’t! I’ll see him in perdition first! And myself, too!
There, don’t stop! Cry it all out on father’s neck! Don’t
stop! Catch your breath and begin again! That’s right!
<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>That’s a good girl! Oh, she’ll cry a plenty this bout. Once
I couldn’t bear to hear women cry! It was because I did
not know that if the grief was not cried out, it would stay in
the heart and burst it! I will never try to stop a woman
from crying again. Cry on, my poor little thing!” And so
most tenderly, but half-childishly, the old man talked, and
petted, and cooed over her.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine slipped down stairs to prepare tea and toast.</p>

<p class='c006'>When she came back, she found Zuleime lying back upon
the pillow exhausted, but composed, and still pressing the
little lock of hair. Catherine set down the little waiter, and
took a bowl and napkin and washed her face with cologne
and water, and then brought the cup of tea.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime shook her head mournfully.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine stooped and whispered.</p>

<p class='c006'>“For your father’s sake, dear. Look at him.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime raised her eyes to the old man’s grief-worn, anxious
face, and then extended her hand for the cup, and drank the
tea.</p>

<p class='c006'>While Zuleime was resting in Catherine’s arms and drinking
the tea, a knock was heard at the door, and when Mr.
Clifton opened it, a servant appeared and told him that Major
Cabell had arrived, and wished to speak with him.</p>

<p class='c006'>And the old gentleman set his teeth, and immediately went
below.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XVI.<br> <span class='large'>MR. CLIFTON’S RESOLUTION.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Full many a storm on this gray head has beat</div>
      <div class='line'>And now on my high station do I stand,</div>
      <div class='line'>Like the tired watchman in rocked tower,</div>
      <div class='line'>Who looketh for the hour of his release.</div>
      <div class='line'>I’m sick of worldly broil, and fain would be</div>
      <div class='line'>With those who strive no more.—<span class='sc'>Joanna Baillie.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>“Well, old two pence ha’penny, how d’ y’ do? Family
all well at last, eh?” said Major Cabell, advancing to meet
Mr. Clifton, as he entered the parlor.</p>

<p class='c006'>The old gentleman extended his hand gravely, and welcomed
his visitor to White Cliffs. Then he rung the bell and
ordered refreshments, but Major Cabell declined the latter
and inquired after the ladies.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My family are all in affliction! D—n it, Charley, you
know it! Curse that Indian war! My dear Carolyn scarcely
recovered from the effects of that loathsome pestilence, before
here comes the news of that hideous massacre of poor
Fairfax and his men, and just overwhelms my little Zuleime!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime? My dear little wife? I trust that nothing has
been permitted to afflict <i>her</i>?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“The news of Fairfax’s horrible death shocked her into
a sort of appalled ecstacy, which lasted for twelve hours!
And from which she was only roused to break into such tears
and sobs, as I never heard before, and hope never to hear
again.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man wished to prepare Major Cabell, gradually, for
the announcement he intended to make of the marriage about
to be broken off. He wished to touch his heart, to excite
his sympathy, to awaken his generosity. He even hoped—for
people will have wild hopes in extremity—that Major
<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>Cabell might anticipate his wish, and resign his claims. He
never was more mistaken in his life!</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Cabell listened in grave silence to his speech, and
then in high displeasure, exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“By my soul, sir! this is a very astonishing and most
offensive thing, you tell me! Why should Zuleime grieve
thus immoderately over the death of this young officer. Will
you explain that?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! I <i>might</i> say—because he was her intimate companion
in her own home all the summer—and was soon after
leaving it, so barbarously slaughtered. That is quite a sufficient
reason for the tender-hearted child to grieve excessively.
But I will not deceive you, Major Cabell. She loved this
poor young man!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Sir! Mr. Clifton! By Heaven, sir!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It cannot be helped, Charley! Hearts cannot be bound
by parchment and red tape! She loved this poor Frank
Fairfax—and her heart is broken by his sudden, dreadful
loss. Her grief, poor thing, must have its way! She shall
not be troubled!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And pray, sir,” began Major Cabell, speaking with deliberate
scorn—“how long shall this faithless girl be permitted
to weep over the memory of that fellow, before she
is required to give her hand to one who might have claimed
it as his right long ago?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Charles Cabell</i>,” said the old man, speaking slowly and
sadly, “is it <i>possible</i> that you <i>can</i>—that <i>any</i> man could wish
to marry a broken-hearted girl, mourning over the grave of
her freshly murdered lover!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Wish</i> to marry her? Wish to marry Zuleime? Give
her to me! Give me Zuleime! Only give her to me, and
then see! She is my right! I claim her by your promise—and
I would take her <i>now</i>!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But you are certainly mad! You would be miserable
with her!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Should I?</i> That is my affair! Only give her to me!
Come! let me have her to-day, or to-morrow, and I will take
her home to Richmond with me,” said Major Cabell vehemently,
almost fiercely.</p>

<p class='c006'>Old Mr. Clifton looked up at him in surprise, amounting
almost to fear.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>Have I ever described Major Cabell to you? He was a
small man, with clear cut, sharpened features, and pale face,
surrounded by light brown hair and whiskers, with very
handsome dark brown eyes, but with a certain latent ferocity
in the eyes, and grimness about the thin, set lips. Somehow
or other he irresistibly reminded you of a hyena—especially
when he happened to laugh that thin, ungenial laugh.</p>

<p class='c006'>The old man looked at him in surprise, almost amounting
to fear, and then he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“But she does not love you <i>now</i>! She cannot love you
<i>yet</i>! She loves Frank in his shroud better than any one left
alive!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not care! She must forget Frank, and love me!
Women can be made to feel or feign anything, by one who
understands them.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But her heart is breaking, I tell you!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It must stop breaking, and nerve itself to life.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“She is weeping her life away! She is a Niobe, I tell
you! A living fountain of tears!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“She shall dry them and smile! See if I do not make
her do it! Pooh! it is baby love, all this! Do you think
a girl of her age, can feel any lasting love, or grief, or enduring
passion of any sort at all? Pooh, pooh! I tell you
if her lap-dog were killed, she would blubber and weep as
much over its death, as she does over this other puppy’s fate!
But, once for all, Mr. Clifton, I tell you I do not intend to
be put off, or in any way annoyed by this girl’s grief and
petulance. It is not well for you, her, or myself, that it
should be indulged. Give her to me at once, according to
your promise, and afterward I shall know how to deal with
her—far better than you seem to know.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And you really wish to marry her in her present state,
and take her home with you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! What objection? A wedding-party is not an indispensable
accessory to the ceremony. A bridal journey
from here to Richmond would be a very good substitute.
Indeed, since the catastrophe of the last wedding-party
at Clifton, I think the bridal journey would be in the best
taste.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Umph! And you would marry her so, and so take her
away?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>“Certainly.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Brute!</i>”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Sir?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<span class='sc'>Brute</span>, I say! She would rather lie down with Frank
in his bloody grave than marry you! And <i>I</i> would rather
lay my child there—<span class='fss'>ALIVE</span>—than give her to you! There,
it is said! Now, I hope you understand me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Cabell brought his two fierce brown eyes to bear
upon Mr. Old Gentleman, and gazed as if he thought him
bereft of his senses. Then he spoke in a peculiarily thin,
smooth, distinct voice—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do you mean what you say, sir?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes I do! There!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And have you duly considered this, sir?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes I have! There!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And you know and are prepared to meet the consequences?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! Do your worst! There!” said the old man, setting
down his foot.</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Cabell arose and walked up and down the floor in
deep, perplexed thought. To say that he was surprised at
this sudden, unexpected rebellion and daring on the part of
Mr. Clifton would not be sufficient. He was just <i>astounded</i>,
and could not surmise where the strength of the old man to
oppose him, with his claims and his power, could come from!
He thought some external aid had been given! He never
guessed that it was the internal victory of conscience over
cowardice.</p>

<p class='c006'>Old Mr. Clifton also arose and stretched himself, expanding
his chest, and taking a long, deep breath of intense relief
and satisfaction, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Thank Heaven, I feel better. Feel more like a man
than I have felt for ten years. Now let the worst come, I
can meet it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Cabell glanced sideways at him, and continued his
thoughtful pacing up and down the floor. He was possessed
with a sort of ferocious passion for Zuleime, a passion fanned
to fury by opposition. He was not one to bend his pride to
sue. And yet he must have her! Soon, too!</p>

<p class='c006'>Old Mr. Clifton, now feeling and looking so much better
and franker, and remembering that Major Cabell was his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>guest as well as his relative, went up to him and held out his
hand, saying, heartily—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Charley, give me your hand! I do not know what you
are going to do, but I know that I am ready to meet what
comes! In olden times mortal foes shook hands before they
entered upon a deadly combat. In our times the executioner
and his victim exchange courtesies. And the humanity of it
is a touching comment upon the cruel necessities of our legal
and social code. Let us not be more ungracious adversaries
than they. Give me your hand. You are welcome to Clifton
as long as you please to give us your company. Sport is
good now on the mountains, and you can amuse yourself as
you please.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Cabell paused in his walk, and placed his hand in
the open palm of Mr. Clifton, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I will take you at your word, sir! I will remain your
guest for a few days. I will hope that what you have said
in regard to the marriage of myself and your daughter, has
been spoken in haste, and under the influence of anger. I
trust that you will review your words. To-day you speak from
excitement—to-morrow I hope that judgment will dictate
your reply. You will remember that <i>I, too</i>, had something
to complain of in the fact that my affianced bride, or one that
I considered such, should have been so ill guided, or so illy
guided herself, as to suffer her affections to fall into this entanglement.
But we will say no more about it now, for I see
Mrs. Clifton about to enter.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Georgia entered indeed, smiling.</p>

<p class='c006'>Old Mr. Clifton seized the opportunity, and while Major
Cabell was paying his devoirs to the beauty, excused himself
and left the room to go and see how Zuleime was getting
on, and to reassure her if necessary.</p>

<p class='c006'>As soon as he had left the room, Georgia drew Major Cabell
off to a distant sofa. And they sat down and entered
upon a long, confidential conversation. And when it was
ended, they arose and separated with looks of great satisfaction.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XVII.<br> <span class='large'>THE WIDOWED BRIDE.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Her look composed, and steady eye,</div>
      <div class='line'>Bespoke a matchless constancy,</div>
      <div class='line'>And there she sat, so calm and pale,</div>
      <div class='line'>That but her breathing did not fail,</div>
      <div class='line'>And motion slight of eye and head,</div>
      <div class='line'>And of her bosom warranted</div>
      <div class='line'>That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,</div>
      <div class='line'>You might have thought a form of wax,</div>
      <div class='line'>Wrought to the very life was there,</div>
      <div class='line'>So still she was, so pale, so fair.—<span class='sc'>Scott.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>A few days after the incidents recorded in the last chapter,
Mrs. Georgia Clifton entered Zuleime’s room. The poor
girl was sitting in an arm-chair near the window, idle, as was
never her habit before, with her hands lying languidly one
over the other, and her eyes fixed upon vacancy.</p>

<p class='c006'>The beauty went to her with her soft, winning way, and
took her hand, and stole her arm over her shoulder, and said,
tenderly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime, my love, do not sit here by this open window.
Let me close it, and lead you to the sofa.”</p>

<p class='c006'>There is nothing so quiet as despair, except death. There
is nothing so docile as despair often is. The beauty knew
this by a satanic inspiration, and calculated on it. Zuleime
suffered herself to be led to the sofa, which was wheeled up
near the fire, as she would have permitted herself to be led
any where else. Georgia sat down by her side, and passed
her arm around her waist, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear, I think you love your old father—do you
not?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The poor girl raised her eyes mournfully to the lady’s
face, as if she did not understand.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You love your father. You would not be willing to
see him ruined in fortune, and degraded in honor, would
you?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>Still Zuleime kept her eyes fixed upon the speaker, with
an expression of hopeless imbecility.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear child, let me be explicit. And try to understand
me, Zuleime. It is of vital necessity to your father
that you should. Will you listen to me, Zuleime?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes,” said the mourner, mechanically, without removing
her gaze.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, then, you know your grandmother left you thirty
thousand dollars? Well. Your father owes debts amounting to
twenty-five thousand dollars, and is in danger of an
execution or a prison, every day! You would willingly give
him your fortune to pay his debts with, we know. But, unfortunately,
you cannot do it, because you are not of age.
Neither can your father appropriate it, of course. But if
you were to marry, then your husband would be in legal
possession of that property, and could dispose of it. Now,
Major Cabell has bought up your father’s notes to the
amount of eighteen thousand dollars, using all his available
funds, for the purpose of saving him from great distress, and
in the expectation of marrying <i>you</i>, his daughter, and obtaining
your little fortune, which would replenish his coffers
again. Now, Zuleime, Major Cabell is himself pressed for
money. He would not, of course, come down upon your
father with an execution, but he will be compelled to sell
those notes again for whatever he can get for them. And
then of course the purchaser—some Jew or broker, would
have no such scruples, but would levy on all the personal
property of his debtor, and most likely throw him into prison,
where he might languish for years—where he might die!
Zuleime! you will not suffer this, if you can prevent it, will
you? Speak to me, my love! I do not believe you understand
me now! Why don’t you answer me, Zuleime?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I—I don’t know. Yes I do. It was about a—about a—about
somebody’s going to prison. Was it the murderer?
Alas, that will not bring him back. Neither do I wish it.
Not even <i>I</i>, who loved him so. I would not make any body
suffer, for the world. Oh, no.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The beauty looked at the pale girl in deep perplexity a
moment, and then said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime, your <i>father</i> is suffering! Let’s see if that will
rouse you!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>“My father? Oh, no, he mustn’t. Tell him not to mind
it. <i>I</i> do not, much, now. I know he is at rest. And we
shall be, soon. Tell him not to mind it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime! Awake! Arouse yourself! Your father is in
<i>danger</i>, I tell you!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“In danger—in danger. Tell me about it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Listen to me, then! Rouse your mind! and fix it
upon what I am going to tell you about your father’s peril.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And the lady took her hands and looked into her eyes,
watching their expression, and bringing back her wandering
ideas every time they showed the least sign of flying, and
rousing up her flagging intellect every time it betrayed a
disposition to sink—and so repeated the whole history of the
difficulty over again. But the distracted mind of the poor
girl was scarcely able to follow the pains-taking narrator
through the facts of the case. Passing her hand once or
twice across her corrugated brow, she said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“What—what is it you say about father, and prisons, and
Major Cabell? I—I am afraid my memory isn’t as good as
it used to be—please tell me over again.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The beauty, with a shrug of her shoulders, reiterated the
story, placing it in the fewest, simplest, and most direct
words she could find. But the stricken girl only looked
sorely distressed and perplexed, and said, plaintively—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Please forgive me, and tell me what it is that threatens
father!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“An execution—that will sweep off all the furniture from
the house, and all the negroes from the plantation; parting
husbands and wives, and parents and children, and brothers
and sisters, among those poor, faithful creatures who love
you so well. And for your father’s person, a jail, where he
may be for years, or until he dies.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, pray don’t talk to me any more, my head is so wild,
so wandering, <i>it wants to go back to something</i>,” said the
poor thing, pressing her temples, and strongly attracted to
her one great wo.</p>

<p class='c006'>“But your father!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! Oh, only tell me what you want me to do!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“To marry Major Cabell, who will then have the disposal
of your fortune, and can cover those notes and save your
father.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>“But—oh, yes! Now I remember. Father said there
was no necessity! I needn’t do it!” said the girl, pressing
her finger hard upon the centre of her forehead, and looking
keen and old with the mental effort to bring memory, attention
and understanding to bear upon the subject. “Yes,
yes, yes, yes,—he said I should weep in peace.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, your poor old father loves you better than himself.
And he said that sooner than you should marry a man you
did not love, he would die in jail.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Did he? My dear good father! Oh, yes! now I think
of it, it <i>was</i> something like that, sure enough! Only my
head is <i>so</i> queer! He must not go to jail—oh, never!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“He <i>must</i>, unless you marry Major Cabell, and save
him.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, I can marry Major Cabell—it don’t matter much—do
you think it does? Spirits up in Heaven know <i>nothing</i>
of what is going on on earth, or they know <i>all</i> about it, and
either is better than our deceptive half-knowledge. If spirits
know anything, they will know <i>our</i> spirit. Dear Frank will
know—will know my spirit—nay, he does! I feel sure of
it at this moment. I will marry Major Cabell.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But, Zuleime, if your father thinks you dislike Major
Cabell, he will not permit you to marry him.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But I don’t dislike Major Cabell. I don’t dislike any
one. I could not now. It seems to me that I feel sorry for
every one. I pity every one. Every one has so much trouble,
mamma! Mamma, I feel sorry for <i>you</i>. I do not know
how it is, but I <i>do</i> feel <i>very</i> sorry for you. Have you any
trouble?—You must have. Well, let God do as He pleases
with you, because He knows best. Besides, it is only for a
little while. And it will all come right. Kiss me, mamma.
I don’t think I loved you well enough when you first came
here a stranger. Never mind, I will try to love you more in
the future.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Georgia let the poor girl kiss her, and then arose and made
an excuse to go. Zuleime was weakening all her purposes.
And she was obliged to escape as people fly sometimes from
a sermon.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Please send Kate to me, mamma,” said Zuleime.</p>

<p class='c006'>And very soon Catherine entered.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Kate! please come and comb and curl my hair,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>and put on my crimson dress, and make me decent and pretty
to go down into the parlor to see Cousin Charles. It don’t
matter, you know, Kate. Frank knows all about it. He
thinks so, <i>too</i>. Because he sees my heart is breaking all the
faster for it, and that I shall the sooner be with him. You
see, Kate, it is the heart-strings that hold the soul down to
the body, and when they snap—there! It is off—it is gone
like a balloon,—when the cord is cut it ascends to Heaven.
<i>I</i> feel light like that, sometimes, as if only one little thread
kept my soul down, and if it were to snap, I could go.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine looked at the mourner in deep trouble. Then
she began to take down her hair and comb its long sable
tresses out, because she knew that in itself to be a soothing
process. And she stood and combed and brushed it a long
time, and then put it up, and bathed her face and hands.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Now, my crimson dress,” said Zuleime, quietly.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine sat down by her side, and embracing her affectionately,
said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Zuleime, you are not quite well enough to go down
into the parlor; and, besides, Major Cabell is not here. He
is gone with some gentlemen upon the mountain to shoot
birds.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime sat silent for a long time, enveloped by Catherine’s
arms, and leaning upon her shoulder. At last Kate
whispered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Zuleime, confide in me, and relieve your overburdened
bosom. A secret is so hard to keep alone in a sorrowful
breast. Lay yours on my heart, Zuleime, and it shall
be safer there than my own life. Tell me—what tie is it
that binds you to Frank?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Hush, oh, hush!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Tell me, darling—you know it is not from curiosity I
ask—it is that I wish you to relieve your heart.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Hush! I promised him not to tell.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Death absolves you from that promise. A painful secret
is very hard to keep alone. <i>I</i> know it, dearest, for <i>I</i>, too,
have a secret. Now will you trust me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Hush! hush! It was his last request—I must comply
with it!” said the girl, with wild eyes.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine knelt down before her, clasped her arms around
her, and partly to win her confidence, and partly to draw
<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>her mind from dwelling upon the wo that was crazing her,
said:—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime, look at me. I am going to tell you my secret,
that which it will pain and humble my heart to tell!—that
which it makes my cheek burn now only to think of! Zuleime,
I love a man who never sought, and who would despise
my love! And with whom it is forever and forever impossible
that I should marry. Yet I love him so much—so much,
that my heart is ready to burst with its powerless longing to
do him some good! Zuleime, I would give him myself—(nay,
never mind my cheek burning—I will speak in spite of
its protest)—or any dearest faculty or possession of mine, if
it only could increase his happiness. Zuleime, there is a
richness and fullness of joy in sacrificing one’s self for one
we love that passes all understanding.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know there is,” breathed the mourner, looking down
in her face seriously.</p>

<p class='c006'>“That is the joy that I long for. And oh, believe me, I
would sacrifice myself or any possession or faculty I have, if
it would only add to his happiness or power. Eyesight is a
precious treasure, is it not? If I could give mine to him,
and endow him with perfect vision down to deep old age, I
would consent to be dark forever. The power of speech is
a great gift—if by the loss of mine I could endow him with
irresistible eloquence, I would be dumb forever. <i>He</i> thinks,
Zuleime, that I have talent. And sometimes <i>I</i> think—but
I don’t know, either! Anyhow, if by yielding <i>all</i> mine I
could add a mite to the treasures of his intellect, I would be
willing to be a fool for life. In a word—if by abdicating all
my being, I could add to the largeness of his life, I would
glow with joy to do it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do not love him so! He will die if you do! <i>I know
it!</i> Frank died!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And yet, Zuleime, it is not that I wish to <i>lose</i> my being,
but to <i>add</i> to it. I do not know why it is, but I feel—not
like an individual, independent existence, but like the
complement of that other existence—a half life—not full
and complete of itself, waiting to be joined to the other
half.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“He will love you. He will find you out,” said Zuleime.
And her words, and tone, and look thrilled like a prophecy
<span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>to the heart of Catherine, but she shook her head gravely,
and answered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Never, Zuleime! It would be a sin even to hope it!——But,
Zuleime, I have laid my secret on your heart—<i>now</i> will
you confide in me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Kate! I would do it. I <i>wish</i> to do it! But I
promised him!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Zuleime, when he required that of you, he did not
think what might, what has happened. You must tell me,
Zuleime. For if you have not some one with whom you can
talk freely, you—<i>I fear for you</i>. You cannot bear your
burden alone! Few human beings can! Tell me, darling?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Kate! It was the last thing he asked me! I must
comply with his wish!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime! I am about to cast away all reserve! I am
about to tell you the name of him I love so madly. It is
Archer Clifton, your cousin—your sister’s betrothed! There!
I have thrown open the very sanctuary of my heart to you.
I have shown its secret sin and shame! Now, will you confide
in me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Kate! Dearest Kate! My own secret’s without
reserve, but not another’s.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine arose and took the seat by the mourner’s side.
Well would it have been for Zuleime in after life, if she
could now have made a confidant as well as friend of the
excellent girl. But at least Catherine’s efforts had not been
all in vain. The mind of the mourner was a little more
rational—her part in conversation not quite so <i><span lang="fr">distrait</span></i>.
Presently Zuleime said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is getting towards evening. Cousin Charles will be
back to supper. Curl my hair, Kate! and put on my crimson
dress, I <i>must</i> go down and spend the evening with them
in the parlor! I must, Kate. It is for my dear father’s
sake! You do not know, Kate, else <i>you</i> would also advise
it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine essayed to prevent her, but finding her quite
determined, yielded the point, and assisted her to dress.
When her toilet was complete, she sat down again upon the
sofa, and put her hand to her head in troubled thought.
Then at last she spoke, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Kate! I am afraid. It seems to me that—that my head
<span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>has not been quite right. And—and my speech has not
been quite to the point. Kate, I want you to tell me—can
I trust myself to talk, do you think? or had I better not try
this evening? They might think me crazy if I should not
talk straight! But I am not! I am not crazy—only—Tell
me how I am, and what I had better do, dear Kate?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Try to attend and be interested in what is going on,
dearest, and talk when occasion presents itself. And do not
be afraid. Every one will understand it is only nervousness,
darling.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You encourage me, Catherine,” said the poor girl, “and
now just give me your arm down stairs.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate complied with her request.</p>

<p class='c006'>The parlor was empty when they entered, and Zuleime
had an opportunity of settling herself in a large arm-chair,
and composing herself, before any one came in. Mr. Clifton,
Major Cabell, and several other gentlemen returned from the
shooting excursion and entered the parlor together. Mr.
Clifton looked surprised and pleased to see Zuleime, “clothed
and in her right mind;” and Major Cabell seemed interested
and curious. Zuleime arose, and supported herself by resting
one hand upon the arm of the chair, while she received
the greetings of her father’s guests. And thanks to the
shadowing of the black lustrous curls, and the reflection of
the crimson dress, none could see the wanness of her face.
Mrs. Clifton and Miss Clifton entered soon after, and in the
general conversation that ensued, poor Zuleime escaped particular
notice. Once Major Cabell contrived, without drawing
attention upon himself, to find his way to her side, and
enter into conversation with her. And he was surprised,
perplexed, nonplussed at the gentleness and almost tenderness
of her manner. Before leaving her he asked—</p>

<p class='c006'>“When can I have an interview with you, Zuleime?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Whenever you please, Cousin Charles,” she answered,
gently.</p>

<p class='c006'>At parting, he pressed her hand, and to his surprise, the
pressure was softly returned. And he left her, thinking
“the sex” more of a riddle than he ever thought it before.</p>

<p class='c006'>The next day, about noon, Major Cabell and Zuleime met
in the saloon, and had an interview of nearly an hour’s
length.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>When Zuleime left him and came out, she met her father
in the hall. Taking his hands in hers, she looked up in his
troubled face and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear father! you remember many weeks ago, you asked
me to fix the day when I should be married to Cousin
Charles?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Never mind, never mind, my dear! That is all over
now! You shall not be troubled, my love!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear father, I have just told Cousin Charles that I will
give him my hand on Tuesday fortnight,” said Zuleime, and
pressing both the old man’s hands to her lips, she turned and
left him standing there in speechless astonishment, while she
went up stairs—and throwing herself upon her knees by her
bed, buried her face in the clothes, and breathed—“It won’t
be for long, Frank! Oh! Frank, you <i>know</i> it won’t be for
long!”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XVIII.<br> <span class='large'>THE YOUNG MOURNER.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Mine after life? What is mine after life?</div>
      <div class='line'>My day is closed. The gloom of night comes on,</div>
      <div class='line'>A hopeless darkness settles o’er my fate.—<span class='sc'>Joanna Baillie.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>There is no state of mind so calm as that of hopelessness.
And, therefore, there is none so often mistaken for resignation.
Zuleime’s cheeks were pale and hollow, her eyes
heavy and sunken, and surrounded by a dark, livid circle—and
she had contracted an unconscious habit of pressing her
hand tightly over her heart, while a look of pain corrugated
her brow. Yet, withal, she moved through the house very
quietly—without a sigh or a tear—yea, even with a <i>smile</i> for
whom she chanced to meet—a wan smile of tenderness, fellow-feeling.
For the grief that had come to her own young
heart, had revealed to her the secret of a general sorrow,
and awakened a deep human sympathy. Yet perhaps it was
a morbid excess of this feeling that made her see, in every
one she met, a fellow-sufferer. Her father misunderstood
her serenity and her sweet smile. And his wife led him into
that misunderstanding.</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is a merciful provision of Heaven, that young people
of her tender age, can feel no lasting grief. At first, over
any misfortune they lament excessively. But it is very
soon forgotten,” said Georgia.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, yes! Charley Cabell said something like the same
thing, and, indeed, it seems to be true,” replied Mr. Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>We are easily persuaded to believe that which we wish to
credit. And so the old gentleman believed in the correctness
of his wife’s judgment, and in the reality of his daughter’s
peace.</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Cabell was baffled and perplexed. “Jealousy is as
cruel as the grave,” and so, also, is that base passion which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>often goes by the holy name of Love. It had been under
the influence of both of these that Charles Cabell had sworn
to punish Zuleime severely for what he called her faithlessness.
But for the present, at least, he was completely frustrated.
There was nothing to complain of in her conduct to
him. She was very kind and gentle—not with the gentleness
of meekness and humility, but with that of a compassionate
toleration—such as an angel might feel in looking down
upon a determined sinner—seeing his moral insanity, and
foreseeing his consequent wretchedness. Major Cabell had
frequently heard of mourners who could not bear to hear the
names of their beloved, lamented dead, spoken before them.
And he thought to torture her bosom by frequently reverting
to “that horrible massacre,” and “poor Frank.” But
he could not add one pang to those she had already endured.
Her sorrow was too deep to be probed—to be <i>touched</i> by a
superficial hand like his. She could bear to listen and reply
when he talked of her massacred love. For like a stationary
panorama of the past and the present, his life and death were
ever before her mind. She could converse, without new
emotion, of him over whose fate, in its deepest, darkest horrors,
she was ever brooding. If any mourners cannot brook
to hear the name of the lost mentioned in their presence, it
is because they are already blessed with long seasons of forgetfulness,
and shrink from the pain of remembrance. She
had no such pang of sudden recollection to dread. His memory—her
sorrow—was ever present with her.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine watched her with deep and painful interest.
She sought an opportunity, and once more had a serious conversation
with her.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime, <i>don’t</i> marry under present circumstances. If,
as you say, your father is in the power of Major Cabell, it is
bad. But if you marry him to deliver your father, it will be
worse, and will not eventuate in any good. And two wrongs
never make a right, Zuleime. Do no wrong, dearest, but
trust in God for deliverance,” said Catherine, earnestly.</p>

<p class='c006'>“It seems to me that I am doing right. It will please
Cousin Charles, and save father. And as for myself—it
<i>can’t</i> matter much, you know,” replied the despairing girl.
And to this view of the case she adhered, with all the tenacity
of a morbid resolution.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>A few days after this Catherine returned to her brother’s
cabin, wondering what new misfortune would—against her
fixed determination—throw her back among the Cliftons.</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Cabell had written to Richmond for his mother and
sisters to come down and be present at his marriage. And
one day, near the last of the week, the carriage of Mrs.
Cabell rolled up to the door. Knowing nothing whatsoever
of Zuleime’s attachment to the young soldier, and consequent
deep grief at his fate, they were very much shocked to see
her looking so ill, but quietly ascribed it to fatigue and anxiety
in nursing Carolyn. And Mrs. Cabell was emphatic in
demonstrations of motherly kindness, which the gentle girl
acknowledged with grateful smiles, and by such attentions as
she had the power to bestow. The city ladies had made a
short stage that day, and were but little wearied, so that
after a little slumber, and the refreshment of the bath, and
of tea, they felt well enough to spend the evening in the
parlor.</p>

<p class='c006'>The family were all around the evening fire, when Mrs.
Cabell and her daughters entered.</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Cabell—who was as usual sitting by Zuleime, with
his arm over the back of her chair in a property-holding sort
of manner—arose, and handing his mother to a seat, received
from her hand a roll of papers.</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is some new music, my son, for the dear girls. There
are some beautiful songs of Moore’s just published. Carolyn,
love, I have thirsted to hear your sweet voice again. Will
you sing?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Miss Clifton’s eyes filled with tears, and she turned away
her head.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime stole to her aunt’s side, and while seeming to examine
the music, whispered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Aunt Cabell, Carolyn has entirely lost her voice!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The lady was very much shocked to hear it, and grieved at
her own unfortunate proposition, but durst not trust herself
to reply, lest Carolyn should hear and understand the subject
of their conversation.</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Cabell, who was turning over the music, suddenly
had his gaze fixed by one particular piece. His eyes lighted
up with a peculiar satisfaction, and turning to Zuleime, he
said—</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>“My own, you can read music at sight. Can you not?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes,” replied the girl.</p>

<p class='c006'>“And you can sing and play at sight—can you not?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, if it is not too difficult.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Is this difficult?” he asked, holding a page out to her.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, that is very simple,” said Zuleime, looking entirely
at the music—not at the words.</p>

<p class='c006'>“It <i>is</i> a ballad of Thomas Moore’s. I wish you to sing it
for us. Will you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Certainly.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come, then,” he said, and took her hand, and led her
to the piano. He seated her, and laid the song before her,
saying to himself, “If she can sing <i>that</i> through without emotion—ay,
or <i>with</i> emotion—if she can get through it at all—she
can do, or suffer anything! She is a heroine.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime was reading over the words, preparatory to singing
them.</p>

<p class='c006'>And he was watching her intently. But she read through
the song, turning the leaves calmly, her pale cheek never
changing its hue. Then she restored the first page to its
place before her, and began to play the prelude. The ladies
and old Mr. Clifton drew near, and gathered around her.
Then her voice arose, soft, clear and plaintive, but unfaltering
as her cheek remained unchanging—though her father
trembled for her as the words of the song fell on his ear.
That song was “The Broken Heart,” by Thomas Moore.
Zuleime sang—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And lovers around her are sighing,</div>
      <div class='line'>But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>For her heart in his grave is lying.</div>
      <div class='line'>She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Every note which he loved awaking:</div>
      <div class='line'>Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>Her voice faltered—she paused.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come! no miserable, maudlin, mawkish self-pity, I beseech
you!” whispered Major Cabell, stooping to her ear.</p>

<p class='c006'>Whether Mr. Clifton heard the cruel whisper, or whether
he only saw her slight agitation, is uncertain—but he drew
near and stood by her side. She recovered, and continued—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>He had lived for his love, for his country he died,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>They were all that to life—</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>She paused again—again essayed to sing—her voice quavering,
sunk into silence like the rudely-swept strings of the
harpsichord—the grayness of death crept over her countenance,
and she fell back into the arms of her father, who
angrily exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Charles! you are a brute! a demon! to ask her to sing
that song. Zuleime! Zuleime, my darling! speak to me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>He sat down on the sofa, holding her in his arms. The
ladies drew around with fans, with cold water, with hartshorn.
But she recovered very soon, and sat up—and declined going
up stairs to bed—and thanked them all for their care, gently
begging them not to take so much trouble on her account.</p>

<p class='c006'>“This is all very strange, madam,” said Mrs. Cabell, aside
to Mrs. Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime is so nervous and sensitive ever since Carolyn’s
illness, that the news of that massacre, and the death of her
old playmate and companion, has quite overwhelmed her. I
suppose this music awoke her sensibilities,” said Georgia,
composedly.</p>

<p class='c006'>If Mrs. Cabell had any suspicion of the truth, she was too
well bred to express it then and there. And the matter ended
for the moment.</p>

<p class='c006'>But after this evening, Zuleime was never the same. Her
fortitude seemed entirely to have given away. Her calmness
was utterly broken up. A strange, wild terror and incertitude
had come upon her.</p>

<p class='c006'>The next day, Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, came over to
call on the visitors. Nevertheless, in the course of the call,
Major Cabell found the opportunity he sought, of taking Zuleime
to task for what he called her miserable weakness.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You are unfaithful—false at heart—you cherish the
image of this young man secretly, while you pretend to be
true to me! Pah! Well! why don’t you answer me? Have
you anything to say?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Cousin Charles, does not the grave sanctify any affection?
Is it a crime to remember a dead friend?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is a miserable, druling weakness! a maudlin, mawkish,
drivelling, puling piece of unfaithfulness to duty—and leads
<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>you into the exhibition of such scenes as that of last night.
Such whining, whimpering, contemptible <i>self-pity</i>! I protest
you are the most false-hearted and selfish woman I ever met
with in my life. It is <i>your own</i> griefs and regrets and reverses,
that occupy you all the time. And now! instead of
listening to me, and replying—you are falling away into
thought again! Come! answer me, now! Was it not self-pity,
that caused you to faint during the singing of that <i>à
propos</i> song—which, by the way, I gave you as an ordeal!
Come! say! Wasn’t it self-pity?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>No, nor was it the song.</i> If I pitied myself, should I
not pity <i>you</i> as much? It is not such a happy fate, Cousin
Charles, to marry a grief-stricken girl like me, I know.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>No!</i> If I calculate upon your continued indulgence of
that grief, which I do not! <i>No!</i> Trust me on the part of
my wife, there must and shall be no such exhibitions of feeling
as that of last night.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not know why you wish to marry me!” she broke
forth, with strange wildness. “You do not love me! Perhaps
you hate me, and marriage will give you the same power
to work out your hate as it would to act out your love! Yes!
I do suppose that is really the key to the riddle!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Perhaps it is,” he answered, sarcastically.</p>

<p class='c006'>“One thing I beg of you,” she said; “while we stay here—in
my father’s presence—try to use me kindly—to spare
his feelings—he is an old man. Reserve your vengeance
until I am your wife, until we get to Richmond, when you
will have full power, and ample time and space to work your
will.”</p>

<p class='c006'>While she spoke so wildly, she pressed and rubbed her
hand spasmodically against her heart. And her pale brow
was corrugated, and her intense black eyes strained and sharpened
as by mental and physical pain. She gasped for breath,
and began again.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not know—I am sure—I cannot tell—whether,
after all, we will ever mar—”</p>

<p class='c006'>What she was about to say was cut short by the entrance
of Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, who came in, with her shawl
and bonnet on, to take leave of Zuleime and Major Cabell,
and invite them to join the rest of the family in coming to
dine and spend the evening at Hardbargain the next day.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>Major Cabell accepted the invitation for himself and Zuleime,
and the lady took her departure.</p>

<p class='c006'>The next day was Saturday. The family set out on their
visit at an early hour of the day, as is the social custom of
country neighbors. Old Mr. Clifton, his wife, and his eldest
daughter, rode in his carry-all. Mrs. Cabell and her three
daughters went in that lady’s carriage. Zuleime rode on
horseback, attended by Major Cabell.</p>

<p class='c006'>It was a glorious Indian summer day, when the splendor
of the autumnal sunlight would be too dazzling, but for the
soft, warm mist spread veil-like over it. At another time,
Zuleime, true worshiper of nature, might have drawn deep
draughts of pleasure from the beauty of the scene. But
now the gorgeous magnificence of the forests, in their many
colored foliage—the misty mountain steeps softening the glory—the
fine transparent neutral tint of the heavens leading
the eye and mind up through infinite heights of ether—the
glowing clouds reposing along the horizon—all were lost upon
her.</p>

<p class='c006'>An hour’s ride by the carriage road brought the party to
Hardbargain.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton received them with her usual quiet cordiality.
There was something very composing in that calm, kind, self-possessed
woman’s manner. There was something very sedative
also in the air of her home. In her company and in
her house the restless became quiet, the anxious easy, the
desponding cheerful, even the despairing mourners over some
great heart-wreck, grew languidly aware of how much good
was left them in the comforts of daily domestic life, and the
amenities of social intercourse.</p>

<p class='c006'>She was strikingly like her son. One was inclined to wonder
how they—so nearly identical in features and complexion—should
differ so widely in many points of character and
sentiment, and had to remember that all in which he did not
resemble her was inherited from the Cliftons. Kate felt the
likeness keenly. And when the lady turned those quiet,
brilliant eyes upon her, her heart thrilled to the glance with
strange pain and pleasure. And when once or twice—for
the lady was never very demonstrative in her affection—she
had quietly drawn the maiden to her bosom—it was such a
heart-feeding comfort, that Kate felt there would be no possibility
<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>of forgetting Archer Clifton, while thrown into daily
intercourse with his mother. Once when Mrs. Clifton had
looked tenderly into her eyes, and drawn and pressed her
closely against her breast, the girl, lost for an instant, had
thrown her arms around the lady, and buried her face in her
bosom. And for some time after that, terrified at her own
impulse, she had been as shy of the mother, as she could have
been of the son. Kate had kept away from Hardbargain for
many weeks, but to-day, when the party from White Cliffs had
arrived, Mrs. Clifton sent for her, with the message that her
friend Zuleime had come. That was no sufficient lure to the
resolute girl, however, who had once for all determined that
nothing but the absolute necessities of others should draw
her again into the dangerous association of the Cliftons. She
returned thanks to the lady, declining the visit. Mrs. Clifton
was disappointed in missing the society of her young favorite
for that day. Yet the time passed very pleasantly
notwithstanding. There is scarcely any such thing as a stiff
dinner party in the country. And such a thing was impossible
at Hardbargain. The ladies had all brought their
“parlor work”—fine netting, knotting, knitting, or sewing—and
they worked and conversed in a quiet, pleasant way,
while the gentlemen mingled in their conversation, or talked
with each other upon the two reigning subjects of country
discussion—agriculture and politics—or sauntered out upon
the lawn to enjoy the fine autumnal weather until dinner.
After which, the ladies in the cozy parlor lounged a little
more lazily, and grew a great deal more kindly in their interchange
of thought and sentiment, and the gentlemen enjoyed
a promenade on the piazza, and the stolen luxury of their
cigars.</p>

<p class='c006'>After an early tea the party took leave. They returned
in the same manner in which they had come. Zuleime on
horseback, escorted by Major Cabell; the others in carriages.
Even the soothing influence of Mrs. Clifton’s home and
society had almost failed to quiet the miserable girl. Her
manner, all day long, had been erratic in the extreme—now
depressed into gloom—sunken nearly to the depth of stupidity—now
full of “starts and flows” as the crime-burthened
Macbeth. As she rode home, in perfect silence,
the evil eye of her companion watched her stealthily. Her
<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>cheek was pale and hollow, and her eye sunken and heavy.
Yet sometimes her eyes would lighten as with sudden terror,
like those of a startled hare, and her cheek would flush and
fade. The road was broad, yet shadowy, from the meeting
of the branches of the huge trees overhead. And so soon
as the sun went down it became too dusky to permit him to
see the flickering and sinking of the fire in her eye and cheek,
but he watched her closely, nevertheless. Suddenly he saw
her sway to and fro in the saddle, like a reed blown by the
wind. Then, ere he could spring to her aid, the reins dropped
from her hands, and she fell from the horse, her foot catching
in the stirrup. The well-trained palfrey stopped, and
stood without so much as lifting a hoof. With a deep curse,
Major Cabell threw himself from his steed, and raised her,
disengaging her foot from the stirrup. He sat down on a
bank, with her on his knees, and took off her hat, and began
to feel her head, neck and arms, for injuries. It seemed impossible
to tell whether, or how she was hurt. The carriages
were some yards behind, and concealed by a turn of the road.
He dipped his hand in a run, at the foot of the bank, and
sprinkled her face; and before the carriages arrived, she had
opened her eyes, and sat up. She said that she was not hurt—that
it was only a fainting spell, such as she had had at the
piano. But her voice was very weak, and her frame trembling,
and her general manner frightened. She placed her
hand against Major Cabell’s chest, partly to assist herself in
rising, partly to push him away, and stood alone upon her
feet, until her father’s carriage drew up. Then she said she
was tired, and wished to get in.</p>

<p class='c006'>Old Mr. Clifton sent a glance of impotent rage at Major
Cabell, as he lifted his child in—placing her in the vacant
fourth seat—the other three being occupied by his wife, eldest
daughter, and himself.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime sat next to her sister, and opposite Georgia; and
the last mentioned lady studied her <i>vis-a-vis</i>, with as much
interest, and with far more curiosity and comprehension, than
Major Cabell had exercised.</p>

<p class='c006'>The girl sat perfectly still, and quite lost to all around
her. But Georgia saw that it was the fearful stillness of
self-restrained frenzy.</p>

<p class='c006'>They reached home at last. Georgia was handed out first,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>she waited for Zuleime, who followed. She wished to draw
the girl’s arm within her own. But Zuleime, turning on her
a dilated, strained, fiery gaze, fled past her into the house.
And then the lady saw, with a shudder, that it was indeed
the fires of incipient madness that kindled the lambent flame
in the girl’s eyes!</p>

<p class='c006'>When they were all assembled in the parlor, around the
evening fire, with books, and music, and light needle-work—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Where is Zuleime?” asked her father.</p>

<p class='c006'>“She has retired to her room, very much fatigued,” replied
his wife, and the subject dropped.</p>

<p class='c006'>The next morning, when the family gathered around the
breakfast-table, the youngest daughter was still missing.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Where is Zuleime? Why doesn’t Zuleime come? Carolyn,
have you seen your sister this morning? How is she?”
asked old Mr. Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn replied that she had not seen her since the preceding
evening.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Send some one, then, to her chamber, to see how she is,
and whether she will join us at breakfast, or have anything
sent up to her room. Or—stay! Carolyn, don’t send—go
yourself, my love, to your sister, it will be only kind.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Carolyn left the table, and went up stairs, and after an
absence of fifteen or twenty minutes, returned, and announced,
with a pale cheek, that Zuleime’s chamber had not been occupied
during the night—that she herself was no where to be
found in the house—and that no one of the servants had seen
her since the evening before!</p>

<p class='c006'>A dreadful suspicion instantly seized upon all who remembered
her wild and moody looks and manners of the preceding
few days; and they simultaneously arose from the table, and
with looks of alarm, dispersed in various directions, in quest
of the missing girl.</p>

<p class='c006'>The house, kitchen, out-buildings, negro quarters, garden,
vineyard, orchard, the plantation and the woods were successively
and vainly searched.</p>

<p class='c006'>Messengers were dispatched to Hardbargain and to the
neighboring plantations, with inquiries that proved fruitless.</p>

<p class='c006'>Old Mr. Clifton ran up and down the house and grounds
like one distracted.</p>

<p class='c006'>At last, near night, traces were discovered of the lost one.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>Upon the edge of the stream, where the banks were soft and
deep, small foot-prints were seen—and half-way down the
bank her little slipper was found, with its toe deep in the
mud, and the heel sticking up, as if lost there in the downward
run of its owner—and from the branch of a sapling
near, a shred of her crimson dress fluttered, as if caught and
torn off in the same swift descent.</p>

<p class='c006'>Old Mr. Clifton walked down there, to see the spot; but
he was <i>carried</i> back.</p>

<p class='c006'>And before the next sun arose, Mrs. Georgia Clifton had
her heart’s first desire.</p>

<p class='c006'>She was a widow.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XIX.<br> <span class='large'>CONFESSION.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>I was so young—I loved him so—I had</div>
      <div class='line'>No mother—God forgot me—and I fell!</div>
      <div class='line in8'><span class='sc'>Browning—Blot on the ‘Scutcheon.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>A retrospect of several hours is necessary here. You
will remember that during the drive home from Hardbargain,
Mrs. Georgia Clifton had watched Zuleime with much interest
and curiosity, and with more perspicuity. When the
unfortunate girl had sprung from the carriage, and fled up
the steps into the house, Mrs. Clifton had followed her. Instead
of going up into her chamber, she had passed directly
through the hall, and gone out at the back door—Georgia
having kept near her. There was the kitchen garden at the
back of the house, and then the vineyard, and then the
orchard—through all these she successively passed, with the
same wild, hurried gait, and entered the forest beyond, and
descended into the deep glen, through which the mountain-stream
roared. It was very difficult to follow the reckless
steps of the fugitive down this rough declivity, and while
cautiously descending, with the aid of projecting fragments
of rock and smaller branches of trees and bushes, Georgia
lost sight of the girl. When she reached the bottom of the
gorge, through which the torrent raged and raved, Zuleime
was no where to be seen.</p>

<p class='c006'>The night was very dark, and though a few large, brilliant
stars were to be seen directly over head, yet low from the
horizon, heavy, black masses of clouds were slowly rolling
up. And the wind moaned and died away at intervals—prophetic
of the winter’s storm. The single, large stars
overhead were reflected in the stream—not clearly and
calmly, but plunging and leaping with the wild water. The
banks each side lay shrouded in gloom and mystery, rocks
<span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>and trees indistinctly blended together in dark and sombre
hues. The everlasting mountains stood around, vast, vague,
and awful. The seven white peaks gleamed up in the back
ground, like the ghostly genii of the scene. A shiver of
superstitious fear shook the frame of Georgia, and she had
turned to retrace her steps home, when a sound between a
moan and a suffocating sob arrested her purpose. She crept
towards the spot whence the sound proceeded, and there,
half hidden in the deep gloom of overhanging willows, she
dimly discerned the figure of the unhappy girl, bending over
the stream, and gazing intently upon the water, where the
reflection of the stars leaped and plunged with the waves.
As if communing with herself, she murmured—“There is
peace there! There is peace there!” Then her form bent
lower, her gaze grew more earnest and intense, as though
body, soul and spirit were irresistibly fascinated, drawn
down by the glamour of the water! And—“There is peace,
deep peace there,” she muttered! How stormy must have
been the soul that saw deep peace in the raging torrent!
Her eyes shone in the dusk with a bright, phosphoric light,
and still pouring their splendor upon the dark, wild water,
she murmured—“Peace! deep peace.” Suddenly up flew
her arms, and she sprang forward.</p>

<p class='c006'>The ready hand of Georgia caught her shoulder and pulled
her back, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mad girl! What are you about to do?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime sprang around with her eyes all wide and ablaze,
like one suddenly waking up from a terrible dream, and not
yet quite brought to consciousness. Georgia drew her away
from the dangerous proximity of the torrent. Zuleime threw
her hands to her head with sudden recollection and intensity
of consciousness, and sunk down at the feet of the lady,
clasping her knees, and exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! you don’t know what you’ve done! Why did you
pluck me back! There was peace there! The only peace
left for me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You are frantic, miserable girl! <i>What</i> is the meaning
of this madness?” asked Georgia, in a stern, curt tone.
Convulsive sobs, shaking as with a tempest the form of the
girl, alone answered her.</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>What</i> will your father—what will your intended husband
<span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>think of this? Say! Speak! What do you suppose
Major Cabell—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! <i>do not</i> speak of him!” gasped the girl.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Will you tell me what you mean by this conduct?”
sneered Georgia.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mamma—” commenced Zuleime but her voice broke
down.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime! come get up and come home!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, no, no, no! <i>Not</i> home! <i>Never</i> home again!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Once more, what am I to think of this frantic behaviour.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mamma!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Don’t call me mamma, if you please! It may not be
pleasant or politic, to acknowledge that tender relationship.
But explain yourself, lest I bring you to those who will demand
the explanation with less forbearance!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mercy! mercy! I will tell you anything! everything!
Only do not kill my father with the story!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Speak, then!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Lady—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well!”</p>

<p class='c006'>But some feeling stronger than fear, gripped her heart
and stopped her speech.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime! How long will you try my patience?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Madam—”</p>

<p class='c006'>Another hesitation.</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>What</i>, then?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I have been—a wife! I am—a widow! I am fated
to be—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well,” asked Georgia, in a deep-drawn breath between
her teeth, “you are fated to be—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>A mother!</i>” breathed the girl, in a dying voice, covering
her face with both hands, and sinking lower on the
ground.</p>

<p class='c006'>There was a long, deep pause, filled up with the roar of
the torrent and the moan of the rising wind. Suddenly
up sprang Zuleime, with fire in her eyes, and made a dash
towards the water. The swift arm of Georgia caught and
dragged her back. No word was spoken yet. The impulse
of frenzy passed off, and Zuleime sunk into her old
posture.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>“Get up,” at last said Georgia, half-shaking, half-putting
the girl upon her feet. “Get up and come with me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And she drew her to a fragment of rock, at a safer distance,
pushed her down on the seat, and dropped herself by
her side.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Now, tell me of this,” she commanded, in a hard, curt
tone. “You were married?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, yes!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Who was your husband?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, you know! You <i>must</i> know! He who died in
yonder field of blood, under the tomahawk of the Shoshonowa—I
am very wretched!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Stay!—is this true—about the marriage, I mean?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“True as God’s Word!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Certainly the marriage was not legal without your
father’s consent, and would have been annulled by him. But
now he will permit his consent to be supposed. Let’s see!
the widow of an army officer entitled to his half-pay, perhaps;
I do not know—perhaps to a pension, too, as he died
in the field of battle. Zuleime, upon the whole, I think that
you were rash to attempt suicide. Your position and prospects
are not so bad. If Major Cabell is anxious to possess
you, now that he supposes you to be a maudlin, love-sick
girl, grieving yourself to death over the grave of your lover,
he will be quite as willing to marry you a year hence, when
he knows you to be the widow of Captain Fairfax—for <i>that</i>,
I understand, was his rank when he fell. Come, girl, live!
Acknowledge your marriage, like a truthful woman! Bring
your child into God’s world like a Christian woman! And
after a sufficient time has elapsed, marry Major Cabell, like
a sensible woman! For I do assure you, that the gallant
Major is sufficiently enamored of your young beauty to wait
that length of time, if compelled to do so.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, yes! I think he is enamored of me as the Shoshonowa
was of poor Frank’s hair!” bitterly said the girl.</p>

<p class='c006'>“This marriage must be announced at once! Who performed
the ceremony?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Old Mr. Saunders, the Baptist preacher.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What! He who was found dead in his bed.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, yes, it was he!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Pity for your sake that he is dead! But, you doubtless
<span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>had some confidant, some witness—Kate Kavanagh, perhaps,
or some one else? Say! speak! There was some witness
to your marriage, who can be produced to prove it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No! There was none! It was <i>so</i> sudden!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“None!—no proof of your marriage? Yet stop—stay!—there
is a chance yet, I believe; I do not know. You were
married with a license, of course?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, yes!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“The county clerk who issued it will probably remember
the occurrence. That will be something in your favor,
though, alas! only imperfect, circumstantial evidence; for
the mere taking out of a license is no conclusive proof of a
marriage.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, great or small, as proof it is of no avail. The
license was procured <i>blank</i>, for Carolyn and Archer, because
he had forgotten her full name, and it was afterwards filled
out with our names.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No matter. You were married with it. And now I
remember a saving thing! The clergyman who married you
of course affixed his certificate of marriage to the license, and
gave it to you. Where is it? All depends now upon that.
Where is it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not know! I never saw it! If the parson gave
one, probably Frank took charge of it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Again a pause fell between them, and the noises of the
wind and waters arose in gloomy concert. At last Georgia
spoke—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Miserable girl! And so you have no proof whatever of
this <i>asserted</i> marriage?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“None! none! But oh, what does that matter, after all?
God knows that we loved, and <i>were</i> married, as He knows
that we will soon be reunited!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Wretched girl! who will credit the story?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No one in the world, perhaps! But, ah! what odds?
Could the proving of my marriage bring <i>him</i> back to life, or
give my father happiness?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Most wretched girl! You seem quite lost to the shame
you have brought upon yourself! the dishonor you have
brought upon your family!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, go on! You cannot say anything to me so bitter as
my heart is saying all the time!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>“Your father! Your old, gray-haired father! to bring
him to shame in his old age! Can he survive the knowledge
of your fall?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know he cannot! I know it! Oh, oh!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Carolyn, too! To destroy all her prospects in life.
Who will ever wed the sister of a supposed—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, spare me that! Why did you pluck me back! the
river would have covered all!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Because I did not know or dream your folly! Zuleime,
your father, who could bear your death, could never survive
your disgrace!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, God, I feel it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime—<i>you must die</i>!”</p>

<p class='c006'>A pause, when but for the roar of the torrent, and the
howl of the wind, their very hearts might have been heard
slowly beating.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime, you must not live to bring shame upon us!
You must die!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! Why did you hinder me when it would not have
been a crime?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What mean you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I was mad then! I knew not what I did! God would
not have charged me with my death! I am sane now!—sane,
though most wretched!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime, you must die!—not in reality, but in appearance.
It must be believed that you are dead—dead by your
own act, as you intended. And I will provide for your
escape and your future support.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Alas! lady, what is it you advise me to do? Deceive
my poor father, so cruelly, and never, never undeceive him
again? And never, never see him again?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Lost girl! if I had not saved you an hour ago, would
you have been alive to ask the question?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, no! But, oh, my father! Who will comfort
him?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Who would have comforted him had you effected your
purpose this hour? What would comfort him for your degradation?
Foolish girl, that will console him for your supposed
death, which never could console him for your fall—<i>time</i>.
Besides, if you are supposed to be dead, it will not only save
us all from shame, but your father will be your heir, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>can appropriate that thirty thousand dollars to the payment
of his debts. Zuleime, it seems to me you owe us all this
sacrifice.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I—I am very weak and miserable. I—I scarcely know
right from wrong! Do what you please with me, only console
my father!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And at any rate, girl, this plan is far better than the self-destruction
you meditated awhile ago. By this plan you will
be able to save your child.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! to what end? To be as miserable as its mother?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime! time presses. To-night you must journey to
L——, and take the stage thence to Richmond. I have
a negro here on whose secrecy I can depend; he shall take
two horses from the stable and convey you to L—— in
time to meet the Richmond stage. I will give you a letter
that you must deliver to its address as soon as you reach the
city. Get up now and come with me,” said Georgia, taking
her hand to assist her in rising.</p>

<p class='c006'>The unhappy girl mechanically yielded herself to the
guidance of “the dark ladie,” and they ascended the glen.</p>

<p class='c006'>Retracing their steps through forest, field, orchard, vineyard
and garden, they reached the house, and entered by the
back door. The hall was deserted; the family being at that
hour gathered around their parlor fire, and the servants being
at supper.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime, go quietly up into your chamber and get ready,
while I go down and find the man I spoke of,” said Georgia.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime mechanically obeyed——. The next hour,
while her father and sister and friends were enjoying their
happy evening re-union in the warm, bright parlor, the
wretched Zuleime, through the dark night, and the howling
wind, commenced her journey. Of what followed the discovery
of her loss, you are already possessed.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XX.<br> <span class='large'>A DOMESTIC SCENE</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in6'>A light, commodious chamber,</div>
      <div class='line'>Looking out to the hills, where the shine</div>
      <div class='line'>Of the great sun may enter.—<span class='sc'>Mary Howitt.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Nearly twelve months have passed since the death of Mr.
Clifton. It is October, the most glorious month in the year,
when the gorgeous beauty of nature more than satisfies—when
it enraptures the soul.</p>

<p class='c006'>I shall introduce you into a chamber, whose three large
windows look out upon the scene of glorious magnificence,
only to be found when mountains, vales and forests wear
their gorgeous autumn livery. It is a very large apartment,
so long and lofty, that the great four-post bedstead, standing
with its head against the upper end, is not in the way. At
the lower end of the room, there is an old-fashioned fire-place,
where an oak fire is burning. The floor is covered with an
ingrain carpet, of warm, rich hues. The bedstead, lounge
and cushioned chairs are clothed with dark, bright chintz.
The windows are curtained with orange-colored damask,
which give a mellow, autumnal tone to the atmosphere of the
room. The curtains are festooned back, to admit the sunshine,
and the glorious view without.</p>

<p class='c006'>The lounge is drawn up to the left of the fire-place, and
Carolyn Clifton, in deep mourning, reclines upon it. She is
very much changed since we saw her last. There is scarcely
a trace of her disease left—only a few pits scattered thinly
over the lower part of the chin and throat. But she is very,
very fragile, and her thin, white face is almost spectral, in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>contrast with her black dress. Her fair hair has grown out
richer, sunnier in hue than before. It is just long enough to
turn, in natural, smooth ringlets, that reach to her throat.
And she wears it so. And those bright curls soften and
shade the pearly whiteness of her cheek. The expression of
her countenance has changed also. It wears a subdued,
almost patient air of suffering. She is beautiful, although
now that the roundness and bloom of her cheek are gone,
she does not think so. She is beautiful, as she lies there
contemplating, with remorseful tenderness, a miniature that
she has drawn from her bosom.</p>

<p class='c006'>In the cushion chair, on the right of the fire-place, sits
Catherine Kavanagh. She has also changed within the year.
Her form is fuller, rounder, more womanly. Her grave,
almost stern features, have softened into gentleness. Her
voice is softer and deeper. Its tones indeed are very beautiful,
and modulated with every shade of feeling. She wears
her hair in the same old style, parted over the forehead, rippling
down in dark, bright wavelets around her cheeks, and
carried behind, and woven with the back hair into a large
plait, and then rolled round and round into a succession of
rings—a rich, dark, burnished mass of hair—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Golden where the sunlight played,</div>
      <div class='line'>But where the tendrils sought the shade,</div>
      <div class='line'>Dark, but very beautiful.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>Her dress of dark brown stuff, with the little white throat-ruffle,
and the black silk apron, is not very becoming to her.
But she thinks too little of her personal appearance, to care
for any quality in her clothing beyond neatness and comfort.
She is knitting very leisurely, stopping occasionally to measure
the stocking she is engaged upon with the finished one
which lies upon her lap. Kate is silent and thoughtful. All
her life, up to this date, has been passed in the ministry to
sorrow—yes, to all sorts of sorrow—to the suffering arising
from vice—to the despair caused by evil passions—to common
illness—to pestilence forsaken of all but her—to death!
Yes! But little turned of sixteen years of age, and to all
these forms of human misery had she been—not a ministering
angel, but a ministering child and woman—that ministry
of sorrow had filled up all her years, from early childhood,
to this hour. Now her days were passed in soothing and
cheering the solitude and depression of her invalid companion.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>And Kate was grave and thoughtful, because she
was tempted to think that life was made up of nothing else
but trouble. Her hope in happiness beyond her experience
was faint. Her faith was dim. And no wonder. It seemed
time she saw some one else’s happiness, if not her own. It
was hard to pour the words of faith, hope and cheerfulness
into the ear of another, when the fountain in her own heart
was failing. It was only a temporary darkening and failing
of the spirit. A silent, earnest prayer, and all was clear
and strong again. The room was provocative of thought, if
not of pensiveness. It was so still and warm and mellow,
between the fire and the golden sunshine coming softened
through the curtains. And both girls were silent, while
Kate leisurely plied her knitting-needles, and Carolyn contemplated
the miniature. At last Miss Clifton spoke—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine, look upon that face. Study it. Should you
believe, now, that the owner of that beautiful face could be
unrelenting, unforgiving?” And she passed the miniature
to her companion. Kate received it—glanced at it. It was
a faithful likeness of Archer Clifton. And those features,
so long unseen, and now suddenly revealed, thrilled with such
electric power to the heart of the girl, that after the first
recognizing glance, she instantly returned it. And though
her heart had paused in its pulsations, and now throbbed
thick and fast, she answered, calmly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“He is not unrelenting or unforgiving, Miss Clifton.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! he is! he is! It has been fifteen months since we
parted in anger, and no word or sign from him yet. Oh!
Kate, what do you think of it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I think he truly loves you, Miss Carolyn.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! he <i>did</i>—he <i>did</i>, but I scorned and insulted him, and
it is past, past!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“There is no past tense to real love, lady.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, Catherine, you speak of what you have had no experience
in. My scorn killed his love.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Real love is immortal, lady, it cannot be killed.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, child, you speak without knowledge.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Without experimental knowledge, Miss Clifton. And all
the highest truths we have are obtained without experimental
knowledge. I know that true affection is undying, by the
same light that without the Bible shows me that God exists—that
He made all souls, and that all souls are immortal.
It is one of the ‘self-evident’ truths. Ah, Miss Clifton, true
<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>affection can no more be killed by scorn, than an angel could
be overcome by a demon, than Heaven could be conquered by
hell. In the contest between true affection and scorn, it is
affection must conquer—scorn must yield. It must be so,
lady. The heavens are pledged to it. The sovereignty of
the right is involved in it. And when, in such a contest, affection
fails, it is because it never was true. No, lady, true
affection is never conquered. It is scorn that is conquered.
It is scorn that has yielded now. You do not scorn him now,
lady.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No—I would I could!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Then, in the death of your own scorn see the immortality
of his love. He will come back to you. He will come
back the first free moment that he has.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, Catherine! In all this fifteen months he has not
written to me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You do not know that, Miss Carolyn. <i>I</i> believe that he
has written to you, and that the letter has been lost. You
know how irregular and uncertain the mail is from that
distant frontier.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine! I have been thinking of writing to him.
What is your opinion? What would you advise me to
do?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Not for the world, lady! For, trust me, for every step
of advance a woman makes, a man of high honor and fine
sensibilities retreats.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Miss Clifton’s brow flushed, and she made a gesture, of impatience,
as she exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Then <i>why, why</i> knowing that, does he not write?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Because, perhaps, his first letters miscarried, and he
stopped under the supposition that you would not answer him.
And then, lady, under all these circumstances, the stiff pen
and the cold paper cannot convey all the burning words he
would have to pour out at your feet. He will come!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘He will come.’ Ah! in that very phrase is a knell
deeper than all the rest! He will come! And what a
spectre he will see in me! He cannot continue to love me!
Impossible! Impossible! He can never love such a faded
and scarred ruin as I am.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Miss Clifton, I have told you so often that you are
<i>not</i> a ruin! Your face is very lovely, indeed it is! Fair and
delicate and pensive, and far more attractive to all good
hearts than ever it was in its high bloom.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>“Ah, but faded—faded—faded!” mournfully replied
Carolyn.</p>

<p class='c006'>“And then, dear lady, true affection is of the soul. It
has been said that love is blind. It is not so. Love has
Divine eyes, and creates the beauty that it looks upon. He
will love you the more for the calamity and sorrows that have
fallen upon you. He will see a deeper beauty in your pensive
face, and his love will make it real.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! impossible, I tell you! Impossible! The sight of
me would shock him. He would turn away.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Lady, do you love your cousin?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Love him?</i> Ah, God!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear lady, if he had returned from the frontier with the
loss of an arm, a leg, or an eye—or with the hideous scar of
a sword cut across cheek and brow, could <i>you</i> have turned
from him revolted?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, no, no, no! Oh! Heaven, no! I should have
done all I could to convince him that he was beautiful
to me still—that I loved him the deeper for his misfortunes!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Then, dear lady, judge his noble heart by your own.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, but you said yourself, just now, when advising me
not to write, that men feel so differently from women!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, but not in tenderness—not in constancy!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“There is the boy coming from the post-office, Catherine!
It is strange—it is strange—but though I have been disappointed
a hundred times, I still hope, and the coming of every
mail makes my heart pause! Go, dear Catherine, and see
what there is.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate rolled up her knitting, and dropped it into a little
straw basket, and went below.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Only one letter, an’ the Pos’-Master say how it war for
Miss Carolyn,” said the boy below stairs.</p>

<p class='c006'>A letter for her at last! Carolyn’s heart stopped almost
to death, until Kate ran back up the stairs, entered the room,
and placed the letter in her hands.</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is from Richmond,” she said, in a disappointed tone,
as she opened it.</p>

<p class='c006'>“From my Aunt Cabell,” she added, and began to read
it while Kate resumed her knitting.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I hope your friends are all well,” said Catherine.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes—” replied Miss Clifton; and then a smile of amusement
flitted over her face—and still running her eye down
<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>the letter, she continued—“My Aunt Cabell writes me that
my excellent step-dame, Mrs. Georgia Clifton, is now the
reigning belle of Richmond—the most beautiful woman, the
most charming musician, the most fascinating waltzer, and
the most elegant equestrian in the city! She passes for a
wealthy (!) young widow—and her credit is unlimited, and
her debts and her extravagance, of course, unbounded. She
occupies a whole suit of rooms in the most expensive hotel in
the city, and entertains around her, both day and night, a
host of adoring worshipers. She has cut her father—worthy
man—dead! She is going to bring down a party of ladies
and gentlemen to spend Christmas at her country-seat, (!)
White Cliffs. Now what do you think of that, Catherine?
Pray Heaven she may marry soon, and not wear our name
long enough to scandalize it! Mrs. Cabell goes on to say,
that Mrs. Georgia cannot long play that game—that Archer
Clifton must soon return, and take possession of his property,
when it will be arrested. Alas! she does not know that
Captain Clifton is as much under the dominion of that dangerous
woman as it is possible to be. He will probably be
proud to leave Mrs. Clifton in possession here as long as she
finds it convenient or agreeable to stay. Now, what do you
think of all this, Catherine?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear lady, I know that you feel very unpleasantly, that
all those gay city strangers should be coming down here at
Christmas, to turn the quiet house into a hall of orgies.
But I do not see how you can prevent it. You can elude it,
though! You can go to Hardbargain, you know, and remain
until Mrs. Georgia and her guests have departed again. I
would do that.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, dear Catherine, there will be no necessity for that,
either! My Aunt Cabell has anticipated my embarrassment,
and proposed a plan. My aunt and all her family are coming
down here to spend the months of October and November,
while their city mansion is undergoing repairs—painting,
papering, and so on. And she proposes that I shall
return with her at the first of December, and pass the Winter
in Richmond.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And will you go?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not know. But, Kate, dear, you have comforted
me so much, and aunt’s account of Mrs. Georgia’s city airs
has diverted me so much, that I think I have spirits for a
ride. Go order the horses, and tell Dandy to be ready to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>attend us. We will go up to Hardbargain and take tea with
Aunt Clifton, and amuse her with this letter!”</p>

<hr class='c016'>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Cabell and her daughters, attended by Major Cabell,
arrived in due time, and were received with great pleasure
by their orphaned relative. And Catherine, now that she
was no longer necessary to the cheerfulness of Miss Clifton,
took leave and returned to her brother’s cot. Life in the
mansion, and life in the hut, like day and night, about equally
divided the girl’s experience—a strange lot, to be ever alternating
between luxury and refinement, and poverty and
coarseness. And though it was a wonderfully strengthening
discipline, Kate found the contrast so painful as to wish
that life would change—in some way.</p>

<p class='c006'>A month passed away—during which she heard nothing
whatever from White Cliffs. She was therefore in total
ignorance of what was going on there, until one cold morning
that had succeeded a snow-stormy night, while she was
shoveling away the snow in front of the cottage door, Dandy
rode up and delivered her a note from Miss Clifton. The
note ran thus:</p>

<div class='lg-container-l c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span class='sc'>Dear Catherine</span>,—</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c015'>“I am going to leave for Richmond with Aunt Clifton to-morrow
morning. Come over, dear girl, and let me take
leave of you before I start. Come, my good, wise Catherine,
for I want to consult you about a certain matter.</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Your friend CAROLYN.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>Kate saddled her pony and set out, attended by Dandy.
As soon as she arrived at White Cliffs, she was invited immediately
up into Miss Clifton’s room. She found the young
lady surrounded with trunks and bandboxes, and busy with
her maids, packing. Carolyn dismissed her attendants, begged
Kate to be seated, and sat down by her. After a few
mutual inquiries about health and so on, and a little introductory
conversation, and some considerable hesitation, Miss
Clifton said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine! I think—I hope that I have succeeded at
last in emancipating myself from the degrading slavery of
that old love spell! At last the dread sense of bereavement
and desolation is deadened.... If I were
<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>to see him again, however, I do not know how it might
be.... Perhaps, though, I shall never see him
again.... Kate! I have had a proposal for marriage....
My cousin Major Cabell!... It
was at least generous in him, all things considered....
Family feeling, I suppose.... Kate, I think of
accepting him!... We owe something to our
position in society.... My Aunt Cabell has been
talking to me about it for a month past.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Miss Clifton made this communication in a hesitating,
disjointed manner; while Catherine looked and listened in
grief and astonishment, feeling regret amounting almost to
remorse, that she had left her friend, enfeebled in mind and
body, so long under the influence of a strong-willed
thoroughly worldly-minded woman. And she understood
the instinct that had impelled the wavering girl to send for
<i>her</i> to steady her. And then athwart these, her purest emotions,
swept a dark, burning impulse, like a breath of hell.
It was the whisper of the devil, and it said to her,—“Agree
with her—agree with her! Let her marry another if she
wishes, and thus remove the greatest impediment that separates
you from the love, the hope of Archer Clifton.”
Catherine stood for a moment horrified by the darkness of
the temptation. But then summoning the whole strength
of her soul, she inwardly exclaimed, “Get thee behind me,
Satan!” And the devil fled from her.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You do not answer me, Catherine. My dear girl, I have
so much confidence in your rectitude of mind! Advise
me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Miss Clifton, <i>never</i>, as you value your whole life’s
peace and rectitude—<i>never</i>, for any purpose whatever—under
any temptation whatever—consent to marry a man you
do not love; <i>never</i>, as you hope for earthly content—as you
trust in God—<i>never</i> put an insurmountable object between
yourself and one you love! How criminal to become a wife,
while you love another living man! How terrible to find
out, when it is too late, that he loves you still! Perhaps
from year to year to long for the—! Lady, I have no words
strong enough to express to you all that I feel and fear on
this subject! Grave faults sometimes follow little errors!
I would fain gain your promise not to entertain any gentleman’s
suit until you have met again with Captain Clifton.
You cannot have long to wait. He <i>must</i> return to settle up
<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>this estate. And legal business, if nothing else, must bring
you together!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Alas! alas! no! the affairs of this property will be settled
by his attorney. Kate, I am very miserable!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear lady, I know it! Do not, when tempted by hopelessness,
do that which you may regret all your life! That
which may shut out the possibility of happiness forever! I
wish I could go to Richmond with you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, I wish you could! I think that you could save me
from danger, Kate.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I think you want an honest friend near you, Miss Clifton!
But, one thing you can do—you can resolve not to
form any matrimonial engagement until you have again met
with Captain Clifton. And you can bind your resolution by
a promise. Promise <i>me</i>, dear lady, by the interest I take in
you, to hold yourself free from entanglements, until you see
your cousin!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Kate!—yes, I solemnly promise you, by all I hold sacred,
that I will do as you advise in this matter! And,
Kate, enfeebled as I am, or may become, in mind or body, I
cannot break my pledged word! Good girl! You have
saved me again! Oh, Kate! Kate! do you think I don’t
know the full extent of your disinterestedness? Oh, Kate!
noble girl! God reward you!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine began to tremble so violently, that Miss Clifton
threw her arms around her, and pressed her to her bosom,
whispering,</p>

<p class='c006'>“Never fear, dear girl! sweet girl! I will not breathe
another word! I would as soon sacrilegiously snatch the
veil from the sanctuary, as breathe another word about it!”</p>

<hr class='c016'>

<p class='c006'>When Catherine reached home in the afternoon, she found
a message waiting her, from Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain.
She went up immediately to the farm-house, and found that
lady looking very happy.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine, my dear, sit down. I have good news. I have
just received a letter from Archer. He will be in Richmond
in four days from this! But his duties are such that he will
not be able to leave Richmond for some weeks. He begs
me to meet him there! He has been promoted, Kate! He
is now Major Clifton, and has been appointed aid-de-camp to
the Governor!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>“I am rejoiced to hear it, madam,” replied Kate, calmly,
though her heart stood still with the suddenness of this
news. “You will send over and inform Miss Clifton, will
you not, madam?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, I think not, Catherine. Why excite and disturb
her on the eve of a journey? Besides, Catherine, I have
many misgivings! This long persistence in silence—his
never mentioning her name in any of his few letters to me!
his never replying to the letter I wrote upon the subject!—all
this is foreboding! I must not meddle farther in this
affair until I have seen my son, and can judge his state of
mind in regard to it!... But, Catherine,
my dear, I sent for you for this: I am going to Richmond
on Tuesday, for the purpose of spending some weeks near my
son. I need a female companion, and I have your grandfather’s
and your brother’s consent for you to accompany me;
that is, if you are willing. Will you go with me, Kate?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I shall be very glad to do so, indeed, Mrs. Clifton!” said
the young girl.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Then return home at once, Kate, and prepare for the
journey. You will have a great deal to do, to make things
comfortable for your grandfather and brother during your
absence, and to get yourself ready for your city visit.”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXI.<br> <span class='large'>IN THE CITY.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>In a proud city and rich—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A city fair and old,</div>
      <div class='line'>Filled with the world’s most costly things,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Of precious stones and gold;</div>
      <div class='line'>Of silks, fine wool, and spiceries,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And all that’s bought and sold.—<span class='sc'>Mary Howitt.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>On her arrival at Richmond, Mrs. Clifton engaged for herself
and Catherine two rooms—a chamber with two beds,
and a neat adjoining parlor—in a quiet, retired boardinghouse.</p>

<p class='c006'>Miss Clifton was the guest of Mrs. Cabell, in the most
fashionable quarter of the city. Captain Clifton had not yet
arrived, but was daily expected. Richmond was in the commencement
of the fashionable season, and was already quite
full of gay company. Every evening witnessed some one or
two grand balls, or great private parties. The theatres and
the concert rooms were in full operation. But no faint echo
of all these various forms of revelry came to the sequestered
neighborhood that Mrs. Clifton had chosen for her retreat.
No news of the fashionable world reached her, except constant
bulletins of Mrs. Georgia Clifton’s progress through
society. She was one of those city celebrities whose sayings
and doings are the exciting topic of all classes. Where she
went, and what she wore, and when she rode out. Whom
she cut directly, whom she smiled upon, whom she slighted,
and whom she received, were the most interesting subjects
of discussion. The Belle of the Rappahannock, the Dark
Ladye, the Gipsy Beauty, were some of the many names she
had won. All these matters were freely and lightly commented
upon in Mrs. Clifton’s presence, by gentlemen boarders,
who knew nothing whatever of that lady’s connexion
with the reigning toast of Richmond. Mrs. Clifton rested
two days before calling upon Mrs. Cabell and her family.
Miss Clifton expressed almost as much surprise as pleasure
<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>at the sight of her aunt, but forbore to question her motive
in coming so suddenly to the city. Perhaps Carolyn had
heard a rumor of Major Clifton’s preferment and expected
arrival, and for that reason was silent. Mrs. Clifton never
named the subject during her informal call. At taking leave
she left her address, and informed her niece that Kate
Kavanagh was in town with her. Carolyn expressed much
pleasure at hearing this, and promised to call very soon.
The very next day Mrs. Cabell came in her carriage, and invited
and urged Mrs. Clifton and her protégé to return with
her, and make her house their home during their sojourn in
Richmond. After some hesitation and reflection, Mrs. Clifton
accepted the invitation, and promised to go over the next
day. The next morning, therefore, Mrs. Cabell sent her
carriage to convey Mrs. Clifton and Catherine. They were
received by Mrs. Cabell with great politeness and <i><span lang="fr">empressement</span></i>,
and conducted by that lady herself into two large and
luxuriously furnished chambers, connected with each other,
where they found a neat, pretty mulatto girl, ready to wait
upon them—for Mrs. Cabell, with all her hard worldliness,
was truly kind and hospitable.</p>

<p class='c006'>The evening of the succeeding day was the appointed time
for the Governor’s first reception. Mrs. Cabell and her
family were going, of course. And Mrs. Clifton resolved to
go—not for her own sake, but for that of Catherine, whom
she had determined should see all that was to be seen during
her stay in the metropolis. A somewhat haughty surprise
elevated the handsome black eyebrows of Mrs. Cabell, when
she found that Mrs. Clifton intended to take her <i><span lang="fr">demoiselle
du compagnie</span></i>, but she was far too well bred to express it in
any other manner. And as for Mrs. Clifton, she always did
whatever she thought proper to do, in the coolest, calmest,
most matter-of-course manner, without the slightest regard
to other people’s weaknesses and follies. You know, besides,
that she was a thorough republican. And Mrs. Cabell remembered
that the public reception at the gubernatorial
mansion was a sort of <i>omnium gatherum</i>, where all who behaved
themselves might come—from the oldest Major-General
of the army to the shoemaker who made his boots. And
again, no one in Richmond knew who the girl really was.
All these things had Mrs. Cabell to recall to mind before she
could reconcile herself to the idea of Kate’s being of the
party.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>When the night and the hour arrived, several gentlemen,
beaux of the Misses Cabell, came to escort the ladies. Major
Cabell attended his cousin Carolyn and one of his sisters.
Judge Cabell took charge of his wife and eldest daughter.
Mrs. Clifton had hoped that her son would have reached the
city in time to have escorted herself and Catherine. When
they were all assembled in the parlor, Major Cabell brought
a gentleman up to Mrs. Clifton, whom he presented as Colonel
Conyers, of the army, leaving to Mrs. Clifton the responsibility
of presenting the aristocrat to the plebeian Kate. Mrs.
Clifton did it at once, in the most natural way in the world.
And the gallant Colonel, after a few compliments, hoped to
have the honor of waiting upon Mrs. Clifton and her “lovely
charge” to the Mansion-House. Mrs. Clifton gratefully
accepted his services—and soon after, they entered the carriage,
and were driven off. This party reached their destination
a full half hour before Mrs. Cabell and family, and
other ultra fashionables, who fancied that it was vulgar to go
early, and imagined that their <i>ton</i> depended upon late hours
and other observances. Mrs. Clifton was very plainly dressed,
in a black satin with a lace scarf—Catherine very simply, in
a white crape, with a scarlet geranium twined in her black
hair. A moment in the cloak-room sufficed to re-arrange
their simple toilet. They were then conducted into the
saloon. This apartment was fitted up in a somewhat different
style to those of the present day. It was illuminated by
three large hanging chandeliers, holding innumerable wax
candles; and warmed by two enormous coal fires, one at
each extremity. It was already well filled with a miscellaneous
company. After their presentation to the Governor,
Colonel Conyers inquired whether they chose to join the
promenade or to take seats. Mrs. Clifton preferred the latter,
and their polite escort conducted them to a side sofa,
from which they could note the entrance of fresh guests, and
watch the great circle of promenaders going round and round
in one long elliptic, three or four persons deep, in the most
stupid, treadmill monotony conceivable. Very much interested
and amused was our simple country girl, in taking observations
of the various characters passing in review before
them. Here would be a dowager of sixty, in rouge, ringlets,
bare arms and a gossamer dress; here a girl of seventeen,
in a black, stiff brocade and heavy head-dress. Here
comes a stately, broad-chested, senatorial-looking man—he
<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span><i>looks</i> the incumbent of some high, official place—he <i>is</i> the
master tailor, of —— street. Here comes a red-headed,
red-faced, sharp-featured little man, very quick and impatient
in his motions, and very high in his voice—he looks
like an auctioneer or a constable—he is the great General ——,
of the United States Army. Here is a small, dowdy
woman, all fuss and flowers, like a barn-house actress—she
is the wife of the late Governor ——. This is a queenly
woman! tall, stately, dignified, with a fine, royal countenance.
Pooh! Don’t ask who she is—she is the “leading
lady” at the city theatre—plays in all the heavy tragedies,
but is not even a star. There, apart, watching and reflecting
upon the scene, stands a grave-looking individual, in a
closely-fitting black suit, and closely-cropped black hair, and
set, sallow, saturnine face, looking like an undertaker at a
funeral—doubtless some famous preacher—though so miserable
a messenger of the glad tidings cannot be imagined.
Preacher, indeed! Why, he is H——, the low comedian,
and he wears his hair cropped that way by reason of the
many different sorts of wigs he has to wear in his different
impersonations. To-night, he happens to be off the boards,
and enjoys the recreation of sadness and gravity. Ah! here
is a debonnair gentleman! all life! a laugh and jest, or a
smile and a bow for every one. Is he a French dancing-master?
No—he is the Rev. Mr. ——, the most popular
preacher of the day. Yet these were not all. There <i>was</i> a
small proportion of really well-dressed and dignified women
and stately, honorable men.</p>

<p class='c006'>“How do you like the scene, Catherine?” asked Mrs.
Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate laughed—then replied—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am somewhat disappointed, but very much more diverted!
It seems to me so strange that people should look,
dress and behave so very inappropriately! and that they
could possibly be so very ill-dressed and dowdy at such a
great expense. I expected something very recherché and
elegant in the saloon of the Governor’s mansion. But ‘motley
is the only wear!’”</p>

<p class='c006'>The officer laughed, gayly, and then observed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why? Why did you look for something, or rather, for
everything recherché and elegant in this crowd? Because
you see in the newspaper reports of such gatherings, such
phrases as ‘the beautiful Miss A——?’—by the way, there
<span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>she is—the young lady with the red hair, milk-white complexion
and little eyes; or ‘the elegant Mrs. B——?’ ‘the
graceful Mrs. C——?’ etc., etc., etc., with revised and
improved accounts of their costume, appearance, manners,
etc.? Miss Kavanagh, when you have stayed in the city
longer, you will know that when a newspaper reporter and
letter writer speaks of that dowdy, but wealthy little woman,
in the flimsy, scarlet dress, as ‘the beautiful, elegant, and
accomplished Mrs. G——,’ and tells of ‘the immense
(imaginary) sensation’ she made—<i>he</i>, the reporter, is morally
certain of an invitation to her private parties.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate did not like his sarcastic tone, but before she could
make any sort of reply, her attention was called to a rising
excitement in the room. Every gentleman, from the fidgety
little Major General, down to the grave and dignified
low comedian; and every lady, from the ex-Governor’s fussy
widow, to the stately and self-possessed stock actress, were
on the <i>qui vive</i>. Kate, while listening and watching for the
cause of the excitement, caught a few phrases that helped to
enlighten her—they were of this sort:—“A wonder! a perfect
wonder! A miracle of dark beauty.” “The wealthiest woman
in the state, but that is nothing to her marvelous beauty.”
“Did you see her as ‘<i>Egypt</i>,’ at the fancy ball?” “Her
portrait, in oil, by ——, stands in Stationers’ Hall. It has
attracted crowds.” “No—I have seen the engraving from
it in ‘Beauty’s Annual’ for this year. But I have also seen
it on the tops of cigar boxes—too bad!” “Hush! here she
comes!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine turned her eyes in the direction towards which
all others were gazing. It was Georgia—dark, bright, and
more beautiful and bewitching than ever. Her dress was of
lustrous black <i><span lang="fr">crape-de-lise</span></i>, sprinkled over with gold spangles,
that gleamed in and out through the dark, transparent drapery,
suggesting clear, starlight night. A crowd entered
with the star-bright Circe—a crowd attended her during all
her progress through the room.</p>

<p class='c006'>We must leave Georgia to her alluring wiles, and Catherine
to her observations, and seek Mrs. Cabell and her party.
They are in the dressing-room, and about to leave it. Only
Mrs. Cabell turns again and again to survey her form in the
mirror, and re-adjust the flow of her purple satin dress, or the
wave of her white ostrich plumes. When all is done, she
turns for the last time to Carolyn, to rebuke her for not adding
<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>a single ornament to her mourning dress of black velvet,
which is relieved only by the falls of fine Brussels lace on
the neck and arms, and the sunny ringlets falling all around
her head as low as the throat. Carolyn looks very fragile,
but interesting and lovely, though she does not know it.
Major Cabell gave his right arm to his mother, and his left
to his cousin, and so, as it was now the acme of the fashionable
hour, they entered the saloon, and made their slow progress
up to the upper end, where the Governor and staff
stood, to receive all comers—Mrs. Cabell bowing and smiling
to such acquaintances as she chose to recognize in passing,
until at length they stopped. A feeling of false shame, a
morbid notion that all eyes were upon her, and scrutinized
the few pits hidden under the golden curls on her temples,
had caused Carolyn to cast her eyes down, and keep them
down, during the whole progress through the room—and
though her acute ears heard such murmurs as these—“How
fair she is,” “But how fragile, as if a zephyr would blow her
away”—she never fancied they were breathed of her, and
never surmised the admiration she elicited. “Governor
T——, Miss Clifton, of Clifton,” were the words that admonished
Carolyn she was standing before the great man,
and must look up and curtsy. She curtsied before she
looked up, and when she raised her eyes, she saw only Archer
Clifton before her, who bowed when he met her glance! The
Governor and many others were there, but how could she see
any one but Archer Clifton! But, oh! the perversity of
human nature! As soon as she met his eyes, all the pride
and scorn of her proudest, most scornful days, returned upon
her with a vengeance—all the more fiercely, ferociously, that
she believed herself a fright, and found Archer Clifton handsomer,
more dignified, higher in favor with God and man than
ever! Major Cabell was about to pass on instantly with his
ladies, to give place to the next arrivals. Returning Archer
Clifton’s bow with a haughty bend, she threw up her head
and swept on with the most superb air of arrogance imaginable.
They joined the promenaders—Carolyn all the more
unhappy for her show of hauteur—the heart beneath that
erected head and expanded chest almost breaking with chagrin.
Captain, now Major Clifton, stood at the right hand
of the Governor, with his eyes roving calmly over the miscellaneous
assembly, until they chanced to rest upon the
stately form of his mother when they lighted up with surprise
<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>and pleasure, and excusing himself from his official
attendance, he bowed and withdrew, to hasten to the distant
sofa, where she sat alone. Catherine, on the arm of Colonel
Conyers, was lost in the slowly revolving crowd of promenaders.
He reached Mrs. Clifton’s side, and—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dearest mother!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear Archer!” were the greetings exchanged between
them with the clasped hands.</p>

<p class='c006'>“How delighted I am to see you, yet how tantalizing to
meet you in this public assembly, after so long an absence!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“When did you reach the city, Archer?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Within the last half hour! Having important dispatches
for the Governor, I came at once hither.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I did not see you enter.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I came in by the private entrance, and joined his excellency’s
circle directly. But, my dearest mother! I scarcely
hoped you would be in town—how long have you been here?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“About four days, Archer.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Suddenly both became grave and thoughtful—they were
occupied with the same thoughts—of the calamities that had
befallen mutual friends since their last parting. They were
silent—they did not like to sadden this first meeting by referring
to the mournful subject. And before either knew of
her approach, Mrs. Georgia had glided swiftly and silently
up to them. Now, Mrs. Georgia had passed and repassed
Mrs. Clifton a score of times that evening, without once noticing
her. But now that Archer Clifton sat by his mother’s
side, the Circe appeared before them, dark, resplendent,
alluring as ever. She was leaning upon the arm of the
Lieutenant-Governor. Archer Clifton sprang up immediately,
and greeted her with surprise and pleasure. Dismissing
her escort with a charming smile and wave of the hand
she sank gracefully, languishingly into the seat by the side
of Mrs. Clifton, and glided into her own fascinating style of
conversation. After a few minutes, Archer Clifton seemed
quite lost to everything else, in the charm of the syren’s
society, until a certain, sweet, enticing restlessness on the
part of the beauty, suggested to him the propriety of inviting
her to promenade. She arose with a bewildering smile, that
quite drove his mother out of his head, and slipped her arm
through his. They joined the promenaders. In the meantime,
Kate Kavanagh, on the arm of Colonel Conyers, was
moving around in the same circle, highly amused in making
<span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>observations, and scarcely appreciating the sincere admiration
of her escort, that was apparent to every one else, especially
to the correspondent of the Fiddle-de-dee, who, in his next
letter, in giving an account of the reception, made an item of
the manifest admiration of the gallant and distinguished
Colonel C——, for the beautiful and accomplished Miss
K——. Catherine at length thought that her kind patroness
might be lonely, and expressed a wish to rejoin her.
In turning to retrace their steps, they met face to face with
Archer Clifton and his companion. Major Clifton recognized
the poor mountain-girl in that saloon, with a look of supercilious
surprise, and Mrs. Georgia looked calmly through her
body without seeing her at all. With a slight bow, Major
Clifton passed on with his companion. And as for Kate, her
heart had a habit of standing perfectly still in an emergency,
and now it had stopped so suddenly, and stood still so long,
that she was on the verge of fainting.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You are not well. You are wearied. You have remained
on your feet too long. Let me take you to a seat,
Miss Kavanagh,” said the Colonel. With a gasp and a
shiver, Kate recovered and rejoined Mrs. Clifton. And she permitted
herself to fall into no more weakness that night. But
Kate had unconsciously betrayed her secret to the officer.
And by the interference of her good angel, this knowledge
thus obtained, enabled Colonel Conyers to do Kate a service
of vital importance in after years.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Archer is come,” said Mrs. Clifton, as Catherine took
her seat.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know it. I met him,” replied Catherine, and both
fell into silence, for at that instant Major Clifton and the
beautiful Georgia passed them. And from that time, and so
long as they sat there, again and again in the slow revolving
of the great circle of promenaders, the pair passed and repassed
them—Georgia smiling, cooing, murmuring, in her
low, alluring music—and Archer Clifton, bending over her
with his brilliant gray eyes, feeding on her lovely face,
seeming to sink deeper and deeper into the bathos of her
charms, while Carolyn turned sick with jealousy, and Catherine
faint with dread, and the correspondent of the Fiddle-de-dee
made a note of the distinguished favor with which the
most beautiful Mrs. C——, the reigning belle of Richmond,
received the devoirs of her distant relative, the celebrated
Major C——. Fear nothing, Carolyn, or Catherine,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>Archer Clifton is not in love with his uncle’s widow—that
very relationship would repel the idea, if nothing else. But
he is not indifferent to the honor of monopolizing the reigning
queen of the ton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Aunt Cabell,” said Carolyn, “I cannot sit up longer. I
<i>must</i> go home.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And Mrs. Cabell consented to gratify her wish. In fact
it was growing late, and the ultra fashionables, the last to
come, and the first to leave, were beginning to disappear.
Mrs. Georgia unwillingly discovered this fact, but she thought
that at least she could adroitly secure the services of her
companion as an escort home, and detain him to any hour in
the little paradise of her own boudoir. She therefore expressed
herself ennuied, and entreated Major Clifton to conduct
her to the cloak-room. He attended her thither. And
there he met again his Cousin Carolyn. She looked so fair,
so wan, so fragile, that he could not for a moment take his
eyes from her. He hastily adjusted the mantle over the
shoulders of Georgia, handed her her muff and hood, and
excusing himself for a moment, hurried back to his mother’s
side.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You have company home, madam, have you not?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Certainly, Archer. I should not be here without
such a provision—here comes Colonel Conyers now to attend
us.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Good-night, then! I will see you early to-morrow!
Good-night, Kate!” He was off.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Cabell and Carolyn, leaning on Major Cabell’s arms,
reached their carriage door. The Major dropped his cousin’s
arm a moment to assist his mother in, and to settle her in
her seat. And during that moment Carolyn felt an arm
passed around her waist, and a voice whisper—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Carolyn—my beloved cousin! my bride! am I forgiven?”</p>

<p class='c006'>She burst into tears and dropped her proud head on his
bosom, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Archer! am <i>I</i> forgiven?”</p>

<p class='c006'>He placed her in the carriage, and springing in past Major
Cabell, took the seat by her side, leaving the Major to
follow as he could, and forgetting the very existence of Mrs.
Georgia.</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate was close to them—she saw and heard it all. Nodding
her head slowly several times, she murmured—</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>“Thank God. Thank God! Oh, Merciful Father, help
me to say that sincerely. Thank God!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Three weeks after this they were married. The ceremony
was performed in the ancient church of St. John’s on Richmond
Hill—one of the oldest places of worship on the whole
continent. Mrs. Cabell would willingly have made this event
the occasion of a great deal of ostentatious display; but the
recent afflictions in the family, and the fragility of the bride,
rendered other arrangements necessary. Therefore, immediately
after the ceremony, which came off at an early hour
of the morning, the newly-married couple, taking advantage
of the very fine weather, departed for Norfolk, with the intention
of sailing thence to Havana, where, by the advice
of an eminent physician, for the re-establishment of the bride’s
health, they purposed to spend the winter.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Georgia Clifton, with all the other members of the
family connection, had, of course, been present at the marriage.
And no one was so lavish of smiles, tears, caresses,
and congratulations, as the dark-eyed syren. But when all
was over, and the bridal pair had departed, refusing the invitation
of Mrs. Cabell to go home and dine with a party of
friends, she hurried to her lodgings, pushed open the door
of her luxurious boudoir, fastened it on the inside, and threw
herself down, rolling over, tearing at the carpet, and gnashing
her teeth in an agony of disappointment, jealousy and
impotent rage.</p>

<p class='c006'>But not long did the Circe of Richmond yield herself up
to anguish and despair. Christmas was approaching, when
she was expected to entertain a select number of her worshipers
at White Cliffs. It was expedient that she should
go down a few days in advance of the party, to make ready
for their reception. Therefore, about five days after the
marriage, she left the city.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton remained a week longer in town, to give
Catherine an opportunity of attending a course of lectures
on Moral Philosophy. And their escort every evening was
Colonel Conyers.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXII.<br> <span class='large'>LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Why, let the stricken deer go weep,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The hart ungalled play,</div>
      <div class='line'>For some must watch while some may sleep.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>So runs the world away.—<span class='sc'>Shakspeare.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>It was always Mrs. Clifton’s rule to spend Christmas at
home—so she arranged to leave Richmond on the twenty-third.
It was three o’clock on the dark, cold, winter morning,
that the stage called for them. Our travelers were
muffled up to the ears in hoods, cloaks, shawls and furs, and
when they entered the coach, they seemed to fill up all the
back. It was so dark that they could see nothing, and the
stage seemed to be vacant of other passengers than themselves;
until Mrs. Clifton, settling her own outer garments,
spoke, cautioning Catherine to fold her cloak carefully about
her. Then another voice spoke, from the opposite seat, exclaiming,
in a tone of surprise and pleasure—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, is it possible! Mrs. Clifton and Miss Kavanagh?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, Colonel Conyers, and I am as much pleased as surprised
to find you here! How comes it that we are fellow
travelers?” said the lady, placing her own in his offered
hand.</p>

<p class='c006'>“And how-do-you-do, Miss Kavanagh?—really, I am so
overjoyed to find you here! Why, you must know, my dear
Mrs. Clifton, that I have been due at White Cliffs for several
days. I am, in fact, the laggard of a party—but in truth
I could not tear myself from Richmond, while you and Miss
Kavanagh remained. But last night, after taking leave of
you, as I supposed, for some length of time,—under great
depression of spirits, Miss Kavanagh,—I sent and had a place
taken in this stage, for L——, which I understand to be
the nearest stage station to White Cliffs. Why, how little
did I suspect that we were to travel by the same coach!
<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>Truly, ‘life is full of paper walls.’ A word dropped by either
of us, last night, would have revealed the fact to the other!
But how delighted I am, Miss Kavanagh! And may I hope,
Mrs. Clifton, that our journey lies for some distance together?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“For the whole distance, I am happy to say. The plantation
of White Cliffs and the farm of Hardbargain join.
Our journey terminates at L——.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Really! Why this is excellent! So, instead of being
separated, we shall travel all the way together, and then continue
to be neighbors for some weeks! Miss Kavanagh, I
am overjoyed.”</p>

<p class='c006'>There was not much traveling at that season of the year,
so our party of three had the coach to themselves, and Colonel
Conyers devoted himself with great assiduity to the comfort
of the ladies.</p>

<p class='c006'>At the end of the second day, just as the level beams of
the setting sun were gilding all the village windows, the stage
rolled into L——.</p>

<p class='c006'>There, before the little tavern door, waited Mrs. Clifton’s
old-fashioned carriage.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Did you notify the family of White Cliffs of your intended
arrival here to-day?” asked Mrs. Clifton, of Colonel
Conyers.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, madam! My journey was resolved upon so suddenly—out
of ‘my grief and my impatience’ at the supposed
loss of your own and Miss Kavanagh’s society—that I had
no time to write.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! that is the reason why their carriage is not waiting
for you. Colonel Conyers, if you will take a seat with us to
Hardbargain, and rest for a few hours or a few days as you
please, we shall be very glad, and we shall furnish you with
a conveyance to White Cliffs whenever you wish to go.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Colonel Conyers expressed himself but too happy to accept
Mrs. Clifton’s invitation, and they all entered the old-fashioned
carriage, and set out for Hardbargain. The farm was
nine miles distant, and the road the very roughest, even of
mountain turnpikes. Colonel Conyers ventured to wonder
how any carriage could stand it, and surmised that R——
County must be blessed with the best wheelwrights in the
world—to which Mrs. Clifton replied that they <i>had</i> the very
best to be met with anywhere.</p>

<p class='c006'>It was ten o’clock at night when they reached Hardbargain,
but they found the hall lighted up, fires blazing in the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>parlor, and the dining-room, and a substantial supper waiting
for the order of the mistress. The farm-house looked cheerful,
hospitable, and inviting; and Colonel Conyers rubbed
his hands in delight. He remained over night. The next
day was Christmas, and nothing but the binding engagement
to render an account of himself to the beautiful Georgia at
least by Christmas, could have forced him to White Cliffs that
day. He accepted Mrs. Clifton’s cordial invitation to come
over often while he remained in the neighborhood. In fact,
Mrs. Clifton had seen that Colonel Conyers was very much
pleased with Catherine, and felt desirous that he should
have an opportunity of winning the affections of her favorite.
Colonel Conyers took the largest advantage of Mrs. Clifton’s
hospitality, and not even the charms of the syren of White
Cliffs, could wile him away from his daily evening ride over
to Hardbargain. And so, after a few weeks—as there is no
accounting for tastes, and as the most extraordinary things
sometimes really do happen—it turned out that Colonel Conyers
actually did lay his heart, hand and fortune at the feet
of the humble girl whom his own subordinate officer, Captain
Clifton, had despised, and, farthermore, that he was rejected
by her! Yes! gratefully, kindly, but firmly and finally rejected!
And full of disappointment, humiliation and sorrow,
the gallant Colonel abruptly concluded his visit, and
returned to town.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Catherine, my dear, if you could but have liked
him well enough to have married him. He is an honest,
kind-hearted man,” said Mrs. Clifton, with a sigh of regret.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, he is a good man. Heaven bless him with a good
wife,” answered Kate.</p>

<p class='c006'>Neither of these unworldly women once reverted to the
advantages of rank resigned with the rejected lover.</p>

<p class='c006'>And soon Catherine had other thoughts and occupations
than those connected with courtship and marriage. The
situation of her grandfather demanded all her care. For
many months before this, the long and persevering efforts of
the patient girl had been blessed with success, and the old
man had abandoned the use of intoxicating spirits. But
within the last few weeks the total disuse of the stimulant to
which he was morbidly accustomed, had began to produce
the most dangerous effects upon his aged and infirm frame.
He grew weaker and still weaker, until at length he was
confined to his bed. And so he slowly sank and failed as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>weeks—weary weeks—dragged on to months. And through
all this dreary time, day and night, Catherine faithfully
nursed him. Many a night she sat the only watcher by his
bedside, hourly expecting his death; and many a morning
he revived again, so deep a hold had life upon that old, worn
body. Scarcely for necessary food or rest would Catherine
leave him, always watching, waiting on and cheering him,
sometimes—whenever he desired it—reading the Bible to
him, singing or praying with him. In vain Mrs. Clifton
noticing the care-worn, toil-worn, emaciated countenance
of the girl, besought her to take care of her own health.
Catherine cared for nothing on earth so much as the aged
man daily fading away from her sight. And so passed the
winter. And so opened the spring. And then his old
disease, if it could be called a disease, took a most alarming
turn. After a paroxysm more violent than ever had come
on him before, he fell into a state of greater prostration.
And the physician hastily summoned, declared that another
such attack would be fatal, and that only the use of brandy
could ward the fit off, and save his life. Carl Wetzel replied
that he felt if he should taste the intoxicating liquid again,
the fatal appetite for alcohol would return upon him with
tenfold violence for the temporary abstinence, and that it
would totally subject him to its dominion. The doctor
called him a fool and a fanatic, without self-control or self-reliance,
and left him to his fate. When the physician had
left the hut, the old man called his grand-daughter to his
bedside.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Kate, you heard what the doctor said?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate nodded—her heart was too full for speech.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear child—my dear, good Kate!—he says that
unless I drink brandy I shall die. But, Kate, if I taste
brandy again, I feel I shall live—a drunkard! Kate, I
know you are wise and good beyond your years. Kate, I
have full faith in you! My child, I will do as you decide
for me. Darling, shall I drink or die?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate sank upon her knees by his bedside, took both his
venerable hands and kissed and pressed them to her bosom,
bowed her face over them, and wept in silence. At last,
raising her head, she gazed earnestly, reverently, lovingly in
the old man’s face, and answered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dearest grandfather, do not ask me, a poor, weak, erring
girl! Dearest grandfather, ask God!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>The old man feebly raised his hand, and placed it on her
head and blessed her, adding—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I thank Thee, oh, Father! that out of the mouths of
babes and sucklings Thou hast perfected praise!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The next morning, when the doctor came, he found the
old man sinking fast, yet clinging as human nature will cling,
to the wish for—the hope of—life.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Doctor, is there no other way of saving me than that
you spoke of?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“None, whatever, my good friend; unless you consent to
save yourself by taking alcohol, you must die.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Then I will die<a id='r1'></a><a href='#f1' class='c018'><sup>[1]</sup></a>!” replied Carl Wetzel.</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f1'>
<p class='c006'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. A Fact</p>
</div>

<p class='c006'>And within a week from this time the old man died and
was buried.</p>

<p class='c006'>After the funeral was over, Mrs. Clifton invited and urged
Catherine to come and take up her permanent residence at
Hardbargain. There were now no reasons why Catherine
should not, and many why she should, accept this very advantageous
offer.</p>

<p class='c006'>Her brother Carl was about to bring home a wife, after
which he would no longer need Catherine’s services. And
now that the spring had fully opened, Mrs. Clifton’s health,
as usual at that season, failed, and she really needed the
companionship and care of our unprofessed Sister of Charity.
And, therefore, Catherine accepted her proposal, and came
to take possession of the room, Mrs. Clifton had fitted up
for her adjoining her own chamber. It had once been Archer
Clifton’s room. That was of no consequence to Catherine
now, however. You need not now be told again that the
girl was a true Christian. She had great faith—she believed
in miracles, asserting that the days of miracles had not passed—could
not pass until the days of God’s Omnipotence and
man’s faith should be passed. When the passion of her
heart was about to become the sin of her soul, she prayed to
God to remove the last vestige of that erring, ill-fated love—and
it was removed—gone! She could think of him, speak
of him, without an altered pulse. She knew that he and his
wife were soon expected at White Cliffs, and she felt that she
would meet them again without any other emotion than
pleasure. On the day of her removal to Hardbargain, Mrs.
Clifton said to her—</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>“Catherine! I see by the Richmond Standard, that Archer
has resigned his post in the army.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is not possible, madam!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, indeed. I was very much astonished to see it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What in the world could have been his motive?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I cannot even form an idea. No motive was assigned in
the paper.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And did he never mention his intention to you in any
of his letters?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Never, Kate. But indeed, I have not heard from him
for six weeks. I cannot tell the reason why he does not
write. Perhaps his letters have been lost—the foreign mails
are so irregular.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Was he at Havana when you heard from him last,
madam?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, Catherine—but then he spoke of a speedy return
home. They should have been here long before this time,
or at least, he should have written to account for their delay.
I send Henny regularly to the post-office—I have sent her
to-day. I hope I may get a letter, though the chances seem
to diminish.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Even while they spoke, the girl came in with a letter in
her hand. Mrs. Clifton took it and looked at it, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“At last! It is from Havana, Catherine, from Archer.”</p>

<p class='c006'>She opened it, and as she read it, her face became very
grave. And having finished, she fell into thought, and
said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is as I feared.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I trust there is no bad news, madam?” said Catherine.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You shall hear, Kate,” replied the lady, taking up the
letter and reading as follows;</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span class='sc'>Havana</span>, May 1, 18—.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-l c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span class='sc'>My Dear Madam</span>—</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c015'>“I have to entreat your forgiveness for a silence of four or
five weeks. I know that you will pardon the seeming neglect
when you are advised of the cause. Every moment of
my time for the last month has been taken up in attendance
upon the sick couch of my dearest Carolyn. Since the opening
of the spring, her health, for the last year so fragile, has
fearfully failed. I have had the best medical advice to be
found on the island, but her illness has baffled their utmost
skill. They have recommended me to take her to the South
<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>of France. In order to do this, I have been obliged to resign
my commission in the army. You have doubtless seen
my resignation announced in the papers. I suppose the unsettled
business of the White Cliffs estate must also suffer
by my absence at this time. But what is that—what is anything!
all things! in comparison to the health of my beloved
Carolyn! I write in great haste, on the very eve of sailing,
for we go on board the Swallow, bound from this port to
Marseilles, to-day.</p>

<p class='c015'>“With undying respect and affection,</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“ARCHER CLIFTON.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>“That is very distressing! Alas! then is life made up
of nothing but vain desires and blighted hopes—of sorrow
and sickness and death?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I knew it would be so, Catherine—that was a secret reason
I had for not meddling this last time in bringing about a
reconciliation between Carolyn and Archer. I have known
for two years past that she was following her mother. All
those Gowers die early of consumption.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But, madam, let us hope better things. This sea voyage
and residence in the South of France, may restore her.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Never, Catherine. And it was even cruel in the doctors
to send her there, to die in a foreign land, among strangers.
They had better have sent her home to the scenes of her
childhood and youth, where we could have cheered and
nursed her. Catherine, I feel very sad.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The tears were rolling down Kate’s face. The fountain
of consolation in her heart was almost dry—and again she
had to lift her heart to the Divine source of all strength and
light for new faith and hope. Little else but suffering and
sorrow had the girl seen since she came into the world—and
no part had she filled in life but that of servant, nurse, or
comforter.</p>

<p class='c006'>The summer passed with Mrs. Clifton and Catherine in
almost uninterrupted retirement. They heard, at long intervals,
from Major Clifton and his bride, and then the news was
various and unsatisfactory. Sometimes Carolyn was better,
and there would be a talk of speedy return, and, perhaps,
the very next letter, after a long interval, would speak of a
season of prostration by extreme illness. And about the
middle of the autumn, Mrs. Clifton received a letter from
her son announcing their intention of wintering in Lisbon.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>The irregular arrivals of these bulletins were the most interesting,
and nearly the <i>only</i> interesting events of the summer
and autumn, if we except a descent upon White Cliffs
by Mrs. Georgia and her friends. The syren, after her return
from a summer tour to the fashionable watering places,
determined to fill up the dull interim before the commencement
of the season in town, by a visit to her “seat in
R——,” as she persisted in calling White Cliffs. Accordingly,
she made up a party of idle ladies and sporting
gentlemen, and came down to spend September.</p>

<p class='c006'>Colonel Conyers was among the guests. He renewed his
visits to Hardbargain, and his suit to Catherine—received a
second rejection, and hurried off to town, under the sting of
mortification as before. At the first of October, the “city riff
raff,” as the old family servants of Clifton irreverently and
indignantly called the moneyed aristocrats, returned to Richmond,
whither they were shortly followed by their beautiful
hostess, to prepare for her winter campaign. From this
time to the middle of December, no event marked the even
tenor of the life at Hardbargain. The inmates had not
lately heard from Major Clifton. It was near Christmas.
In her anxiety to hear from Lisbon, Mrs. Clifton was in the
habit of sending to L—— twice a week, when the mail
came in, and sitting up till a very late hour, waiting for the
return of the messenger.</p>

<p class='c006'>One evening after supper, Mrs. Clifton and Catherine sat
each side their work-stand, before the fire, awaiting the arrival
of the boy who had been dispatched to the post-office.
So often had the lady thus sat and waited, and been disappointed,
that hope waxed very faint. This time, however,
she was destined to have her heart gladdened by the full
fruition of hope. About nine o’clock the messenger returned
and entered the parlor with a packet of letters and papers.
The boy’s face was lighted up with sympathetic joy, and he
exclaimed, as he handed the bundle—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I almos’ rid myself to death, mist’ess, I was so glad I
had de letters to bring yer.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You have made great haste indeed, Neddy. Go tell
Henny to give you your supper,” said the lady.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Good boy,” said Kate, pressing his little sooty hand as
he passed her and went out.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton was reading a letter from Archer. It was
written in a glad, buoyant spirit and contained the best possible
<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>news. Against all hope, Carolyn’s health since her
arrival at Lisbon had steadily improved, and it was now so
far re-established, that they were already looking forward to
their voyage at the earliest opening of spring. Carolyn had
gained flesh and color as well as health, and strength and
cheerfulness, and was looking far better than she had looked
since his first meeting her again at Richmond. Mrs. Clifton
repeated all this to Catherine, adding—</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is true, Kate, that none of her family who have perished
by her disease ever tried a change of climate, and
although in most cases such a change hurries the patient to
the grave, yet, in some instances, it seems to work wonders
in the way of cure; and who knows, if Carolyn is so greatly
benefited, that she may not get over this danger, and if not
positively cured, yet live to a good old age, and die at last
of something else, as I have heard of consumptives doing.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I’m so glad!” Catherine sat with her face suffused with
the flush, and her eyes filled with the tears of sympathizing
joy and thanksgiving. After reading and re-reading the
letter, and dwelling on it, and talking of it, Mrs. Clifton
finally unfolded the paper, the Richmond Standard, and
running her eyes over its columns, suddenly exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine, ‘When joys come they come not as single
spies but in battalions’—here is excellent news of an old
friend—listen—only two or three lines among the ‘items’ of
a newspaper column, yet of what great moment to many—hear.”
And the lady read:—“At the conclusion of the
recent treaty of peace between this government and the
Shoshonowa Nation, among the prisoners held to ransom was
the gallant Captain Fairfax, supposed to have fallen under
their tomahawks, at the massacre near Fort Protection.
This brave but unfortunate officer is now understood to be
on his way to the seat of government.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine was positively speechless with joy; only her
clasped hands and fervent countenance revealed what she
felt. In the great, though calm surprise and rejoicings over
the event, these friends forgot its singularity, until after a
long while Catherine exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Poor Zuleime! Oh, how <i>could</i> such a fatal misrepresentation
have been made of the case? It was reported that
he was cloven down from his saddle, and then butchered!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It was not a willful misrepresentation. It was a misapprehension.
The few who escaped to tell the tale of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>massacre, no doubt had seen him struck down; and don’t
you see in the terror and confusion, they imagined the rest—knowing
perfectly well that scalping and rifling the bodies
are the almost invariable custom of the savages? And then
remember, Catherine, the body taken for the corpse of Captain
Fairfax, was so rifled and mutilated, as to be unrecognizable,
except upon circumstantial evidence.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“So indeed it was said to be! I would the mistake had
never been made though! It killed Zuleime!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine, my child, I have no idea that Zuleime was
really drowned.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Madam!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do you not know, Catherine, that any body drowned in that
part of the river where the supposed signs of her suicide were
found, must have come to light. Don’t you know that the
current is very rapid there, and that a ledge of rocks crosses
the river a few yards below it, upon which her body must
have been thrown, if she had been in the river at all? And,
Catherine, if I have never breathed this thought before, it was
upon account of poor Carolyn. I knew that in her weak, depressed
state of mind and body, she could better bear the
belief of Zuleime’s death, than the frightful uncertainty of
her fate. You are discreet, Kate; you will not breathe
this to Carolyn, or to any one, lest it should reach her ear.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Never! And do you know, dear Mrs. Clifton, I have
sometimes had the thought that Zuleime might yet be living—and
I dared not indulge the hope secretly—much less breathe
it aloud.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And what was <i>your</i> reason for such a supposition,
Catherine?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why my thought was not so well founded—so logical as
yours. I knew nothing about the peculiarities of the river.
My thought was only a vague hope, and it agitated me so
much as to interfere with my practical duties. I had to
banish it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You are so sensitive, so sympathetic, my dear girl.
Well, Kate, no more exciting talk to-night. We will return
thanks to God for these glad tidings, and then retire to
rest.”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXIII.<br> <span class='large'>ZULEIME.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Among a jumbled heap of murky buildings.—<span class='sc'>Keats.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Zuleime had been placed by Georgia under the care of a
poor woman, the wife of a carver and gilder, who had occasionally
worked for her father. And as long as the funds
of the belle had held out, the trifling expenses of such poor
board and lodging had been regularly paid. But when the
syren was reduced to support her own extravagance entirely
by credit, founded upon the false reputation of wealth—her
small remittances to her protégé, or rather her victim, ceased.
Zuleime was afraid to seek her, afraid to write to her—there
was nothing she feared more than discovery, and the
recognition of her hand-writing on the superscription of a
letter might have led to that. It was long after the death
of her father before she heard of it—nor then did she hear
any of the particulars of time, place or circumstance. The
fact came to her knowledge irregularly, through the report
of the transcendant charms and conquests of his beautiful
young widow. A long and dangerous illness was the result
of this sudden news. It was some weeks after her recovery
before the poor people of the house, who had long despaired
of getting anything for her board, could find it in their kind
hearts to ask her to seek another home. And even then they
sent a sigh after the desolate young widow—the child who
went forth carrying in her arms another child. And how
she lived during the interval between that and the period at
which I shall again introduce her to you, I cannot tell.
Sometimes a little fine needle-work came to her hands; sometimes
a spell of want, reaching almost to starvation; then a
little assistance from neighbors; and a little going in debt to
shopkeepers. And then she always lodged with the poor.
And the poor seldom persecute the poor; remember that
the needy family who first sheltered her, had been for months
<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>at the sole expense of her food, lodging, and long illness—and
yet they had never reproached or persecuted her for unpaid
debts—though they scarcely refrained from reproaching
themselves for sending her away.</p>

<p class='c006'>In a quiet, back street, mostly inhabited by very humble
people, in the middle of the square, and fronting immediately
upon the battered pavement, stood an old two-story brick
house, occupied by a poor cabinet-maker and old furniture
dealer. The lower front room was used as the ware-room,
and crowded and piled up with every description of miserably
dilapidated household furniture, apparently good for
nothing else under the sun but kindling wood, and scarcely
worth splitting up for that. Old worm-eaten, carved mahogany
bureaus and bedsteads; tables without legs or leaves;
chairs without backs; cradles without bottoms or rockers;
clocks wanting faces; beaufets wanting doors; sofas minus
arms; smoky pictures without frames; and tarnished frames
without pictures; worm-eaten cabinets, and mildewed looking-glasses;
broken pots, pans and kettles; and mismatched
crockery-ware in any quantity.</p>

<p class='c006'>Reader, I do not wish to give you an inventory of an old
furniture-shop, but merely some idea of the inextricable confusion
in which this heterogeneous mass of worn out, broken,
worm-eaten, mildewed, fly-stained, dust-clothed, cobweb-veiled
items, were piled up from floor to ceiling. It would make
your heart and head ache with wondering what sort of a living
could be picked out from so much dirt, disorder and
decay—and who on earth could be the patrons of the establishment.
You would unconsciously gather close about you
your most worthless dress in passing through the shop, and
look up in involuntary dread of a broken head or limbs, by
the fall of some of those dilapidated, ill-balanced, old chairs
and tables.</p>

<p class='c006'>The family of the chair-maker consisted of himself, his
wife, and two daughters. They were Germans, with the
usual talent of that race for money-getting and money-keeping.
And the man made at least a hundred per cent. on
every old, rickety, worm-eaten bureau or table that, mended
and varnished, left his shop. They added to their income,
by letting the rooms of their house, and occasionally by
taking a profitable boarder.</p>

<p class='c006'>It was in the early part of the same autumn which found
her sister Carolyn in Lisbon—and Mrs. Clifton and Catherine
<span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>alone at Hardbargain, that Zuleime became a tenant of
the German cabinet-maker. She occupied the back room,
on the second floor; the two daughters of the family using
the front room as a sleeping apartment. She had the use of
the street passage door, and so reached her room without
passing through the shop or any part of the house occupied
by the family or their boarders. The refinement in
which she had been born and bred, was not lost amid her
bitter poverty. It constrained her to seek privacy of life at
least. She supported herself and child, just now, by doing
fine needle-work for some ladies on a transient visit to the
city. But the work was precarious, and the supply might
be cut off at any moment. Her expenses were small, however,
and her economy wonderful. Her neat, but poorly
furnished room, cost her but ten shillings a month; a bushel
of meal and a pint of salt, five shillings; milk for the child,
two shillings; fuel, eight shillings; washing, three shillings;
candle-light, two shillings; and the attendance of a boy to
bring water and cut wood, three shillings—making the sum
total of her monthly expenses only one pound, fourteen shillings,
or little more than six dollars. Her only food was
mush or corn-cakes prepared from the meal. She could not
have kept up very long under this regimen; indeed, although
she knew it not, she was slowly dying of a disease as common
as lingering, and as universally ignored as that of a
broken heart—namely, innutrition or slow starvation. Her
German hostess, kind-hearted, notwithstanding her money
grasping propensities, often sent her a bowl of “noodle soup,”
with a little plate of “sour-krout,” and a tumbler of
schnapps, or some such combination of German luxuries.
But Zuleime, who managed to exist upon coarse food, could
not endure gross food, and she would turn away from
such, scarcely able to conceal the sickness the very odor so
appetizing to a Dutch stomach, excited in hers. Still her
refusal of the viands was couched in words so gentle and
grateful, as never to offend her landlady. Some of my
readers may wonder why Zuleime did not do her washing,
water-drawing, etc., with her own hands, and take the money
paid for having those things done, and buy better food?
Because, for one reason, she had not the requisite physical
strength or skill—and besides, perhaps, she shrank from the
exposure necessarily incurred in these labors. She had not in
these two years, forgotten the delicacy and refinement in which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>she had been nurtured. On the contrary, everything in her
appearance and manners, betrayed the gentle-woman. She
had but one dress in the world—all the others had been cut
up to make clothes for her little girl. Her sole gown was
black bombazine, which she had worn daily for nearly two
years—yet so good was its original quality, and so well had
it been preserved, that it was now neither rusty nor threadbare.
It was shaken out and hung up every night, and well
brushed and sponged every week. This dress, with the
little inside ‘kerchief of linen, was always neat and lady-like.
Zuleime’s fine needle-work gave out—as she knew it would—and
she found herself without employment, or funds. It was
then that Bertha and Wilhelmina Erhmientraut, the daughters
of her landlord, told her of a German clothier on Main
street, who had advertised for a number of needle-women to
make vests. Zuleime confessed her total ignorance of that
branch of needle-work. But the kind German girls promised
that if she would procure the work, they would give her
some instructions how it should be done. Zuleime gratefully
accepted their offer, and prepared to set out on her long
walk by donning the little black bonnet and shawl, as neat
and as well preserved as her dress had been. She could not
further tax the kindness of her landlord’s family by leaving
her child in their care, she had been obliged to put the little
one to sleep, and lock it up in her room, only leaving her
key with her landlady—“in case anything should happen”
while she was gone. It was a long, weary tramp to Main
street, where the clothier’s store was situated. When she
entered the show-shop and made her business known, she was
directed into a back room, where a man, behind a long table,
was engaged in cutting out garments—and many bundles of
cut out but unmade clothes, tied around with skeins of thread,
lay piled up at one end. Zuleime walked up to this table.
The foreman, as he appeared to be, laid down his shears and
looked up, saying deferentially—</p>

<p class='c006'>“What did you wish to look at, madam? Mr. Schneider,
attend this lady.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You are in error. I do not wish to look at your wares.
You advertised work to give out; can I have some?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The tailor looked at her again. He saw, from her gentle
manners and appearance, that she was a lady, guessed from
her dress that she was a widow, and knew by her errand that
she was self-dependent, unprotected; so there existed no
<span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>earthly reason why a coarse-minded, craven-hearted man,
who spent his whole days in smirking, cringing, deprecating
and deferring to others, should not refresh his soul by a little
impertinence and insolence to so safe a subject as a <i>poor
lady</i>.</p>

<p class='c006'>“And you ever make vests?” he asked, in a short, curt,
insolent manner.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No,” answered Zuleime, “but I sew very neatly—unusually
neatly, my patrons say—and as you cut and baste
the work, very little instruction would enable me to make
them very nicely.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I shan’t trust you! I have had quite enough in my time
of giving out work to people who know nothing about the
business.”</p>

<p class='c006'>It was not the words so much as the insulting manner of
the man that shocked the gentle-hearted woman, and she
turned and left the shop, ready to sink, not so much under
disappointment, though she knew not where to turn for work
or money or food—but under the deeply humiliating sense
of the rudeness and vulgarity to which she was forced to expose
herself in this bitter struggle through the world. She
walked slowly, thoughtfully, sadly away from the shop, till
the sudden thought of her child’s awakening, electrified her,
and she hurried on until she reached home. She obtained
her key from the landlady, in the basement, and entered the
passage. It was then that she heard a very sweet, gentle
voice, apparently near her room door, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Don’t cry, baby! <i>poor</i> baby, don’t cry! mother will come
by-and-by! <i>Dear pretty</i> baby, don’t cry! I’ll bring you
all my playthings, and a little dog, when I can get in.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And then, in the pause of the child’s wails and broken
talk, and baby plaints, she ran up stairs at once, and there,
kneeling before her door, and talking through the key-hole,
was a sweet little dark haired girl of about five years old,
and dressed in deep mourning. Her hat of the finest Leghorn
straw, the richness of the black ribbon that bound it—the
fineness of the black bombazine frock and the linen cambric
tucker, the delicate shoes and stockings—the gentle, refined
manner, all bespoke a child of a different rank from
those seen in that neighborhood, and especially in that house.
The child got up and stood aside when she saw the lady come
with the key to unlock the door. When Zuleime had entered
her room, and lifted the babe to her lap, she called the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>little girl up to her side. She was a lovely child indeed,
with fair skin and delicate features—jet black hair, eyebrows
and eyelashes, and large, mournful, dark gray eyes.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You are a dear little girl. What is your name? asked
Zuleime, pulling her around her waist caressingly.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ida ——; see what a nice new black dress I’ve got. They
gave it to me when father died. Mother wears one, too.
You’ve got a black dress on, too! Is your father dead?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, darling,” said Zuleime, with her eyes suffused.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Don’t cry, please! Mother cries so much. I do wish
she wouldn’t! Is the baby’s father dead, too?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes—yes, love—the baby’s father is dead, too!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well—<i>please</i> don’t cry so! Mother says we have all
got a father in Heaven! <i>Oh! please</i> don’t cry so! It gives
me such a—such an ache in the breast to see anybody cry
so,” said the child, and her mournful, but most beautiful eyes
assumed a pleading, painful, almost <i>querulous</i> look.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Who <i>is</i> your mother, sweet Ida?” asked Zuleime, to
change the subject of her own and her little companion’s
thoughts.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mrs. Knight, you know, the leading lady. Did they
put the baby’s father in a long red box, and send him away?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, yes, Ida. Where does your mother live?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“She lives here, in the back room, down stairs. We came
to-day. She is going to play to-night, and then I’ll be by
myself. Did they hold the baby up to kiss her father like
they did me? And did he put his hand on her head and
call her his fawn-eyed darling? That was when he was on
the bed. And afterwards he went to sleep. And they said
he was dead. Was that the way with the baby’s father?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I don’t want to talk about it, dear Ida. Tell me of your
mother. What does she play on—the organ?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No! I don’t know. Yes I do, too!—the stage. Look
at my nice new hat. It used to have a wreath of red roses
round it. But when father died, mother took it off and put
this black ribbon there. Mother wears roses on her head,
though. At night, I mean. All day long she wears black,
and looks so pale and weeps. But at night, she puts beautiful
flowers in her hair, and sometimes gold and fine feathers—and
she has such sweet long curls and rosy cheeks—and such
beautiful dresses. And father used to wear beautiful clothes
at night, red and gold, and feathers. I do want to see father
so much. I wish they’d bring him back. Do you think it
<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>will be long before I see him?” asked the child, as the large
tears rolled down her cheeks.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Perhaps not, my love. Is your mother an actress, then?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, that is what she is. Don’t cry, now! It gives me
a pain in my bosom. <i>Please</i> don’t cry; if <i>you</i> don’t, <i>I</i> won’t,”
said the child, wiping her eyes. Then suddenly she exclaimed,
“Oh! I forgot, I promised to bring the baby my playthings
and my curly dog”; and so saying, the child ran away and
scampered down stairs.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime looked in vain for her return, and finally concluded
that her mother had detained her. But if the child
did not come, somebody else did. Wilhelmina entered, and
kindly inquired after her lodger’s success in seeking work.
When she learned her failure, she begged Zuleime not to be
troubled, for that there was work in the house for her if she
would take it. That the new boarder, Mrs. Knight, the leading
lady of the Richmond Theatre, wanted assistance in
making up some dresses, that were to be ready in a few days.
That she, Wilhelmina, had recommended their lodger, and
if the young lady pleased, she would conduct her down and
introduce her to Mrs. Knight. Zuleime thanked the kind-hearted
girl, and prepared to accompany her—sensible amid
all her other emotions of a rustic’s curiosity to see a really
living actress, for she had never in her life seen one off the
boards. She followed Wilhelmina down the stairs into the
passage. Near the foot of the stairs was a door leading into
the first floor back room. At this door Wilhelmina rapped.
It was opened by Ida, who, as soon as she saw Zuleime, exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! it’s you! Come in. Mother! here is the baby’s
mother!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is I, Mrs. Knight, with the person I spoke of. May
we come in?” inquired Wilhelmina.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Assuredly. Do so,” replied the sweetest, deepest voice
Zuleime thought she had ever heard. And they entered the
room. Wilhelmina introduced Mrs. Fairfax, and withdrew.
The apartment in which Zuleime found herself, was the best
furnished room in the house—decidedly—having a good warm,
hued carpet on the floor, crimson stuff curtains at the only
back window, a grate with a coal fire, a four-post bedstead,
with tester, net valance and a white counterpane, a
bureau with tall dressing-glass, and wash-stand, with china
toilet service. But it was in a state of confusion only less
<span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>than that of the adjoining shop. Trunks, boxes, and band
boxes of all sizes, forms and colors, some corded and piled
up one above the other, and some open and boiling up and
over with all sorts of finery and tinsel, satins, silks and velvets,
feathers, flowers and fustian, which also trailed upon
the carpet, and strewed the chairs. An oil painting, in a
large heavy gilt frame, leaned with its face against the wall.
On the bed, a black mantle and bonnet, with a widow’s veil,
lay side by side with a gorgeous scarlet velvet train, embroidered
with gold, an imitation ermine robe, a crown of gilt
and paste, a plume of feathers, and great bunches of sham
pearls. On a low trunk, in the midst of this sad chaos of
poverty and glitter, mummery and mourning, sat one who
immediately drew and fixed Zuleime’s attention. A tall,
noble looking woman, of perhaps thirty years of age, clothed
in deep mourning, with her heavy black hair banded around
her forehead and temples, and shading a countenance dark
and cavernous, with its large hollow eyes and hollow cheeks,
but majestic with power, earnestness and truth, and beautiful
with those grand, mournful eyes, whose mesmeric spell was
felt by Zuleime, on whom they were now brought to bear.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Take a seat, Mrs. Fairfax. You find me here in great
confusion, because I have but just arrived, and have had to
unpack and look over all these trunks, to select and prepare
no less than four costumes for the evening,” said the same
rich, full, deep tones, as their owner cleared a chair of
spangled robes and plumes, and offered it to her visitor.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mother is going to wear <i>this</i> dress this evening—isn’t it
pretty?” said Ida, climbing upon the foot of the bed.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime turned her eyes with childish interest towards the
robes; and Mrs. Knight, observing her look of curiosity,
said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“They form a portion of the Queen Katherine costume.
They are going to bring out Henry VIII., this evening.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime glanced from the costume to the haggard, but
noble looking woman, and thought that she might represent
the unhappy Queen very well, as far as personal appearance
would go, but instead of expressing this opinion, she said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“The young German girl told me that you wanted some
assistance in needle-work. I shall be glad to help you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The dark, mournful eyes rose slowly, and grew still, looking
at the young widow, in whom they now began to recognize
that most piteous of all beings—<i>a reduced lady</i>.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>“Sit down—pray sit down,” she said, to Zuleime, who still
remained standing.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime took the vacant chair.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Would you object, Mrs. Fairfax, to sitting with me while
you sew? There are alterations to be made in these four
Queen Katherine dresses, in which you would require my
advice.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime hesitated, and then answered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I should not like to leave my little child alone, madam.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Let me!—let me!—let me go up and stay with the baby!”
eagerly interrupted Ida, jumping down from the bed, and
running up and seizing the hand of her mother.</p>

<p class='c006'>The dark eyes sank fondly on the little one, and the rich
voice—richer now with maternal love, replied—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Certainly you may go, if the lady will permit you to do
so.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime hesitated again, then said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Thank you. I shall be very glad. Let me go up first,
and make the fire safe.” And she left the room, followed by
Ida, who ran back first, to throw her arms around her mother’s
neck, and kiss her “good-bye.”</p>

<p class='c006'>When Zuleime reached her room, she placed the blower
before the grate, for safety—hid away all implements with
which the children might harm themselves, and leaving the
little ones at play upon the rag carpet, returned below stairs,
and went to work. Her new occupation was indeed of an
odd and miscellaneous description—ripping off gold lace,
and sewing in its place imitation sable; trimming buskins,
and lastly, making up an ancient coiffure, all under the direction
of the shadowy-faced woman, who, all this time, sat upon
the trunk, with a tattered play-book on her knee, studying
her part.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime spoke of Ida—her beauty, her charming manner.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Is she? Do you find her so? I thought that might be
only my partiality. Poor little one! She is a great comfort
and a great sorrow to me, if you can understand such a
paradox.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, I can understand it,” said Zuleime.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I have to leave her all the forenoon, for the purpose of
attending the rehearsals, and then, before it is time for her to
go to bed, I have to leave her, alone, and go to the theatre, and
be absent till a late hour of the night. And then the fear
of fire, or of accident, while I am gone from her, wears me
<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>out. Worse than that, all day and night, while away from
her, is the dread of her getting in the street, and into evil
company.” And the eyes of the woman assumed an anxious,
haggard, querulous look, as she dropped them upon her book.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Give your little girl into my care. I am never absent
from home except early in the morning—as to-day—and at
that hour you are here.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The dark eyes flew up and fastened themselves upon the
face of Zuleime, and the deep voice inquired—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Would you really take charge of her for me? Oh, it
is too much for you, and too good in you. I don’t understand
it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Indeed I shall be very glad to do so. The presence of
a lovely child is a great pleasure to me. Leave Ida with me
this evening while you are gone, and I will put her to bed
when the time comes.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“For this evening I will gratefully accept your kindness,
but you may find her more inconvenient than you anticipate,”
said Mrs. Knight. And then she dropped her eyes again
upon her book, and Zuleime went on silently with her sewing.
About sunset the work was nearly completed, and the costume,
with the exception of the coiffure, upon which Zuleime
was still engaged, was packed in bandboxes, to be conveyed
to the theatre. Then Mrs. Knight rang a little hand bell,
and when it was answered by the entrance of Bertha Erhmientraut,
she said,—“Please send me a lad to carry these
boxes for me, and ask your mother to make me a very strong
cup of coffee.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Bertha disappeared, and Mrs. Knight put on her bonnet
and shawl. And soon a ragged boy appeared at the door,
who agreed to carry the boxes for a sixpence. Mrs. Knight
loaded and dispatched him at the same moment that Bertha
re-appeared with a huge cup of strong coffee, which she took
and drank off, standing. Then, as she handed back the empty
cup to the German girl, and received from Zuleime the
finished coiffure pinned up in a paper, she said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“That cup of coffee will give me strength to go through
my heavy part to-night, but will leave me at its close more
exhausted than ever; thus I discount future health and life
for present bread.” And so she went off, her eyes gleaming
under the excitement of a stimulant narcotic, as fatal, if not
as disreputable, as opium or alcohol. Zuleime went up to
her own room, and prepared the frugal supper for herself and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>the two children, that were still playing on the carpet. She
got a double portion of milk from the German people, on account
of her little guest, Ida declaring that she liked milk
with corn cake crumbled in it better than anything, it was so
sweet. And then when the babe was undressed and put to
bed, the little girl’s eyes waxed heavy and dim, and Zuleime
took her down stairs into her mother’s room, and disrobed
and washed and prepared her for bed. And when the child
was about to kiss her friend and spring into bed, Zuleime
said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Stop, Ida. Don’t you say your prayers?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, ma’am.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But don’t you wish to?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, yes, ma’am,” said the child, and running back, she
kneeled down at Zuleime’s knees, and placed her little hands
together and looked up for instruction.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime thought the shortest, simplest infant’s prayer she
knew of was the best, because readily understood and easily
remembered. And so she took the little one’s folded hands
between her own, and bade her repeat after her—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Now I lay me down to sleep,</div>
      <div class='line'>I pray the Lord my soul to keep.</div>
      <div class='line'>If I should die before I wake,</div>
      <div class='line'>I pray the Lord my soul to take.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>“That is a sweet little verse. What <i>is</i> my soul?” asked
the child.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime hesitated, puzzled for an answer; then she said
for want of a better—</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is what you think with, and wonder with, and what
you are sorry or glad with, and what will live forever.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I love you with it then. Good-night, good, pretty lady.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Good-night, sweet child.” And Zuleime laid her in the
bed, and kissed her fair eyelids down to slumber.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXIV.<br> <span class='large'>THE CATASTROPHE.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>To die mid flame and smoke!—<span class='sc'>Halleck</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Heaven knows that it is now difficult enough for a poor
woman to make a living. But in the days when Zuleime
lived and suffered, it was even more so. It was especially
hard in Virginia, where, owing to the prevalence of the law
of entail, the rich were very rich, and the poor very poor.
Where, besides, ladies took pride in their domestic and industrious
habits, the favorite and most inveterate of which
was that of doing their own sewing, forgetful of the poor
widow and orphan, who might be suffering for the want of
the work. It was for such reasons that Zuleime found little
or no employment—at most of the houses where she applied
she was told that—“We never give out needle-work,” or
that, “The ladies of the house do all the family sewing.”
All very well, in moderation. Industry is a praiseworthy
habit, when it does not compromise justice and mercy—when
it does not hinder us to “live and let live.” Let us be
different in our several callings; but for Heaven’s sake, if
we can possibly afford it, let us never refuse to give work to
those who need, or who ask it of us. They may be suffering
for it, they may be starving for it, they may be dying for it,
as Zuleime was. They may be driven to vice, to crime, for
the want of it, as Zuleime was not, thank Heaven. Reader,
this portion of my story at least is no fiction. Nor was
Zuleime’s case <i>then</i> a solitary one. Nor would it be such
<i>now</i>. There are many poor women, in every city, who have
not work enough to earn their necessary food and fuel. And
this is one of the causes:—There are hundreds of ladies, of
the middle classes of society, who work themselves nearly to
death, and really shorten their lives, by sewing for their
large families, in order to save money to lay out in dress for
themselves and children, more genteel than needful; or in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>furniture, which they do not live very long to enjoy. And
all this time there are hundreds of poor women around them
suffering for a part of this very work with which <i>they</i> are
killing themselves. Yes, hundreds who die annually of innutrition—a
slow, cruelly slow starvation, prolonged from
month to month, or from year to year, according to their
relative strength of constitution. I know it. For I have
lived among them, and seen for myself, and not another. The
doctors call the want, of which they die, consumption—I
think it is rather <i>non</i>-consumption. Zuleime sank deeper
and deeper into penury. As autumn advanced into winter,
and as her necessities increased, her ability to supply them
decreased. Her poverty began to betray itself sadly in her
personal appearance. Her face was thin and wan, with great,
bright, hungry looking eyes—her hands wasted to semi-transparency.
Her only gown, her black bombazine, was
rusty and threadbare, and embossed with darns—her shoes
were so bad as to look scarcely decent. And amid all her
other troubles, there was room for humiliated feelings upon
even this account. The present was wretched—the future
hopeless. She had heard of people perishing from cold and
hunger, and to such an end she thought her life seemed
tending. Yet miserable as was the condition of Zuleime,
there were many then, are many now, in much worse situations.
She at least was starving in a tolerably clean room,
in privacy and in peace. Far happier than some who perish
in the midst of vice and filth and squalor. Yes, reader,
there are such things; they <i>do</i> exist in my neighborhood,
and yours, and it is just as well that they should sometimes
be remembered. Zuleime was dying of want. And did the
people of the house know nothing of this? Yes, they knew
something of it, and her German landlord trembled for his
rent, his wife wished that they had never seen the poor thing,
and the two girls pitied her very deeply. And Mrs. Knight
saw it all, and suffered in sympathy, and gave the poor,
dying girl, all the work she had to give, and paid her for
doing it as liberally as she could afford. But Mrs. Knight
was not able, from her scanty salary, to keep up her expensive,
professional wardrobe, and support two families besides.
The greater part of the money Zuleime made, by sewing for
the poor actress, was paid for rent, to keep the roof over her
head that bitter weather, and to supply the daily two pence
worth of milk for the child. If a few pence were left over,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>they were spent in cheap pilot bread, sparingly eaten by herself.
For weeks together she had no fire, no fuel, but would
manage to keep her child warm by seating her in the middle
of the bed, well wrapped up. By the side of the head of the
bedstead, and looking to the south, was the only back window
of her room. When she had work, she would sit by
this window and sew, while her child sat wrapped up in the
bed. When she had no work, she would still sit there and
rock her child upon her bosom, singing to her all the while.
Unearthly and spiritual was the wan, moonlight face, with
its large, luminous eyes—unearthly and spiritual was the
voice in which she sang her child to rest, as she sat by the
south window. She found room in her burdened heart to
love that sunny window, with its glimpses of a river landscape,
with waterfalls and hills and forests, and nearer, lying
between her and the water, the pleasure-grounds around a
fair mansion of white freestone, that fronted on the river.
That fine place took in nearly a whole square, and was separated
from this poor house and lot, first, by a broad, back
alley, then a tall brick wall, with capacious stables and
coach-houses, then the garden, with terraces and conservatory,
and so up to the Venetian back piazza of the mansion.
Every day, and all day long through the glowing autumn
weather, she had sat and feasted her eyes and mind upon
these pleasure-grounds, with their gorgeous flowers and magnificent
trees, and the palace-home in the midst, a picture of
beauty and glory, telling besides of plenty, elegance, refinement,
leisure, artistic taste, intellectual pursuits, family
union, domestic happiness. Many a time, when going out to
look for work, she had walked quite around the square to
get in front of the mansion, and satisfy her soul with the
architectural beauty and elegance of the edifice, as it stood
elevated by a flight of terraces far above the street, and
commanding for many miles the mighty course of the river.
Often in the autumn weather, had she walked under this
southern wall, and even in the midst of her deep distresses,
looked up in childish longing at the splendid autumnal flowers,
trailing luxuriantly over the iron railing. Why did this
place interest her so? Not because it was a palace-home, in
such strong contrast to her own poor dwelling—not because
she passed it almost every day—not because its magnificent
grounds were ever before her sight from her own poor room.
Ah, no! But because there was a rural character, and a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>fine, old, ancestral look about the place, that reminded her
of her dear, lost home. Everything connected with the premises
interested her, even that capacious family carriage,
with its round bodied, gray coach horses, and its fat coachman,
which appeared every afternoon at a certain hour to
take the family out to drive. She did not care to inquire
who lived there. One day, when walking in front of the
house on the other street, she had seen a lady in deep mourning
come out and get in the carriage. She had time to see
that the lady appeared bowed in grief, but possessed so sweet
and benevolent a face, that she was encouraged to call and
ask for work. So the next day she entered the beautiful
grounds, and ascended the stone steps that led flight by flight
up the rising terraces until she reached the Grecian portico
and rang the bell. The door was opened by a man servant,
to whom she communicated her business. He called a waiting-woman,
who came, and after hearing what the visitor
wanted, explained civilly enough that all their needle-work
was done by a young person, who lived companion to her
mistress, who was too infirm to see strangers. Zuleime
never tried there again. But the sweet, sorrowful face of
the lady haunted her, and she gazed from her poor window
upon the magnificent pleasure-grounds with more of interest
than ever.</p>

<p class='c006'>Truly the world <i>is</i> “full of paper walls.” How little Zuleime
surmised that the mourner in the palace sorrowed over
the very same bereavement that had laid her own life waste—that
the fair-haired, tender-eyed lady, whose grief-worn countenance
haunted her so, was the mother of her lost Frank;
that the proud mansion-house, in the midst of its pleasure-grounds,
was the rightful inheritance of the poor babe that
rested on her wasted bosom.</p>

<p class='c006'>How little did the childless and desolate recluse of the
palace guess that her lost son’s widow sat pining, starving
so near her! The world is full of paper walls, but fate
makes them firmer, stronger, more indestructible than adamant.</p>

<p class='c006'>Upon that very same December night that found Mrs.
Clifton and Catherine rejoicing over the good news they had
heard from their friends, upon that very night Zuleime sat
shivering in her room, without fire, food or light. She had
given her child its cup of milk, and thanked Heaven that
she had it to give, though she herself went hungry. And
<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>she had wrapped the babe in her shawl, and sat by the window,
singing and rocking her to sleep. The room was intensely
cold, she was chilled to the heart, her feet were numb,
and almost lifeless. The only warmth in her body seemed
to be the bosom at which the child was pressed. The snow
was falling fast without, but even through its flakes she saw
the lighted windows of the mansion-house glowing through
the crimson curtains, and streaming redly across the snow-clad
ground. And she sat and thought of the comforts
within that parlor. While she sat there thinking, there came
a gentle knock at her door.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Who is there?” inquired Zuleime.</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is I, Mrs. Fairfax,” replied the voice of the actress.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come in, Mrs. Knight.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The actress entered, saying, with a little pardonable tact—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, you are putting your child to sleep in the dark. It
is singular some little ones never will go to sleep where there
is a light burning. <i>Is</i> she asleep?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes,” replied Zuleime.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Then please put her in bed, my dear, and come down
stairs with me. I have something to talk to you about.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime laid her little girl in bed, and tottering with weakness,
from her long fast and the cold, accompanied the actress
down stairs.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Knight opened her own room, and revealed a warm
coal fire burning in the grate, and a little supper-table set
out, with coffee, French rolls, nice butter, and stewed oysters.
She set the cushioned rocking-chair for Zuleime, between
the fire and the table, and pushed her gently into the seat,
saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I have holyday to-night, and for a week from to-night,
because the opera troupe are here. And so I thought I
would just celebrate its commencement by a supper and a
ball for two!” And she placed before her visitor a plate of
oysters and a cup of coffee. When the little supper was
fairly commenced, Mrs. Knight said, “I did not send for you,
only to take coffee with me—I wished to speak to you on a
matter of business. I have been wishing some time to do so,
but scarcely knew how to do it without wounding or offending
you.” She paused.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! are you so considerate? Yet you need not fear—I
know <i>you</i> could not think of anything to say which would—</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>“At least, I only mean your good, and if I err, you will
forgive me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Gentle friend! I am used to all the hardness and vulgarity
against which a woman has to break her heart and
spirit, in struggling through the rough world. Now think
of that. And think whether I can be hurt by anything your
kind heart impels you to say. No, I shall be very grateful!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, this is it, then, my dear. I have not been able to
avoid seeing your fruitless efforts to maintain yourself and
child, for the last three months. I fear you have scarcely
made five shillings a week.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I have not made that for the last month.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And there seems to be no chance of doing better—with
your needle, I mean.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, no, no.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And your situation is getting worse every day. Poor
child! your very shoes are almost gone—there—forgive me—I
have spoken rudely.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, no—you have spoken the truth in love. Any truth
can be told in the spirit of love.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And you are wasting away—you will be thrown upon
your sick bed—then what will become of your child?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Alas, God knows! If we both could die—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, if you both <i>could</i>. Death is no evil at all.” As
the actress said this, her hollow, shadowy face grew dark,
and her large, luminous eyes glanced aside, and fell upon the
door—fixed in an intense, suffering, almost querulous gaze—as
if of one enduring pain. “It must come abruptly at last,”
she said, looking up, suddenly. “My dear, have you any
insurmountable prejudices against a theatrical life for yourself?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Startled by the abruptness of the proposition, Zuleime raised
her eyes to the beautiful, dark, irritated countenance before
her, without replying.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You don’t understand me. Well, then, to put it plainer,
if nothing better at all could be found for you, would you
absolutely refuse to go upon the stage?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime had understood her very well, and if she still
hesitated, it was from a reluctance to wound the spirit of the
actress.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do you, then, consider the histrionic profession disreputable?”
<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>asked Mrs. Knight, with the same suffering, querulous,
almost cross expression of the eyes.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No,” said Zuleime, very gently, “I do not. Not the
profession that Mrs. Siddons ennobled. I think it truly</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“‘The youngest of the sister arts,</div>
      <div class='line'>Where all their beauties blend.’”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>“Well, then, my question—Would you object to going on
the stage yourself?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am not fit for it,” replied Zuleime, evasively.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not know that. I need not tell you that you are
young and pretty, and singularly graceful—nor that you have
a very fine voice for singing—these form a very good foundation.
And in elocution, my dear, I would myself become
your instructress. What say you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“That you are kinder to me than any one has ever been
since I left home; and that I am very, very grateful,” Zuleime
said, very gently.</p>

<p class='c006'>“But that you despise the calling too thoroughly to follow
it, even for bread,” said the actress, bitterly.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, no—I did not say or mean that, indeed—but I, you
see, have neither the taste, talent, nor courage requisite!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why not?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I was brought up in the privacy of domestic life; in the
deep seclusion of the country. I have never been used to
<i>society</i>, much less to <i>publicity</i>, and I am sure, that no matter
how well I might be instructed in my part, when I should
come before an audience, I should forget all about it, and
half die of shame.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, I suppose you have no vocation for it. An actress
forgets her own identity in that of the character she represents,
and that enables her to go through things she could
not otherwise endure. But, my dear, I do not see anything
else you can do; and as for the ‘stage fright,’ as it is called
among us, you would soon get that off.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime shook her head.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear, you do not yet know the plan I have for you.
I never thought—no one would ever think of a sudden grand
debut for <i>you</i>. Nothing but great genius, strong vocation,
and perfect self-possession on the part of the <i>debutante</i>,
would justify such a thing. No—the art must be acquired,
as other arts are—slowly. This is the plan I had for you,
and it entirely  precludes the possibility of a stage fright,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>since you are gradually inured to it. Do you understand me,
now?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, I do not!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, then, for instance—and to come to the point! The
opera season is about to commence, and the manager wishes
to engage about half a dozen young girls as chorus singers.
Will you be one? The lowest salary they ever give a chorus
singer is six dollars a week—that is four times as much as
you ever earned by the tedious needle. Will you consent?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Still Zuleime was silent.</p>

<p class='c006'>“After the opera season is over, I make no doubt that
your youth, beauty and grace, and your very fine voice, will
secure you a permanent engagement at an advanced salary.
Will you go with me to the manager to-morrow?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No,” said Zuleime, “I should not dare to go upon the
stage. I could not face an audience.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And you need not face them! You would be in a group
of young girls, and no one would notice you, except casually
as a part of the scenery. The attention of the audience is
taken up with the principal performers. Besides, no one will
know who you are. Your name need not appear upon the
bills. I will take every care of your feelings, if, indeed, you
can be sensible of them when hunger and cold are felt.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not like the life,” said Zuleime. “I had almost as
willingly starve.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The actress arose and rung the bell.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! it is nothing to me, Mrs. Fairfax. Do as you please.
I have no earthly interest to serve in persuading you to this
step,” she said, with the old, cross, querulous look on her
haggard face, and in her beautiful dark, gray eyes.</p>

<p class='c006'>Bertha came in and cleared away the table.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Knight walked up and down the room in a hasty.
irritated manner.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I wish I was at work again! I am sick of my holyday
already! Since I cannot afford to abandon this hateful art,
I wish I were always delving at it, and there came no pause
for self-recollection. I wish I were perpetually Queen
Katherine, Mrs. Haller, Isabella, Imogene, Lady Macbeth,
Bianca Fazio, and the others, going incessantly through the
circle like the earth through the signs of the zodiac. I wish
I were always somebody else, anybody else than poor Ida
Knight.” And she threw herself into a chair, glancing at
Zuleime with a strained, appealing, accusing look. But the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>wan face of the dying girl, with its hectic flush, smote the
rock in her heart, and she moved to her side and took her
hand and said, gently, though with the same tone and look
of querulous suffering. “It <i>is</i> a wretched life! I feel it so—only
it is not so bad as starving, and seeing your child starve.
My dear, it <i>is</i> something to me whether I persuade you to do
this thing or not. I cannot bear to see you suffer so. Your
necessities weigh upon my heart in addition to my own. And
really,” she added, with the same frowning, irritated look,
“really, I have such a burden of my own, that I grow restive
under a feather of anybody else’s.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Then do not take my sorrows on your shoulders, dear
lady; I can bear them myself, or die under their weight uncomplainingly.
Do not take my troubles to heart!” said
Zuleime, gently.</p>

<p class='c006'>The actress looked up with a sharp, rebuking glance, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“As if I could help it! You are not sincere when you
ask me to do so! No, the only way I can get your griefs off
my heart is to get them off your own. I must get you into
<i>living</i> circumstances. I must persuade you to go on the stage
with me. It is not a pleasant profession for a lady, I grant
you—neither is freezing or starving, and getting into debt
and being dunned and rebuffed, pleasant—but—” she added,
with a look of almost fierce self-assertion and self-defence—“neither
is it actually <i>sinful</i>, that I know of. It necessarily
transgresses no command of God with which I am acquainted.
One need not be a heathen because she is an actress. Mrs.
Siddons was a member in full communion with the Church
of England. The stage has its dangers, I grant you, but you
may safely pass through them, if you please. I have done so!
I was not born or brought up to that life, my dear; I was the
daughter of an English country curate—then a nursery governess—then
a traveling companion to an earl’s daughter—then
I accidentally met with my husband, and we married
from mutual affection. He was a tragedian—that is the way
in which I became an actress. Now I follow the histrionic
profession as the only means of living left open to me. I
have seen the dangers—nay, I have <i>felt</i> them. But nightly—no
matter how utterly wearied out with toil I may have
been, I have uttered two lines of sincere prayer, that God
would keep me from falling into deeper sin. And He has
kept me! Does that surprise you? God is the God of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>publican as well as of the Pharisee. Who dares excommunicate
me? What child of the Universal Father shall dare to
say that another is excluded from His love and care and protection?
Verily, the day of Judgment will be a day of
startling revelations. And many that are first shall be last,
and the last shall be first.” And then the actress fell into
silence, and her fine countenance lost that look of captious
self-defence, and settled into meditative earnestness.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime arose to go. Mrs. Knight took her hand, and
said, gently—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear, think over what I have proposed to you. If
you decide to accept my proposition, I will take every possible
care of you. You shall be as my own daughter. I
will shield you from all dangers. I will instruct you
in your art. And I will give you the freedom of my wardrobe.
Good-night. Will you kiss me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>And she drew Zuleime to her bosom. The poor girl
pressed her lips to those of the actress, and slipping through
the door, passed up in the dark and cold to her own
room.</p>

<p class='c006'>Ida went to bed, but the poor, generous, irritable woman
could not sleep for sympathy, for anxiety, and for the sound
of Zuleime’s racking cough. “She will never be able to
sing much, I am really afraid. But she shall be paid well
for dressing, and for making her beautiful face and form a
part of the pageantry—that I am determined upon, if I have
any influence with the management,” thought Ida, as she
sank to sleep.</p>

<p class='c006'>Rusty and threadbare clothing, broken shoes, cold, hunger,
and a suffering child, are forcible arguments, and
they seconded the persuasions of Ida with tremendous
power.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime yielded, and was carried down the current of fate
as easily, with as little resistance as the sapling beaten down
by the rain, uprooted by the wind, and carried off by the
flood, is whirled down the stream.</p>

<p class='c006'>It was the fatal night of the 26th of December, 1811,
the night of the burning of the Richmond Theatre, a night
ever to be remembered in the annals of that city, and ever
to be mourned in the hearts of her citizens. That evening
more than six hundred lovers of pleasure were gayly preparing
for the theatre; not dreaming, alas! that they also
were doomed to take fearful part in an awful tragedy—a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>tragedy unprecedented in the history of the stage. Before
eight o’clock, more than six hundred persons, from pleasant
city homes all around, assembled in the fated building; before
twelve o’clock, more than one hundred had perished
horribly in the flames! and the scarcely surviving five hundred,
many wounded, maimed, or burned, all despairingly
mourning the awful fate of nearest relatives and friends, returned
or were borne back to their desolate homes!</p>

<p class='c006'>That afternoon, unprophetic of doom as any of the others,
Zuleime and her friend were preparing to go on the stage.
Zuleime had no part to perform—she was as yet only an
attaché—and was to appear but in one scene, as one of a group
of villagers. She was engaged in fixing up a peasant dress,
consisting of a straw hat, black spencer, short gray skirt,
and striped stockings. Mrs. Knight was, as usual, doing two
things at once—arranging her costume and studying her part.
But the eyes of Ida often wandered towards Zuleime, as she
heard that hacking, racking cough, and she noticed with pain
the waning face. Yes! within a few days even, the thin
face had become perceptibly thinner, and the flushed cheek
burned with a darker crimson. “And she will make a sorry
looking peasant,” thought Ida; “a very sorry peasant, with
that delicate, spiritual, almost ærial face and form of hers.
How absurdly inappropriate are most of the affairs we get
up! Truly, our art is in the rear of all others. Now, this
evening, all go on as villagers—vulgar and refined—all
reduced to one level. Those coarse, brawny Miss Butchers,
and this fragile, delicate Zuleime, all peasants—very well
for the Miss Butchers, but for Zuleime! To-morrow evening
all go on as faries; excellent well for this ærial Zuleime, but
for the Miss Butchers! Well, our notions are fanciful as
arbitrary—and there may be peasants who have delicate,
white, semi-transparent fingers, and there may be faries with
large, flat feet, and great red hands, for aught we know.”
While Mrs. Knight silently cogitated, and covered her white
satin shoes anew, and studied her part, Zuleime worked on
also in silence, but too despairing, too exhausted, even
to think of the wayward fate which had brought her to this
pass.</p>

<p class='c006'>At about sunset their preparations were completed. Ida,
as usual, rang for her cup of coffee and her errand boy, and
packed up and sent away the costume for the evening. Then
she put her own little girl and Zuleime’s child to sleep together
<span class='pageno' id='Page_287'>287</span>in her bed, and got Bertha to promise to look in, in
the course of the evening, and see that all was safe. And
then poor Ida carefully wrapped Zuleime up in her own mantilla,
and wound her own furs around her neck, saying, in
answer to all expostulation—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Never mind <i>me</i>, my dear! I’ve got no cough. Haggard
as I look, I’m whit-leather! <i>You</i> must take care of
your poor little self.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And then they left the house, walking briskly through
the biting air, and crunching the crusted snow under their
quick footsteps. Though but little after sunset, owing to
the heavy clouds, it was almost dark when they hurried
along the streets. There was the usual number of foot-passengers
abroad, and once, as the slight figure of a man in a
military cloak swiftly hurried past, Mrs. Knight felt her arm
suddenly grasped with spasmodic force by her companion,
and turning around, she saw the face of Zuleime deadly
pale.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, what is the matter, my dear child?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nothing, nothing!” said Zuleime; “let us hurry on.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But you are trembling like an aspen leaf! You have
walked too far—you are not strong enough for this evening’s
work; let me take you home again.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, no, no, no! let’s go on!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, Zuleime—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, it is nothing—nothing when you hear it! I—I felt
the presence of one long dead! It was weak nerves, or fancy,
or perhaps the prescience of one on the confines of the unseen
world. Let us hasten on.”</p>

<p class='c006'>They hurried along. In the meantime, he who had passed
them, the slight man in the military cloak, walked on down
the square, suddenly stopped, muttered to himself, “Absurd!
impossible!” then went on again, again stopped, as by an
irresistible impulse, turned and rapidly retraced his steps,
after the two ladies in black, overtook them, was close behind
them, but not placing any confidence in what he termed
his own wild thoughts, he dared not accost or peep under the
bonnets of two reserved and closely veiled women. But he
kept them in sight until he saw them enter the side door of
the theatre. Then he asked a door-keeper—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Who are those?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Two of the ladies attached to the theatre,” replied the
man.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_288'>288</span>“Fool that I was!” exclaimed Frank Fairfax, as he
turned away.</p>

<p class='c006'>Captain Fairfax had reached Richmond that day at noon—too
late, by half a day, for the stage to L——, whither he
would have gone, if possible, on the wings of the wind. His
mother, warned by the newspapers, had been daily expecting
his arrival, and was prepared to receive him when he presented
himself. He had spent the whole afternoon with her
at Fairview House, and in the evening had walked out to
book his place in the next day’s stage for L——. It was
when hurrying along on that errand, that he passed so near
his wife, electrifying her with his unknown presence, and
being himself drawn to follow, and to hover near her all the
evening. For when he had turned from the theatre, and
hurried on and reached the stage office and secured his place,
finding out that the coach did not start till three o’clock the
next morning, he said to himself—</p>

<p class='c006'>“How on earth shall I contrive to forget some of these
miserable hours that must intervene before I can fly to my
wife? My mother’s ill-health obliges her to retire early to
bed. If I go back to Fairview House, I shall have the whole
mansion to myself. I will even go to the theatre, and see
if I can find out among the women there the particular
one whose air and gait reminded me so strongly of my Zuleime.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And so to the theatre he went. It was quite early, and
he was fortunate in securing a seat in the centre of the first
row of boxes, immediately in front of the stage. In the meantime,
Zuleime had been conducted by Mrs. Knight into the
theatre, and introduced into the common dressing-room of
the stock actresses. This was a large room, with a broad
shelf or dresser running around three sides of the walls, and
about four feet from the floor. This served as bureaus,
dressing-tables, and wash-stands for nine women, each of the
three sides being occupied by three, who equally divided the
shelf, each one having her hand-boxes under the shelf, and
her looking-glass on top of it, leaning against the wall,
and her wash-basin, jars of rouge, boxes of powder, pots of
pomatum, etc., standing around it. On introducing her
companion into this apartment, Mrs. Knight said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“All women belonging to the theatre use this as a common
dressing-room, except the ballet girls, who have one to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_289'>289</span>themselves, and the stars, who have separate and well furnished
rooms.”</p>

<p class='c006'>About half a dozen women were present now, each before
her own glass, with her own tallow candle, making her
toilet.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Who’s that, Knight, that you’ve got there?” asked a
coarse-featured, black-eyed girl, who always played the
hoyden, or the wit, and fondly believed herself a proficient
in the Rosalind and Beatrice line. “I say, Knight! is that
the young ‘lady?’” she repeated, turning around with a
little wad of raw cotton, dipped in carmine, between her
finger and thumb, and exhibiting a face in process of being
rejuvenated—namely, with one young and blooming cheek,
and one prematurely old and sallow.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, this is the young lady, Barry,” said Mrs. Knight,
very gravely, as she led her protégé off to her own corner of
the common dresser.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I think she might have sent her down with the ballet
girls, as she is really one of them,” grumbled a large, important
looking female, arranging a huge turban and curls
upon her head, at the farther end of the room. Two new
ideas besides that of the common dressing-room and the dressing
shelf in general, Zuleime had got—namely, first, that there
really was some very lofty notions of rank and exclusiveness
even among the members of the stock company of a second
rate theatre—secondly, that they really, after all, did not
differ much in that or any other respect from people she had
met in very high society, except, indeed, that they had the
odious habit of calling each other “Knight” or “Barry,”
as men do, without a prefix of any sort.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Knight dressed herself for her part, as she was to
appear in the early scene in the play, and then gave the use
of her toilet nook to Zuleime. But the cold walk through
the evening air, and the standing in the chilly dressing-room,
had so increased her cough, that Mrs. Knight went out and
sent a call-boy for opium, and administered a dose. It was
under the influence of that stupefier that Zuleime, leaning
on the arm of Mrs. Knight, entered that terra-incognita, the
green-room. It was a long room, papered, curtained, carpeted,
furnished with sofas and easy-chairs, and warmed by
a fine coal fire—upon the whole it differed in no other respect
than its motley crowd, from a large family parlor.
Mrs. Knight conducted her to a corner of the sofa nearest
<span class='pageno' id='Page_290'>290</span>the fire, and leaving her sitting there, obeyed the call-boy’s
summons, and went upon the stage. Composed into a dreamy
state by the opium, Zuleime sat there while the strange
scene, with its fantastical crowd, passed before her like the
phantasmagoria of a midnight dream. And all this time
Frank sat in the centre box of the front row, not seeing the
play enacting before him—not thinking of it, only seeing the
turnpike road to L——. Only thinking of the dearest
girl in the world, whom he should meet at the end of his
journey. Paper walls again!</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime remained in the corner of the sofa near the fire
in the green-room, not thinking at all, not even dreaming,
only conscious in a vague dreamy way, that a strange vision,
changing and changing like figures in the kaleidoscope, was
passing before her. She was scarcely aroused by Mrs.
Knight’s gentle voice, saying in her ear—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come, my dear, it is time for you to go on now. Come,
don’t be afraid. Bless you, you are nobody, you know. No
one will look at you. You will be only one of a group that
forms a sort of back-ground to the scene. Come, I will go
with you to the side entrance, where the others stand.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime obeyed mechanically, and was led, between various
walls of canvas, to a side entrance, at which were
grouped a number of persons in villagers’ costume.</p>

<p class='c006'>“There, just go on with the crowd, and stand there, that
is all you have to do,” whispered Mrs. Knight, as she left
her.</p>

<p class='c006'>And at the same moment the group moved on, carrying
the somnolent Zuleime with them, and she found herself in a
dazzling glare of light, and heard the deafening rant of a
stentorian lunged actor near her, and grew painfully conscious
of the many hundred eyes upon the scene, upon herself,
perhaps—and dared not raise her eyes an instant from
the floor, upon which, with a deeply burning cheek, they
were fixed. But suddenly an attraction—a fatality—I know
not what—but something stronger than her fear, stronger
than her will, drew her glance up to the centre box of the
front row, and her eyes met Frank’s eyes. Yes, there he
sat, gazing at her, astonished, fixed, spell-bound as by a
nightmare, without the power of moving or waking. She!
she too, gazed for a moment. She was not astonished at
seeing him there, any more than she would have been astonished
at <i>dreaming</i> of seeing him anywhere. It was all like
<span class='pageno' id='Page_291'>291</span>a wild dream, everything! It seemed not unnatural that he
should form a part of it. Only to her weakened and half-stupefied
brain, the <i>last, nearest</i> event was the most distinct—and
so, strangely, she did not think of his death or life,
but only of the reproach she had brought upon <i>him</i>, her
proud Frank, in appearing there! and covering her face with
both hands, she sank to her knees upon the floor.</p>

<p class='c006'>It was lucky the drop-curtain fell just then. It was lucky
the audience took that by-scene for a part of the play. But
to Zuleime it was still like a fever-dream, from which she
tried to wake. Like a dream the drop-curtain had rolled
down. But not like a dream was the rough seizure of her
arm by a girl who set her upon her feet, and said, in a not
unfriendly tone—</p>

<p class='c006'>“What did you do that for? <i>That</i> warn’t a part of <i>your</i>
part.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I—I—have,” began Zuleime, passing her hand back and
forth across her forehead, “I have been taking opium to stop
my cough. I—never was used to it, and I think it has bewildered
me a little; don’t <i>you</i> think so?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I think <i>something</i> has! Wake up, and try to listen to
what is going on. Mr. —— is going to sing now. Come
off.”</p>

<p class='c006'>As the girl led her away between the walls of canvas,
one of those insignificant incidents occurred, upon which
nevertheless the fate of hundreds sometimes hang. Away
among the back scenes through which they passed to reach
the green-room, there was a chandelier hanging flaring in the
draught. A boy seemed busy with it.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Hoist it up higher, sir, why don’t you?” exclaimed one
of the players, who happened to come up.</p>

<p class='c006'>“If I do, it will set fire to the scenes,” replied the boy.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Confound your insolence, do you think I would give you
the order, if there were the least danger! Do as you are
directed, sir.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The boy obeyed; and the scenery instantly took fire. The
chandelier was hastily drawn down; the alarm was given in
the rear of the stage, and a scene shifter directed to cut the
cords by which the combustible material was suspended. But
the man became panic struck and fled.</p>

<p class='c006'>The performers and their assistants in vain sought to take
down the scenery. The canvas was covered with a resinous
composition, and the draught of wind was strong; and Zuleime
<span class='pageno' id='Page_292'>292</span>and her companion were swiftly encircled by walls of
blazing canvas. The strong girl, terror-stricken, left her
weak companion and fled. And the poor invalid, forgotten
by all in the terror and confusion, sank down overpowered,
suffocated by the heat and smoke. All this had happened
in less than three minutes from the raising of the chandelier.</p>

<p class='c006'>And at this time one of the performers was playing near
the orchestra, and the greater part of the stage, with its appalling
danger, was fatally concealed from the audience by
the curtain. The flames spread with the rapidity of lightning;
and the first notice the audience had of their danger,
was the fire falling from the ceiling upon the head of the
performer. Even then many supposed it to be a part of the
play, and were for a short time restrained from flight by a
cry from the stage that there was no danger. But soon the
fire flashed in every part of the house with a rapidity horrible
and appalling. Then terror seized upon the hearts of
all, and the audience broke up in confusion. Those in the
pit escaped by the pit entrance, and were every one saved.
Those in the boxes, who, had they known it, might <i>at first</i>
have escaped by way of the pit, all turned and hurried towards
the only door of egress into the lobby. This door
was unfortunately hung to open on the inside. And this
circumstance was fatally overlooked by the frenzied crowd,
who pressed and pressed against the door, trying to push it
open, but really keeping it fast closed. The fire advanced
upon them, filling the house with suffocating smoke, and with
flame that seized the clothing of those behind, goading them
horribly to still more frantic pressure upon those before.
The most frightful uproar ensued; women shrieking, praying—men
groaning, expostulating; all crowding one upon
another, or rather hundreds upon hundreds, and all pressing
towards the door that would not yield. The pit was now a
lake of fire, darting out huge tongues of flame that wound
themselves around the forms of the hindmost, who fell
shriveled into the blaze. Then arose cries of horror, anguish
and despair—children crying for lost parents, and parents
calling in agony upon the names of missing children—for
in the fierce pushing and struggling for life, parties got
separated and families divided—children forced from the
parents, women from their protectors, and the weaker unconsciously
thrown down and trampled to death by the strong.
Many, half roasted, dropped into the burning pit; many
<span class='pageno' id='Page_293'>293</span>with their garments in flames, maddened by pain and terror,
threw themselves headlong from the windows, and met another
death. Many even chanced to save their lives in that
way at the cost of broken limbs. And at last the door
yielded; and as many as possible escaped that way; but to
what a life, alas! darkened forever by the memory of dearest
relatives and friends who perished in the fire. The whole
building was now in flames. In less than an hour all was
over. Naught remained but a heap of smoking ruins; and
around them the agonized crowd of those who lived and
raved—and around these again, an awe-struck, mourning
city.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_294'>294</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXV.<br> <span class='large'>“IN PALACE CHAMBERS.”</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>She sleeps: her breathings are not heard</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In palace chambers far apart,</div>
      <div class='line'>The fragrant tresses are not stirred</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That lie upon her charmed heart.</div>
      <div class='line'>She sleeps: on either side upswells</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The downy pillow lightly prest;</div>
      <div class='line'>She sleeps, nor dreams, but only dwells</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A perfect form in perfect rest.—<span class='sc'>Tennyson</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>The spell that bound Captain Fairfax, when he recognized
his wife upon the stage, was broken by the fall of the drop-curtain. He instantly left the boxes and hastened around
behind the scenes. After many baffled inquiries, and many
misdirections, he prosecuted his search alone, and at length
found her prostrate form. The wind had blown the smoke
and flame in another direction, and she lay there uninjured,
though insensible, and in extremity of danger. He raised
her, threw his cloak around her, ran with her into the fresh
air, called a hackney coach, placed her in it, jumped in and
took his seat by her side, drew her insensible form within his
arms, upon his bosom, and directed the coachman to drive
rapidly to Fairview House. As they passed swiftly through
the streets, the cry of “Fire! fire! fire!” rung through the
air, but he scarcely heard it. The rushing of crowds of
people in the opposite direction to that in which they were
driving, frequently impeded the progress of the carriage, but
he scarcely knew it. All his senses, all his thoughts, all his
emotions were absorbed in the gentle form that lay swooning
on his bosom. And “Oh! how <i>thin</i> she is! how <i>thin</i>, good
Heaven!” he groaned many times, as he held his arm around
the fragile waist, or felt the emaciated arm and hand, or
pressed his cheek against the wan face. “How thin she is,
good Heaven, how thin! Is this illness? Illness unto death,
perhaps! Drive fast, coachman! Fast!” He longed to lay
her at rest upon her bed, that he might perchance silence his
anxiety. And—“Faster, coachman! Faster!” he continued
<span class='pageno' id='Page_295'>295</span>to cry, whenever the thickening crowd arrested the progress
of the carriage.</p>

<p class='c006'>At length they reached Fairview House. He lifted her
out and bore her into the hall. His mother had retired to
rest long since; but he rang the bell violently, and said, to
the astonished servants, who came at the summons—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Go instantly and prepare a room for my wife. I have
but just saved her from the burning theatre!” The wonder-struck
maids hurried to obey. “Stop! Don’t disturb your
mistress, on your lives,” he said, and with this warning, dismissed
them. To one of the men present, he exclaimed,
“Run instantly to Doctor Cummings, and ask him to hurry
hither.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The man disappeared to obey. And during the issuing of
these orders, Frank Fairfax was sitting on the sofa, sustaining
the fainting form of his wife with one arm, while with
the other hand he unlaced the velvet boddice. Presently one
of the maids returned and announced that the room was
ready. And Frank raised and carried his precious burden
up stairs, into a pleasant front chamber, and laid her on a
bed. Then, with the assistance of one of the women, he got
off the stage dress, and supplied its place with one of his
mother’s white wrappers, brought for the purpose by one of
the maids.</p>

<p class='c006'>He had scarcely done this, when the chamber door opened,
and old Mrs. Fairfax entered, roused up by the noise in and
outside the house. She came in, wrapped in a flannel dressing-gown,
and saying, anxiously—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear Frank! they tell me that the Richmond Theatre
is on fire. I am so grateful that you are not there. Ah
what is this? Who is that?” she asked, perceiving the form
of Zuleime upon the bed, and advancing towards it. “Some
sufferer you have saved from the fire, my dear Frank? God
bless your brave, kind heart, my dear boy. But you should
not have brought her in here—or you should not be here
yourself. Retire, and leave the lady to the care of myself
and my women,” concluded the lady, gravely.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dearest mother, yes! She is a sufferer I have saved from
the fire! a most beloved sufferer! my wife! my wife! Dearest
mother, I cannot leave her! I have a <i>right</i> to stay here.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Here followed a wild, hasty disclosure of his imprudent
marriage, kept secret up to that moment. And then amid
the grief and surprise of Mrs. Fairfax, he also learned the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_296'>296</span>fact of Mr. Clifton’s death, and of Zuleime’s disappearance
and suspected suicide. In bitter self-reproach, Frank had
made his confession—in deepest sorrow, he heard his mother’s
revelations.</p>

<p class='c006'>“How much she must have suffered! Good Heaven! how
much she must have suffered!” he exclaimed. Then almost
madly he cried, “Mother! look at her! Look at her! Oh,
tell me, do you think she can live?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Fairfax had been all this time chafing her temples
with cologne, while the two maids rubbed her hands and feet.
But up to this instant she had given no signs of recovery,
or of consciousness. And the old lady shook her head
mournfully, and plunged Frank into deeper despair. They
persevered in their efforts for half an hour longer, and then
she sighed and opened her eyes. Her husband was bending
over her. She met his eyes, and smiled faintly in recognition,
without astonishment, and without joy—indeed she was
too feeble for either—and murmuring, “Dearest Frank,”
she sank away again, fainting, they supposed, until her low
breathing revealed that she slept the sleep of utter prostration.
And how changed was now that countenance. The
look of weariness, care and sorrow had vanished, and the
sweet, wan face wore the easy, confiding air of infancy; and
even in sleep, she must have felt the shelter of protecting love
around her, for often with closed eyes she smiled, as in delighted
visions! All night they watched beside her bed while
she slept. In the morning the doctor arrived. He had been
absent all night, by the couch of one who had been severely
burned at the theatre, and that accounted for his failure to
come before morning; now, however, he stood beside the
patient with grave and thoughtful brow.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Doctor, for Heaven’s sake give me some hope of her.
Tell me something about her, at least! Is she ill?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“She is very ill,” replied the physician.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I cannot believe it! I will not believe it! See how
sweetly she sleeps! how comfortably! how free from suffering!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes—but, my dear Captain Fairfax, there would be more
hope if there were more suffering—however, the case may be
much more favorable than it appears to me now; I cannot
fully judge of it until she wakes.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Allow me to arouse her, then! Nay, I wish to do it!
I have not spoken to her yet! Let me wake her now!”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_297'>297</span>“By no means! It might prove fatal. Indeed, you must
be very careful. Her life hangs by a thread. Sleep will do
her more good now than anything else. When she awakes
naturally, you may send for me at once.” And so saying,
the doctor took leave, without even writing a prescription.</p>

<p class='c006'>Soon after he left the house she opened her eyes again,
and seeing Frank, smiled faintly, and murmured—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My own—my dearest—dearest husband.” And in an
instant her senses seemed swallowed up again in sleep, which
lasted half an hour, at the end of which she awoke again, and
looked around in uneasiness, and breathed, half aloud,—“My
child—my baby—my little Fan—” and then sank away
again, as if she were too feeble to retain her hold on consciousness.</p>

<p class='c006'>“What is she talking about, dear mother?” inquired
Frank, in the extremity of anxiety, when he heard her words.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Fairfax shook her head, and said she did not know.
But the woman who waited in the chamber came forward,
and said that if her mistress would excuse her interfering,
<i>she</i> would tell them what the young lady meant.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Speak on, then, at once, in the name of the Lord!” exclaimed
Frank, impatiently.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Fairfax endorsed his order. And then the woman
informed her mistress that she had known the sick young lady
all the winter by sight—that she had been there at the house
to ask for sewing—that she took in sewing for a living—that
she lodged at the cabinet-maker’s, over the way—and that
she had a little girl almost two years old, who was no doubt
at the cabinet-maker’s now, which she supposed was what had
made the mother look around, and inquire so anxiously.</p>

<p class='c006'>The woman’s story was scarcely over before Captain Fairfax
seized his hat, and hurried from the room. As soon as
he was gone, Mrs. Fairfax called the woman up before her,
and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nelly, you heard your master tell me of his marriage
with this young lady?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, madam.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I need not tell you that it is my will that there be no
kitchen gossip about this matter. This young lady—once
Miss Zuleime Clifton, is now, and has been for nearly three
years past, Mrs. Francis Fairfax, the wife of my son, and is
also your own young mistress. You understand?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, madam.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_298'>298</span>“Then let there be no idle conversation about this marriage,
if you would avoid my severest displeasure.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Farther colloquy was arrested by the hurried entrance of
Captain Fairfax, bringing his little wee girl in his arms. Mrs.
Fairfax immediately arose to take her from him, but the
child’s quick eyes had recognized her mother lying on the
bed, and she began to clap her hands and call—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mamma! mamma!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank held her closely, and tried to still her joyful, eager
cries, but the magical sound of her child’s voice had already
awakened the sleeper, and she opened her eyes, and seeing
the babe in its father’s arms, smiled a feeble smile of content,
and fell away again into oblivion.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Fairfax had the doctor summoned again, and told him
that if he wished to see her daughter-in-law awake, he must
remain at her bedside, for that she only awoke to relapse
instantly into slumber.</p>

<p class='c006'>The physician then took his seat by the bedside of his
patient, and requested all except a maid-servant to leave the
chamber.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Fairfax and Frank went out, taking the little girl with
them, and leaving the doctor with the invalid.</p>

<p class='c006'>After the lapse of an hour, the physician came out and
went down stairs. Captain Fairfax was waiting for him in
the hall, and drew him into the parlor, anxiously requesting
to know his opinion. Perhaps he was really sanguine, and
hoped the doctor’s verdict might set his fears at rest. At
any rate he insisted upon knowing the precise state of the
case. The doctor gravely motioned him to sit down, and then
took a seat himself. He said that his patient was not sinking
so much under any local disease as under a general atrophy,
for which, considering <i>the circumstances</i>, he could not possibly
account—<i>for</i>, if he had met precisely such a case in the very
lowest walks of life, he should at once have declared that the
patient had been brought to this state by the want of proper
and sufficient food—that, in short, she was dying of a slow
starvation. A deep groan broke from the lips of Francis
Fairfax, and he started up, covered his face with his hands,
and walked the floor in rapid strides. Suddenly he stopped
before the physician, with a countenance convulsed with grief
and remorse, with all pride and hesitation gone, and exclaimed,
in thrilling tones—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Doctor! suppose her case—my wife’s case had been as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_299'>299</span>you would have surmised, finding it any where else!—suppose
that for months past she has been starving—Great God—<i>starving</i>!—Now
that the cause of this utter failure of the
vital powers is removed—now that she has every thing that
wealth, that the most devoted affection can give her, may she
not recruit and live? Oh! tell me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The physician answered sternly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not know, sir! This tampering with the laws of
life—this pursuing it to the very edge of death is not safe.
Is she inclined to take food at all?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No—only a little gruel, and that mechanically, without
appetite.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Exactly—a few days fasting makes one ravenous, but a
long, partial starvation so exhausts the victim, that he loses
all inclination for food, as well as all power to assimilate it.”
The doctor spoke severely.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Sir! I forgive your sternness and your evident suspicions,
perhaps they are partially just. If they were otherwise,
God knows I am so stricken that I have scarcely manhood
enough left to resent them—but oh! tell me—do not
evade the question. Can she be restored? and how?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Captain Fairfax, I told you that she was sinking, not so
much under any local disorder as under general atrophy—and
yet she <i>has</i> a local disease superinduced by this same
slow starvation. Upon examination by the stethoscope, I
find tubercles forming upon the left lung. There is also
morbid action of the heart. You know how it is with phthisis!
With proper care, and under favorable circumstances, the
patient may live for years, perhaps for many years, and die
at length in old age of something else.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, <i>no</i> care, <i>no</i> pains—nothing that money—nothing
that love can do, shall be wanting! There is hope?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I dare not say there is <i>much</i> hope in this instance. This
atrophy is a very unfavorable thing—all our hope is in being
able to save the digestive functions. I have left a prescription,
with written directions, above stairs.” The doctor
took his hat, and saying that he would see the invalid again
in the afternoon, departed.</p>

<p class='c006'>“All alike! all alike! They sway from right to left,
raising one’s hopes, and then rousing their fears! He lies!
he lies! It is not so! she is in no danger! Great God
she must not die! she shall not!” So unjustly, wildly, sinfully
Frank Fairfax talked, walking distractedly up and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_300'>300</span>down the floor, convulsed by grief, remorse and fear for
her he loved so strongly, and felt he had wronged so greatly.
He dared not seek her bedside now in his excited state—he
rushed into his library, locked the door, and gave himself up
to all the power of remorse.</p>

<p class='c006'>In the afternoon he sought the sick room again. And the
deep, sweet peace that pervaded the apartment fell like a
soothing spell upon his excited nerves. The front windows
were open, for the day was very fine, and the fresh air and the
sunshine came in together, with the cheerful view of the
expanse of water, and the wooded hills across James River.
The coolness of the air was sufficiently tempered by a glowing
coal fire in the grate. Zuleime lay raised up with pillows
on the bed, and upon the counterpane by her sat her little
girl. The face of the youthful mother seemed as soft, as
feeble, and as free of care and sorrow as that of the infant
herself. On seeing Frank enter, she smiled a gentle, pleased,
childish smile, and feebly moved her hand towards him. He
went to her, at first successfully repressing all his strong
emotions, and kissed her very gently, but then sank upon
his knees, and dropping his face upon her hand, burst into
tears, and wept passionately. Her other hand wandered
playfully through his curls, and she said, gently—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Don’t weep, Frank, please don’t—indeed I am happy—it
is so nice to be here—don’t weep.”</p>

<p class='c006'>But when men weep and sob, it is no passing shower, like
the easily shed tears of women, but a great gust, shaking all
the nature. So it was a long time before Frank mastered
his emotion. When he recovered his composure, and arose
and sat by her side and looked at her, he found that the
hectic fever burned crimson on her cheeks, and that her
brilliant eyes wandered about deliriously. And he knew
that he had harmed her again. And soon she began to talk
at random, babbling childishly, delightfully, about White
Cliffs, and the forest walks, and the garden. And she addressed
her father and sister, as if they were present. And
very lovingly she spoke to Catherine; or, coming nearer to
the present moment, talked with Ida about her feminine
shrinking from appearing upon the stage. Frank listened in
the deepest trouble, and in the wandering of her mind he
learned much that had transpired at White Cliffs, a great deal
that had occurred since her flight thence, and <i>all</i> that he
ought to have known.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span>When the physician arrived in the evening, he instituted
strict inquiries, and discovered the cause of her high fever.
Then he rebuked the indiscretion of her friends, and leaving
fresh prescriptions, with peremptory orders that the deepest
quiet should be preserved, departed. Her fever unabated
raged all night. In the morning it went off.</p>

<p class='c006'>Captain Fairfax would not permit himself to enter her
room again until he had obtained the power of perfect self-control.
At about eleven o’clock he went in. The crimson
curtains of the windows were drawn aside, and the room was
light and cheerful. The white muslin drapery of the bedstead
was festooned, and revealed the fair invalid reclining there,
wan, placid, child-like as ever. She welcomed her husband
with the same soft, faint smile. And he went and sat by her
side, and crushing down all strong emotions, took her hand,
and spoke to her calmly and pleasantly, inquiring how she
felt.</p>

<p class='c006'>“So well—it is so nice to be here,” she answered simply.
And she lay there looking at him contentedly, smiling softly,
answering vaguely when he spoke to her; but never asking
any question; or making any comment; or volunteering any
speech whatever. This pained him more than all—for he
knew that mind as well as body was sinking—lapsing away
into a sort of dreamy, happy fatuity. And all attempts to
rouse her from that state only threw her into fever, and
often into delirium.</p>

<p class='c006'>One day, with a view to interest without exciting her, he
inquired—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dearest, is there any one you would like to see?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes—Ida,” she said.</p>

<p class='c006'>“And who is Ida, love?” asked Frank, very cautiously
and gently, for he felt as if he were running the risk of
hurting her again.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ida! La! don’t you know? She was so good to me,”
she replied, with a pitying smile.</p>

<p class='c006'>Captain Fairfax left the room, and at a venture went over
to inquire at the cabinet-maker’s. And he soon returned,
accompanied by Mrs. Knight. Zuleime received her visitor
without any emotion whatever; smiling gently, and holding
out her hand, and afterwards lying and silently and pleasantly
watching her as she sat by the bed. And when she arose to
leave, she put up her lips for a kiss. Poor Ida pressed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_302'>302</span>those lips very gently, and then quietly left the room: but
as soon as she had passed the door, burst into tears.</p>

<p class='c006'>Every day Zuleime’s mind flowed away. Every day she
became more infantile in weakness and simplicity. One day
she made known a wish—the only one she had ever voluntarily
expressed. It was affecting from its utter childishness.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Frank, you and your mother are rich. I want
you to bring Ida and her child home to live here, so that she
may not have to go on the stage any more.” She reverted
to this subject so frequently, repeating this, the only wish
she had ever expressed, so often and earnestly, that her husband
felt strongly inclined to gratify her desire, strange as
it really was. He consulted his mother, and they concluded
that it might be done, in a measure. Then they told her
that it should be as she wished; that Ida and her child should
come and live with them, if she would. Captain Fairfax
went again to the cabinet-maker’s, saw the poor actress, and
told her that his wife needed a female companion to sit with
her a portion of the day, and that she would hear of no one
for the post but her old friend, Mrs. Knight, if Mrs. Knight
would come and name her own salary. And when he had
let slip that last word, he turned away his face with his forehead
burning under the astonished, indignant gaze of those
proud, dark eyes of Ida’s, as she said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Captain Fairfax, I receive a ‘salary’ in the regular line
of my profession, when I am engaged in it; as Captain
Fairfax also receives pay for his military services—but as he
would spurn all offers of pecuniary remuneration for attentions
to a wounded comrade, so should I decline all compensation
for attentions to a sick neighbor; and I am most
surprised that you should have made such a proposal to me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>So was Captain Fairfax himself really surprised that he
should have been betrayed into such an error, as to forget
that the very profession of the poor tragic actress really fostered
a morbid pride. Her phrases might have been a little
stilted after the manner of the stage, but the sentiments were
really true and high, and worthy of all consideration. So Captain
Fairfax apologized, as he best could, and arose to take
his leave. Then she said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do not quite misunderstand me. I am very anxious to
do all in my power to serve Mrs. Fairfax, for I love her
dearly! I am willing to devote all my time, night and day,
to her service, for the affection I bear her. And I can do it
<span class='pageno' id='Page_303'>303</span>now; for since the burning of the theatre I have been disengaged.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Captain Fairfax replied by expressing his grateful acknowledgments
of her kindness, and begging her to come
over frequently to see his wife. Then he took leave indeed
and returned home, with the determination to ask his mother
to go and invite Mrs. Knight to come and spend a few weeks
with her friend at Fairview House. Old Mrs. Fairfax had
quite a struggle with her Virginian pride and prejudices, before
she could make up her mind to ask an actress to become
her guest, but benevolence conquered, and as whatever she
once resolved upon doing she did graciously and gracefully,
she called upon Mrs. Knight, and gave her the invitation in
a manner that insured its acceptance. Ida, with her little
girl, came over the next day. And the old lady felt fully
rewarded for her self-conquest, when she saw the smile of
childish delight with which the gentle patient greeted her
poor friend.</p>

<p class='c006'>“See, Ida,” murmured Zuleime, as her visitor seated herself
at the bedside, “see, Ida, we are both now in the nice
house we used to look at so longingly from our poor, back
windows.” She paused from weakness, and then said, “I
used to call it my <i>Heaven</i>, you know! Ah, I did not know
it was really <i>my</i> Heaven. I did not know Frank had ever
lived here—how strange!” She paused again, but this time
from thought, as well as from exhaustion, and then she took
breath and said again, “I never could make it out clearly
and it makes my head ache to try. But see, dear Ida. Look
at the crimson window-curtains—don’t you know they are
the very same crimson curtains that used to throw the warm,
red glow across the snow, when we used to sit at the back
window and watch them, and almost envy the people that
lived here?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, I know, but do not talk too much, darling.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I won’t—but it is so strange. There, look through the
windows, you can see our little, narrow, pinched, back windows,
with their check curtains, as plainly from here, as we
used to see these from there. We did not think we should
ever get here to live, did we?—how strange!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Her talk, rambling as it was, revealed one hopeful fact—that
her mind was at length waking up. Frank saw it with
joy. Day by day, from this time, her intellect seemed to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_304'>304</span>clear and strengthen. Frank spoke of this to the doctor,
who heard him with great gravity, and without comment.</p>

<p class='c006'>As winter advanced towards spring, her mind “brightened
more and more towards the perfect day.” She had gleaned,
partly from scraps of speech carelessly dropped, and partly
by inquiry, the history of Frank’s captivity among the Shoshonowas,
that first originated the report of his death—and
she was very gradually brought to understand the true position
of affairs—so gradually through so many weeks, that
the knowledge may be said rather to have slowly grown upon
her. But as her mind cleared and strengthened, her heart
became saddened and depressed. She understood too much
now for her happiness. She no longer lay and watched her
husband with a delighted smile as he sat beside her bed—no,
but rather with a look of earnest, mournful love. Well
she might. Frank was sad enough—he thought his heart
was breaking.</p>

<p class='c006'>One day, while lying propped up by pillows, she heard the
name of Mrs. Georgia Clifton mentioned.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Is she in the city?” inquired she.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, love,” replied her husband.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Send for her to come and see me—I <i>must</i> see her.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Captain Fairfax arose and left the room immediately, and
instead of sending a servant, went himself to bring Mrs.
Georgia. For so great was his desire to gratify promptly
every wish of his loved one’s heart, that he seldom trusted
the execution of them to any but himself, lest they should
fail or be delayed. It was well in this instance, at least,
that he went in person. A servant could not have effected
the purpose. The conscience-stricken Georgia would not
have ventured to come. Even when unannounced, by reason
of his haste, Captain Fairfax entered her parlor, the
beauty turned deadly pale, under the fear of detected guilt.
But when she saw his calm, kind manner, and heard him entreat,
as a favor, that she would put on her bonnet immediately,
and return with him to see his wife, who was
extremely ill at Fairview, the sorceress was reassured, and
with her usual bewitching grace consented to accompany
him.</p>

<p class='c006'>When they arrived at Fairview House, and were shown
up into the sick chamber, the patient smiled and held out her
hands. Georgia hastened towards her, and seized both hands,
covering them with kisses, and making a show of great emotion.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_305'>305</span>Zuleime raised her feeble voice, and begged all to go
out of the room, and leave her alone with her visitor. And
when every one had departed, and the door was closed, she
said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Sit down, please, here by my bedside.” Mrs. Georgia
took the nurse’s arm-chair. “Dear Georgia,” she said,
gently taking both her hands, and looking kindly in her face,
“I sent for you, because I thought you must be so unhappy
about what you have unintentionally caused me to suffer.
And I wished to tell you not to remember it in bitterness
any more. Oh! I grieve so much at the memory of what I
have made my dear father suffer, that I can feel for others
who are tortured by remorse, and I would not, for the whole
world, that any one should mourn for what they have caused
me to suffer. So, dear Georgia, I acquit you of all blame,
from the bottom of my heart, indeed I do—and I pray that
God may make you happier than <i>I</i> have ever been. And I
will never, never drop a hint, by which any one shall suspect—I
mean I will never let fall a word to any one, that
shall injure you, Georgia. I would not die and bequeath
you so bitter a legacy as an enemy. Though I knew you
would not come and ask me, I sent for you to assure you of
this, Georgia, and to reconcile myself with you, that we might
be friends before I die. And now, God bless you! Kiss me,
and say good-bye, for my fever is rising.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And she held up her lips. Georgia was weeping.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Zuleime, my dear child, why don’t you call me mamma,
as heretofore?” she asked.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, don’t you know long ago you told me not to do it.
But I will, if you wish it, now. Kiss me, dear mamma.
There, now, go and be at peace.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Georgia hurried from the room. They never met again.</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime revived slightly when the spring opened. She
had heard that her sister Carolyn had nearly recovered her
health, and was just about to set out on her voyage home.
And two secret wishes the poor girl indulged: once more to
visit White Cliffs, and to live to see her only sister again.
But she kept them to herself in the fear of giving Frank
trouble, for she knew that he would try to move Heaven and
earth to please her, and deeply grieve if he should fail. She
concealed her wants, but they were discovered by him who
watched day and night to anticipate her wishes. And Captain
Fairfax called upon the family physician, and consulted
<span class='pageno' id='Page_306'>306</span>him upon the possibility of taking Zuleime to White Cliffs,
as soon as the spring weather should be permanently settled.
The physician’s opinion was highly favorable to his wishes.
He said that she might be removed by easy stages to the
country, and that if proper care and attention were bestowed,
the journey and the change of air would probably be found
very beneficial to her health. Captain Fairfax hastened
home to cheer his wife with the news. And she was gladdened
by it. She caught both his hands and kissed them,
and held them to her face, and looking at him fondly, said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Frank! dearest Frank! you try to perform miracles
for me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The same night, Captain Fairfax wrote to Mrs. Clifton, of
Hardbargain, to go over to White Cliffs and prepare to receive
the invalid. And from that day Zuleime revived, and
by the first of June was so much better, as to be able to be
placed in the comfortable family carriage, in which, sometimes
reclining upon downy cushions, sometimes resting upon
the bosom of her husband, and supported by his arms, she
traveled by easy stages to White Cliffs. They reached the
end of their journey upon the afternoon of the third day.
Mrs. Clifton and Catherine were there to receive them. Zuleime
was lifted out of the carriage, very much exhausted.
Yet, as she was gently carried through the yard, her eyes
roved gladly over all the dear familiar scene—over mountains,
fields and forests, clothed now in the luxuriant foliage
of June—and all her countenance lighted up with joy, and
she exclaimed many times in tones of profound gratitude—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Thank God! oh, thank God!”</p>

<p class='c006'>She was carried up stairs, and put to bed at once. And
Catherine was stationed to watch her slumbers, while Mrs.
Clifton remained below to attend to the comfort of the tired
travelers. But Zuleime frequently awoke with a joyful start
and recollection; and once she put her hand in that of Kate,
and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Kate! blessed Kate! I am so glad to see you
again! And so very glad to be <i>home</i> again! Sweet Sister
of Mercy! will you stay and nurse <i>me</i> also? I think you
could almost cure me! Sweet, unprofessed nun, will you
stay and nurse me, too?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, dear Zuleime, I will stay as long as you want me.
But shut those tired eyes, love, and go to sleep.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, seal each eyelid down with a kiss, dear Kate, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_307'>307</span>then they will stay closed. And hold my hand as I go to
sleep—I feel so safe when some one I love holds my hand
while I slumber. I feel as if they could keep me in life while
I slept, for you must know, dear Kate, that my heart has a
morbid action, and some of these days I shall fall asleep
lightly as now, but never awake again.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Zuleime, you must not indulge such fancies.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“They are not fancies, they are realities. I do not deceive
myself and trifle with you, Kate. Do not you deceive
me or trifle with me, either. There are secrets of life and
death known only to the dying. Such a secret is mine. I
know that I shall lightly drop asleep some day, and never
wake again—that is the reason I wish some one I love to kiss
my eyelids down, and to hold my hand while I slumber.”
The words, the manner of the dying girl carried deep conviction
to the heart of Catherine, and—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! Zuleime,” she said, “lean upon the failing arm
of flesh if you will, but, oh, seek! seek the support of
that Almighty arm that can sustain you in life and in death!
Seek that!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I will—I wish to do it, or rather you, the handmaid of
the Lord, shall bear me up in your faithful hands, and lay
me within that Arm of Strength. I wished this long ago,
but, oh, my dear husband and his good mother! they thought
only of restoring me to health, and I could think of nothing
but of trying to live for them, until very lately, when it was
revealed to me that I should surely die. I have never yet
told Frank anything about this. I feared it would distress
him too much; but the lone knowledge troubled me. I
needed to tell some one of it, some dear one with whom I
could converse confidentially, and who should be wise enough
to counsel me, patient enough to bear with me, courageous
enough to face the result, and who, besides, would not be too
greatly distressed, as my dear husband would. And so,
sweet Kate, I have told you. Will you now stay with me
and nurse me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, dear Zuleime, as long as you wish me to do so; but
now, darling, if I am to be your nurse, you must mind what
I have to say to you, and go to sleep.” Catherine bent over
her, and kissed her eyelids down upon the weary eyes, and
held her hand until she fell asleep. At night, Captain Fairfax
relieved her watch.</p>

<p class='c006'>The next morning when Catherine entered the room she
<span class='pageno' id='Page_308'>308</span>sat down by the side of the bed, and told her that she had
good news to tell, that they had received a letter from Major
Clifton, that Carolyn’s health was improving, and that they
had embarked, or had purposed to embark upon the first of
May, and expected to reach home as soon as the middle of
June. Zuleime clasped her hands in fervent thanksgiving
while she listened, and when her friend ceased to speak, she
exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“In two weeks she will be here—oh! that I may live to
see it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate bade her be of good cheer and hope; and when
Catherine told any one to hope, her words and looks and
manner all inspired the feeling. Zuleime was so recovered
and enlivened as to be able to be lifted from her bed and
placed in the easy-chair by the open window, that looked out
upon the mountain scenery, all glorious in the light of summer
morning. Old Mrs. Fairfax, and Mrs. Clifton of Hardbargain,
came in to pay her a visit, bringing her little girl
with them. As for Captain Fairfax, he seldom left her side.
All congratulated the invalid upon her improved health and
spirits, and hoped and foretold great results from her residence
in the country, and projected many pleasant drives,
when she should be a little rested from the fatigue of her
journey. Then they talked of Major Clifton and Carolyn’s
expected arrival, and laid out extensive plans of amusement
to be put in execution when they should come, by which time
Zuleime also would be considerably restored. Thus cheerfully,
hopefully they talked. And the dying one listened
sweetly; but when she found herself alone again with Kate,
she said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I let them talk, Catherine, for if they <i>really</i> have any
hopes of my recovery, I do not wish to destroy those hopes
by telling what I know, and if they only talk so to cheer me,
why even then I do not like to make them sad by not seeming
to believe them. And yet, and yet, perhaps I ought to
tell Frank; perhaps I will!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine devoted herself to the service of the invalid,
laboring zealously for her spiritual as for her bodily good,
indeed, the girl glided into the performance of such duties as
naturally as if she felt herself especially called to the work,
born for the work. The selfish wish for her own comfort and
pleasure had never been very strong in the heart of Catherine;
and within the last two years it seemed to have expired.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_309'>309</span>She lived only for the good of others. She had grown
to believe that there was no individual happiness for herself,
except in the service of others. Young hope had died out in
her heart, she was resigned. She adopted the submissive
words of Mary and her Son, and said, within her heart, in
deepest sincerity—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Behold, the handmaid of the Lord.” “Not my will, but
Thine, oh God.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Zuleime was lifted from the bed to the easy-chair every
morning, and calmly and profoundly the invalid enjoyed those
glorious summer mornings. But she was failing very fast.
She grew very anxious for the coming of her sister; but, unwilling
to disturb any one by her anxiety, she confided it
only to Kate. They had not heard from Major Clifton since
the letter announcing his expected embarkation. They justly
supposed him to be on his voyage home, accompanied by
Carolyn, and were now daily looking for a letter announcing
their landing, and their speedy arrival home. The middle of
June passed, and no letter had come. The first of July arrived,
but brought no news of the voyagers.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, if they had come when they promised, they might
have seen me before I died—but I cannot hold out much
longer, Kate. I feel as if the longing to meet Carolyn again
had kept me up as by the excitement of expectation, but,
Kate, I feel very weary, very much inclined to droop, yet
know if I should give way I should drop into the arms of
Death. I wish they would come. I want to see Carolyn. I
want to see her happiness with my own eyes. And then it
is not for myself—for if I die before she comes, Carolyn will
take it very much to heart to know that her poor little sister
had been found and had died—so inopportunely, just before
she had got home. I wish they would come.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The second week in July arrived—with three days of cloud,
and rain, and gloom. Zuleime could not leave her bed for
her favorite seat at the window, but Catherine served her
with more love and zeal than ever. The family had as yet
received no news of the travelers, and though they daily
grew more anxious, there was no foreboding in their anxiety.
Sea-voyages at that day were of such uncertain length. All
was no doubt well.</p>

<p class='c006'>But on the evening of the second rainy day, while Captain
Fairfax and Catherine sat with Zuleime, and all the other
members of the family were assembled in the summer saloon,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_310'>310</span>the door of the latter was quietly opened, and Major Clifton
stood before the astonished circle. His mother advanced to
meet and welcome him. Then she noticed—and they all noticed,
that he was clothed in deep mourning. That told the
tale! They welcomed him with affectionate sympathy, but
no one asked a question. Nor did he as yet volunteer a word
of his sorrow’s history. It was only the next day that his
mother learned from him how deceptive was the seeming convalescence
of his wife—how from the day of their embarkation
her strength declined—how for weeks their hearts fluctuated
between hope and fear, as with the changes of her
flattering disease she seemed better or worse—how when all
thought of life was gone, but one earthly hope possessed her
soul—to die <i>at home</i>;—of the waning of that last hope—of
the death at sea—and, finally, of the lone grave in the ocean
isle, where slept the mortal remains of the haughtiest beauty
that ever trod the halls of a palace.</p>

<p class='c006'>They would willingly have concealed the fact of her sister’s
decease from the dying girl—no one ventured to tell
her of the event—they fondly believed that she remained in
ignorance of it. But she knew it all from what she saw and
heard. She knew that Major Clifton had returned alone, and
she surmised the rest from the sad and tearful faces of all
around her. Yes, she knew it all, as well as any could have
made her know it, and in the tender thoughtfulness of her
soul, she would not distress any by asking them questions
relating to the last moment. But from this hour she sank
rapidly. She could no longer be lifted from her bed without
fainting. In deep trouble, Captain Fairfax summoned the
old family physician. When he came, and saw the patient,
his opinion was decidedly formed, and truthfully given—he
said that the Richmond physician had evidently abandoned
the case as hopeless, when he sent her home to die—that her
life had probably been prolonged by her residence in the
country—but that nothing could have saved her—and that
she had now not many days to live. Captain Fairfax was
almost mad with grief—and all the self-possession and self-control
that he had learned in the long attendance upon her
sick bed well nigh deserted him. It was many hours before
he was sufficiently composed to take his usual place by her
bedside, and then his agonized countenance betrayed the extent
of his suffering. Catherine was sitting by her when he
entered. Zuleime raised her dying eyes, and looking at him,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_311'>311</span>tenderly beckoned him to approach. Then she motioned
Catherine to leave her. When they were alone—she laid her
hand within his own, and looking at him with unutterable
love, said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Frank—dearest Frank—I see that you know it all
at last. Dearest Frank, I have known it a long time. Now
let us talk freely and confidentially about it—let there be no
more of that painful mist between us as when you thought only
of my restoration to health, and I knew I was sinking fast
into the grave.” She paused a moment, and then said—“I
want so much to comfort you. I have something to say to
you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>His fingers closed upon her hand convulsively. He choked
down his strong, rising emotion, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do not try to talk, love, the effort will exhaust your
strength.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No—no, it will not. I am not so weak as I was when
you came in. Dearest Frank, when you sit by me, and hold
my hand, new life seems to run up my feeble veins, and I
feel stronger. Let me talk, love. Ah! do not look so sad!
It is better as it is, love. It is better I should go. I have
spoiled my own life, and should spoil yours if I should live.
Ah, it is a dreadful thing to occasion the death of any one!
it is an awful thing to cause the death of a father. I caused
the death of the most loving father that ever lived. And
dearest Frank! though in the struggle, in the bitterness of
poverty, in the pangs of hunger and of cold, and in the pain
and debility of illness, the feeling of compunction has been
diverted, yet—had health returned with prosperity—remorse
would then have darkened all my life; and in ruining my
happiness, would have marred yours. Yes! I have spoiled
my own life. It is well that I should not live to spoil yours,
dearest Frank! I talk not of expiation <i>now</i>. Nothing that
I could do or suffer, would alter the irrevocable past. We
have all one Redeemer—Jesus Christ the Righteous. So I
talk not of expiating the past; though perhaps if any heart
is hardened against me, my early death may soften it. But,
let me speak of the future—<i>your</i> future, dearest Frank, and
let me say it is better for all your coming years that I should
die.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, do not say so, Zuleime—you break my heart.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Frank, you will grieve for me, I know you will,
but be comforted. You are so young yet. This sorrow will
<span class='pageno' id='Page_312'>312</span>pass like a morning cloud, and leave all your life a long
bright day.” She paused abruptly—a gray shadow swept
darkly over her face and vanished. <i>He</i> did not see it, his
face was buried in his hands. Then she asked to have her
child brought to her. Frank went out, but soon returned to
say that little Fan had been put to bed; and to ask her if
the child should be waked up. “No, do not wake the poor,
little thing,” she said, and then added, “I am very, very
sleepy, Frank; dearest Frank, kiss my eyelids down to
slumber like you always do, and hold my hand till I fall
asleep. Kiss my lips, too, this time; kiss them last of all—there—good-night,
love.” Her voice sank away in a low,
inaudible murmur, like a dying sound on the Eolian harp.</p>

<p class='c006'>Her husband sat and held her hand, never moving, scarcely
breathing, lest he should disturb her long, deep sleep. He
sat there more than an hour. The room grew dark with the
shades of evening; and when at length Catherine entered
with the night lamp, he raised his hand with a sign of silence
and caution, murmuring—</p>

<p class='c006'>“She has fallen asleep.” Catherine approached quietly,
shading the lamp with her hand, and looked upon the sleeper.
“Hush, be very cautious—do not disturb her,” whispered
Frank.</p>

<p class='c006'>The sweet and solemn voice of Catherine gently arose, saying,
“Come away, Captain Fairfax. Nothing will ever disturb
her more. She has fallen asleep in Jesus.”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_313'>313</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXVI<br> <span class='large'>GEORGIA.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The serpent now began to change;</div>
      <div class='line'>Her elfin blood in madness ran.—<span class='sc'>Keats</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Two months have passed since the death of the sisters.
To the consternation of the <i><span lang="fr">haut ton</span></i> of the city, the beautiful
Mrs. Clifton has left Richmond, and come down to mourn
with those that mourn at White Cliffs. With an air at once
of earnest conviction and graceful weariness, she says that it
is “All vanity and vexation of spirit,” meaning fashionable
society, spring traveling, and sight seeing; summers at watering places
among the mountains, or by the sea-side; winters
in town, with plays, concerts, balls, dressing, visiting and
waltzing; autumn parties in the country-houses, with equestrian
expeditions, sailing excursions, and forest rides and
drives, and even the moonlight serenades, and “the slight
flirtation by the light of the chandelier.” Mrs. Georgia
speaks the truth. “Vanity” all this undoubtedly is in <i>her</i>.
But <i><span lang="fr">entres nous</span></i>, the “vexation of spirit” appertains to certain
“small” accounts, ranging from fifty to fifteen hundred
dollars, and sent in by landlords, merchants, jewelers, milliners,
etc., people so wanting in delicate perception, as not
to see that the honor of the belle’s custom was quite payment
enough in itself for their goods, and so utterly destitute of
classic lore, and the faculty of distinguishing persons, as
actually to draw out on a piece of paper a list of items opposite
to a row of figures, with a sum total at the bottom, and
send it to a Circe, as if she were a tradesman, and could understand
it! Charming Georgia did not even try to comprehend
such mysterious hieroglyphics. She knew, bewitching
creature! that “where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be
wise.” Therefore, to escape duns, to recruit health and
spirits, and, of all things, to console Major Clifton, she has
come down to White Cliffs. The beautiful Georgia presented
<span class='pageno' id='Page_314'>314</span>herself to the mourning master of White Cliffs in a very deprecating
spirit—she said that she felt her arrival there at
such a moment to be almost an intrusion, but that he would
excuse it, as she had exhausted money and credit, and had no
other home.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You know,” she added, as the tears suffused her large,
dark eyes, “I am like the unjust steward of the parable, ‘I
cannot work—to beg I am ashamed.’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Except instead of being unjust, you suffer from the injustice
of others,” said Archer Clifton, very gently. He
said that he considered the entail, which cut off the widow
from any share in the landed estate of her deceased husband,
very unjust and cruel. He knew that his uncle had deeply
regretted it, and would have left all his personal property to
her, had it not been swallowed up by debt. He said that he
<i>himself</i> deplored the circumstance, and if it were legally in
his power, he would divide the land with her, but that he
only held it in entail, and as entire as it came to him it must
be held for his heirs. He added, that he considered it his
duty to compensate his uncle’s widow for the injustice of the
law to her, and that the case being so, she would find thirty
thousand dollars placed to her account in the Bank of Richmond.
Mrs. Georgia was overcome with emotion at this
generosity on the part of Major Clifton. She put her handkerchief
to her eyes, and arose hurriedly, with every mark
of extreme agitation, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, no—this is too much! too good! only lend me the
shelter of this roof—once my home—until I look about me
and consider what to do.”</p>

<p class='c006'>He took her hand, with every demonstration of the tenderest
affection and respect, and pressed it to his lips, and
begged her to consider herself as heretofore, mistress of the
establishment for as long as she wished—for her whole life,
if she pleased—and himself only as her sometime guest—adding,
that it was impossible he should ever bring another
lady there. She withdrew her handkerchief from her eyes,
and glancing at him with a countenance eloquent with gratitude,
respect, and affection, exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>I</i> take a large portion of your personal property, and <i>I</i>
turn you from your home! Oh! no, no, no, thou thrice
noble and generous man, no! Not one dollar of that money
will I touch, so help me Heaven! And not one hour will I
stay under this roof, if the master of the house is to be only
<span class='pageno' id='Page_315'>315</span>my ‘sometime guest!’ No! I—I—I must go back to the
city, and give lessons in drawing and painting, as befits the
artist’s daughter.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And as does <i>not</i> befit my uncle’s widow, lady!” said
Archer Clifton, again taking her hand. “I have considered
myself in some sort your guardian and protector—if you will
admit the claim. Now, listen to me calmly, and act reasonably,
for we of White Cliffs are not accustomed to be opposed
by the ladies of our family. Hear me, then: This money,
which I have placed to your account, is rightfully yours. I
will explain. It was the fortune of my dearest Carolyn—”
here his voice faltered, he paused a moment, during which
Georgia pressed his hand, and looked in his face with an expression
of unspeakable sympathy—then he resumed, calmly,
“Had she died unmarried, and during her father’s lifetime,
this money would have reverted to him, and he would doubtless
have left it to you. I only give you that which, but for
me, might have reached you more directly. And now let
that subject rest forever.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, but best and most generous of friends, I drive you
from your home by staying here! I cannot stay! I must
depart!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You must not, Mrs. Clifton—this is your proper home,
as it is also mine. You do not drive me hence—why should
you? Could I possibly remain, your company would be the
dearest solace I could have. No! it is memory that drives
me hence, sweet friend! I must—I <i>must</i> forget myself in
distant lands! Forgive me for talking thus—to be quite
plain, as soon as the intricate affairs of this estate are disentangled,
and wound up, I design to set out for two or three
years of travel; yet I shall not be able to get off for several
weeks.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Here the conversation ended for the present. Thinking
that for the first few days, at least, Mrs. Georgia would need
a female companion, he got in his chaise, and went ever to
Hardbargain for Catherine.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Kate is not here,” said Mrs. Clifton, in answer to his
inquiries—“do you not know that she has been for three
weeks at her brother’s cabin, nursing his wife through her
confinement?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton threw his hat upon the table, and dropped
himself into a chair, with an air of extreme vexation, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_316'>316</span>“It really seems to me that that girl is nurse and servant-in-general
to the neighborhood! Her brother might
easily have found some old woman to nurse his wife. I wonder
you permit her to be made such a slave of by everybody,
mother.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It does her no harm, Archer.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Twelve months since you introduced Catherine into the
best society in Richmond.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“The richest, you mean—not the best, by a great deal.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And now you suffer her to throw herself into the most
vulgar and common! Dear madam, is this right?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘What God hath cleansed, call not thou common, or
unclean’—yes! it is right! Catherine, a girl of the very humblest
birth, with natural talent and acquired accomplishments
that fit her for any circle—should mix with all. And,
Archer, what do you mean by ‘vulgar?’ If ignoble minds,
corrupt hearts, and mean actions constitute vulgarity—then
I for one have met more vulgar people in so-called high-life
than ever I saw in low-life!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear mother, you are a Republican—let us waive
this discussion, for I dislike to differ from you, and tell me
where I shall find Catherine, for she positively must return
with me to White Cliffs, to bear Mrs. Georgia company,
until some other companion can be procured for her.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine is at her brother’s cabin, as I told you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“The same cabin he occupied before I left home?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Certainly.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton entered the gig, and turned the horse’s head
towards the dell in which the overseer’s cabin stood. When
he drew up before the door, Carl came out to welcome him,
and invite him to alight.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, thank you, send Catherine hither,” he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>Carl looked very much as though he did not intend to
obey this haughty behest—but Catherine had already heard
the demand, and appeared at the door.</p>

<p class='c006'>“How-do-you-do, Kate? Mrs. Georgia Clifton is at my
house, and I wish you to return with me to attend upon her.
Come, get your bonnet, at once, Catherine, for I am rather
hurried.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“We cannot spare Catherine, sir,” said Carl, in a tone of
displeasure.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I did not address myself to you, my good fellow,” said
Major Clifton, looking over his head, and through the door
<span class='pageno' id='Page_317'>317</span>of the cabin, watching Catherine, as she tied on her
bonnet.</p>

<p class='c006'>When Kate same out, he handed her into the gig, and
nodding carelessly to the flushed, indignant Carl, drove off.
When they had driven a little way—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine,” he said, “is that man your full brother?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“The same father and mother?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Humph! You are not at all alike in feature. Are you
very much attached to this brother, Catherine?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Humph.” He did not speak again until they had
reached White Cliffs, when he handed her out, and said—“Catherine,
Mrs. Georgia is greatly fatigued; I wish you to
attend to her comforts, this evening—do you hear?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir,” replied Kate.</p>

<p class='c006'>The next day Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, came over to
call on Georgia. And afterwards, at the earnest solicitation
of her son, she paid them a visit of a week. Major Clifton
busied himself with the settlement of the estate. Although
the great debts of the late Mr. Clifton could not be recovered
of him, he determined to pay them all. A great many of
them he discharged at once, by cash; and in payment of
others, he gave notes, bearing interest. The calling in of these
numerous debts, and the arrangement of the terms of payment,
and other matters, occupied him nearly two months,
so that it was the last of autumn before he was ready to set
out on his journey.</p>

<p class='c006'>He had taken leave of his mother the evening previous to
the day upon which he was to leave home. The next morning,
in parting from Mrs. Georgia and Catherine, he took
leave of the lady, in a tender and respectful manner, raising
her hand to his lips—but he drew Kate to his bosom, and
pushing back the rippling waves of chestnut hair, that concealed
or shaded two-thirds of her massive forehead, he said,
gravely and sweetly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“What are you going to do with all this brain while I am
gone, Kate? How much longer will it lie fallow? Well!
Never mind!” He kissed her freely and fondly as a near
relative might, and bowing once more to Mrs. Georgia, hastened
away. He paused upon the threshold of the door
however, seemed to hesitate, then suddenly came back, seized
<span class='pageno' id='Page_318'>318</span>the hand of Kate, and drew her out upon the porch. “Catherine,”
he said, “do you remember a promise you made me
once—not to marry without my consent?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir, I remember it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I hold you to that promise, Kate. I must speak plainly
to you at the risk or the certainty of wounding your feelings;
yours is a singular position, Catherine—a girl of humble
birth, quite penniless, yet with education and accomplishments
that fit her to grace a higher circle. It is not likely,
Catherine, that any gentleman in this part of the country
will ever become a suitor for your hand, and no one who is
not a gentleman should be permitted to do so!—Therefore,
Catherine, I wish you to promise me not to listen to any proposals
without my consent.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I promised you long ago, sir. I will keep that promise
until you release me from it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“That is a good girl! Now, then, once more good-bye,”
and again he folded her to his bosom, and then, indeed, he
was gone.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine turned with the intention of seeking her own
room, but was instantly confronted by Mrs. Georgia Clifton,
who stood before her with pallid cheek, set teeth, and gleaming
eyes. She caught the wrist of the girl, and keeping a
strong, vice-like grasp upon it, dragged her almost with violence
into the parlor before the window, and casting herself
into a chair, pulled Catherine up before her, and fixed those
wild, dilated, star-like eyes upon her face. It fell blushing
under the gaze.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You love that man,” she said, drawing her breath hardly,
like one in a passing pain.</p>

<p class='c006'>The blush deepened upon Catherine’s cheek, but she did
not reply in words.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Speak! Answer me! You love that man?” she repeated,
clutching the wrist of the girl so tightly as to cause
her to wince.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Madam, I am grateful to Major Clifton—he is my benefactor—he
cares for me, and I am grateful to him.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“He is an arrogant man—he reminded you of your low
birth.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know he did, madam, and perhaps I ought to have
vindicated our common human nature, and told him, as I
tell you now, that there is no such thing in God’s universe
as low birth, that every child comes into His world with
<span class='pageno' id='Page_319'>319</span>equal claim upon His people; perhaps it was my duty to
have told him this, only I am always a coward before Major
Clifton, and never can say the right thing at the right time
to <i>him</i>, as I can to others.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You love him! That is the reason! And you are a
fool if you do not know it, or a hypocrite if, knowing it, you
deny it. But he <i>despises</i> your love! He said to you, himself,
that no <i>gentleman</i> would be likely to be a suitor for
your hand!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know he did, lady. His care for me makes him say
rough, blunt things sometimes. I can bear them from him.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You love him! Deny it, if you dare! But you are an
idiot! an idiot! if you do not take <i>his hint</i> to conquer that
passion! He said it was not likely that any gentleman
would ever become a suitor for your hand! <i>he</i> is a gentleman—therefore
he can never stoop to <i>you</i>! You do not
answer me! Do you, perchance, deceive yourself with the
idea that he ever will?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Lady—<i>no</i>, I do not deceive myself with the idea that
he will ever ‘stoop’ to marry me. The woman that Major
Clifton shall marry, if he ever marries, will be quite worthy
of him, and that will preclude the idea of his ‘stooping’ to
her.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And that woman will not be <i>you</i>, presumptuous girl.
Do you dare to hope it will? Speak! Answer me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Lady!” said Catherine, in a tone of grave and dignified
rebuke, “considering the recent bereavement of Major Clifton,
the discussion into which you have drawn me is indelicate,
to use no harsher term!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘Recent!’ It is of five months’ standing! You evade
my question! You evade <i>all</i> my questions! I asked you
if you loved him! Answer me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Lady! long ago my heart became too unruly for my own
management, and I gave it, with all its desires and affections,
to God. I love nothing out of Him!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And do you expect Archer Clifton will ever marry you?
Answer that!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Madam, I expect nothing.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do you hope it, then?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Lady, I hope nothing.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You prevaricate, girl! Do you <i>wish</i> it then?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Madam, I only wish that God may appoint all times,
seasons and events in my life—making me humble, generous
<span class='pageno' id='Page_320'>320</span>and grateful in prosperity, if it comes; and strong, courageous
and patient in adversity, if, as is most likely, <i>that</i>
comes!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Humph—would it make you happy to be the wife of
Archer Clifton?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mrs. Clifton, you have no right to ask me that question!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yet I <i>do</i> ask you, and I insist upon a reply!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And I decline giving it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am answered! You love Archer Clifton! You feed
your heart upon the secret hope of one day being his wife!
And now listen to me, girl!” she exclaimed, every vestige
of prudence and self-restraint swept away by her rising passion,
“<i>I, too</i>, day and night, feed my soul upon one desperate
hope—that I live for, would die for, or go to perdition
for! <i>I, too</i>, love Clifton. I loved him the first hour I ever
saw him. I have loved him ever since, only more madly for
every obstacle, danger, <i>duty</i> that stood between, dividing us!
I have schemed, dared, <i>sinned</i> for him! Twice he has been
snatched from me by fate, twice restored to my hopes! Oh!
I know my own strong will had much to do with that restoration!
He is given to my hopes again! Think you, <i>now</i>,
that you can win him from me? <i>No</i>, idiot! If there be
any power in my own soul, on earth, in Heaven, or in hell to
help me, I will find it out, and enlist it to give me this one
desire of my heart, this man’s love! Since first I ever beheld
his face, I have dreamed, hoped, toiled, <i>lived</i> for nothing
else! I have suffered for him! Oh! angels and devils! how I
have suffered for him! In the days when he came wooing
Carolyn, wooing her before the face of <i>me</i>, bound with indissoluble
chains!—me, loving him as <i>she</i> had no power or conception
of loving anything! Many times I was almost mad with
despair!—knowing, too, if he would only love me I should be
nearly mad with joy! I have sacrificed great prospects for
him. Yes! little as you think me capable of it! This summer
I might have made a splendid alliance in Richmond—a
traveling nobleman—an English nobleman, girl! a baron with
an annual rental of thirty thousand pounds sterling—with
seats in the three kingdoms, and a palace in Portman Square.
I rejected him, when I knew that Clifton was free! In the
faint hope of winning Clifton, I would not bind myself. All
that I have ever done of good or of evil has had him for its
end and object! I was the belle, queen, <i>idol</i> of Richmond.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_321'>321</span>If I schemed and toiled for a position, and gloried in my
success, it was that <i>he</i> might hear of it, and his pride might
be enlisted for me! You saw me one winter at the governor’s
reception! You saw how I was worshiped there! But <i>he</i>
was present—and free, and I did not care what the thousands
thought of me, I only cared what that unit might
think!” Her voice sank into tenderness, and she paused,
and dropped her brow into both open hands. But soon raising
her head again, she said, “Look at me well! Ay,
look! What sort of a rival do you take me to be? If you
cannot guess, I will tell you! I am not superstitious or
scrupulous, as you are! I am one, who, for my soul’s great
passion, will do, or dare, or suffer anything! I ask no leave
of earth or Heaven for what I do! I do what I will, or <i>can</i>,
and take the consequences; earth or Heaven can but punish,
and I can risk or bear it!—for there is no pain or loss in the
universe that I weigh with the loss of my love! And not
for the fear of eternal perdition—not for the hope of everlasting
salvation, will I forego the joy of my mortal love!
Now, hear me, girl!” She rose upon her feet, bending over
Catherine, with her hand clutched upon the maiden’s shoulder
with a vice-like grip, and, gazing into her eyes with contracted,
gleaming pupils, she said,—while her voice dropped
into the low, deep, stern tone of intense and concentrated
passion, in which every word, syllable, letter was articulated
with a distinct, metallic ring:—“Now, hear me! If you
dare to come between me and my love—by the living Lord
that sent my burning soul upon this dull earth, and who can
hurl it hence to a burning perdition—I will find a way to
kill you! Do you hear me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine grew pale beneath the tiger eye and clutch of
the fearful woman, but she answered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Madam, I have heard you utter wild and wicked words.
I will endeavor to forget them.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Remember them! You are warned!”</p>

<p class='c006'>And releasing her hold, the dark lady passed from the
room.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine remained sitting where she had left her, appalled
by the exhibition of demoniac passion she had witnessed.
One pain and one fear possessed her above all others—deep
regret that this most wicked woman had evidently already
attained such an ascendancy over the mind of Clifton, and
dread lest, in despite of all the sin, she would gain her object—his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_322'>322</span>hand! But Catherine carried all her doubts and
fears to her Heavenly Father. And soon to her clear, strong
mind it became evident, that however wicked and unscrupulous,
potent and dangerous the Circe might be on ordinary
occasions, she possessed too little self-government, was under
the influence of too strong and impetuous passions, to succeed
in maintaining any long course of duplicity, such as
would be necessary to the accomplishment of her purpose.
And Kate became calm. She wished to leave the house.
She could ill bear to live under the same roof with this woman,
and meet her at least three times a day, at meals, if no
oftener. But she had promised Major Clifton to remain with
Mrs. Georgia until she should have other company, and she
must keep her promise. It was, besides, doubly sacred, being
made to him, and the pain it brought her was endurable—borne
for him.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Georgia sought the garden, the open air, anywhere
where she could breathe freely. When the storm in her
bosom had subsided, and reason was again in the ascendant,
she could have torn her hair and beat her breast, yea, and
rent her garments with excess of chagrin, to think that she
had so betrayed herself to Catherine. She did not fully believe
that Catherine would repeat this scene where it could
injure her, or anywhere, in fact. Still, she thought it safer
to guard against such a contingency, and while <i>she herself</i>
still possessed the unshaken confidence and respect of Major
Clifton, to impugn the conduct and character of Catherine,
and thus forestall and invalidate any testimony she might
hereafter give. She felt that she must proceed very cautiously.
A plan of correspondence had been arranged with
Major Clifton, previous to his departure. She soon began to
receive long letters from him, filled with interesting descriptions
of the countries through which he passed, the people
whom he met, and philosophical comments upon both. And
to these she replied in other letters, full of appreciation, admiration,
gratitude, and breathing, besides, the highest, purest,
most disinterested sentiments and opinions upon all the
subjects of their correspondence. Into these letters, she
gradually introduced the name of Catherine—carelessly, at
first, as if she thought little about her, one way or the other,—as
thus: “Catherine is with me still—she desires to be
remembered;” then, in a second letter, by a slight line of
praise, as though the girl was rather winning upon her, as—“Catherine
<span class='pageno' id='Page_323'>323</span>is well. By the way, what a remarkably clever
girl she is;” then, in another, with warmer panegyric, as
though she really very much improved upon longer acquaintance,
thus: “How can I ever thank you sufficiently for
placing Catherine with me?” Next came high encomiums upon
Catherine’s talents, in this wise: “Catherine has left me,
and is with your mother, as no doubt the latter has written
you. Apropos! What a mind that girl has! Did you ever
observe?” And then, in a subsequent epistle, came an expression
of wonder at the “diplomatic” character of Kate’s
intellect, and an opinion that the writer really believed her
thrown away in private life. And next, a cooler mention of
the maiden, with the hint of a fear that she was gaining the
mastery over Mrs. Clifton’s strong mind. Finally, after
some months, she wrote thus, as if speaking frankly from a
sense of duty, and at the cost of great pain: “I fear that I
have been greatly deceived in my estimate of Catherine’s
good principles. How shall I introduce what I am about to
say to you? But you had best come home and see for yourself.
For I know that your mother is in the power of as
dangerous an intriguante as I ever heard of; and mind—she
will influence Mrs. Clifton to disinherit her own son, and bequeath
<i>her</i> the farm at Hardbargain. That ‘Maria Teresa’
brow of hers meant something, after all. But you do not
know with what pain I write this, Archer! I cannot pursue
the subject—only regard for you, and fidelity to your interests,
would have drawn me to its discussion. I advise
you to come home and look after your own welfare!”</p>

<p class='c006'>What influence this had upon Major Clifton, will be seen
in the sequel.</p>

<p class='c006'>And while Georgia was exercising her power abroad, she
was busy at home also. Having heard or guessed at Colonel
Conyer’s “foolish” attachment to Catherine, she wrote and
invited him to make up a party of his own friends, and come
down and spend Christmas with her. And the gallant officer,
delighted with this quintessence and perfection of confidence
and hospitality—this <i><span lang="fr">carte blanche</span></i> to be filled up at
his own pleasure, wrote and most gratefully accepted the invitation
for himself and “friends.”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_324'>324</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXVII.<br> <span class='large'>CATHERINE.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Now has descended a serener hour—<span class='sc'>Keats.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Colonel Conyers exercised tact and discretion in availing
himself of the privilege granted him by Georgia. In
consideration of the recent affliction of the family, he made
up a very quiet and appropriate party—namely, the lady’s
father, the artist, a pale young clergyman who was suffering
for country air, and the wife and sister of the latter.</p>

<p class='c006'>After his arrival at White Cliffs, Mrs. Georgia gave him
every opportunity of renewing his acquaintance with Catherine,
and every encouragement to persist in his suit. Girls,
she said, were often whimsical, and Catherine was especially
shy, but disposed to think highly of her suitor, and well
worth the trouble of perseverance. Colonel Conyers thereupon
grew importunate, and Catherine became distressed at
his persistance, and announced her intention of returning to
Hardbargain. When her lover heard this, his grief seemed
unbounded—he had so long counted on success, so long been
deceived by Mrs. Georgia’s assurances, and by Catherine’s
gentleness of denial, that now when his hopes were quite
overthrown, he became passionate and vehement in his demonstrations
of sorrow. His trouble affected Catherine very
deeply. She went and sat down by him, and laid her hand
upon his shoulder, and said, in her gentle sympathetic
tones—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do not grieve so; indeed I am not worth so much love
or so much regret—indeed I am not—I am a poor girl, very
ignorant of society, very full of weakness and error.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Catherine! Catherine! that is nothing to the purpose!
You are what you are, and I adore you! Do not
make me wretched.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Heaven knows I do not wish to! I am your friend—<i>indeed</i>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_325'>325</span>I am. I would do anything in the world to give you
peace, indeed I would—except—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Except love me, proud girl!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘Proud?’ No, I am not proud. Why should I be?
Do not mock me! Indeed I feel that you have conferred
the greatest honor upon me in your preference. An offer of
his hand is the highest mark of respect and confidence a man
can give a woman; the world would think it higher still,
coming from one of your rank to one of mine. I myself
should in any case be proud of your regard, only—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well? ‘Only?’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Only I feel so grieved to see you look so sorrowfully;
but—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, my dear girl, well! but what?”</p>

<p class='c006'>She paused, a slight blush suffused her cheek—she gathered
courage and went on to say—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not know why I should not speak anything that
may be upon my heart, at whatever cost to my natural feelings,
if the hearing of it will do good to any human being.
Yes! I will speak, for your sake. I do not fear to speak, for
I have perfect confidence in you. Listen then, Colonel
Conyers, dear friend. You are not the only one who has
missed earthly happiness. I think it must be written in the
book of fate, that we may not have those whom we love too
deeply—in other words, that we may not have idols. It seems
to me, that notwithstanding all other troubles, it would make
us too happy, in an existence designed chiefly for trial and
probation.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“That is a sad, strange, despairing sentiment, for one so
young!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, not despairing—for if we may not have joy, there
remain the peace and cheerfulness found in duty. And if
we may not have the love of the heart’s idol, there remain
the affection of relatives, the esteem of friends, the love of
God, and the hope of Heaven.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine, you have loved. Tell me about it my
child.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I intended to tell you about it. It is the best proof of
entire confidence and esteem that I can give you. It will
show you how highly I value you, and it will assure you also,
of the utter impossibility of getting a heart that is not mine
to give—if it were worth giving.”</p>

<p class='c006'>She paused in great embarrassment, her cheeks were suffused
<span class='pageno' id='Page_326'>326</span>with blushes, yet she seemed resolved to proceed. As
if to assist her, he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“This being whom you deify with your love, my child!
what a splendid, what a magnificent nature he must have!
what transcendant personal attractions! what an intellect!
what a heart! Is it not so? tell me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! no; you are mistaken; these things excite admiration
and wonder, they do not of themselves win affection.
Oh, no! he of whom you speak, is not so handsome as you
are; he has no more mind than you have, and not so much
heart—even <i>I</i> admit that.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And yet you love him, and can love him.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Even so—do you wonder at it? Have not you passed
by women—handsome, graceful, accomplished—to fix upon
a plain country girl like me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, but not women with your candor, purity and strength
of mind. Oh, Kate! what depths of truth and innocence
you have revealed in the very confession you have made me!
Who else but yourself dared make such a revelation?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine looked up at the speaker in doubt.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Go on, dear girl. Tell me that this man adores you,
and I will never, while I live, trouble you with myself
again.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, no! it was nothing like that which I set out to tell
you. Ah, no! I only wished to let you know—that your
case of disappointed affection is not solitary—that I too have
missed life’s crowning joy—the love of one I love. He does
not even notice me now. I never permit myself to dream
that he will ever love me. Yet I would like to live with him,
to serve him—myself unknown, unnoticed, if I might only
be near him. I envy the waiting-maids and men, and even
the dogs, who are full-feasted every day, with the presence
for which my heart starves. I would like to give my life to
his service, but I am unnecessary to his smallest need. Well!
I cannot do him any good; but I serve one who is dear to
him, and so I stay the hunger of my heart. Please do not
think ill of me for telling you all this. It would grieve me
to have you think any evil of me. I esteem you, and want
your esteem. I have done some violence to my instincts in
telling you this. Do not think ill of me for doing so. I
only do it that you may know you are not the only one in
the world who is——<i>not happy</i>.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Think ill of you, Catherine! Do anything but adore
<span class='pageno' id='Page_327'>327</span>you—and mourn your loss forever—if lose you I must—oh,
Heaven!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“This life is a tragedy—for always that which is dearest,
is lost in it, and it ends in death. The closing scene is the
corpse, the shroud, the coffin—and the curtain drops upon
the grave—all beyond is hidden—except to the eye of faith.
My experience of life has been all darkness, clouds and storm—and
the transient gleams of gladness or of hope have been—not
like the sunshine, but like the lightning. Yet through
all the grief, and gloom, and the tempting doubt, the ‘still,
small voice’ of God’s spirit has spoken to my soul, and comforted
me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Catherine, my child! that I could make your life all
sunshine—that you would let me try—I do believe I could
make you happy.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine shook her head, slowly, with a sad smile, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“We all believe that! We all think that in <i>us only</i> is vested
the power of making those we love happy. It is because we
know that we are willing, anxious to do more for them than
any other person would! It is a fond error. Our efforts—our
greatest sacrifices are often needless, as we ourselves are
nothing to our gods of flesh.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Am I nothing—nothing to you, then?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You are my dear and honored friend.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Catherine, I could make your life happy! Nay,
but do not look incredulous—I know I <i>could</i>. My love is
not selfish, like that of most other men. It is perfectly disinterested.
It only asks to serve you. It only desires to see
you at ease. Dear Kate, you have told me all on your heart—you
might lay that heart, with all its burden of unrequited
affection, upon my bosom, and I would comfort, and cherish,
and sustain it, until I should win its love all to myself.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Again, and more mournfully, the girl shook her head—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do not pursue this subject, Colonel Conyers. Dear
friend, by dwelling upon our wild wishes, they grow to seem
hopes, and probabilities, and certainties. In my youth—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“In ‘your youth’? How many years ago was that, Catherine?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Strange!—but at eighteen, I really feel no longer
young.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yet it is not winter, but a wintry spring, that chills
your young life. That is not uncommon. Spring—the spring
<span class='pageno' id='Page_328'>328</span>of hope, the spring of joy, the spring of life will open indeed
by-and-by, and be all the warmer and brighter for its lateness—and
my Catherine shall feel younger—but for increased
wisdom—at twenty-five, then she does now at eighteen—that
lot is for her—whosesoever treasure she may be. But what
was she going to say happened in her long passed youth?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine smiled, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, then—when life was newer and fresher, believing—as
I do now—all the promises of the Bible—and saying—as
I do now—that the days of miracles are not passed, and
never will be so, until the days of God’s omnipotence and
man’s faith is passed, I used to say that I would pray for
what I wanted, though the granting of my prayer should
seem to involve an impossibility. But now, later in life, I
have learned a better lesson still, from the example of my
Master. He might have saved Himself by a miracle, but He
chose rather to endure the cross and the shame, for the working
out of His Father’s will and purpose. God has a purpose
and a will in every—the humblest life. And now, for
all other vain and childish petitions, I substitute the words
of the Saviour—‘Not My will—but Thine, be done.’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine, you must be happy, even in this world. You
are so good. You must be made happy in the end.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, I should be sorry to set up the plea of goodness—when
I see so many people so much better than I am, suffer
so deeply. It is too often represented that goodness is rewarded
in this world—but, oh! how can any one remember
the life and death of a thousand martyrs, and the crucifixion
of the Saviour, and not feel that it is not so—and not feel
that the reverse is often so!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Catherine, that is a very gloomy doctrine, and I will
not believe it! There is a hopeful text of Scripture that
comes into my mind—‘Godliness is profitable in all things,
having the promise of the life that <i>now is</i>, and that which is
to come.’ It is the clouds of your wintry spring that make
everything look so gloomy to you!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is not a gloomy doctrine! Oh, no! not gloomy, by
all the hope and illumining of the glorious Resurrection and
Ascension.”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_329'>329</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXVIII<br> <span class='large'>WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Oh, Winter, ruler of the inverted year,</div>
      <div class='line'>I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest,</div>
      <div class='line'>And dreaded as thou art.</div>
      <div class='line'>I crown thee king of intimate delights,</div>
      <div class='line'>Fire-side enjoyments, homestead happiness,</div>
      <div class='line'>And all the comforts that the lowly roof</div>
      <div class='line'>Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours</div>
      <div class='line'>Of long, uninterrupted evening, know.—<span class='sc'>Cowper.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Catherine returned to Hardbargain on Christmas Eve.
It was a clear, cold, crisp afternoon, and the level sun threw
a glistening, yellow lustre, like powdered gold dust, over the
crusted surface of the snow-clad earth. And as Kate’s little,
rough-coated pony stepped freely out over the ground, life
and hope and joy tided back to her heart, giving bloom to
her cheeks, light to her eyes, and elasticity to all her motions.
She was very glad indeed to find herself on her way
to the farm, and about to exchange the feverish, exciting
atmosphere of White Cliffs, and the disturbing proximity of
Georgia, for the long, calm days, and long, calm evenings
with Mrs. Clifton, at the farm-house. She reached her destination
at dusk. Mrs. Clifton met the girl with a smile of
pleasure, and welcomed her with a kiss of affection. Then
she conducted her into the parlor, where she made her sit
down by the fire, while she removed her bonnet and shawl.
Next she summoned Henny, and gave orders that tea should
be served immediately, and a fire kindled in Miss Catherine’s
room, as the young lady was fatigued, and would wish to
retire early. There was in the manner of the lady upon
this evening, and from this evening, a maternal tenderness
and solicitude, very soothing and delightful to Catherine.
This was so apparent to the domestics, that they began to
deport themselves towards the maiden with the deference
due to the daughter of the house.</p>

<p class='c006'>And how calmly and cheerfully the winter days passed.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_330'>330</span>There was the early rising, and the early breakfast, in the
warm, bright, back parlor, where the morning sun shone in.
There was the leisurely talk over the meal, about the occupations,
which were also the amusements of the day. After
breakfast, came the ride around the farm, in the course of
which every field and barn and granary was inspected, and
every negro quarter visited. And during these rides, Mrs.
Clifton gave Catherine much information relating to agricultural
matters.</p>

<p class='c006'>“For, my dear,” she said, “some day you may be a
planter’s wife, and have all these things to look after, while
your husband is in the public service, absent with his regiment,
or at the legislature.” To which Catherine ventured
no reply. And then came dinner, and the short afternoon
nap, and tea, and the long, serene evening by the fireside,
employed in needle-work, enlivened by rational, cheerful
conversation, and occasionally varied by music or reading,
and finally ended by family prayer and bed.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton and Catherine never, never wearied of
each other. They had many occupations for hands and
heads—they were both strong, original thinkers, and above
all, were both deeply interested in the same being—the
absentee.</p>

<p class='c006'>And now Catherine enjoyed a very dear, but dangerous
delight, in the perusal of Major Clifton’s letters of travel.
These letters arrived about two in a month. And, ah! the
evenings, when they came, were festivals indeed to the recluse
lady and the maiden. Often when one was brought in,
Mrs. Clifton reclining, through weakness, upon the sofa,
shading her eyes with her hand, would say, “Break the seal
and read it to me, dear Catherine.” And Kate would do
so—drawing delicious draughts of perilous pleasure from the
poetic and artistic spirit that pervaded every sentiment, narrative
and description in the epistle. And on these long,
quiet winter evenings, very often the conversation turned
upon the absent son—the dear topic always introduced by
his mother. It seemed as if Mrs. Clifton wished to make
Catherine thoroughly acquainted with his character and disposition—with
his faults and weaknesses, as well as with his
virtues and powers.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My son has his serious imperfections, like other men, of
course—though your eyes contradict me, Catherine; if I,
his partial mother, see them, they exist, you may depend
<span class='pageno' id='Page_331'>331</span>Archer is no demigod, my dear, in the estimation of any
one, but—well, no matter—don’t blush so—I am his mother,
and I love him, too, and think highly of him, of course, but
I acknowledge he is no angel, Kate, and I should be sorry
you should take him for one—disappointment would come
of it, my dear. He is proud, jealous, and suspicious as a
Spaniard, and while under the influence of these feelings, he
is reserved and sullen as an Indian—yet these faults of character
have been so transfigured in my dear Kate’s affection,
that they have actually seemed virtues—the pride, jealousy
and suspicion have seemed high sense of honor and intellectual
acumen—and the reserve and sullenness—dignity! Is it not
so, my dear?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate’s eyes lighted, and her cheeks flushed highly, but
not with bashfulness—with an emotion that was swelling at
her heart—and carried away from self-consciousness by enthusiasm,
she answered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, madam! I know what I would say to you, if I only
knew how to say it. Heaven sends divine thoughts and
feelings into my heart, and brain sometimes, but they cannot
pass thence into words—they are choked up perhaps by sin
or imperfection. Such a feeling I have now—heavenly light,
if I could only refract it—” She paused an instant, unconscious
that the lady was looking intently upon her. Then
she spoke again, slowly, in a kind of calm fervor—“Real
affection—I do not mean passion or imagination—but real
love does <i>never</i> invest its object with <i>un</i>real virtues!—never!—all
faults are the excess or the deficiency of some
virtue—well, real love sees its object not perhaps as he is at
his worst—not even perhaps so evil as he is even at his best,
but as he may become!—as he surely <i>will</i> become, if that
real affection continues faithful to its trust. Ah! how
strong that conviction is in my heart—how weak upon my
lips!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I understand you, Catherine, and may your true affection
be the divine alchemy that shall transmute all Archer Clifton’s
faults into virtues.” At this personal reply, Catherine’s
eyes fell and her cheeks burned with sudden self-recollection,
and for weeks after this she could not recall the conversation
without deep blushes.</p>

<p class='c006'>More and more freely as the weeks passed by did Mrs.
Clifton talk to Kate of her son and his peculiarities, and the
best way to meet them.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_332'>332</span>“You know, my dear Catherine, the apostle, in order to
win proselytes, made himself all things to all men. Archer
is proud, and my dear girl must raise herself a little out of
that humility of manner which is very distasteful to the
haughty, except when exhibited towards themselves, when
it naturally becomes very acceptable.” This style of conversation,
addressed to her for weeks and months, was at
once very pleasing and very painful to Kate. It was sweet,
it was dear beyond measure, to be considered in this near
relation to her beloved, to be addressed daily and hourly as
if she possessed the power of rendering his future life better
and happier, and so addressed by his own mother, too, but it
was also humiliating to be supposed to presume on the future
esteem and affection of one who had never addressed the language
of love to her. Often she thought of begging Mrs.
Clifton to desist from this style of conversation; but a certain
bashfulness, a deep respect for the lady, a distrust of
herself and of her own experience, and the childish thought
that Major Clifton might have entrusted to his mother an intention
that he never confided to herself its object, and the
delight of living in this blessed illusion, and the fear of
breaking the charm, kept her silent for a long time, during
which Mrs. Clifton gradually fell into the manner of considering
her and speaking to her as her son’s future wife.
All at once one day it suddenly struck Kate that Mrs. Clifton
might be the victim of a mistake, and under the impression
that some understanding or engagement existed between
herself and Major Clifton, and that her own silence and
seeming acquiescence had served to confirm this error. And
this very natural and rational thought fell upon the girl like
a thunderbolt, utterly blasting and destroying all her beautiful
hopes, and covering her face with the blushes of deep
humiliation. She felt that she must undeceive Mrs. Clifton
immediately. So when they sat together at the work-table,
before the evening fire, and the lady spoke of her son saying,
among other things—</p>

<p class='c006'>“The most unhappy trait in his character is his tendency
to suspicion, my love. Be straight-forward with him, Catherine,
never have a secret from him, not even one touching a
little pleasant surprise, be perfectly frank and openhearted
with him, and, alas! even that course may not always save
you from suffering by his besetting sin, and when it does not,
Catherine, there is nothing left for you but patience and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_333'>333</span>trust. You see, on Archer’s behalf, I expect a great deal
of you, my love, like all mothers-in-law, I suppose.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine’s face was bent over her work; ashamed of her
supposed mistake, ashamed of the weakness that now choked
her voice, she remained silent for some time. At length,
gathering a false impression from her long continued silence,
Mrs. Clifton said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do I hope too much from you, Kate, my love?”</p>

<p class='c006'>With an effort, Catherine controlled her emotion, looked
up and replied, steadily—</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, no, dear Mrs. Clifton, you do not demand too much
of me. As far as my will and my power, as far as the grace
of God aids me, I will serve Major Clifton with the affection
and fidelity of a sister and a servant, but I have not the
smallest reason to suppose that he will ever admit me to a
friendship sufficiently intimate to make it possible for me to
affect his character and conduct in any way, even if I should
presume to wish it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear Kate, Archer’s wife will be his friend, companion
and counsellor—he never would be happy with a mere
housekeeper or parlor ornament, however beautifully accomplished
and amiable—it is therefore he will prize my dear
Catherine’s clear, strong mind and proud heart—she will be
admitted to his closest thoughts and his noblest counsels, do
not doubt it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, madam, you do not comprehend me yet, I see. How
deeply rooted your mistake must be, dear lady! Oh, how
shall I tell you? Indeed you are in error if you suppose—if
you suppose that—” Kate stopped short and burst into
tears.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton encircled her waist with her arm, and
said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come, Kate, stop all this blushing and weeping. Let
us be confidential, you and I, as mother and daughter should
be, for you are as my own daughter, Kate, and am I not a
mother to you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, yes! yes! dear lady!” said Catherine, taking her
hand, and pressing it to her bosom, and covering it with
kisses. “Oh, yes, you are indeed like a mother to me, if I
were only worthy to be your daughter! and I love and honor
you more than ever a mother was loved and honored in this
world before, I do believe!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Then let there be no reserve between us, dear Kate.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_334'>334</span>Let us be open with each other, as parent and child, whose
loves, and hopes, and wishes are the same. I have been
plain with you all along, only gradually unfolding your
future, not to alarm your shyness—and to win your confidence.
I have longed for this confidence—this perfect openness
between us—that we might talk with more intelligence,
and with more comfort—and I have courted it by my own
frankness; but in return for all my candor, Catherine has
shown me only reserve and blushes. Will she be more confiding
now?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Alas, dearest lady, what can I say to you, but that you
are greatly mistaken—sadly mistaken—oh, yes, indeed, sadly
mistaken,” replied Kate, almost weeping again.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am not mistaken in supposing that Catherine loves my
son. I am not mistaken in knowing that the fact gives me
more happiness than anything else in the world. Yet I would
like to hear Kate admit it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, dearest lady—yes!—down, pride!—if it will give
you any pleasure to hear it, I must not withhold the confession—yes,
I <i>do</i> love your son—so much—so much—that it
will make me an old maid!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton laughed, a little, low, jolly laugh. (The lady
very seldom laughed, and when she did, it had a strange, exceedingly
pleasant effect upon the hearer—it was a very
agreeable surprise, revealing, as it were under that grave,
stern surface, traces of a mine of wit, humor, fun and mischief,
that must have existed, and frequently sparkled forth,
ere the sorrow and the seriousness of life smothered and extinguished
it.) She laughed her little, low, jolly laugh, and
replied—</p>

<p class='c006'>“That were a strange effect of love, Catherine; but trust
me, it will not be so with Archer’s consent.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Mrs. Clifton, forgive me for saying again, that you
are very much mistaken—never, never in his life, has Major
Clifton bestowed upon me one word, or look, that might be
misconstrued by the vainest woman into a preference!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, Kate! I know that! I know that he has never
addressed you on the subject. But I know that he will do
so. For he loves you, Catherine, and has loved you from the
first hour he ever saw you—even from the—the night he sat
and studied you in your brother’s cabin. And it is just as
certain that you will be his wife, as that you both will live to
marry. So, dearest, let there be no more reserve between
<span class='pageno' id='Page_335'>335</span>us—consider this marriage sure, as it really is—(so far as any
future event is sure)—and let me talk freely, for my time and
opportunity is short.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine raised her eyes to the sallow—almost cadaverous
face of the lady, and a conviction of the truth and reality
of what she predicted, forced itself upon her, with a sharp
pang.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Now, dear Catherine, I did not ask you for that troubled
look! Will your heart ache because a dry leaf drops in the
autumn, rather than hangs shivering on the tree through half
the winter? But, dear child, I allude to this coming event,
not to cast its ‘shadow’ over you, but to explain why I wish
now to use these days in making you as conversant with the
idiosyncracies of your future companion, as only years of
married life could do, and to prevent years, perhaps, of misunderstanding
and sorrow. There is something dreadful in
the discovery of unsuspected faults, <i>after</i> marriage—and
something very, very mournful in the disappointment of the
trusting affection, and in the saddened efforts of the heart
to adjust itself to the circumstances—efforts that in one case
out of ten, perhaps, succeed. But if the worst is known before
marriage, the man or the woman may consider well
whether they have the strength of heart to conquer their own
faults, and bear with those of their companion. That you
would do all this for your husband, Kate, I am convinced.
I only talk now to smooth your path of duty.” The lady
here released Catherine from the embrace in which she had
held her through this conversation, and desired her to ring
for the servants to come in to prayers.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine, as had been her custom for several weeks past—upon
account of Mrs. Clifton’s weakness—conducted the
evening devotions.</p>

<p class='c006'>When prayers were over, and the servants dismissed,
Catherine attended Mrs. Clifton to her chamber, and assisted
her with affectionate care until she had retired to bed. Then,
after receiving the lady’s parting kiss, she hastened into her
own chamber, threw herself upon the bed, and gave way to
a long-pent burst of sorrow. Within the last three years
Catherine had seen much sickness, death, and bereavement—one
after another of her associates or relations had faded
and fallen, and she had mourned their loss; and her life had
taken a sombre hue, and sunken into a depressed tone. But
that this beloved friend, this kind benefactress, this dear,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_336'>336</span>dear companion—this more than mother, sister, <i>all</i> to her
heart—should pass away from the earth and be seen no more!
Oh! it brought a sense of desolation that threw a shadow and
a chill over all the future—over even the bright hopes shining
in the distance. And then the identity of the love she bore
mother and son together forced itself upon her heart. And
she felt that a union with the son could not give her perfect
content, unless the mother were there to share her love and
service, and to participate in their happiness. Without that
mother’s presence, their plan of life would be unfinished—their
circle of love incomplete. And oh! came the sharp,
agonizing question, how could she ever bear to lose the light,
and warmth, and strength, imparted daily, hourly, from that
dear face—that face which had never looked on her but in
affection—that face, the very image of Clifton’s own, except
that it was sweeter, holier, and never, never harsh—how
could she ever bear to lose her sweet resting place on that
more than maternal bosom—that bosom on which she could
ever lay her aching head, or aching heart, in perfect peace
and confidence, sure of being understood, sure of being sympathized
with? Oh! life would be darkened indeed when
she should pass away. The sense of sorrow was so sharp, so
agonizing, that the girl could have thrown herself upon the
floor—could have wrestled with Heaven, in wild prayer, that
this life might be saved, and this sharp anguish spared her.
But Catherine was habitually self-restrained, and she bore
this mental anguish as she would have endured severe physical
pain—in silence, in patience, until her soul was subdued
to the meekness of resignation. And then prayer brought
comfort.</p>

<p class='c006'>And she met the lady in the morning with a cheerful countenance.
And they spent the day as usual.</p>

<p class='c006'>So passed the winter and the spring. Though Mrs. Clifton
failed visibly from day to day, she still continued her
rides around the farm, and her general supervision of the
household and of agricultural affairs, and her instructions to
Catherine. Her people, who well knew the nearly hopeless
state of her health, foretold that their mistress would keep
up and out to the very last—and finally die in her chair.
Indeed, while flesh and blood wasted away, her nervous energy
seemed unimpaired, and her cheerfulness was undiminished.
She talked of her approaching departure as calmly
and pleasantly as she would have talked of going to Richmond.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_337'>337</span>Never obtruding the subject, however, unless necessity
demanded its introduction.</p>

<p class='c006'>The serenity and cheerfulness of the lady affected Catherine
very beneficially—“familiarizing” to her feelings the
future, immortal life. Catherine endeavored to persuade her
to have a physician.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, so I would, Kate, if I had any specific disease; but
when all the frame is wearing out together very slowly and
quietly, why call in a doctor to disturb the harmony of natural
decay, and painfully build up one portion of the sinking
frame at the expense of another? Why not fade and fall
easily, as all else in benign nature does?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine next suggested writing for Major Clifton to
hasten home.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, my child? Why, because I am going the common
road, should others be hurried and worried? Everything in
blessed nature and Divine Revelation teaches us a sweeter
lesson. No—Archer set out for a twelve months’ tour; let
him complete it. He will return this autumn. Quite time
enough, Catherine. I shall live till then, and longer. I can
calculate the progress of my body’s failing, and the duration
of my life, with almost mathematical precision. I shall live
to meet Archer, and to see you married, Catherine—and to
leave you willing to survive me and be happy without me.
And why not, dear? for shall I not be happier still?”</p>

<p class='c006'>And so, in sweet mutual confidence, in cheerful resignation,
and in patient hope, the summer passed, and autumn
arrived in its glory.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_338'>338</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXIX.<br> <span class='large'>THE RETURN.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Come home!—there is a sorrowing breath</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In music since ye went,</div>
      <div class='line'>And fragrant flower scents wander by</div>
      <div class='line in2'>With mournful memories blent.</div>
      <div class='line'>The tones of every household voice</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Are grown more sad and deep—</div>
      <div class='line'>And longing for thee wakes a wish</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To turn aside and weep.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Oh, ye beloved! come home!—the hour</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Of many a greeting tone,</div>
      <div class='line'>The time of hearth-light and of song</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Returns and ye are gone!</div>
      <div class='line'>And darkly, heavily it falls</div>
      <div class='line in2'>On the forsaken room,</div>
      <div class='line'>Burdening the heart with tenderness</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That deepens into gloom.—<span class='sc'>Mrs. Hemans.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Notwithstanding all her habitual calmness and cheerful
patience, Mrs. Clifton began to grow uneasy at her son’s protracted
stay. He had been absent a year and a month. And
even now, instead of setting out on his return, he only wrote
of coming home soon. At one time he was at Vienna, at
another at Berlin, then at the Hague, progressing, indeed,
but very, very slowly towards England and Liverpool, from
which port he intended to embark. Every letter that came
from him at this period, was opened and read with visible uneasiness
by his mother. At length the glad tidings came, a
letter from the mid-ocean, brought by a swift sailing packet-boat
that had spoken the vessel in which he had embarked.
He was hastening home, and might now be expected at any
hour. The news contained in his letter excited the invalid so
much upon the evening of its reception, that she passed a
sleepless night, and rose the next morning weaker than she
had ever been before; so weak, indeed, that she was obliged,
in coming down stairs, to lean on the arms of Catherine and
her maid for support. And when she reached the parlor,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_339'>339</span>she was compelled to recline in an easy-chair, propped up by
pillows, and with her feet supported by a foot-cushion. But
her cheerfulness was undiminished. She gave many directions
as to the adjustment and adornment of the room, and
the preparation of certain dainties. Lastly she called Catherine
to her side, and took her hand. Catherine did not appear
to the best advantage, with her plain, dark gingham
dress, and her chestnut hair divided simply above her forehead,
rippling in tiny wavelets around her broad temples, and
gathered into a twist behind. This plainness of style did not
become her strongly marked features. And the lady saw it,
for she gazed thoughtfully upon the girl awhile, and then
lifting her hand, disengaged a portion of her tresses from the
comb, and let them fall, turning into natural ringlets down
her cheeks, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“There, Catherine, when hair curls naturally and voluntarily,
it is certain that the face it belongs to requires it so,
and that it should be permitted to follow its nature, for nature
does all things well. Why don’t you always wear your
hair so? It is so much prettier.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Because, dear lady, I never thought it of any importance
how my hair was fixed, so that it looked neat. But I will
wear it this way, if it pleases you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It does. Your face is not a classic one, dear Kate, and
none but a classic face can bear that attic simplicity of style.
Your countenance is a very noble one, Kate, but its very
nobility is hard and stern, without the softening shadow of
these ringlets nature has bestowed upon you. There now,
look in the mirror, my little Oliver Cromwell, your face is
much more womanly than before.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine found it so. The soft, bright, drooping curls
shaded and rounded her large, square forehead into beautiful
proportion to her other features, and softened the expression
of the whole. No girl but is pleased to see herself improved
in beauty, and it was with a bright blush, half of pleasure,
half of modesty, that the maiden returned to the lady’s side.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Now, dear Kate, you must leave off that dingy gingham,
and wear white wrappers in the morning. It is early in the
season, and you can wear white a month longer yet, and by
the end of that time, I suppose, the world will expect you to
wear black. You have no white wrappers though, my dear!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, madam, I never had one.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, you have two white cambric dresses, without ornament,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_340'>340</span>they will do for morning dresses. Do me the kindness
to wear them. Nay, now, Catherine, my dear, no hesitation,
I will have it so. Go at once and put on one of them.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate complied, and in a short time returned to the parlor—by
this change in the style of her toilet, almost transfigured,
yet without the loss of her noble characteristics.
One thought troubled the maiden, the question—What
would Clifton think of this? How would he take it? Would
he suspect that she had dressed for his eyes? If he did his
suspicions would be well founded. And the consciousness of
this truth, suffused with blushes the cheeks of the ingenuous
girl, and heightened all her beauty.</p>

<p class='c006'>There was no certainty of Major Clifton’s advent that day—he
might come any day, but nevertheless they hoped for
and expected his arrival. By a change in the hours, the
stage now reached L—— at noon. And Mrs. Clifton had
ordered dinner in the full expectation of having her son’s
company at that meal. Nor were their hopes destined to
disappointment. A little after one o’clock, the carriage that
had been sent to L—— to meet the stage, returned and
drove up to the door. And Archer Clifton alighted from it,
and hastened joyfully into the house. Mrs. Clifton arose to
meet him, but, overpowered by agitation and weakness, she
sank back into her seat. Her son was before her in an
instant, and had clasped her in his arms, and pressed her to
his breast, and kissed her fondly many times, and sat her
back in her chair to feast his eyes upon her beloved face and
form, before he noticed how cadaverous, how death-like, she
looked; then a startled expression of surprise and alarm
sprung into his countenance, and he turned upon Kate, to
whom he had not yet spoken, a glance of mingled inquiry,
anger and reproach.</p>

<p class='c006'>“You find me in poor health, Archer; but not worse, my
son, than what might have been expected.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dearest mother,” he began, but his voice choked, and
to conceal the emotion he could not entirely suppress, he
turned to Catherine and gave her a brother’s greeting in silence,
but at the same time darting into her eyes a look of
stern rebuke from his own, which seemed to say, “You, at
least, should have written and informed me of this.” And
the suspicions excited by Mrs. Georgia rose darkly in his
mind, but were repressed again instantly.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dearest Archer, I am not usually so ill as I seem to-day.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_341'>341</span>I have never been confined to my bed, or even my
chair yet. Only to-day and yesterday, the joy of looking for
you has prevented my taking the usual quantity of sleep. I
shall be much better to-morrow. Sit down by me and rest,
and when you are rested, your room is quite ready for you,
if you wish to change your dress before dinner. Catherine,
my love, will you go and direct them to serve dinner?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine left the room and gave the necessary commands.
Then she ordered a boy to take Major Clifton’s baggage up
into his chamber, and went up stairs to show him where to
put it. In the meantime, Major Clifton, in looking upon his
mother’s wasted form, had lost all self-command, and saying
hastily that he thought he would change his traveling dress
at once, hurried out of the room to give vent to a passionate
sorrow, no longer to be restrained. He ran up stairs, but
paused upon the first landing. Catherine, in leaving his room,
found him leaning upon the balustrades, with his face buried
in his hands, weeping convulsively. To women, there is
something really appalling in a man’s tears—we look upon
them with more than pity—with awe—with something like
the feeling with which Mary and Martha must have witnessed
the Saviour’s tears—with deep reverence be it said. Catherine
would have crept by and slipped down stairs quietly, for
she had a feeling of self-reproach for having even seen that
strong outburst of sorrow; but he stood up and seized her
hand, and drew her towards him, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Stop, Catherine! You have seen my weakness! Now,
tell me why you did not write to me of this? Cruel and selfish
girl! were you so intent upon your own projects, that you
could not find time to indite a line to let me know that my
mother was dying?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Another burst of weeping prevented his hearing Catherine’s
gentle explanation, that Mrs. Clifton would not permit her
to write. And Kate was not anxious to exculpate herself
from an unjust charge; indeed, after once giving her little,
meek explanation, she never thought of it again—she only
thought of his agony of regret, and only wished to soothe it.
He still held her wrist, unconsciously straining it in the
strength of his emotion, until it pained her severely. But
she did not care for that, she did not even feel it; she only
cared to see him weep so convulsively, and losing all self-consciousness,
and with it all reserve, she threw her arm
<span class='pageno' id='Page_342'>342</span>around him, and dropping her head against him most tenderly,
most lovingly, she said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, do not grieve so! do not! see how calm and cheerful
she is! Try to emulate her calmness!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I loved her, Kate! I loved her more than ever son loved
mother before! She was the worth of life to me! I loved
her more than ever I loved human being! More even than
I ever loved you, Kate!”</p>

<p class='c006'>This was Clifton’s first declaration to Catherine, and a
strange time, place and circumstances, and a strange method
of expressing his preference had fallen upon them. “I loved
her more than I ever loved you, Kate!”</p>

<p class='c006'>But it did not seem strange to Catherine. It seemed perfectly
natural and in order. It did not startle her the least.
It did not bring back her womanly self-consciousness, for she
answered, meekly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know it—I know you do. And, oh! don’t <i>you</i> know
that I would willingly give my life for hers, if I could restore
her, in health, to your affections?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And yet you did not even write to let me know she was
ill! Oh! girl! girl! you were much to blame for that! It
was bitterly wrong.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I told you, but you did not hear me, that she would not
permit me to write; she did not wish to give you pain, or to
interfere with your arrangements for the year.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine, that does not excuse you! Could not your
own heart have told you how precious, how inestimable to me
would have been every hour of her company when her days
were numbered? Could you not have written to me secretly?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I never did anything secretly in my life. I should never
have thought of doing so. Besides, I could not have had a
secret from her, so open, so frank, so noble as she is. No, I
proposed to write for you to come home, I entreated permission
to do so, but she refused to grant it, and I deferred to
her better judgment. I would not have deceived her for the
world.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Then I have been unjust and unkind to you, Catherine,
but you will pardon me when I tell you—when you see how
thoroughly weakened and unmanned I am!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The gust of sorrow was over, and Kate, with sudden self-recollection
withdrew herself from him, deeply blushing, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_343'>343</span>hastened down stairs, and the thought of her transient self-forgetfulness
rendered the girl even shyer than ever.</p>

<p class='c006'>He went into his room and refreshed himself with a new
toilet. And when he entered the parlor, an hour after, no
one would have suspected from his handsome, animated face,
the existence of the sorrow that lay subdued at the bottom of
his heart.</p>

<p class='c006'>They dined together, and after dinner Catherine thought
it best to retire and leave the mother and son alone to enjoy
more fully their re-union. When she had left the room—</p>

<p class='c006'>“How pretty and lady-like Catherine is growing, madam,”
said Major Clifton, looking after her, but addressing his
mother.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes,” replied Mrs. Clifton, “lady-like, but not very
pretty; Kate will never be pretty; but if she be ‘blessed to
her mind,’ she will be more, she will be handsome.”</p>

<p class='c006'>After spending a long afternoon with his mother, Major
Clifton took temporary leave, and went over to White Cliffs,
to pay his respects to Mrs. Georgia. Most happily for all
concerned, Georgia had just left home for a visit of some
weeks at Richmond—ignorant, it is to be supposed, of Major
Clifton’s arrival. He returned and spent the evening with
the ladies at Hardbargain.</p>

<p class='c006'>The next morning found Mrs. Clifton very much better—and
in the evening she rode out, accompanied by Major Clifton
and Catherine. Mrs. Clifton’s cheerfulness infected all the
party—both upon this evening and afterwards. Her decline
was so gradual, so painless, that she never took to her bed—but
when weakest, sat in the easy-chair in the parlor, often
with a little light knitting in her hands, that she would
leisurely work upon, or drop into her lap, to be resumed at
pleasure, while she conversed with Catherine and Major
Clifton, or listened while one of them read, or both sang.
There never were more pleasant, serene days, than these of
the invalid’s gentle decay. It was genial, pensive autumn;
the fall of the leaf without the house, and the fall of the leaf
within.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine was now the housekeeper. She had—through
the increasing weakness of the lady—so gradually slidden
into this office, that she scarcely knew at what time its whole
burden had accumulated upon her. One morning, while
Catherine was in the store-room giving out meal and bacon
to the negroes, Mrs. Clifton and Major Clifton occupied the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_344'>344</span>parlor alone. He had been reading to her from Jeremy
Taylor, but seeing that she had dropped her knitting, and
was sitting back with a look of weariness, he thought it time
to desist and close the book.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear mother, you are fatigued; will you have anything?
What shall I bring you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nothing, my son. I am not wearied more than usual,
and it will pass in a few minutes.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The lady was silent for a little while, during which Major
Clifton refrained from conversation. And then, after some
little thought, she raised her eyes until they met his own
and looking at him full in the face, she asked—</p>

<p class='c006'>“When are you going to marry Catherine, Archer?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton started violently, and looked at the lady in
silent astonishment.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nay, pray answer me—my question is an earnest one.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear madam, you have taken me by surprise!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Necessary bluntness, Archer.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Very Oliver Cromwellish, madam, my mother.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You must excuse it, dear Archer. You did not open
the subject to me, therefore, feeling more anxious upon that
affair than any other on earth, I am forced to broach it to
you. But you have not answered my question yet.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear madam—what—exactly—was it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“When are you going to marry Catherine?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Upon my honor, my dear madam, I have no intention
of marrying Catherine; nor have I ever given her reason to
suppose so.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! I had thought, or rather, I had hoped otherwise,”
said the lady, relapsing into silence, while Major Clifton
subsided into painful thought. Again the dark suspicions
insinuated by Mrs. Georgia, arose in his mind, to be repressed
again with loathing; and he said indignantly to himself—“It
is not true! I can never believe her to be an intriguante.
Georgia is mistaken—Georgia’s grateful and affectionate interest
in my welfare, leads her to unjust suspicions of others.
Kate is noble-hearted—Kate is true—is truth itself. It
would be misery to believe otherwise.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Clifton gently interrupted his silent self-communion,
by saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, Archer, since you have no intention whatever of
marrying Catherine yourself, you can have no reasonable
ground of objection to her union with another?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_345'>345</span>He looked up in surprise and anxiety, but soon the
startled expression subsided into calmness, and he replied,
coolly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Catherine’s</i> union with another! Oh! the supposition
involves an impossibility.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know you think so, Archer. I know you feel perfectly
secure of this sweet girl, and just as easy about her as
if she were secured to you by all the chains that church and
state can forge, and that is the reason why you take things
so coolly, and listen to your pride. But I tell you that it is
not as you think. You are not forever secure of Catherine.
Our moods of mind, and our views of things, change with
time. And however the maiden may feel or think now, if
you hesitate for years between your pride and love, she will
naturally arrive at the conclusion that many a generous
hearted woman has come to before her, and say to herself,
‘Well, I cannot be happy myself, but my life must not,
therefore, be wasted—I can make some one else happy,’ and
being scorned by one she loves, give herself away to one
who loves her.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton started to his feet, with all the dark side of
his character uppermost, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Let her attempt it! I would stop such a marriage at
the altar! Catherine is mine, or nobody’s. She could not
repel my claim.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Archer, sit down; do not excite yourself or me.
Remember, I am in a dying state,” said the lady, as the best
means of calming him.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear madam, forgive me—forgive me—but why introduce
this very embarrassing and highly exciting subject? I
have had conflict enough in my own bosom about it. I love
your favorite, I love her jealously, fiercely—I admit it—but
there are objections and difficulties, which time, or a new set
of circumstances, may remove; meanwhile, I could not bear
to see her snatched from me. But there is time enough—even
if I should decide upon such a step, there is time
enough. Kate is very young yet.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But you are not very young, Archer.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know it, dear madam. I have arrived at that age at
which men do not make imprudent marriages for love.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But when they too often make unhappy marriages of
convenience. Dear Archer, it is a false and sinful principle
that keeps you and Catherine apart. Will you spoil two
<span class='pageno' id='Page_346'>346</span>lives by your pride? Your hesitation between inclination
and prejudice, weakens you and destroys her.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘Prejudices,’ dear madam! Well, I suppose they are
prejudices, but just think of the horror of having Carl Kavanagh,
the farm laborer, for a brother-in-law, and being called
‘uncle’ by his ragged progeny!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Archer, your inhumanity shocks me—they are human
creatures, after all—this Carl and his family.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And don’t you see besides, madam, that if I should
marry Catherine, and introduce her into society, the first
question would be, ‘Who is she?’ and the answer by some
good-natured friend, ‘The sister of one of his farm-laborers,’
would expose us to contempt, if it did not rule us out of
good company.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Archer! Archer! can it be that you weigh these falsities
with the deep realities of life?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is a deplorable thing, indeed, that a girl of such noble
nature should come of such ignoble parentage.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No! it is a congratulatory thing!—or would be so, if it
were not such a usual thing! Archer, you will find more
moral worth, and it may be more mental worth, among the
so-called lower classes, than among the higher; for instance,
among the men, look at some of their brows, of Shaksperian
height and breadth—think what they would be with cultivation!
And I tell you, with all their disadvantages, the lower
classes will give to our republic the greatest of her future
great men.”<a id='r2'></a><a href='#f2' class='c018'><sup>[2]</sup></a></p>

<div class='footnote' id='f2'>
<p class='c006'><a href='#r2'>2</a>. The history of most prominent men of the day verifies the prediction.</p>
</div>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton remained in deep thought for awhile, and
then taking the hand of the lady, said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear mother, the objections that I have advanced
are those that have arisen in my mind, from time to time,
giving me much pain. I wished to hold them up before myself,
as I have just done, in order to see what they really
consisted of, and looked like. I have seen the worst of
them, and in their ugliest light, and they will not deter me
from taking to my heart the girl I love. I have weighed
them, and the whole mass is light in the balance with my
need of Catherine. I will marry her. I will go and tell
her so now. And the ceremony shall be performed whenever
you think proper.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_347'>347</span>“Whenever <i>Kate</i> thinks proper, my dear Archer,” replied
the lady, smiling.</p>

<p class='c006'>At this moment a servant entered and delivered a note to
Major Clifton. It was from Mrs. Georgia, announcing her
return to White Cliffs, and begging the company of Major
Clifton to tea that evening.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_348'>348</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXX.<br> <span class='large'>BETROTHAL.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Twas thy high purity of soul,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Thy thought revealing eye,</div>
      <div class='line'>That conquered all my pride of heart,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Thou wanderer from the sky.—<span class='sc'>W. G. Clark.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Major Clifton held the note between his finger and
thumb, in a fit of abstraction, while a pleasant, contemplative
smile dwelt on his face.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, are you not going to answer it?” asked Mrs. Clifton,
adding, “The servant waits.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! answer it! yes! what is it about?” he exclaimed,
starting out of his reverie, and glancing at the note again.
Then he arose, penned a hasty excuse, and delivering it to
the messenger, dispatched him. Returning from this business,
he said, “No, I cannot leave home this evening; since
I have come to a decision, I wish to have a good, confidential
talk with my little Kate. How much I have to say to her,
how much to draw from her, if I can. What a prison delivery
of thought and emotion it must be on both sides, if I
can get her to talk! But she is so shy, except when under
some strong, disinterested feeling for another. Move her
sympathies, and she forgets herself and loses all reserve,
otherwise—she is so shy.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, very, very shy, <i>to you</i>. Kate’s heart and brain
are sealed volumes to you. It will require the easy intimacy
of long, domestic companionship, to find out all her excellencies.
Her husband will love and esteem her far more
dearly and highly than ever lover has done—but hush, here
she comes.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The door opened, and Catherine entered, from her morning’s
household duties, with her little basket of keys hanging
on her arm.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come hither, dear Kate,” said Major Clifton, holding
out his hand. Catherine put her little basket in its place,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_349'>349</span>and quietly went to his side. He encircled her waist with
his arm, and holding both her hands captive in his own,
looked fondly in her face till she dropped her eyes in confusion,
and then he said, “Dear Kate, my mother here, who
loves you almost as much as I do, if that were possible, wants
to know when you will make us both happy, by becoming my
wife and her daughter.”</p>

<p class='c006'>He paused for an answer, never removing his eyes from
their gaze upon her glowing cheek.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, I am very anxious to know what day you will give
yourself to us entirely, dear child!” said Mrs. Clifton, and
she also paused for a reply.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine, in extreme confusion, glanced from one to the
other, and finally dropped her eyes again.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come, dearest Kate, it is but a word—the name of some
day in the week whispered very low,” said Major Clifton, in
her ear.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, let it be soon; let it be within a week, dear child.
My time is short, Kate, and I wish to bless your marriage
before I go hence. You know I told you that I could calculate
the progress of decay, and the length of life with some
accuracy, and I tell you now that my days are numbered.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come, Kate, if you cannot speak, give me one of your
short, quick nods. Come, this is Saturday—shall we be
married to-morrow?—next day?—Tuesday?—Wednesday?—Thursday?”
Catherine, whose heart had been filling all
this time, now burst into tears. He drew her head upon his
shoulder, where she sobbed awhile, until he stooped and
whispered, “Dear Catherine, try to calm yourself—do you
not see how you excite our mother? there, lift up your head,
and go to her; and both of you together arrange all these
little matters as mother and daughter should, and she will
let me know the result,” and tenderly withdrawing his arm,
he passed her round before him, and stood her beside Mrs.
Clifton’s easy-chair, and arose and took his hat and left the
room, with the same happy, half-contemplative smile upon
his lips. Kate sank down by the side of Mrs. Clifton, and
dropping her head upon the lady’s lap, wept afresh. The
gentle invalid put her hands upon the maiden’s shoulders
caressingly, but did not seek to arrest the current of her
emotion. It was plain that the girl herself sought to stay
her tears, for, between her sobs, she exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_350'>350</span>“Forgive—excuse—I know it’s weak, wrong—it is only
because—I’m so grateful!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The fit of emotion exhausted itself, and she lifted up her
face, wiped her eyes, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Lady—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Call me mother, Kate.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mother! heart’s dearest mother! do you think he mistook
me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“How, Kate?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I couldn’t speak! Indeed, indeed I could not! But I
want you to tell him, <i>mother</i>, how grateful I am, and how
happy! Tell him, <i>for I never can</i>, how much and how long
I have loved him. My heart has been single to him ever
since I first knew him. I will try to make him a good wife—indeed,
indeed I will. And where my weakness or my ignorance
fails, I will pray to Heaven daily for more strength
and light. Oh! I know what a sacrifice of pride and prejudice
he has made for love of me—tell him so, mother, and
tell him—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, dear Kate, I will not tell him that. He has made
no sacrifice. Nonsense. And if he had, you are worth it
all, all—his wealth, rank, position, pride and all! Be true
to yourself.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, what am I, that he should indeed prefer me to all
the ladies in the great city that he has left; and what can I
bring him but my love and my duty—all my love and all my
duty!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And do you undervalue these, Kate? Why, they are
the treasures of treasures. And you would judge them so
in another’s case. But here you are fond and blind. Now,
dearest Kate, I am so anxious to see you the wife of Archer.
And I wish to enjoy that pleasure as long as I can—when
shall it be?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mother, you and he have made me what I am, and given
to my life all its worth and value—now what can I do but
give back myself and life to you? Dearest mother, fix it as
you will, I shall be happy, any way.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Thursday, Kate?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, Thursday, dear mother.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The lady then embraced and dismissed her, and settled
herself back in her chair to take a necessary nap.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine left the parlor in that half-blissful, half-fearful
trance that falls upon one when the great life’s desire and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_351'>351</span>hope is about to be realized—happy beyond measure, but
somewhat incredulous that this could be really fact—really
the “sober certainty of waking bliss,” and no dream, and
foreboding some stroke of fate that should snatch the too
great joy from her. Major Clifton was standing within the
open front door, looking out upon the glorious autumn landscape
and the changing foliage of the trees, some of the outer
branches of the latter burning so red that they seemed a-fire
in the rays of the afternoon sun. But he turned to Catherine,
with a buoyant smile and step, and led her out upon
the piazza. The habitually grave Archer Clifton was almost
gay. He was in that happy state of mind that all will recognize
who have ever had a severe, long standing moral
conflict brought to end, in which the reason, conscience and
heart are all satisfied. The struggle between the prejudices
of rank and the passion of his soul was over, and the strongest
had conquered, and now reigned alone, and a fine, vigorous,
healthful joyousness had taken the place of all reserve
and gloom and eccentricity; so great and happy was this
change, that Catherine felt no more the strange, shy fear of
him that had ever placed her at such disadvantage in his
presence. He led her to a shaded seat at the end of a piazza,
where there were no intruders but a glancing line of sunlight,
and nothing to disturb them louder than the rustle of
a falling leaf. And there he poured out the long hoarded
mysteries of his heart, talking on and on as the hours passed,
until successively the sun went down, and the stars came out,
and clouds arose and hid them, and shrouded the piazza in
darkness. And still he talked—“an’ he would talk his
last,” not even heeding the approach of a servant, until
Henny’s voice was heard, asking Miss Kate to come and give
out tea and sugar for supper. Then he arose, and half unmindful
of the presence of the maid, he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“This is very sweet, dear Kate, very, very sweet—to be
able to say to you everything without reserve—to tell you
all the long withheld secrets of my soul, and see you listen
with such deep interest; but when will you be equally
frank with me—when will you show me your heart?”</p>

<p class='c006'>The next day Major Clifton rode over to White Cliffs to
pay his respects to Georgia.</p>

<p class='c006'>The beauty received him with unrestrained joy; but in
the conversation that ensued, reverted to what she called
“The intrigues of that low born manœuverer, Miss Kavanagh,”
<span class='pageno' id='Page_352'>352</span>asking him if he had not observed a great change
in Mrs. Clifton, ascribable entirely to her influence?</p>

<p class='c006'>It gave Major Clifton great pain to hear Catherine traduced
in this manner, but he believed Mrs. Georgia to be
perfectly sincere in her opinion, and only the victim of a
mistake. He told the lady so, adding—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am about to give Miss Kavanagh the highest proof
of confidence that one being can give another. I am about
to take her for my life’s bosom friend. We shall be married
in five days.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Had a bullet sped through her heart, she could not have
given a more agonized bound. Then she struck both hands
to her temples, started hastily half across the floor, paused
again as if distracted, and suddenly cried out—</p>

<p class='c006'>“You shall not do it! By my soul, you shall not do it!
You never, never shall become the dupe of that woman!
I have entered the lists with her. I mean, that to save you,
I have done so, and before I leave them, I will prove her
false and treacherous. God show the right!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton gazed upon her in wonder. The strong emotion
that she had exhibited, imposed upon him, for there was
no doubting its <i>reality</i>; and far from suspecting its <i>cause</i>, an
unhallowed passion for himself, he ascribed it solely to her
strong conviction of Catherine’s unworthiness, and to her
disinterested regard for his own welfare. And when she
came and threw herself upon the sofa beside him, and besought,
with all the eloquence that passion and the demon
could lend her, that he would pause and not hurry on to his
ruin, his confidence in Catherine’s integrity was shaken to the
foundation. And when at the end of an hour he rode home,
he reached Hardbargain as miserable as the doubt of one beloved
can make a man. If love has the Divine power of
transfiguring its object until faults are excellencies, suspicion
possesses the demoniac faculty of deforming its victim until
virtues seem vices, and under its influence the highest and
best gifts of the maiden, her intellect, virtues, and graces
were turned against her; her talent seemed intriguing art;
her meekness and humility became meanness and sycophancy;
her piety, hypocrisy; and her girlish shyness the sinister
reserve of conscious guilt.</p>

<p class='c006'>It was well that on his return he met Catherine only in his
mother’s presence, where deep regard for the lady constrained
him into something like forbearance; though even then his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_353'>353</span>moody manner excited some uneasiness in the bosoms of the
two ladies. When Catherine left the room to order dinner,
the conversation that ensued tended to strengthen his newly
revived suspicions. Mrs. Clifton told him, that with his consent
she would like to leave the farm of Hardbargain to Catherine,
as a testimony of her esteem and affection.</p>

<p class='c006'>“And for a more practical reason, too,” she said, “for
you know, my dear Archer, that the estate of White Cliffs
being entailed—if you should die before her, and without
male children—Catherine and her daughters, if she should
have any, would be left homeless. But if I leave her this
farm of Hardbargain, it can make no difference to you during
your life, and if Catherine happen to survive you, it will secure
her a home. What do you think of this plan, Archer?
You look grave and troubled. If you have the slightest
objection, I will not carry it out, of course.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Surely I have not the least right to object, my dear
mother; your property you have made by your own labor,
and improved by your own admirable management.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You have the right of nature, my dear Archer; and I
see by your gravity, that you dislike this arrangement; therefore
it shall not be made.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You mistake my thoughtfulness, dear madam. If I am
somewhat grave, it is upon another subject. Believe me, I
have not the slightest fault to find with this plan; <i>neither
does it take me by surprise, I have been prepared for it months
since</i>. Mrs. Georgia Clifton informed me that such was your
intention.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Is it possible? How could Georgia have known anything
about it? But I suppose she has heard me drop words
to that effect. May I hope then, that this purpose meets your
approbation, Archer?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Certainly, madam, it can make no material difference, if
Kate is to be my wife. And, if she were not to be so, I should
be quite as well pleased.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Unconscious of the double meaning of his words, the lady
then inquired into the cause of his gloom.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Merely a fit of moodiness, dear mother; the reaction,
perhaps, of yesterday’s joy; a mere depression of spirits,
which a brisk gallop over the hills will throw off.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“If you are inclined for a ride, Archer, you can do me a
service at the same time, if you will go to L—— and bring
out Mr. White, the lawyer, to draw up my will.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_354'>354</span>A spasm of pain passed over the handsome countenance
of Major Clifton, and he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I will do anything you please, dearest mother; but surely
there is no necessity for haste in this matter.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Archer, <i>there is</i>. Besides, my mind will be easier when
it is done. And Archer, lastly—bring with you a clergyman.
I wish to receive the Holy Communion.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton made no farther objection, but left the room
to order his horse; and in less than half an hour he found
himself on his way to L——. Mrs. Clifton summoned
Kate. When the girl entered, she found the lady on the
verge of fainting from over-exertion and extreme weakness.
Catherine grew pale with sudden fear, and her hands trembled
as she poured out and administered a restorative. Somewhat
revived by the cordial, Mrs. Clifton said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Kate, write two notes, one to Mrs. Georgia Clifton, and
one to your brother Carl, asking each of them to come here
this evening to witness a deed—or rather <i>two of them</i>, my
dear Kate—the signing of my last will and testament, and
the solemnization of your marriage—for both must be hastened,
Kate. My dear child, take your pen and write at
once.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Deeply troubled, extremely agitated, yet struggling to
govern her feelings, Catherine found the writing materials
and penned the two notes; but when she had finished them,
in the abstraction of her great grief, she misdirected them—and
sent the note intended for Mrs. Georgia to Carl Kavanagh,
and that intended for Carl to Mrs. Georgia. When
she had dispatched these notes by different messengers, and
returned to the parlor, Mrs. Clifton said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Call Henny, my dear Kate, and let her assist you in
getting me up stairs. It has come at last, Kate.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Almost dismayed by sorrow, Catherine rung the bell that
brought the servants into the room. And between them
they raised the lady to her feet. Mrs. Clifton took a long
look around the room, as though she were taking a last leave
of every dear familiar object in it; and then suffered herself
to be supported up to her chamber.</p>

<hr class='c016'>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Georgia Clifton was pacing her chamber floor, in all
the distraction of excited evil passions, racking her brain for
<span class='pageno' id='Page_355'>355</span>an expedient to ruin her rival and break off the impending
marriage, when the “spirits that tend on mortal thoughts,”
furnished her with one. A messenger entered and handed
her a sealed envelope, directed in the hand-writing of Catherine
Kavanagh. She opened it in surprise, curiosity, and
even in some degree of vague, guilty fear, and found within
the misdirected note of Kate to Carl. It read simply as
follows:</p>

<div class='lg-container-l c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span class='sc'>Dear Carl</span>:—</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c015'>“Mrs. Clifton is almost dying. She says you must come to
the house this afternoon, at four o’clock, to meet a lawyer
and a clergyman, and with Mrs. Georgia Clifton, to witness
the signing of her last will, and also my marriage. Do not
keep her waiting.</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“CATHERINE.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>This note contained no expression of esteem or affection
for the invalid, or regret at her approaching death. No! for
Catherine’s veneration and sorrow were too earnest, too real,
to be a matter of wordy formula. But in the evil heart of
Georgia this simplicity was turned against the girl. And her
first idea, revealed in her smile of satisfaction, was to show
this mis-sent note to Archer Clifton, and bid him look and
see with what perfect coolness and indifference the writer
could announce the approaching demise of her benefactress.
But while this thought was revolving in her mind, Satan
suggested a surer plan—a deadly stratagem. And at this
inspiration of the fiend, the dark face of the baleful woman
lighted up with demoniac joy. She seized the note again,
and rushed to the window, and scanned the hand-writing.
Georgia inherited all the imitative talent of her father, the
portrait painter. Catherine’s hand-writing was unique: small,
square letters, with heavy strokes, a chirography peculiar to
herself, yet easily imitated. Mrs. Georgia copied a few
selected words—compared them with the originals, and was
satisfied with her work. Next she wished to procure note
paper, exactly like it. Catherine’s note was written upon
neutral-tinted paper, that had been given her by Major
Clifton. Mrs. Georgia recognized it as some that had belonged
to him. She thought there might possibly be a few
stray sheets in the writing-table of the library. She went
thither, and after a diligent search, found a single sheet.
This she took with her, and returned to her chamber, locked
herself in, and sat down to her fiendish task. Perfectly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_356'>356</span>imitating the hand-writing of Catherine, she forged the following
letter:</p>

<div class='lg-container-l c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span class='sc'>Dearest Carl</span>:—</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c015'>“My long slavery is almost over. The old woman is at her
last gasp, and wants you to come over this afternoon at four
o’clock, to witness her will and my marriage. You see I
have succeeded in catching the aristocrat, and in wheedling
his mother into giving me Hardbargain, in my sole right.
Am I not a triumphant diplomatist? When she is dead,
and I am married, and mistress of White Cliffs and of Hardbargain,
as I shall probably reside at the principal seat, I
intend to let you this farm, on the easiest terms. Never fear
Major Clifton’s interference. You know <i>I</i> know how to
manage him.</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“CATHERINE.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>When she had completed her demon-work, Georgia carefully
examined it. It satisfied her. She smiled, and muttered—“<i>Any
one</i> who ever saw Catherine’s queer hand-writing,
would feel safe in swearing this to be hers.” Then
she folded it in the form of the other note, and placed it in
the original envelope—and threw it, broken-sealed as it was,
upon the table, exclaiming—“There!—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“‘I have set my life upon a cast,</div>
      <div class='line'>And will abide the hazard of the die.’”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c016'>

<p class='c006'>In the meanwhile, Catherine watched by the bedside of
Mrs. Clifton, awaiting the return of Major Clifton, with the
clergyman and the attorney.</p>

<p class='c006'>About three o’clock in the afternoon the party arrived.
The professional gentlemen remained in the parlor, while
Major Clifton went up into the chamber of his mother. As
he approached her bed, and perceived the fearful change a
few hours had wrought in her appearance, and recognized
the sure approach of death, he was so shocked, so overwhelmed
with sorrow, that it was with the utmost difficulty he could
sustain his self-command.</p>

<p class='c006'>She held out to him her wasted hand, saying, quietly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear Archer, I wish to have the marriage ceremony
between you and Kate performed this afternoon, if you
please.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_357'>357</span>“Certainly, my dear mother, it shall be as you desire,”
he replied, repressing a great groan—but desirous, above all
things, to gratify that dying parent. “Shall it be <i>now</i>,
mother?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, dear Archer, not just yet—I want the holiest things
left for the <i>last</i>—I want the will drawn up, witnessed, signed
and sealed <i>first</i>; then the marriage ceremony performed;
and last, I wish to receive the Holy Communion—after which,
I shall be ready to depart.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mother—the minister and the lawyer are below stairs,
awaiting your leisure—they will remain over to-night. Do
not disturb yourself.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My good Archer, I made Catherine write to Carl Kavanagh
and to Mrs. Georgia to come to see me this afternoon,
they have not yet arrived. Please go and send again for
them.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Archer Clifton bent and kissed his mother’s forehead, and
went down stairs. In the hall he saw Carl Kavanagh, hat
in hand, waiting.</p>

<p class='c006'>Carl immediately advanced, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! Major Clifton, I am waiting here to see my sister
to return to her this note, that she has sent me by mistake
I think—perhaps you can explain it.” And he handed to
Archer Clifton the mis-sent note of Catherine to Georgia.</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton understood the mistake at once, and retaining
the note, replied—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine wrote two notes, summoning yourself and Mrs.
Georgia Clifton to Hardbargain, this afternoon, to witness
the signature of a certain document. She placed them in
envelopes, and in her haste misdirected them—that is all.
Pray remain here, while I ride over home, and bring Mrs.
Georgia.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Carl Kavanagh sat down in the hall, and Major Clifton
mounted a fresh horse, and galloped over to White Cliffs.
Dismounting at the gate, he threw the reins to a servant
and entering the house, sent a message to Mrs. Georgia.</p>

<p class='c006'>The servant returned, and requesting Major Clifton to follow,
led the way up to Mrs. Georgia’s own room, opened the
door, announced the visitor, and retired.</p>

<p class='c006'>Archer entered the room, and found the lady seated at
her work-table, but looking pale and anxious. By her work-box
lay the envelope of Kate’s true note with the forged note
in it.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_358'>358</span>“Ah!” said Major Clifton, after greeting her, “I see
that you have received Kate’s note.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes—one that was never intended for <i>my</i> eyes, but of
those of a fellow conspirator.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Conspirator, madam!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir. Do you surmise all the consequences of these
mis-sent letters? Look at this!” she said, throwing it to
him, “written by Miss Kavanagh, but directed by mistake
to me. Yes, look at it! Examine the envelope! and then
read the contents of the note!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton glanced at the superscription, opened the
note, and read it through with a cheek growing pale and
paler—until he finished it—then tossed it from him, and
burying his face in his hands groaned aloud. He had not
the slightest suspicion that the infamous letter was a forgery—no!—he
had not a single merciful doubt that it was the
work of Catherine—nay, he would have sworn to the hand-writing,
if called upon to do so in a court of justice—he
would have sworn to it though Kate’s life hung upon his oath!
Any one else who had ever seen her peculiar chirography
would have felt constrained to do so, if requested—save two—she
who lay dying at Hardbargain—and she was to know
nothing about it—and he, the rejected lover, now far away,
who would have cast that note aside in high disdain, and
staked his honor on her truth. Clifton groaned aloud, in the
bitterness of disappointed esteem. Resentment itself was
swallowed up in sorrow, and he exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! would to God she had died, or <i>I</i> had, before I knew
this!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Rejoice, rather, that you are saved!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Saved</i>, madam!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes—<i>saved</i>. You will never marry her, now. You are
perfectly justifiable in breaking with the unmasked traitress!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And in shaking the last few sands in my mother’s glass
of life. The discovery of that girl’s treachery has driven
me to despair—it would kill my mother! No, lady! I must
marry her, that my beloved mother may depart in peace.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Marry her!” screamed Georgia, with the cry of a
wounded hyena—“marry her, and sacrifice all your hopes
of happiness, for the sake of keeping quiet the last few hours
of a dying woman! You will not do such a thing.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My hopes of happiness, did you say, Mrs. Clifton? Ah,
lady, can you not comprehend, then, that when one at my age
<span class='pageno' id='Page_359'>359</span>has discovered—beyond all possibility of doubt—the total
unworthiness of one the most beloved on earth—the heart’s
most cherished darling—the life’s dearest hope—” down broke
his voice, and down dropped his head upon his hands—then
rising, impatiently, he exclaimed—“I say, can you not comprehend
that I have <i>no</i> hopes of happiness left? I loved her
so! I trusted her so! I sacrificed such strong prejudices
for her! And I was as happy as a converted sinner, when
the struggle was over and the sacrifice made. I could have
shaken hands with her freckled-handed brother, and claimed
kindred with all his rugged race! And now!—I am unmanned!
I am a fool!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, you are not, unless you marry her. You are not the
first noble-minded man that has been duped by a bad woman!
You feel it as every generous hearted man would. But it
will pass. Life has many chances, and you will be happy
yet. <i>My</i> friendship is not much, perhaps, but is it not something?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes—yes—yes—yes—sweet friend, it is much,” said
Archer Clifton, slowly—half soliloquizing, as he took and
held her hand. Then suddenly starting, as out of a reverie,
he exclaimed—“Mrs. Clifton, you know my errand here—it
is to bring you over to Hardbargain, for the purpose of which
you have already been advised by the note.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“To be present at your mad marriage, among other
things?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I will not go! I cannot! I cannot witness such a
sacrifice.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“As you please, dear Georgia. I suppose there is no imperative
necessity of your doing so—good-bye!” and he arose,
and lifted his hat from the table.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! good-bye, indeed!” replied Georgia, bitterly—“good-bye,
indeed! if you persist in your insane purpose!—I
shall remain here, and hope to the last. But when I
hear that this marriage has really taken place, I leave White
Cliffs within the hour!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You will think differently, dear lady, and I shall see you
again, shortly.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Never!—as the husband of that traitress.”</p>

<p class='c006'>He did not reply. He raised her hand to his lips, and left
her.</p>

<p class='c006'>Left to herself, mad impulses seized the disappointed woman.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_360'>360</span>At one instant she was impelled to seize the forged
letter, and rush to the death-bed of Mrs. Clifton, and there
denounce her favorite as a hypocrite and a traitress. But a
moment’s reflection convinced her that no art of hers could
induce the dying woman to think evil of the excellent girl she
herself had educated. That on the contrary, such a step might
possibly result in her own signal defeat and exposure, and
the everlasting anger and contempt of Archer Clifton. Her
brain was beginning to reel, and her self-confidence to wane.
In sudden fear she looked around for the forged letter, intending
to burn it. It was nowhere to be seen. Then she
recollected that Major Clifton had, on departing, picked it
up, and put it in his pocket. And sick with disappointed
love, jealousy, hatred, and fear, she tottered towards a lounge,
but ere she reached it, fell upon the floor. In the meanwhile,
Major Clifton, riding at full speed, reached the farm-house.</p>

<p class='c006'>On reaching Hardbargain, Major Clifton went immediately
to Mrs. Clifton’s chamber. He found her still sinking. She
inquired, in a faint voice, whether he had brought Mrs.
Georgia. He replied, with perhaps a pardonable ambiguity
of speech, that Mrs. Georgia was too much <i>indisposed</i> to attend.
Then she said that she supposed Mr. White (the
clergyman) would consent to act in her stead. She informed
him that the attorney had been with her, and had drawn up
her will according to her instruction, and she requested that
the parties might be assembled in her room to witness the
signing. Major Clifton left the chamber to summon them, and
soon returned, accompanied by the lawyer, the minister, Carl
Kavanagh and Catherine. The will was then read, after which
the lady was raised up in bed, and supported in the arms of
her son; the document was placed upon a portfolio and laid
before her, and a pen dipped in ink and presented to her.
She signed her name, and immediately sank back exhausted.
The two witnesses affixed their signatures, and the will was
delivered into the custody of the attorney. A restorative
was administered to the invalid, and she was arranged comfortably
upon her pillows. Then she took the hand of her
son, and whispered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Let the marriage ceremony be performed at once, dearest
Archer.”</p>

<p class='c006'>He pressed that wan hand, laid it tenderly down upon the
coverlet, and spoke apart with the clergyman, who occupied
the chair beside the head of the bed. The minister solemnly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_361'>361</span>arose, drew a prayer-book from his pocket and opened it.
Major Clifton went quietly and spoke a few words in explanation
to the lawyer and Carl Kavanagh, who then approached
the bedside. Lastly, he took the hand of Catherine, and led
her up before the minister. The marriage ceremony commenced.
It was performed according to the ritual of the
Protestant Episcopal Church. But when the great question
was put to the bridegroom—“Archer, ‘wilt thou have this
woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together, after God’s
ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love
her, comfort her, honor her,’” etc.—instead of answering,
according to the ritual, “I will,” he replied by a grave and
formal bow, with silent lips, “that scarce their scorn forbore.”
When the corresponding question was put to the
bride, Kate too replied by a gentle inclination of the head,
but her true heart responded sincerely, earnestly. When
the last benediction was given, and when, according to the
old formula, the bridegroom was to salute his bride, he merely
touched her cheek with cold lips, and passed her on to his
mother, who held out her arms to embrace her daughter.
The singularity of Major Clifton’s manner was scarcely noticed,
or it was ascribed to the solemnity of the attending
circumstances. Mrs. Clifton now desired that all, with the
exception of her son and daughter and the clergyman, should
bid her adieu and leave the room. Her request was complied
with, and when they had retired, she signified her wish to
partake of the Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper with her children.
Major Clifton was constrained to decline, upon conscientious
scruples; for how could he partake of the Sacrament
of peace and brotherly love, with his heart consumed
with indignation against his newly-married bride? Catherine,
however, participated in the Holy Communion, while he
looked on with surprise, mixed with a degree of horror.
When the sacred rite was over, the minister of God took an
affectionate leave, and departed. When the minister was
gone, and they were left alone together, the dying mother
beckoned her son and daughter to come and sit near her.
They obeyed her, and she addressed them a few words of
earnest, affectionate counsel, blessed them, and resigned herself
to rest. Her eyelids closed calmly, and her breathing
was gentle and regular; they had to mark attentively before
they knew that it grew fainter and fainter. Once she opened
her eyes, and, smiling her old, reflecting smile, said—</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_362'>362</span>“Dear Archer, I have often tried to detect the exact moment
of falling asleep. I watch now, to see if I can seize
the precise instant of passing from mortal to immortal life.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And she closed her eyes again. After a few minutes, she
said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Sing to me, dear Kate! You know—Heber’s death
hymn.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine bent and kissed the pallid lips of the dying woman,
and then her voice arose, sweet, clear and spiritual as
angels’ songs, in that immortal requiem—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Vital spark of heavenly flame,</div>
      <div class='line'>Quit, oh! quit this mortal frame;</div>
      <div class='line'>Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,</div>
      <div class='line'>Oh! the pain, the bliss of dying—</div>
      <div class='line'>Hark! they whisper, angels say—</div>
      <div class='line'>Sister spirit, come away—</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>At the end of the first stanza, she murmured, faintly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Your voice, too, dear Archer.”</p>

<p class='c006'>His voice arose now in unison with Catherine’s, and they
sang the remainder—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“The world recedes—it disappears:</div>
      <div class='line'>Heaven opens on my eyes; my ears</div>
      <div class='line in2'>With sounds seraphic ring.</div>
      <div class='line'>Lend, lend your wings; I mount, I fly!</div>
      <div class='line'>Oh, grave, where is thy victory?</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Oh, death, where is thy sting?”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>They ceased, and looked upon the marble face before
them. It was still in death, but there remained upon the
countenance the impress of the ecstatic smile with which the
spirit had taken its flight—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in12'>“Her death</div>
      <div class='line'>Was like the setting of a planet mild.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_363'>363</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXXI.<br> <span class='large'>THE POISON WORKS.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in28'>’Tis slander;</div>
      <div class='line'>Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue</div>
      <div class='line'>Outvenoms all the worms of the Nile.—<span class='sc'>Shakspeare.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>When Archer Clifton saw that all indeed was over; when
he looked upon that mother-face, the first which had ever met
his conscious gaze in life; that old, familiar face, which
seemed to him coeval with his being, and a necessary part
of it; that face the most intimate, the most loving, the most
faithful which had ever shone upon his path of life;—and
felt that it was lost forever; that the light of those quiet
eyes was darkened forever; the sound of that kind voice
silenced forever; the smile of those calm lips fled forever;—when
he clasped that mother-hand, and felt that those dear
fingers would close upon his own in cordial grasp never, never
more;—oh! when he felt that all was over, over, “finished,
done and ended,” he fell upon his knees by the corpse,
dropped his head upon the cold, inanimate bosom, and broke
into convulsive sobs.</p>

<p class='c006'>Weeping freely, Catherine knelt by his side, and put her
arm around his neck. He was unconscious of her presence,
until, after giving way to sorrow for a few moments, she
lifted up her head, and wiped her eyes, and controlling her
own emotion, sought to console him—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do not grieve so, dear Archer,” she murmured, with
her arm again around him, “do not grieve, but <i>pray</i>.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Then indeed he suddenly grew calm, unclasped the gentle
arm of Catherine from his neck, arose slowly from his kneeling
posture, took her hand, and raised her upon her feet, and
regarding her with a stern and sorrowful countenance, said,
in severe rebuke—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come! madam! no more hypocrisy now! None here
at least! It is useless hereafter! You have accomplished
your design. You <i>are</i> a ‘successful diplomatist,’ and your
’long slavery’ <i>is</i> now over.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_364'>364</span>Catherine lifted her eyes, dilated with sorrow and amazement,
and fixed them on his face an instant; but the look
she met there, the expression of mingled suffering and severity,
such as might have sat upon the brow of Brutus,
when the feelings of the man and the duty of the judge
strove in his bosom, awed her into silence before him. She
could express no surprise or grief—ask no explanation. The
old shyness and fear came over her, and her eyes fell, and
her cheeks paled. Again he spoke in the same stern, sorrowful
tone—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ay, cower with conscious guilt! You are discovered!
And you should have been unmasked before <i>her</i> to-day, but
that I did not wish to embitter her last moments! that only
saved you! Come! leave the room that you desecrate with
your presence! Leave me alone with my dead!”</p>

<p class='c006'>But instead of obeying, she stood like a statue before
him.</p>

<p class='c006'>Then he took her hand and led her through the door, and
closed it behind her.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine stood there where he had placed her, amazed,
confounded, unable to move a step forward, until the thought
of practical duties, now pressing upon her, gave her strength,
and she passed on to summon those whose office it was to
prepare the dead for burial. But amid all the multifarious
tasks that devolved upon her at that trying time, as newly
installed and unassisted mistress of the house, she could not
for an instant forget her awful bereavement, or the dreadful
anger of her husband.</p>

<p class='c006'>He came out of the room of death at last, and passed
Catherine on the stairs, and his stern, averted countenance
at that moment almost broke her heart. But she went on
enduringly with her tasks. Often she raised her soul in
prayer to God for help. Once, during that desolate night,
she found time to open her Bible, and her eyes fell upon this
text: Romans, 8, 28. “And we know that all things work
together for good, to them that love God”—she paused upon
the text, repeating, “‘all things,’ <i>all things</i>, even this! I
will believe it!” And her face grew beautiful with divine
faith, and she reverently closed the book, and went on her
way comforted. She had need of fresh strength and comfort,
indeed, to meet a fresh trial. On coming down stairs
she met Henny, who seemed to be on the look out for her.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_365'>365</span>and who placed a note in her hand. It was from Major
Clifton, and read as follows—</p>

<p class='c015'>“I desire that you keep your chamber to-morrow, or, at
least, refrain from insulting the memory of the dead, by appearing
at the funeral.</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>ARCHER CLIFTON.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>She nodded her head slowly, meditatively, with a look of
sweetest resignation; then beckoned Henny to follow her, and
returned to her chamber. There she sat down and wrote the
following note—</p>

<p class='c015'>“I will absent myself from the funeral, since you wish me
to do so; I will also keep my room, if you desire it, when I
remind you that there is no one to supply my place in the
household arrangements for the solemnities of the day.</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“CATHERINE.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>She sent this by Henny, but received no reply to it. Construing
silence into consent, she went about the house as
usual attending to her duties.</p>

<p class='c006'>In the meantime, Major Clifton sat in his study, awaiting
an answer to a note he had written to Mrs. Georgia, apprising
her of the recent events, and requesting her to come at once
to the house. He had not to wait long; his messenger returned,
and informed him that he had met the lady on her
way to L——, to take the stage coach to Richmond. The
man, at the same time, gave the intelligence that Mr. Kavanagh
waited in the hall, to know if he could be of any service
to Major Clifton on the present occasion.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Show him in,” said Major Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>The man went out and soon returned, accompanied by
Carl, whose face expressed the most profound and sincere
sympathy.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Set a chair for Mr. Kavanagh, and retire, James.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The man obeyed, Carl seated himself, and in person repeated
his condolences, and his tenders of service.</p>

<p class='c006'>In reply, Major Clifton took from his pocket the forged
note and laid it before him, saying, coldly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“There is the note your sister wrote to you, and sent by
mistake to Mrs. Georgia Clifton. Read it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Carl took it up, wondering what might be the use of reading
it <i>now</i>, but as he glanced over its contents, his eyes
grew wide with astonishment, and when he had finished it,
he laid it down again, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_366'>366</span>“I am confounded!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I should think so, sir!” coldly remarked Major Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“She speaks of letting <i>me</i> the farm! I never had the
slightest desire to rent the farm, and before I heard the will
read, I had not even the slightest idea that Mrs. Clifton designed
to leave it to my sister!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! Really?” asked Mr. Clifton, ironically.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Really and truly, and sincerely and positively, I had
not.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Tautological asseveration is no evidence. Why should
she have written to you thus if you had not?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“How do I know, sir? I tell you I am amazed! And
if I did not know, beyond all possibility of doubt, the hand-writing
to be Catherine’s, I should say that she did not write,
and that she never could have written such a letter.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Which means plainly this, that if there did not exist the
most positive proof to the contrary, you would fain deny it,”
sneered Major Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir!” answered Carl, boldly. “If the proof positive
to <i>my mind</i>, as well as to your own did not exist, I <i>would</i>
deny it, and I <i>do</i> deny any personal agency or knowledge
about it whatever! I say to you that I am amazed! It is
incomprehensible to me how Catherine could have conceived,
much less written such a letter! And above all things, it is
inexplicable how she should have written so disrespectfully
of Mrs. Clifton, whom she loved and venerated so much.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Or whom, for certain purposes, she <i>pretended</i> to love
and venerate so much.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“She <i>did</i>, sir! She really <i>did</i>. She was sincere in her
esteem and affection. She was sincere in all things.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know she affected rare sincerity.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It was no affectation, Major Clifton. I have known her
from childhood—it was truth. And I tell you, I scarcely
believe my own eyes! I scarcely believe that I am awake
when I see that letter! I am confounded!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, sir!” said Major Clifton, sternly, his whole manner
changing, “<i>I</i>, at least am not so confounded as not to
know that she never would have written such a letter to you,
had you not been the confidant of her plans. And <i>you</i> are
not so confounded as to be ignorant, that, after such a development,
I am constrained to forbid you the house, and to
interdict all communication between your sister and yourself.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_367'>367</span>There was something of Catherine’s own nobility in the
manner of Carl’s reply. He stood a moment with his forehead
thrown back, as if in calm, unimpassioned thought, then
he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Major Clifton, my sister is now your wife, and you have,
doubtless, the perfect right to control her actions—neither
do I accuse you of undue severity in this affair, for, under
like circumstances, I should, perhaps, be tempted to act in
the same way. I cannot account for this letter. For the
present, it must remain unexplained. Nor can I exculpate
myself any more than my sister from the odium of a suspicion,
which God knows I am willing to bear with her, since I cannot
clear her of it. You do not know how dear to an only
brother’s heart is his only sister. Yes! I <i>am</i> willing to share
the odium with her, hoping, <i>knowing</i> that it will pass away
in time. And then, Major Clifton, you will feel more pain
at the recollection of the injustice you have done us, than I
feel now in suffering it. You will be more angry with yourself
than I could be with you. You will reproach yourself
more bitterly than I could reproach you, were I never so indignant.
And I am not indignant at all. I could not be
so! All feelings are subdued to calmness in the sacred
proximity of the unburied dead in the next room. One thing
only remains to be said. It is this: I cannot continue to
live upon this place, under the cloud of the master’s ill
opinion. My engagement as manager of this farm terminates
with this year, I shall be glad, if before the time expires,
you will provide yourself with another overseer.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“As you please, Mr. Kavanagh. Yet I should not have
sent you away with your young family.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You are considerate, sir!” said Carl, bowing, then adding—“I
presume you have no further commands for me,
Major Clifton?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“None, Mr. Kavanagh.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Good-night, sir.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Good-night.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The next day was the day of the funeral. Before the people
began to assemble, Catherine, impelled by an irresistible
desire to gaze once more upon the face of her beloved friend,
found herself at the door of the front parlor in which the
corpse was laid out for burial. But here, with her hand
upon the lock, she hesitated, and finally stifling her crying
want turned away, saying within herself—“No, I will not
<span class='pageno' id='Page_368'>368</span>intrude. I will be guided by the spirit as well as by the
letter of his commands. He will not accept my love. To
yield him perfect unquestioning obedience is all the earthly
comfort I have left.” And she began to retrace her steps.</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton came out of the back room and met her face
to face.</p>

<p class='c006'>“What were you doing near that door, Catherine?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I wished to take a last look at her dear—” Here Kate
burst into tears and wept convulsively a few minutes—during
which, Clifton watched her in stern sorrow. Then controlling
herself, she said, “I wished to look once more, and for the
last time, upon her beloved face. But when I reached the
door, and was about to enter, I remembered your commands
and turned back.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Clifton, who had never taken his eyes from her, groaned
aloud. Then he said, gravely and sadly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine, if any feeling of penitential sorrow inspires
your wish to go there, go, in Heaven’s name! And may the
sight of that dead face bring you to repentance.”</p>

<p class='c006'>She turned to thank him, and ask him what he wished her
to repent—but before she could find words, he had re-entered
his study. Catherine passed into the room of death, turned
down the pall, and gazed upon the face of the dead. It had
changed very much—every furrow and every wrinkle was
softened out of it, the forehead was as smooth as the brow
of childhood, an ineffable, a divine repose spread like a dream
of Heaven over the features. Catherine’s tears were stayed,
the convulsions of her bosom were calmed, her soul was awed
and exalted as she gazed upon this countenance, so beautiful
in death. But at last her full heart revealed itself in a look
of unutterable tenderness and devotion, and she murmured,
in low, slow, gentle tones—“You always loved and trusted
me, and for your dear sake, I will be a good wife to your son.
Yes! whatever he may be to me, for your dear sake, as well
as for his own, I will be a good wife to him. Hear my vow.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I cannot think you dead. This is all I see—this beautiful,
calm clay; but I know your spirit hovers near. Hear my
vow. Hear me promise, with God’s grace, to dedicate all my
faculties of brain, and heart, and hands to his interest and
happiness! to bear all things, to endure all things, to hope
all things, even to the end of life, come what may;” she
stooped and sealed her vow by a farewell kiss upon the brow
and lips of that beloved face, and reverently covered it, and—not
<span class='pageno' id='Page_369'>369</span>to abuse her privilege by too long a stay—slowly left
the room. She never saw that face again.</p>

<p class='c006'>Within an hour afterwards, the company began to assemble
in great crowds, for Mrs. Clifton was widely known and
greatly respected and beloved. The clergyman, who was to
perform the burial service, arrived, and the solemnity commenced.
In the mean time Catherine sat in her distant
chamber, listening to the faint, inaudible sound of the minister’s
voice that reached her from afar, or else engaged in
prayer, but always calmed, strengthened and consoled. Many
people at the funeral wondered greatly why the young bride
had not appeared with her husband; but some one imagined
it to be because she was too much overcome by sorrow to be
present, and told it as a fact, which was at once believed, and
circulated. And that—like many an other idle falsehood,
satisfactorily silenced conjecture. When the services were
over, and the funeral procession had left the house for the
grave-yard—when Catherine felt that her more than mother
was now indeed gone, gone, gone—she cast herself upon her
bed in the last agony of sorrow.</p>

<p class='c006'>Little household cares. What blessed though humble
ministers to sorrow they are—gently drawing away the mourner
from the contemplation of her grief, and compelling attention
to themselves. So they give occupation, and induce
forgetfulness—aiding in their humble way the great comforters,
religion and time. An hour spent in bitter tears and sobs,
and then the little domestic duties came hovering about her
like little children, claiming her care. There was a large supper
to be prepared, and bed-chambers to be got ready for
friends who had come from the remoter parts of the county,
and who would therefore remain until the next morning.
And so Catherine arose and refreshed herself with cold water
and a change of dress, and went below stairs to superintend
the operations of her cook and house-maids.</p>

<p class='c006'>When everything was in readiness, she went into the drawing-room,
where she received the returning visitors with a
pensive, gentle dignity that won all their hearts, proud conservators
of rank as they were. And that evening, young
girl and new bride as she was, she presided at the head of
the long table, filled with the county aristocrats, with all the
ease and grace of a lady “to the manner born.” Preoccupied
by one earnest thought and purpose, she never once remembered
herself as a new comer into their ranks, or
<span class='pageno' id='Page_370'>370</span>troubled herself with the question of what might be their
opinion of her. For the rest, her courtesy was graceful and
dignified, because it was natural, and not assumed—the effect
of benevolence and kindly social feeling, and not of pride,
vanity, or ostentation.</p>

<p class='c006'>The next morning, after breakfast, the guests departed.
And many and cordial were the invitations to their houses
extended to Catherine by all—even the haughtiest defenders
of the sacredness of caste. Catherine received all these
civilities with a gracious nobleness, that sat naturally and
well upon her. And all this—the very evident esteem and
respect of her neighbors, and the admirable manner in which
Catherine received them, would have highly gratified the
pride of Major Clifton, could anything except her exculpation
from suspicion have pleased him. As it was, he witnessed
it all with a moody brow, and sneering lip, and murmured
to himself—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Better and better, ‘Maria Teresa.’ You should have
seen more of the world, before you threw your diplomatic
talents away upon me, and my country neighbors.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Well, at length they were all, to the very last guest, gone,
and Major Clifton and Catherine were left alone, left standing
together in the hall, whence they had seen the departures.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine, hesitating between her fear of intruding upon
his notice, and her dislike to leave him abruptly and rudely,
stood—no longer self-possessed and noble—but with her eyes
fixed upon the ground, and with the color deepening in her
cheek, in embarrassed silence, wishing that he might say
something to her, something to explain the nature of that
dark cloud that had arisen so strangely between them.</p>

<p class='c006'>He broke the silence by saying, coldly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mrs. Clifton—” She started and colored, at hearing
herself addressed by her new name. “It is my intention to
make White Cliffs our future home. I desire that you be
ready to accompany me thither to-morrow morning.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine bowed her head in acquiescence. And with a
cold nod, he placed his hat upon his head, and walked forth.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine went in, and occupied the remainder of the day
in directing the labor of her servants, who were all employed
in setting the house in order after the late, confusing events,
in packing away goods, and covering up furniture, and in
preparing generally for the closing up of the building.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_371'>371</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXXII.<br> <span class='large'>DEDICATION.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Stand up, look below,</div>
      <div class='line'>It is my life at thy feet I throw,</div>
      <div class='line'>To step with into light and joy,</div>
      <div class='line'>Not a power of life but I’ll employ</div>
      <div class='line'>To satisfy thy nature’s want.—<span class='sc'>Browning.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>The next morning after breakfast, the family carriage was
announced to take them to White Cliffs. Catherine put on
her bonnet and shawl, and stood waiting, until Major Clifton,
drawing on his gloves, came forward and attended her to the
carriage door. He handed her in, entered himself, took the
seat opposite to her, and bade the coachman drive on. The
whole distance between Hardbargain and White Cliffs was
passed over in perfect silence by the parties. Major Clifton
preserving a stern gravity of demeanor, and Catherine
scarcely daring to lift her eyes, lest she should encounter
that severe but sorrowful gaze that almost broke her heart.
She longed to inquire—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Major Clifton! What is this that has arisen between
us? Give the misery a name! Tell me?” But the shyness
and fear she had always felt in his presence, and doubly
felt when he was reserved or displeased, and above all, the
bashfulness of new bridehood, forced her into silence.</p>

<p class='c006'>At last the ride was over, and the carriage stopped before
the main entrance of the mansion-house.</p>

<p class='c006'>The plantation laborers, in their holyday clothes, marshalled
by the overseer, were assembled upon the lawn, and
the house servants in their “Sunday’s best,” with the housekeeper
at their head, waited on the piazza “to pay their
duty.”</p>

<p class='c006'>When the carriage had drawn up, Major Clifton alighted
and assisted his bride to get out. He led her up the marble
stairs to the front door. The housekeeper with a curtsey,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_372'>372</span>stepped forward to attend her. But with the courteous
kindness that Major Clifton seldom omitted, he waved her
aside, merely saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mrs. Mercer, send all these women about their duties,
and tell Turnbull to disperse the men. I do not wish to be
disturbed. There is my pocket-book—give them what they
want—only let me be  quiet.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And give them my love and good wishes,” murmured
Catherine, shyly, but not wishing to dismiss them so coldly,
for her desolate heart had been comforted by the looks of
sincere respect and affection with which they had seemed to
receive and accept her as their new mistress.</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton merely threw up his chin with an assenting
nod, muttering—</p>

<p class='c006'>“The popularity-seeking instinct of the diplomatist.” He
then conducted her into the drawing-room, led her up its
whole length, and seated her upon a sofa with ironical ceremony,
saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mrs. Clifton, you are welcome to White Cliffs.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Startled by his tone, she looked up, lifting those long,
drooping lashes, until her soft, dark eyes at last met his cold,
rebuking gaze.</p>

<p class='c006'>Then his whole aspect changed, and from having been sarcastic
and scornful, became grave and severe. Standing before
her, he folded his arms, drew himself up, and keeping
his eyes fixed steadily upon her face, said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“And now, lady, listen to me. The aim and object of
your life is accomplished—consummated. You have at
length attained the position to which you have long aspired,
for which you have long and deeply and successfully played.
You are numbered among the ladies of the county aristocracy.
You bear the haughtiest name of all. You are Mrs.
Clifton, of Clifton.”</p>

<p class='c006'>All this time her eyes, wide open, dilated, fascinated by
surprise and grief, met his stern gaze in sorrowful wonder,
He continued—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, madam, you wear my name such as it is. You
rule my house such as <i>it</i> is! But as for its poor master,
lady, he is your most humble servant, but no lover!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Her eyes fell beneath his sarcastic look, and she was
tempted to wish herself dead.</p>

<p class='c006'>He continued—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I leave here in a few days, for the purpose of raising a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_373'>373</span>company to serve in the coming war with Great Britain. You
will remain here at White Cliffs to take charge of affairs
during my absence. If you really hoped to flaunt in the
city this winter, I am sorry for your disappointment. But
there are duties as well as dignities attending the position
of the mistress of Clifton, and these must not be neglected.
I shall exact their performance. The overseer and the farm
laborers, as well as the housekeeper and her assistants, have
orders to obey you in everything. Good-morning, madam.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And so abruptly he turned upon his heel and left her.
One moment she sat there amazed, confused, with her hands
pressed upon her temples; and in another, losing all feeling
for herself—feeling only for him, she sprung to his side, and
caught his hand, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Stay! For the love of Heaven, stay! one moment—only
one moment, while you tell me. Oh! <i>after all</i>, have I
made <i>you</i> unhappy?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Unhappy! You have been and you are the bane of my
life!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>How?</i> Merciful Heaven, <i>how?</i> when I only wish to
consecrate mine to you!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do you dare to ask me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well!—tell me—tell me! <i>how</i> can I remedy my fault—whatever
it is? What can I do to comfort you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Nothing</i> but refrain from troubling me with your company
or conversation, when it is not absolutely necessary.
Again—good-morning.” And so he freed himself from her
clasp, and left the room.</p>

<p class='c006'>She tottered backwards and fell into a chair, her head
dropped upon her hands and she gasped—</p>

<p class='c006'>“All-merciful Father, do not forsake me now, for I am
desolate—I am desolate.” And she sat despairing, fallen,
the very image of utter self-abandonment. She sat there
until aroused by the voice of the housekeeper, who entered
the room, came up to her side, and spoke to her twice before
she heard—then—“What did you say?” she asked.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I have come to receive your orders for the day, Mrs.
Clifton.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I——Please to manage, to-day, without my advice,
I—I am not well—and very, very weary.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You look so, indeed, madam. There is a fire kindled in
your chamber, will you go up there and lie down, and let me
bring you a cup of tea?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_374'>374</span>“I——No, I thank you—I am much obliged to you.
But—only leave me here to rest.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The housekeeper went and closed the shutters: stirred the
fire, set a screen between it and Catherine’s seat, and quietly
withdrew.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! this will never do!” said Catherine, trying to rouse
herself from her stupor of despair. “This will never do.
To-day I have made a bad beginning; but to-morrow I must
rise and be as active and efficient as if I were happy.”</p>

<p class='c006'>She met Major Clifton again at dinner. The meal passed
almost in silence, and immediately after it was over, he took
his hat and left the house. She did not see him again until
tea-time, after which, he went and spent the evening in his
study. Catherine felt the need of calm thought, to understand
her position and duties; and of prayer, to gain strength
and patience to perform them. She spent several hours in
reading the Scriptures, in meditation, and in prayer, and
then, comforted, retired to bed. She arose early the next
morning, strengthened and consoled, with a very clear perception
of her circumstances and responsibilities.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My path through this intricate trouble is made very
plain. I must discharge every domestic duty and every
social obligation, just as faithfully, if not as cheerfully, as
though I were a happy wife,” she said. And she went down
stairs, and gave her orders for the day.</p>

<p class='c006'>When Major Clifton came down into the breakfast-room
he found a quiet cheerful scene—a sunny window, a bright
fire, a well spread breakfast-table, and Catherine herself, in
her simple morning-dress, looking calm and placid. There
was an expression of curiously blended anger and admiration
and amusement on his face, as he flapped his dressing-gown
around him, and dropped himself into the easy-chair by the
fire, giving her “Good-morning,” and hoping that she was
well.</p>

<p class='c006'>“As usual,” replied Catherine, handing him the paper
that had just come from the village, and ringing for breakfast.</p>

<p class='c006'>When the meal was over, he reseated himself in the arm-chair,
reading the newspaper, while Catherine still sat at the
board, pouring out bowls of coffee, and filling plates with
toast or muffins, to send to the old or sick among the negroes—these
being always supplied with their meals from the
mistress’s table. Major Clifton glanced over the top of his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_375'>375</span>paper at her, sometimes in irony, sometimes in sorrow,
always in doubt. And she—unpleasant as his manner was,
felt glad to have him near her. I really believe that she had
rather he sat there and made faces at her, than not sat there
at all. And she felt lonesome and dreary when at last he
left the room, put on his riding-coat and left the house. As
yesterday passed, so passed to-day—she meeting him only at
meals. And so a week passed on. It is not easy to be
very heroic for a day, or two, or three days; but when one
day follows another, each with the same continuous, extraordinary
demand for fortitude, it is strange, indeed, if heart
and flesh do not fail under the task. Nothing but Divine
Providence can give the requisite strength of endurance. In
the presence of her husband, Catherine was calm and cheerful;
but often in her private hours the sense of desolate bereavement
would come over her, and gusts of tears and sobs
would follow. These, like the summer gusts of blessed nature,
would always refresh her, and she would be enabled
again to take the comforting promises of the Bible to her
heart, in her favorite text—“And we know that all things
work together for good, to them that love God,” and to ask
God’s blessing again upon her resolution “to perform every
domestic and every social duty as faithfully, if not as cheerfully,
as though she were a happy wife.” And yet it was
very hard to do this. It was very dreary to feel shut out
from her husband’s heart; to meet him every day with the
same stern, sorrowful brow, or in variation of that, with the
same ironical smile. It was difficult to go on with a repulsed
and aching heart doing mere mechanical duty. She could
not have done so but that two powerful principles sustained
her—an invincible love for her husband, and an unwavering
faith in God.</p>

<p class='c006'>One morning, about two weeks after their arrival at home,
Major Clifton sat alone, reading, in his study, when the door
opened, and Catherine entered. It was the first time that
she had intruded there, and he looked up, threw aside his
book, arose, and pushed back his chair with a look of annoyance.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Excuse me for interrupting you, but may I speak to you
for a few minutes?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Speak on, madam, but oblige me by being brief. Pardon
me—take a seat,” he said, handing her a chair, and resuming
his own.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_376'>376</span>Catherine sat down, felt very much like another fit of sobs
and tears, but restrained herself, and said, quietly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Major Clifton, whatever this is between us—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I must remind you that this is a prohibited subject of
discussion, madam,” he said, interrupting her.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I will not talk of it again—how can I, indeed, when I
do not know what it is?”</p>

<p class='c006'>He made a gesture of angry disbelief, and begged her to
come at once to the object of her visit.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, then, I wished only at first to say, that whatever be
the cause of this cruel misunderstanding between us, it will
pass away. You look at me in surprise and doubt—but it
<i>will</i>, Major Clifton—it <i>will</i>—it <i>must</i>—there is no truth and
reality in it, and it <i>must</i> be temporary. I have thought it
all over, very sadly, but very calmly and clearly, and I know
that it <i>must</i> be transient. My faith bridges over this impracticable
present in our lives, and I see the future, when
you will understand me. I never did anything to offend you
in my life. And God, to whom I have committed our cause,
knows my innocence, and in His good time He will make it
plain. It must be so. The promise of the All-Merciful,
the Almighty Father, is pledged to the Right!”</p>

<p class='c006'>He turned away from her, with a stamp of fierce displeasure.
He turned away from her savagely, because he felt
that, had he looked and listened a moment longer, he should
have abjured all his evil thoughts, and snatched her to his
bosom—she was so patient, so hopeful, so beautiful with truth
and love, that he could scarcely resist the impulse to fold
her to his heart—false as he deemed her to be. As it was,
he suppressed the true instinct—obeyed the false suspicion,
and turning again sharply upon her, demanded to know, once
for all, to what this new piece of hypocrisy tended.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I mean this, Major Clifton—that as our estrangement
must needs be transient—do not, under its influence, let us
do, or omit to do, anything that may hereafter affect, unhappily,
our social relations with others.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“As——<i>how</i>, Mrs. Clifton?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Thus.</i> The county families have all called upon us. It
is high time that we return their visits, if we mean to keep
up the connection.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! Ay! Excellently well thought of, Maria Teresa!”
he sneered.</p>

<p class='c006'>With a passing look of distress, she said—</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_377'>377</span>“I only fear that our pleasant intercourse with the neighbors
may not be so easily resumed, if they have reason to
suppose that we treat them with indifference and neglect.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Admirably calculated, madam! A contingency has presented
itself to your diplomatic wisdom, that never would
have occurred to my simpler mind. So, you wish to confirm
your position, and extend your connection here in the county!
Well! the aristocrats of R——, have certainly taken you
up with a zeal and determination that is surprising. But
when they have once made up their haughty minds to patronize
a new comer, it is wonderful to what length they will
go. But you may thank your own fine diplomatic talents for
that!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Diplomatic talents! What diplomatic talents? So many
people have ‘thrust’ that questionable ‘greatness’ upon me,
that it mortifies me. No—I know the only value and currency
I have among the county people, is the value you have
given me—the stamps of your name and rank. And I—I
do not wish to disparage it. I wish to appear worthy of it—that
is all.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And you really believe what you say?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Truly, I do.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Again she looked so lovely, in her truth and humility, that
he was almost tempted to relent. And again the impulse
only made him more unjust.</p>

<p class='c006'>“In a word, madam, what do you wish me to do, for I
begin to weary of this discussion. Nor is it well to subject
myself to the influence of your fascinations, for I candidly
admit to you that I am sensible of them, as others have been.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I only wished to propose to you to take a day, and drive
around the neighborhood with me, to return the calls that
have been made upon us.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Very well, madam, I am at your commands whenever
you please to call upon me for that service. When do you
propose to go?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“At your earliest convenience.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Will to-morrow do?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“If you please.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“To-morrow then let it be. And now, Mrs. Clifton, have
you any further commands for me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Thank you—no,” she answered, very sadly, and turned
to leave the room—hesitated, came back, and resting her
hand upon the study-table for support, because she was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_378'>378</span>trembling, said, “Forgive me—and let me speak to you one
more word, will you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What is it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is so sorrowful to be misunderstood. Please, do not
mistake me in this matter. For myself, I do not care to follow
up my acquaintance with these county people. I have
lived all my life without extensive social intercourse. I have
lived all my life in strict domestic retirement. I am so used
to it that it is natural and agreeable to me. Indeed, I prefer
it—but—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well?”</p>

<p class='c006'>She was suddenly silent. She wished to say, “But with
<i>you</i> it is otherwise. Living in the county, <i>you</i> need, or will
hereafter need an extensive neighborhood connection. And
for <i>your</i> sake, I would not alienate these people by neglect.”
But she could not say it. Her old shyness, and a delicate
fear of seeming to wish to place him under an obligation, kept
her mute.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, Mrs. Clifton? If such seclusion is so agreeable to
you, why do you wish to change it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I owe the ladies some acknowledgment of their civility
to us.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Have you anything farther to say to me?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No,” said Catherine, and with an involuntary gesture of
pain and distress, she turned and left the room, with all her
generous thoughts unspoken. When the door had closed
behind her, Archer Clifton started up, struck his clenched
hands to his forehead, and pacing up and down the floor, distractedly
exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I love her! I love her! It is no use, I <i>do</i> love her!
Every day more deeply and desperately I love her! In her
presence all her unworthiness is forgotten or disbelieved!
Yes! yes! her deep hypocrisy, her black ingratitude, my
mother’s wrongs, all, all are lost to memory! Just now I
could have snatched her to my bosom and wept over her
falsehood, rather than have cast her from me! Yes, more!
I could have implored her forgiveness for ever believing in
that guilt which is but too well proved! I love her! She is
the pulse of my heart! the soul of my life! She embodies all
the meaning of existence to me! Heart and brain—yes!—body,
soul and spirit starve, perish for a full reconciliation
and a perfect union with her! She is lovely, she is beautiful
to me! She always was! Yet, oh! Apple of Sodom, that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_379'>379</span>she is! shall I take such falsehood and corruption to my
heart. I must leave the house! must leave the neighborhood!
for here I wilt and wither! And she! how <i>can</i> she
bear it? for I think, with all her falseness, she loves me very
much. How <i>can</i> she bear life so? How can she rise each
morning and go through all the occupations of the day so
regularly, quietly, cheerfully, day after day?—omitting no
duty, domestic or social, small or great, from the stitching
my ripped gloves, to the keeping up of the county connection,
in sooth! While <i>I</i>, I daily wilt, wither, in this moral
mildew—idle, despairing, forgetting all my obligations—forgetting
that my country needs my arm! This cannot last!
This must not be! I must get away from here! I must raise
a volunteer company, and offer myself to the government, and
in the tumult of the campaign find forgetfulness or a grave!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Unable to compose himself again that morning, he rang
the bell, ordered his horse, seized his hat, went out, mounted,
and rode away.</p>

<p class='c006'>The next morning Catherine arose early, and among her
orders for the day directed that the carriage should be at the
door by ten o’clock. At the appointed hour she attired herself
with care and taste, and went down into the front hall,
where she found Major Clifton in readiness to attend her.
They entered the carriage and set out, and in the course of a
drive of five or six hours’ duration, made the circuit of the
neighborhood, calling upon several families. And everywhere
Catherine was received with distinguished respect.
They reached home again about the middle of the afternoon.</p>

<p class='c006'>The next few days passed on in the usual dreary routine—except
that Catherine knew Major Clifton was out riding
every day and all day, and that he was in his study writing
half the night. She did not know what this portended until
one morning he said to her—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mrs. Clifton, you will oblige me by having my wardrobe
prepared and packed at your earliest convenience. I have
orders to join the —— regiment within a week.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine turned very pale and reeled as if she would have
fallen, but grasped the chair and steadied herself, till strength
returned.</p>

<p class='c006'>“All shall be ready for you,” she replied.</p>

<p class='c006'>And he, with a cold bow of acknowledgment, went his way.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_380'>380</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXXIII.<br> <span class='large'>“THE MEEKNESS OF LOVE”</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>So she strove against her weakness,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Though at times her spirit sank;</div>
      <div class='line'>Shaped her heart with woman’s meekness,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To all duties of her rank.—<span class='sc'>Tennyson.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Catherine remained seated in the chair into which she
had sunk, with her face buried in her open palms. Her
favorite maid Henny, from the Hardbargain farm-house, was
in attendance. Henny had cleared away the breakfast service,
with the exception of the silver plate, which was collected
upon a salver; and she stood by her mistress’s chair
waiting, in respectful sympathy; at last she said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Miss Kate, honey, if you lend me the keys o’ the plate
closet, I can put away the things safe, without your troublin’
o’ yourself.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine lifted her head languidly, and pushing away her
drooping hair, exclaimed, quite unconsciously, and as if the
words burst of themselves from her overburdened bosom—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! Henny, if you knew how little heart I have to do
anything!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I <i>does</i> know it, mist’ess, deary; but you mus’ jes take a
’flection on to it, honey, an’ ’sider how it ain’t on’y marster,
but mos’ in general all the gemmum in the neighborhood, as
is gwine far the wars.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Regretting that she had permitted a complaint to escape
her lips, yet satisfied that her servant did not understand or
suspect the true cause of her sorrow, Catherine arose, and
said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Take up the salver and follow me, Henny. Idle grief
is very fruitless. If we cannot keep our friends with us, it
is better to prepare for their comfortable living while absent,
than to sit down in useless sorrow.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“An’ that’s the Lord’s trufe, Miss Kate,” said Henny
lifting the laden salver on her head, and settling it steadily,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_381'>381</span>“that’s Marster blessed trufe! ’Sides which, I has a heap
to do myself, to get brother Jack’s duds ready, to go long o’
Marse Archy.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Is your brother going with Major Clifton, Henny?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“’Deed he is, honey—gwine to ride body-servant long o’
marster, to wait on him in camp; likewise in field o’ battle,
to hold his t’other horse, in case his whichest one should be
shot unnerneaf of him—Oh, Lord Marster Jesus! what a
thing that is to think of! Likewise in soldier’s newniform,
on the bay horse Billy, which brother Jack would sell his
mortal soul any time, for the sake o’ dressing fine, an’ ridin’
a horseback—cussed, infunnelly fool!—I axes your pardon,
Miss Kate; don’t look so ’noyed, honey; I won’t use bad
words again—’deed, ’fore my blessed, Hebbenly Marster
won’t I, honey; but it is so aggravoking, when I comes to
think o’ what a slave I’ve made o’ myself to brother Jack,
ever since mother died, and the ’turn he makes me for it,
wantin’ to go gallivauntin’ off to the wars in soldier’s
clothes, an’ a long tailed horse! Here has I been ’jecting
some o’ the most illegible colored men in the neighborhood,
an’ bein’ of an old maid, sake o’ takin’ care o’ him, ’cause
he’s delicy in his health, an’ he to be wantin’ to go leave me!
An’ he, with a ’sumption in his breas’, to want to go; ’sposing
of hisself gettin’ his feet wet sogerin’! An’ he ’blige
to wear a tar plaster on his ches’, to be campin’ out an’ layin’
on the naked yeth! An’ knows he can’t congest nothin’
but rabbits an’ partridges, an’ wants to go where he’ll have
to live offen roas’ tators, like Gin’al Marion an’ his men, in
the Resolutionary War! It mos’—mos’—mos’—breaks my
heart!”</p>

<p class='c006'>And with that Henny set down the salver and began to
cry, while her mistress opened the plate closet.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Put them in, Henny, and I will see what can be done
for you afterwards,” said Catherine.</p>

<p class='c006'>Henny obeyed, and then said, as they left the room—</p>

<p class='c006'>“If you could ’suade Marse Archy to leave poor Jack,
poor sickly fellow, at home, an’ take some o’ the other young
niggers. Der ain’t one o’ them but ’ould be ’joyed to go.
Der’s Dandy now, ’ould be willin’ to go to his everlastin’
ruination, ’sake o’ ridin’ body-sarvant long o’ marster—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I will speak to Major Clifton, Henny. You know him
to be kind and considerate. And I am sure, he is not aware
of Jack’s pulmonary affection.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_382'>382</span>“Yes he is, Miss Kate, honey! ’Deed he knows all about
Jack’s ’fection for him! High, honey! ain’t Jack been own
man to Marse Archy ever since they was boys together?
An’ didn’t Jack wait on him when he wur at college, and
ole Mist pay extra for him? ’Deed she did, honey! ’Fore
my blessed Hebbenly Lord, did she! An’ he knows all
’bout Jack’s ’fection for him, and he knows Jack ’ould follow
him to the ind o’ the world, an’ jump off arter him! Lord
love your heart, Miss Kate, ther ain’t no dog marster’s got,
loves him more faithful ’an brother Jack does.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate sighed very deeply, with a preoccupied air, but answered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I will speak to Major Clifton in your behalf, Henny—now
go and ask Mrs. Mercer to come to me in my own
chamber.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And Catherine passed on to her own apartment, and Henny
went her errand. Very soon the housekeeper entered the
chamber, and found Catherine busily engaged among linen,
stockings, cravats, and other “belongings.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I want your assistance, Mrs. Mercer, in preparing Major
Clifton’s wardrobe this week.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear child, I am so sorry! But I have been waiting
for an hour to speak to you. The truth is, I have just got
a letter from my son-in-law, who writes that my daughter is
very, extremely low, with the bilious pleurisy, and wants me
to come right over to L—— immediately, without loss of
time, and I thought I would ask you for a leave of absence,
till she got better.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And, certainly, I could not refuse it, Mrs. Mercer. I am
sorry your daughter is ill.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And, my dear child, I was going to ask you if you could
let me have one of the mules this morning, and I would send
it back to-morrow?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“The weather is too cold, and the journey too arduous for
a woman of your age to perform it in that manner. Tell
Dandy to put the horses to the carriage for you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“The carriage, dear honey, I shouldn’t think of such a
thing. As many years as I have been living in the family, I
never used the carriage once. The mule will do very well,
if you will let me order him?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mrs. Mercer, why not? I shall not want it to-day. To-morrow
Dandy can bring it home.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“God bless you, child! you are so good hearted! It
<span class='pageno' id='Page_383'>383</span>is a sin too to leave you, so thronged as you are with
work.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, I can get—get through,” replied Kate, with the
same troubled, preoccupied air that had marked her manner
the whole morning. Mrs. Mercer soon after took leave
and departed.</p>

<p class='c006'>An hour after this, Catherine heard Major Clifton enter
the hall door and come up stairs. To her surprise, he paused
before her chamber door and rapped. When she opened it,
he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Will you favor me with your company in my study for a
few minutes, Mrs. Clifton?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine immediately laid down her work and followed
him.</p>

<p class='c006'>When they reached the study, he set her a chair near
the writing-table, and dropping into another, drew a portfolio
before him, opened it, and turning out a number of
papers, said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mrs. Clifton, I told you, some weeks since, that at my
departure, and during my indefinite absence, I should be
obliged to leave this estate under your charge?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes,” answered Catherine attentively.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am well aware that it is undoubtedly an onerous burden
and responsibility for one so young, but, when you feel it so,
remember that you, yourself, courted the position, and must
be content to take the toils with the honors, real or imaginary.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Passing over his bitter jibe, Catherine said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“You need not doubt in leaving all to my care that all
will go well. I am not twenty yet, it is true, but I have had
much work and much experience for my age, so that every
year I have lived since ten years old has counted double.
You need suffer no anxiety in trusting me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>He looked at her countenance, at once noble and meek in
expression; he remembered the life of toil, self-denial, and
devotion she had lived; he even recollected a certain text of
Scripture which said, “By their <i>fruits</i> ye shall know them—do
men gather <i>thorns</i> of <i>fig trees</i>?” but the demon of cherished
suspicion whispered, “’Twas all done for a purpose,”
and he hardened his heart, and replied—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! madam, I have no doubt or hesitation in placing
the plantation under your care, and I shall have no anxiety
in leaving it so for an indefinite period; not only because I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_384'>384</span>have much faith in your natural talents and acquired experience,
but, also, because I have more confidence in your
self-love. And knowing that <i>you</i> know our interests in the
prosperity of this estate to be identical, I rest assured that
you will do for it your very best.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“He—in all other circumstances, and to all other people—so
noble, so liberal, so charitable—he never speaks to me
but to upbraid me!” was the thought that presented itself
to Catherine’s mind, but with the loyalty of her nature she
repelled it, saying, within herself, “It is because he has what
he thinks condemning evidence of my unworthiness—would
he but charge me! would he but tell me what it is?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Will you give me your attention, Mrs. Clifton?” he
asked, breaking into her sad reverie.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine bowed gently.</p>

<p class='c006'>And he took down the “farm-book” from a shelf, opened
it, and laying it before her, entered upon a series of details
and explanations on both debt and credit sides of the accounts,
with which it is not necessary to trouble the reader.
After two or three hours spent in looking over bills, comparing
them with receipts, calculating results, etc., he closed
the book, replaced the papers in the portfolio, clasped it, and
turning around to Catherine, said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“You understand, now?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, perfectly.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“As for these heavy notes that will fall due the first of
January, you must contrive an interview with the holders,
and get them renewed upon security—as I said before, remember.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I shall not forget.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, or if you do, the holders of the notes will bring
them to your recollection in not the pleasantest manner. And
now, Mrs. Clifton, I wish you to keep a vigilant eye over
Turnbull, and hold him to a strict account. I <i>suspect</i> the
man. I never have been able to understand how, with such
a heavy force of negroes on this plantation, it has been necessary
to hire about a baker’s dozen of white laborers, all of
them, you understand, his own relations—brothers, sons,
and nephews! I have reason to mistrust the fellow, but
no time to look after him. Hold him to a strict account,
Catherine.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Suppose, for the coming year, you should place my
<span class='pageno' id='Page_385'>385</span>brother Carl here as overseer? You have tested his skill
and probity.”</p>

<p class='c006'>This was a very unlucky proposition on Catherine’s part.
He sat back in his chair, and looking at her in steady scorn,
said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, madam, I <i>have</i> ‘tested his skill and probity,’ and
know so well the degree of the former, and the quality of the
latter, that I have already forbid him to set foot on my premises
or speak to my wife. Do you dare to think that I am
your dupe, or his? And now, hear me: In all the directions
that I have given you, I have simply desired or requested
you to do this or that, but in this matter of your perfidious
brother Carl, I <i>command</i> you to hold no intercourse with him
whatever.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You shall be obeyed,” said Catherine, “you shall be
obeyed,” and she thought—“Your simplest wish, expressed
to that effect, would have had all the power of this arbitrary
command,”—but she did not say it. She was never free of
speech, least of all to him. And now he arose, as if to conclude
the interview. And she recollected her promise to
Henny, to intercede for Jack, and always more courageous
in the cause of any, even the humblest, than in her own, she
gently detained him, by saying—“I wished to speak to you
about the servant you intend to take with you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Jack?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes. You were not home last winter, and you do not
know that he was sick with a cough the whole winter, and
that he is consumptive.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I have sometimes thought so, however! Well?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Indeed I feel that it is properly no business of mine, and
I beg you will excuse my interference. I would not willingly,
I am sure—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“To the point, if you please, Mrs. Clifton.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, I am afraid that if you take him, and expose him
to the unavoidable hardships of campaign life, he will fall
sick on your hands, and instead of being a help, be a hindrance.
Therefore it is much more for your sake than for the
boy’s own, that I should be pleased if you would leave him
here and take another.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“There is much reason in what you have advanced, Mrs.
Clifton. Yet, among all the negroes on the place, there is
none but Jack who seems fit for the duty, the others are all
<span class='pageno' id='Page_386'>386</span>too young or too old, or too hopelessly stupid and lumbering.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“There is Dandy, a handsome, likely mulatto, strong and
intelligent, dressy and enterprising, the very man for an
officer’s servant; he would be very proud and glad to attend
you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! ay! I know that he is anxious to go; but he is
your carriage-driver and waiter, Catherine, and I cannot
think of depriving you of him.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“There are other careful drivers on the place. Please
take him with you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes—but those other careful drivers are awkward, ill-looking,
farm-laborers, accustomed to driving and hallooing
after ox-teams.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Have I been so long used to a carriage, as to be choice
in my coachman, then? Please do not think of that.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And then he is your waiter and messenger.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, believe me, I do not need him. Pray take him
with you. He is so active, intelligent and faithful, that he
will be of inestimable value to you in the campaign.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is precisely because he is so active, intelligent and
faithful, that I am unwilling to deprive you of his services,
Catherine—I beg your pardon—<i>Mrs. Clifton</i>,” he corrected
himself, suddenly changing his involuntarily relenting manner
into the old sarcasm and scorn.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, call me Catherine, please call me Catherine,” she
said, losing half her reserve.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why? Do you dislike the other name?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No—I like it. I am proud of it—not because it is a
high, haughty name, but because it is <i>yours</i>. When other
people call me ‘Mrs. Clifton,’ my heart springs with pride
and joy, but when you call me so—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, now, do not let us grow sentimental, madam! I
prefer to call you Mrs. Clifton because I think that the fancied
dignity for which you have toiled and plotted so long,
and patiently, and successfully, should be constantly brought
to your mind.”</p>

<p class='c006'>With a deprecating, imploring gesture, and a brow crimsoned
until the purple veins started out, Catherine, pierced
by this keen sarcasm, sank into a chair.</p>

<p class='c006'>Unpityingly, he added—</p>

<p class='c006'>“And now, Mrs. Clifton, I really must entreat you to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_387'>387</span>excuse me. I expect Turnbull here, every instant, to have
a talk about the stock.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine arose, trembling, and left the room; one agonized
complaint bursting from her tortured bosom—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, I would to Heaven this were over—some way!”</p>

<p class='c006'>He looked after her, with a countenance convulsed with
sorrow, groaning—</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>And so would I!</i> And so would I to God that this
were over—<i>somehow</i>! Oh!” he thought, rising again, and
pacing the floor—“there is nothing in life so humiliating to
an honorable-minded man, as to love and live with a perfidious
woman—to be daily tempted by his own heart and her
blandishment, to become her dupe and his own scorn! To
be hourly on the brink of clasping just so much proved
treachery as her form conceals, to a half loving, half loathing
bosom! Serpents! Yes, I dreamed of a serpent, last
night:—methought I was in the forests of Brazil, and the
fatal cobra-di-capello had coiled itself around my neck, and
raised its horrid head to mine, and I went to snatch the
deadly reptile away, and found it to be only Catherine’s
gentle arms and noble face. Devils! Never did a demon
hide itself under a more deceptive form and face!—with that
saint-like blending of nobility and meekness in her countenance.
Every time she talks with me, she brings me to the
very brink of abjuring my sincere convictions. I must get
away from this place, or my mind will become unsettled, deranged.
I must hasten my departure, and in the meantime,
she shall not talk with me again. She shall not cross the
threshold of this room again, or if she does, she shall meet
with such a reception that she shall speedily retire.” And
so, torn with passion, he walked and raved, while Catherine
sought her room, and threw herself upon the bed, giving
way to a burst of tears and sobs, and crying, in wild rebellion—</p>

<p class='c006'>“God! Oh, God! Infinite in power and love—do You
see me? Do You see me, and withhold Your help? Oh,
God! God!” But soon upon her fevered spirit fell the
word of the Lord like dew—“All things work together for
good, to them that love the Lord.” And full of penitence
for her impatience, she knelt, and humbled herself “under
the mighty hand of God.” And then, comforted with love
and hope, strengthened with faith and courage, she arose,
and went about her work.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_388'>388</span>Meeting Henny soon after, she told her to be consoled, for
that she thought Jack would be let off.</p>

<p class='c006'>In the afternoon she received a pencilled note from Major
Clifton, announcing that he should leave home three days
sooner than he had anticipated, namely, on the third day
from that date. Leaning against the projecting chimney piece,
she held the note, stupidly gazing at it. But two
days were left before he should depart then—she thought—and
he was going, really going upon a long and perilous military
service, and parting with her in deep, unmitigated anger,
under the seemingly ineffaceable impression of her utter unworthiness—believing
her to be guilty of—what? ay! what?
for up to this moment she had not the slightest idea of his
reason for condemning her. And now she blamed herself
for cowardice, in having hesitated to entreat him to inform
her of what fault or crime she was suspected, and to give
her the opportunity of exculpating herself. And she reproached
herself for that failing of the heart, and falling of
the eyes, and faltering of the voice, that made her so powerless,
and placed her at such a disadvantage in his presence.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” she said, “I know my manner is enough
to convict me; I do not wonder at nor blame him for thinking
ill of me, so long as my eyes sink beneath his look.
But how can I help it. It must be so while he frowns or
sneers. One encouraging word or glance from him, and I
could look up and speak.” And next she remembered how
much he must suffer in continuing to think her unworthy,
and in departing under that impression—and at this thought,
all that was most generous and benevolent in her nature
arose to inspire her with courage, and she resolved to go to
him, and, though heart and frame should tremble to meet
that dread look of stern sorrow or piercing scorn—to persevere
in imploring him to tell her with what crime she stood
charged.</p>

<p class='c006'>But though she had determined upon this act, it was
extremely difficult to perform it. All the afternoon and
evening he came and went in such hurry, and seemed so
entrenched behind his own private thoughts and purposes
that she feared to break in upon his reserve. Once indeed
for the purpose of speaking to him upon the subject, she
entered his study, and stood by the table; but he turned
around, drew himself up, sat back in his chair, and looked
upon her with such sarcastic arrogance, that, abashed and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_389'>389</span>confounded, without opening her lips she turned and left the
room.</p>

<p class='c006'>And so the afternoon and evening passed, and the next
day, the last of his stay, arrived. All day Catherine sought
an opportunity of speaking with him alone. In vain! He
was resolved to afford her none. He sedulously avoided her.
As a last resort she wrote a note, requesting an interview,
and sent it to him. She received an answer stating that his
time for the day was all pre-engaged. And so this last day
also passed. That night she completed her part in the preparations
for his departure, and retired late to a sleepless
bed. She heard him come in very late, and enter his room,
which joined her own.</p>

<p class='c006'>At early dawn she arose and looked at the time-piece on
her chamber mantle-shelf. It was but five o’clock. He
was not to leave till ten. There were five precious hours
left yet. And oh! how inestimably precious, if in them she
could effect a reconciliation with her husband. They were
like the last hours of a dying one, with salvation staked upon
them. She felt that the crisis had come, that she must not
falter now. She knelt and prayed for strength and courage,
as we only pray a few times in life—with that impassioned
earnestness of supplication that ever brings an angel down
“strengthening” us. Then, encouraged, she arose, completed
her simple toilet, and went down stairs to her morning duties.
The breakfast hour was seven. And oh, she watched the
clock as she, unjustly condemned to death, might watch in
the last fleeting hours preceding execution—hoping, still
hoping for some saving revelation. A little while after seven
he came down stairs, entered the breakfast-room, and bowing
with his usual cold greeting of—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Good-morning, madam,” sat down.</p>

<p class='c006'>She rang for the coffee, and then took her place at the
head of the table.</p>

<p class='c006'>He went through with the morning meal, with his customary,
reflective leisure. And Catherine watched the hand
of the clock, as it traveled on towards eight. She was sick
with apprehension. She could not speak to him there, for
the servants were in attendance. At last he arose, left the
table, and went out to give some final directions concerning
his baggage, and the horses and servants he was to take with
him. And then he went up stairs and entered his study. It
was just eight o’clock, and she had two invaluable hours left
<span class='pageno' id='Page_390'>390</span>yet. As if life and death hung upon their issue, she resolved
come what might, to use them in a final effort for a reconciliation.
Pale and trembling in every limb, she left the
table, and went up stairs, slowly, holding by the balustrades
from weakness. When she reached the study door she found
it ajar, and through it she saw him sitting at his writing-table—not
busy, as she had feared and expected to find him,
but doing absolutely nothing—with his elbows resting on the
table, and his face buried in the palms of his hands—in the
attitude and expression of the deepest sorrow and despair.
That one glimpse of his suffering face, sufficed to drive every
fear but that of anxious affection from her heart—“It is because
he thinks me unworthy. I must not leave him to think
so longer. Be strong, coward heart,” she said, to herself,
and then she went in and stood beside his chair, resting her
hand, for support, upon the table, trembling with nervous
weakness, and blushing with the bashfulness she could not
but feel in making this advance, and altogether, in his suspicious
eyes, looking very much like a conscious culprit. She
stood, unable to utter one word, until he lifted up his head,
and seeing her, demanded coldly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“What is your pleasure, Mrs. Clifton?”</p>

<p class='c006'>She attempted to speak, but a mute sob was all that
ensued.</p>

<p class='c006'>With a piercing sarcasm, he asked—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Can I serve you in any manner this morning, madam?”</p>

<p class='c006'>With a gesture of deprecation and entreaty, she answered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! yes! I wish to be put upon my trial! Archer!—Major
Clifton! you withdrew your favor from me so suddenly!
You never told me why! Oh! tell me, before you go, how
I have been so wretched as to lose your esteem—and put
me upon my defence.”</p>

<p class='c006'>He frowned, darkly, as with both pain and anger, and replied—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I have had occasion twice before to remind you, Mrs.
Clifton, that this is a prohibited subject of conversation between
us.”</p>

<p class='c006'>She clasped her hands, in the earnestness of supplication,
exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why? Oh! why? You were always just. You never
judged your poorest slave, unheard! Oh! what have I done,
or omitted to do? Tell me! Make the charge, and see
<span class='pageno' id='Page_391'>391</span>how I can answer it! Archer!—I mean Major Clifton—forgive
it—but for all, it springs so naturally from heart to
lip, to call you Archer—because—because there is no feeling
of estrangement in my heart, nor can I make it there! Major
Clifton, then!—consider!—the greatest criminals have the
right of a trial, with the crime of which they are suspected,
distinctly and openly charged upon them—with the evidence
on both sides taken, and their defence heard, before they are
condemned. I know that you would not be otherwise
than just. Will you condemn me untried, unjudged, unheard?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is quite sufficient to me, madam,” he answered,
haughtily, “that the proofs of your turpitude are conclusive
to my own mind.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know it,” she said, meekly, “I know it—yet, pause—what
would you think of the justice of a judge, who should
say to one suspected of crime—‘Your guilt is so clear, that
it is useless to charge you with it, or to hear the testimony,
or to listen to what you might have to say in your defence,’
and so proceed to condemn him? Such things were never,
surely, done, in the darkest ages, or under the most despotic
rulers. And is that guilt, of which I am suspected, of so
heinous a character as to preclude me from the privilege extended
even to criminals—the privilege of a trial?” She
paused—but he continued to regard her with a stern, set face,
without replying. Drooping over the table, and leaning
heavily upon it, she spoke again, and her voice fell in low,
but clear, melodious tones, as she said—“God and man,
and I, myself, have made you my judge, and the arbiter of
my destiny here. It is an awful power. You have made me
feel it to be such. It is an awful power, because it is a subtile,
invisible power—higher, and deeper, and broader than
any law. I have no appeal from it—none! Nor—please to
understand me—do I wish for any—for if all the world were
to clear me, I should still be condemned, if you condemned
me. And oh! listen, and believe me—believe me, for it is
from my deep heart that I speak this truth—if you had the
power and the will to doom me to death—my instincts would
teach me rather to receive death at your hands, than to save
my life by appealing from your judgment to another tribunal.
I am loyal. I am faithful! God knoweth that I am. Let
me prove it. Put me upon my defence. Do not—oh, do
not persist in condemning me, unheard.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_392'>392</span>“Catherine,” he answered, in a softened voice—“you are
not condemned; if you were, you would not be standing here
at my side.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What do you mean? good Heaven!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<span class='sc'>This</span>,” he replied with a sudden change of manner, as
though angry with himself for his transient relenting. “This!
that oftentimes it happens that the only mercy we can show
the guilty, is <i>not</i> to bring them to trial! To openly recognize
guilt, is to be obliged to punish it. If we distinctly
accuse, we are bound to prove, and if we prove, to condemn
and sentence.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And is my case such a one?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Your case is such a one.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yet still I beg to be tried! For if <i>not</i> to try them is
often the only way to save the guilty, to <i>try</i> them is
oftener the only way to clear the innocent. Accuse me—hear
my defence, and be yourself my judge. I ask no
other.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Of what avail were it to rehearse your acts of falsehood
and treachery. You know them this moment even better
than I do.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Falsehood and treachery—just Heaven!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, madam, those were the words I used.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You are mistaken in attributing such wickedness to me
but tell me the grounds of your suspicions; doubtless I can
explain them, and clear myself.”</p>

<p class='c006'>He laughed a scornful, sardonic laugh, and replied, “Oh,
doubtless a woman of your diplomatic genius is fertile in explanations.
Whether you could by possibility clear yourself,
is another question; for I speak—not of suspicions but of
positive knowledge.”</p>

<p class='c006'>His strong conviction of her turpitude infected her with
despair at last. She said, very mournfully—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know that it has sometimes happened that the innocent
have been tried and convicted—overwhelmed by a mass of
circumstantial evidence—and that may be my case; nevertheless,
even they have had the poor satisfaction of knowing
for what they suffered. Tell me, I beseech you. I will still
hope that I can acquit myself. Not for my own sake,
Archer, dear Archer—but for yours: it must be so agonizing
to be forced to think ill of one we have loved as you once
loved me. I suffer very much in the loss of your esteem,
but were it possible for our cases to be reversed—were I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_393'>393</span>forced to think evil of you, I do not know, indeed I do not
know how I could go on with daily life at all!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I think you had better cease discoursing and retire,
your diplomatic talent is not in high action this morning; you
permit your words to betray you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“To betray me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, madam; for if you felt yourself to be innocent,
would you not necessarily think very ill of me for treating
you as a guilty woman?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No! no! I know that to have condemned me so
promptly, so unequivocally, you must have, what you think,
proof positive against me. But produce it! I am innocent;
indeed I am, Archer. I believe in Heaven’s justice. I believe
that if I call on the Lord, He will sooner or later, in His
own good time, enable me to prove it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I <i>will</i> produce the testimony,” he said, going to an
escritoir, opening it and taking from it a note in a gray envelope.
Returning to his seat, he laid it before her, asking
“Is this your hand-writing?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine glanced at it—it was the envelope she had
directed to Mrs. Georgia Clifton, and she immediately
answered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, certainly it is.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! it is; when was it written?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“The last day of your dear mother’s life. Ah! now I remember,
it was from that day you took your favor from me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, madam,” he said, withdrawing the fatal note from
the envelope, and laying it before her, adding, “Do you acknowledge
<i>this</i> as your writing also?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine looked at the note without heeding the words,
and raising her innocent eyes with wonder to his face, answered,
without an instant’s hesitation—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, assuredly, that is mine!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Her perfect unconsciousness should have convinced him of
her innocence—would have done so perhaps, but that, prejudiced
against her, he took her manner to be super-refined
art; and determined to force her to the point, he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Would you swear it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine took up the letter and examined it.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ay! read it, read it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine read the note, turned deadly pale, fell back in
her chair, and let the paper drop from her hands—overwhelmed
by the enormous wickedness of the forgery. Scarcely
<span class='pageno' id='Page_394'>394</span>restraining a bitter curse, he picked up the fatal note, pushed
the door open with his foot, crossed the hall, and entered his
bed-chamber, banging the door after him.</p>

<p class='c006'>One stunned moment she sat thus, then started to her feet,
bewildered, distracted, and with a wild impulse, fled across
the hall and into his chamber, and sank at his feet speechless,
mute, but catching his hand, and clinging to it. When
she struggled and recovered her voice, she exclaimed,
simply—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I did not write that letter, Archer. I did not write that
letter.”</p>

<p class='c006'>He twisted his hand rudely out of her grasp, and turned
away, without reply.</p>

<p class='c006'>She clasped her hands earnestly, exclaiming again—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I did not write that letter! It is impossible I ever
should have conceived, much less have written such a letter!
I do not know who wrote it. I never laid my eyes on it
before!”</p>

<p class='c006'>An incredulous, insulting smile, was his reply.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! what shall I say to convince you? <i>Indeed</i>, <i>indeed</i>
I did not do it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come, perjure yourself! Swear it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>She was silent.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I ask you to swear it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>She was still silent.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come, now—will you declare upon oath that you did not
write that letter?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“God sees me! I did not!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“That’s no oath! Here’s the New Testament, swear upon
the Holy Evangelists of Almighty God that you didn’t write
it, and, perhaps, I will believe you, for well I know that many
unprincipled people have a sort of fearful respect for an oath,
which in them is not piety, but superstition. I think you just
such a one! Come, now, swear that you did not write it!”
He paused for an answer, but she looked at him in great
trouble. “Will you do it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Major Clifton, I cannot!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Not swear that you did not write it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, sir.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Then that only confirms and seals the truth of what I
knew before, that, of course, you <i>did</i> write it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>She wrung her hands in deep distress, and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“I cannot swear, Archer. I mean I <i>dare</i> not swear,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_395'>395</span>Archer, even to prove my innocence, and get back your
love.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And why, pray?” he asked, with a mocking smile.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Archer! my Lord and yours has commanded us to
‘<i>Swear not at all</i>.’ I dare not break that command.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Tush, girl, you are clumsy. Do you presume to think
I can be duped by that affectation of super-righteousness?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven! what shall I do?” said Catherine,
in despair.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Swear, and I will believe you,” he answered, mockingly.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! <i>why</i> will not my simple word do? Oh! do you
think I would tell a falsehood even to save my life?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do I? Does not an astute diplomatist, like you, know
that <i>I</i> know a woman who can be false, treacherous, hypocritical;—who,
so young, can plot so well, and succeed so
entirely;—can also tell a falsehood to conceal her baseness?”
he answered, looking down upon her in insufferable scorn.</p>

<p class='c006'>Then her whole manner changed. She arose to her feet
with a certain calm and gentle dignity, and pushing back the
veiling tresses from her noble brow, answered nobly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, it is true! If I could have conceived such treachery,
and written such a letter as that, I could also have
lied to conceal it! There is only one on earth that knows
my innocence, the writer of that letter. But one in Heaven
knows it, and He will make it manifest. I believe in miracles,
because I believe in the infinite power and goodness of
God, and in the everlasting promises of the Bible.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well done, Maria Teresa! really that is the best of all!
Indeed, your talents are quite lost upon such unworthy game
as me and my poor estate—good-bye!” And laughing bitterly,
he left the room, and hurried down stairs. A few
minutes after she heard the clock strike ten—then she arose
and went to the window to look out. He stood upon the
lawn, in riding gear, near a group consisting of his servant
Dandy, and three saddle-horses. She saw him vault into his
saddle, and ride away, attended by Dandy, mounted on one
horse and leading another. As he passed the outer gate,
one look of love, sorrow, and despair, he turned towards her
window, and then vanished into the forest road.</p>

<p class='c006'>She did not see that look—she could not have seen it at
that distance; she saw that he was gone, and turning from
the window, she sank down upon the carpet in the collapse
of deepest sorrow.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_396'>396</span>Gone! He was gone! His presence that had made all
suffering tolerable was withdrawn, and the place was empty—life
itself was empty.</p>

<p class='c006'>He was gone—gone—not lovingly, after a lingering, tender
leave-taking—that would have been sorrowful enough;
but it would have been cheered by the promise of frequent
interchange of letters, and the anticipation of re-union; how
much more sorrowful this utter separation!</p>

<p class='c006'>Gone! gone! not in anger—that would have been bitter
indeed; but it would have been sweetened by hope that anger
would subside, that reflection would come, and reconciliation
ensue; but how much bitterer this hopeless disunion.</p>

<p class='c006'>Gone in scorn! Gone in loathing! Gone to return no
more but as a stranger! Oh, insupportable grief! Oh, hopeless
anguish! Oh, despair!</p>

<p class='c006'>A few short weeks ago the heaven of her life had been so
serene, so divinely serene, and her soul had reflected back
the beautiful “great calm,” as a still lake the clear sky.</p>

<p class='c006'>Now all was changed! Now all was clouds and storm and
darkness! A howling wilderness around! A howling tempest
overhead! And her soul answered back the tempestuous
discord of life, as the storm-tossed ocean, the storm-lowered
sky! All was confusion, distraction, chaos!</p>

<p class='c006'>Wild impulses—suggestions of the fiend—darted meteor-like
athwart her mind:—to fly—to go away and leave a
place, where she had been brought a bride, full of love and
hope and trust, and where every feeling of womanly pride
and delicacy had been ruthlessly, insultingly trampled in the
dust!</p>

<p class='c006'>But simultaneously with this suggestion, arose the instinct
of the wife, and the inspiration of the Christian, teaching her
that scorned and outraged as she had been, her only post of
duty as of <i>hope</i>, was her husband’s home. Yes, amid all the
gloom and terror, she caught this one glimpse of Heaven.
Amid all the clash and clang of passion and despair, she
heard this voice of God.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_397'>397</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXXIV.<br> <span class='large'>CATHERINE’S REGENCY.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>But a trouble weighed upon her,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And perplexed her night and morn,</div>
      <div class='line'>With the burden of a station</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Unto which she was not born.—<span class='sc'>Tennyson</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Slowly, very slowly Catherine recovered from the shock
of that bitter parting. And then she felt so lonely—so desolate;
no mother—no sister—no bosom friend, to give her
one comforting look of sympathy, or one sustaining word of
affection. And she mourned afresh the loss of that dear,
sympathising, maternal friend, always so ready in her loving
wisdom, always so ready in any trial or affliction to give
counsel and comfort. And, oh! Catherine needed these—for,
like the black, scudding fragments of clouds left by the
tempest, dark, despairing thoughts drifted through her mind.
Yes, she had need, and profoundly felt that need, of counsel
and comfort in this bewildering sorrow; but of whom could
she seek it? Of none—of none must she seek it. The true
wife’s instinct taught her that. For even when the retrospective
image of his dead mother, her own beloved bosom friend,
recurred in the shape of a once possible mediator between
herself and husband, her mind intuitively recoiled from the
idea, and she knew that were that dear mother now living,
not even of her could she make a confidant—that the religious
unity, the integral sanctity, the cherished exclusiveness
of marriage would be invaded and broken, and the sweet
charm lost by the introduction of a third party—beloved even
as that dear, mutual mother—into its sacred counsels. No,
unhappy and bewildered as she was, she felt that by all her
hopes of a future happy union, this wretched division must
be kept to herself—upon herself solely recoil the burden and
the pain—she “must tread the wine press alone.” And
<span class='pageno' id='Page_398'>398</span>even when she prayed for Divine inspiration to guide her, the
response came from the depths of her spirit, “The Word of
God is within you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And how empty the house seemed because one was away—how
gloomy—how funereal—even the light footstep of a
chamber-maid in the distance sounded hollowly,—sending a
dreary echo through the many passages of the great, empty
house—empty, for that he was gone.</p>

<p class='c006'>It seemed not worth while to go on with daily life at all—to
keep up the fire on the household hearth, or to light the
evening lamp, or to order meals for herself alone.</p>

<p class='c006'>But if Catherine were for once tempted in her sorrow to
forget her duties,—her duties were not the least disposed to
leave her long in peace—no, not for an hour.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine was roused from her fit of deep thought by the
entrance of a field woman, who, with the usual curtsey, and
the customary greeting of—“Sarvunt, ma’am,” stood before
her.</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate raised her heavy eyelids abstractedly.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Sarvunt, ma’am,” said the woman, again curtseying,
“Aunt Field Mary is well over it, ma’am. It’s a boy-chile,
ma’am; a likely little boy-chile as ever you see, ma’am.
An’ Aunt Field Mary told me to tell you, ma’am, how, thank
the Lord, an’ she’s fotch through safe, an’ how she wouldn’t
let dem sturve you las’ night, caze you wur so tired, an’ caze
it wur the lassest night Marse Archer had to stay home. An’
Aunt Field Mary say, would you please to come down der to
her quarter an’ see her dis mornin’, and how she wants some
green tea, an’ loaf sugar, an’—an’—<i>wine</i>, if you please,
ma’am.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What—what did you say?” asked Catherine, passing
her hand over her forehead, to dispel the concentration of
sorrowful thought.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Aunt Field Mary, ma’am, it’s a boy-chile, ma’am, a likely
little boy-chile as ever you see, ma’am, an’ she’s fotch well
through of it, thank Marster, ma’am, an’ she say, how will
you come an’ see her, an’ send her some liquor, an’ things.
Likewise, Uncle Jubilee, its daddy, ma’am, he say, can’t he
have a holyday to-day, ma’am, an’ stay home out’n de field,
seein’ how it’s his firstest son an’ hier out’n seven darters.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Passing her hand across her forehead slowly, Catherine
dispersed the last lingering fragments of her bitter reverie,
and stood up to her simple, practical, household duties. And
<span class='pageno' id='Page_399'>399</span>then her action was clear and decided. She took up her
little basket of keys, bade the woman follow her, and went
down stairs and into the pantry, where she filled a hamper
with tea and sugar, crackers, jelly, and other little matters,
and gave it to her attendant, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Take these to Field Mary, and say that I will be down
to see her presently.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, ma’am, sure ’nough. But ’bout de liquor, honey?
likewise Uncle Jubilee’s holyday, seein’ how it’s his firstest
son an’ hier out’n seven darters?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Tell Mary that I cannot send her wine, it is not good
for her now; but tell her to mention any other want, and if
it be a proper one, it shall be supplied. Tell Jubilee to return
to the field—his labor cannot possibly be spared from it
to-day. And stay—what is your name?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nelly, ma’am. ’Deed it is, honey. That’s my name,
Nelly.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I think I never saw you up at the house before, Nelly?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, ma’am, likely not, chile, indeed. I lives quite distant
off, down der on Cedar Creek, unnerneaf of Bushy Hill
der on de outskeerts o’ de plantashum.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, Nelly, who is tending Field Mary?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>I</i> is, ma’am. Hardbargain Henny, she long o’ her now.
But <i>I</i> tends her. I tends all de wimmin hands when dey’s
sick, ’deed I does, chile. But poor creeturs, dey alluz wants
der miste’ss, <i>alluz</i>. I never knew dem to fail o’ fretting
arter <i>her</i>, dey don’t seem to feel kinder safe widout her,
dough I alluz tells de poor ignoran’ creeturs, der mist’ess
can’t do nuffin ’tall—dere in de han’s o’ de Lord—not in de
mist’ss’s. An’ dar Fiel’Mary, ’ceitful thing, sendin’ you
word how she didn’t want you sturved, arter keepin’ on arter
us all night to send for you; but I telled her good I wan’t
agoin’ to have the young madam wurritted long o’ her ‘fernal
nonsense, bein’ as it was de lassest night Marster had to stay
at home.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, there, go now,” said Catherine, waving her hand
wearily.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nyther wan’t it any sort o’ use, case I, myse’f, dough I
should’n be de fuss to bray affen it, am as knowin’ a ‘oman
as if I wur book edified, bein’ as I has had thirty years
’speriments, ten years practysin’ on ole Marse Roger Gower
plantashum, down in ole Si’ Mary’s, ’fore I came here, nuss
long o’ Miss Car’line Gower, wid her fuss baby, which was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_400'>400</span>our Miss Car’line Clif’n. An’ dat war twenty odd year ago,
an’ I’se had twenty years ’speriments here. Lord, mist’ess,
ma’am, whenever you ’quires any ’vice and ’sistance, you
ain’t no ’cassion to call in any dem derned, infunnelly,
roguing doctors as makes you worse sick, purpose o’ gettin’
more credit and money for makin’ you well.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“There—there—there—there, Nelly, return to your patient.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, mist’ess, I’m gwine now, ma’am, only I wanted to
tell you while I trought of it, how when eber you ’quire of
de aid an’ comfort, you no call to send offen de plantashum,
case—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nelly, there is one thing that I must say to you now,
and which I wish you to remember. It is that when I give
a direction I intend it to be followed.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The old woman looked mortified, and took up the hamper,
settled it upon her head, and went out. It pained Catherine’s
gentle heart to speak so peremptorily. But this was
one among the abuses she felt it to be her imperative duty to
reform, the habits of idleness and listlessness, and the propensity
to stand and gossip among the domestics. Trifling
as this little incident was, it served to arouse Catherine and
place her on her feet, and she did not utterly sink again.</p>

<p class='c006'>The evening fire was kindled on the household hearth, and
the evening lamp lighted, though there was but one lonely
woman to feel their cheering influence.</p>

<p class='c006'>The next day was the Sabbath, and Catherine as usual
attended church. She felt deeply the need of religious consolation.
Her spirit hungered, thirsted, failed and fainted
for the feeding, refreshing, strengthening ministrations of the
gospel. The old, sad, unanswered problem of unmerited
suffering perplexed her. She felt herself sinking into that
sad and nearly hopeless state of mind, induced by great and
singular trials to be borne perforce alone and in secret—when,
wanting human sympathy and failing of divine comfort,
the soul loses sight of the Merciful Father in the Omnipotent
Creator, or in other words, of especial Providence
in general Providence, and falls sadly, despairingly back
upon its helpless self, and says that the Supreme Ruler of
the Universe, the Governor of countless millions of suns and
systems, never stoops to care for a poor, lost atom like itself.
She needed to hear the gospel message of love and hope
again. But when she entered her pew, and raised her eyes
<span class='pageno' id='Page_401'>401</span>to the pulpit, she was disappointed in missing from his place
the mild and venerable face and form of the parish clergyman,
whose teachings every Sabbath morning sent her home
with renewed love, and sustained her through the week, and
she was pained to see in his stead a young man, a mere
youth in seeming, some student newly ordained, she supposed,
and she sank back in her seat, saddened with the
thought that she would not get the greatly needed spiritual
help from him; for what could a student in his youth know
of life’s dread trials? of the heart’s mournful experiences,
or the spirit’s deep needs? She felt sure he could not help
her, and she sank back, resigning herself with a deep sigh.
The opening hymn was given out—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>God moves in a mysterious way</div>
      <div class='line in2'>His wonders to perform,</div>
      <div class='line'>He plants His footsteps on the sea.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And rides upon the storm.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Ye fearful souls, fresh courage take,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The cloud ye so much dread</div>
      <div class='line'>Is big with mercy, and shall break</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In blessings on your head.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>The first words of this hymn fell upon Catherine’s surprised
ear, filling her soul with awe—for it seemed a direct
answer to her thought. And all that hymn, every stanza,
every line, was filled with meaning for her, and powerful in
its effect upon her mind, in its peculiar state of experience.
She listened in penitent, grateful, reverent silence, folding
her hands meekly, and saying within her heart—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Father, forgive my doubts and fears! I will believe it!
Yes, I will believe that even this heavy cloud is laden with
mercy, and will shower blessings! I will believe that even
this bitter trial—this bitter, bitter separation and disunion,
is in some way necessary to our moral growth and future
welfare, and that I shall see it! I <i>do</i> believe it, for I have
had blessed answers before to doubts. ‘And we know that
all things work together for good to them that love the
Lord.’ I do believe it.”</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>God is His own interpreter,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And He will make it plain,</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>were the solemn last words of the Divine Song that awed her
into stillness. This hymn was sung, Catherine’s beautiful
voice joining the choir. And when it was ended, followed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_402'>402</span>the prayer, so singularly coincident, that every word gave
voice to the deep silent cry in her own suffering heart.</p>

<p class='c006'>And then the young minister arose to give out the text:
Matthew x. 29. “Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing?
And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your
Father.” And here followed the sermon. The manner of
the young preacher was modest, natural, calm and sweet, as
befitted the gentle words of the text, and the consoling subject
of the sermon—<span class='sc'>Faith in Providence</span>—the child-like
faith that comes through the heart, and not through the
head. Catherine had thought he could not help her. Never
had she been more in error in her life. That pale young
preacher had a divine message for her—for <i>her</i>; an answer
to her unsolvable problem; a message, providentially, the
most direct, pointed, strong, startling that ever fell from
lips touched with fire, revivifying the soul of the receiver; a
message that satisfied every doubt, and calmed every fear,
and replied to every question as perfectly, as satisfyingly, as
if Heaven had spoken; a message that aroused faith, revived
hope, rekindled love, till all the soul glowed with divine fire.
She was wrapped, entranced, carried away by the eloquence,
power and pathos of this divinely-inspired discourse. She
never saw the young preacher before or after, but he had
dropped a celestial treasure deep into where she kept it
safe—a talisman through all the trials of life.</p>

<p class='c006'>She left the church loving, hopeful, strong in faith, strong
to act and endure, patient to wait. So elevated and inspired
was her soul, that it illumined her whole countenance. And
when the county ladies crowded around her at the church
door to condole with her on the departure of Major Clifton,
and to press hospitalities upon her, and to urge her not to
mope in widowhood at home, their benevolent purposes were
forgotten in their surprise, and the first words were—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, how brightly you look this morning, Mrs. Clifton!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine promised many visits, and extended many invitations,
and finally was glad to escape and enter her carriage,
to dwell in lonely, loving reverence upon the words she had
heard. And she reached home. And the Word departed
not from her, neither that day, nor the next, nor through life.
And with the perfect faith in God, perfect trust in her future
came. And again she whispered to herself the charming
thoughts—</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_403'>403</span>“I will wait patiently—I will work faithfully. The post
of duty, as of hope, is my husband’s house and home. He
trusts me, at least, even now, with the charge of this great
plantation. Construe it as he may, it is a mark of great
confidence. I will be true to the trust.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And then, indeed, as she whispered these words to her
heart, hope, sweet hope, inspired her more and more, and
strengthened her more and more, and she felt that he still
loved her—she felt it by that sure instinct that teaches a
woman when she is beloved, though no word, look, or gesture
reveals it to her. And she acted upon this feeling,
although almost unconscious of its existence as a <i>motive</i>.
And she knew that she would be useful to him, substantially
useful to him where she was—for with her it was not enough
to be devoted, soul and body, to his interests,—no, “wishing
well” <i>must</i> have a “body in it,” in order “to be felt.” She
communed with her heart, asking—</p>

<p class='c006'>“What, besides the service of God, do I really live for in
this world? For his happiness. Yes, my profound heart,
that is it! For his good, his interests, his welfare. I have
not been an obstacle to his happiness. I have not been a
stumbling block in the way of his marrying another. No!
for I feel that he loves me as he never loved another; and I
love him as he was never loved by another; and has any
other the instinct, the inspiration, the strength and patience
to bear with him, that God has placed in my heart? I will
believe and trust in the Lord and His inspirations. And
heart, and brain, and hands,—all that I am, and all that I
have, will I devote to his service. And until he restores me,
that alone shall make my occupation and my happiness.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The next morning being Monday, she arose with the intention
of taking seriously in hand the business of the estate.
This was now the first of December, and there was a great
deal to be done before the close of the year, in financial, as
well as in domestic and agricultural matters. The overseer
and the hired farm-laborers had all been paid in advance, up
to the first of January. And Major Clifton had left Catherine
twelve hundred dollars in cash, for her own current expenses.
All this money she had at once determined to
devote to another purpose—namely—to lifting some of those
notes which would fall due on the first of the year. She determined,
also, in order to help to clear off the incubus of
debt for the coming year, to try to find a tenant for Hardbargain,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_404'>404</span>and to devote the rent to the taking up of the remaining
notes. She went into a patient and thorough examination
of the overseer’s accounts, and discovered, with much pain,
that he had embezzled the funds trusted to him for the payment
of the hired hands; and a stricter review of his conduct,
resulted in the detection of other malpractices, that
decided Catherine to give him warning. A very little observation
convinced her, also, that the “baker’s dozen of
hired laborers, all his own kin folks,” were an unnecessary
and expensive set of idle parasites, of whom she determined
to rid the plantation at the end of the year. She finally
concluded still further to lower the scale of expenditures,
by parting with her housekeeper. She reconciled herself to
this last step, when she heard of a place in the neighborhood
to which Mrs. Mercer might go. Yet Catherine did not
wish to make these important changes without again consulting
Major Clifton. And, perhaps—let the whole truth be
told—perhaps poor Kate was desirous to hear from him, and
glad of a fair business excuse to write. And she wrote the
following note. She had some trouble with it. It was the
first (except the lines at the funeral,) she had ever written
him, and, under all the circumstances, she hesitated how to
begin, or how to end it. She disliked to address him as a
mere acquaintance, and she shrunk from any warmer manner
of greeting. Finally, she wrote, as she would have written
to a friend—thus—</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span class='sc'>White Cliffs</span>, December 8th, 1812.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-l c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span class='sc'>Dear Major Clifton</span>:—</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c015'>“After a very careful investigation of the affairs of the
plantation, and much patient thought concerning them,
I have concluded—if I have your approbation and authority
for doing so—that the establishment can be cut down
so as to reduce the annual expenditure to about one-half
its present amount—also, that the Hardbargain farm can
be let for a sum, double the annual amount of what we
can save at White Cliffs. And, finally, that the aggregate
of these moneys, saved and acquired, will be sufficient, in
two years, to pay off the accumulated debts oppressing the
estate. (Here followed a more detailed account of her plans.)
Please write, and let me know if I have your authority for
proceeding.</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Yours, faithfully,</div>
      <div class='line in16'>“CATHERINE.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_405'>405</span>In due time, Catherine received the answer. She seized
it with an eager hand. She opened it with trembling fingers.
She most unreasonably hoped—poor girl—for some kind,
relenting word—some token of approbation or affection.
Truly, she believed in miracles. This was the precious
epistle—</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span class='sc'>Hampton</span>, December 16th, 1812.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-l c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span class='sc'>Madam</span>:—</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c015'>“Your favor of the 8th instant lies before me. I beg
leave to reiterate now what I said at parting—viz: that
I have not the slightest hesitation in leaving the plantation
to your own exclusive charge and direction—having no doubt
that self-interest will guide your talent into the surest means
of recruiting the resources of the estate. Let Hardbargain,
by all means, if it pleases you to do it, remembering that I
have nothing to do with that cunningly acquired little piece
of property of yours. Regarding the dismissal of the housekeeper,
the overseer, and the hired farm-laborers, whom you
consider as supernumeraries, send them off, by all means, if
you think it proper to do so. I, myself, perhaps, should
have hesitated, ere I sent them adrift upon the world. But
money-saving is, I presume, a plebeian instinct.</p>

<p class='c015'>“Finally, pray govern in your own way, without ever again
thinking it to be necessary to consult,</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Your servant,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>“ARCHER CLIFTON.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_406'>406</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXXV.<br> <span class='large'>CATHERINE’S PROGRESS.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And she grew a noble lady,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And her people loved her much.—<span class='sc'>Tennyson.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Catherine’s arrangements for the year were all completed
by the first of January; and with less inconvenience to
others, and consequently with less pain to herself, than she
had dared to anticipate.</p>

<p class='c006'>She heard that Turnbull, the cashiered overseer, had purchased
a piece of land in the valley—(doubtless with the
embezzled funds, but of that she did not think)—built upon
it a log cabin, and set up as a farmer upon his own footing;
and that he had taken his tribe of sons and nephews to assist
him. She was very much pleased to know that they were
out of the way of swindling others as they had swindled
Clifton, and also that they were equally removed from want
and suffering.</p>

<p class='c006'>Mrs. Mercer, by her warm recommendation, had found a
very eligible situation as housekeeper to an elderly, single
gentleman—a planter in the neighborhood—and her benevolence
was set at rest in regard to the old woman.</p>

<p class='c006'>Lastly, she had let Hardbargain to excellent tenants—a
young New Englander and his wife—who took it ready
furnished and stocked as it was; and designed to work the
land and keep a school.</p>

<p class='c006'>The negroes had their usual carnival at Christmas, lasting
till after New Year—during which, all that had been engaged
in the last twelve months were married, and wedding parties
were given and dances got up, etc., etc.</p>

<p class='c006'>But on the second of January, Catherine caused them all
to be assembled in her presence, and told them that she
should, on the next Monday and thereafter, set them to work
in earnest; that their overseer was gone—(“Thank Marster
Lord for that,” exclaimed several)—but that she herself
<span class='pageno' id='Page_407'>407</span>would be their overseer for the ensuing year. (“You’ll be
fair, young mistress! We ain’t afeard o’ you,” said the
same.) She waved her hand for silence and attention, and
then informed them farther—that though they should find
her hereafter as heretofore, just and moderate and merciful;
ready to give ear to their complaints, and settle their difficulties,
and reward their zeal—yet that she should certainly
require a more steady and systematic application to their
duties than they had ever before given. She said, in conclusion,
that their health, comfort, improvement and happiness,
should be her care; but that even in this also, she should
need their co-operation—(“You shall hab it, mist’ess, ’deed
you shall, honey;” from some of the older negroes.) Finally
she dismissed them, telling them that she wished to see them
all together again on Sunday evening at early candle-light,
in the spinning-room, where she desired that they should assemble
quietly.</p>

<p class='c006'>On Saturday evening when the women were done spinning,
Catherine directed that all the wheels should be taken to one
corner of the room, and crowded together, and that the settees
and benches from the piazza and lawns, should be brought
in and arranged around the walls; and finally that a little
reading stand and chair should be brought for her own use.
These preparations occupied but ten minutes, and the room
was fitted up for family worship.</p>

<p class='c006'>On Sunday evening, at the appointed hour, Catherine met
her assembled laborers and servants there. When they were
all seated and perfectly still and attentive, she said to them—“I
desired your presence here this Sabbath evening, that I
might make a proposition to you. I have been thinking that
we ought not to finish every day without remembering and
returning thanks to our Heavenly Father for His daily bounties,
protection and mercies to us, and asking a continuance
of the same blessings; and I think we should not dare to lie
down and commit ourselves to that helpless sleep that so resembles
death, without confessing to our Lord the sins we
have committed against Him during the day, imploring His
forgiveness of them, and asking His watchful care over us
during the darkness of the night and the defencelessness of
sleep. Don’t you think so?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, yes, mist’ess, we do, we do indeed,” answered several
of the elder negroes, clearly—while a modest murmur of assent
ran through the assembly. The negroes are strongly inclined
<span class='pageno' id='Page_408'>408</span>to worship, and ever ready to co-operate in anything of that
sacred character.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine resumed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“We should each do this in private by our own bedsides,
but we should also do it together as a household—as the
creatures of one God, the children of one Father.” She
paused a moment in thought, and then spoke again. “I have
been also reflecting that you ought all to know more of the
Bible than you have as yet had any opportunity of knowing.
And I think that most of you would be pleased to know
more.” She paused for an answer.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, yes, mist’ess, we do,” chimed in many eager voices,
old and young.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know you do. Well, then, henceforth we will assemble
in this room every evening just before bed time, and as a
household of the Lord, a family of one Father, spend a short
time together in reading and hearing the Holy Scriptures, and
in prayer. In beginning to read the Bible with you, I shall
commence with the first chapter of the New Testament, and
read a chapter every night, until we regularly read it through.
And afterwards, in the same manner, we will go through
David’s Psalms and the Prophets.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine finished and sat down, made a sign for silence,
and opened the New Testament and commenced her reading.
Never had reader a more attentive or interested audience.
She passed over the long, hard genealogical table in the first
part of the chapter, and began with the Angel’s visit to the
Virgin Mary, and read also the second chapter, describing
the birth and infancy of the Saviour, sometimes stopping to
give explanations, which she knew the simplicity of her audience
made necessary. The family service was concluded
with a prayer, and the servants dismissed.</p>

<p class='c006'>And this evening service became thenceforth a daily practice.
And Catherine’s people learned more of the life and
doctrines of the Saviour from her, than they would have acquired
in a lifetime’s attendance upon learned ministers, who
preach only for the educated.</p>

<p class='c006'>On Monday morning, Catherine entered upon her assumed
duty of overseer. And, never were the affairs of a plantation
better administered than by her. Her “good will was to it,”
and all her faculties brought to bear upon the business. And
although she kept a firm hold upon the reins of government,
exacted the complete fulfillment of every duty, and kept
<span class='pageno' id='Page_409'>409</span>steadily at their post every man and woman, yet never was
a mistress more beloved and venerated. And certainly never
was one so faithfully served. All subordinates need—not
harsh nor lax government—but a steady, systematic, rational
government, which they can understand and be satisfied with,
and such an one was that of Catherine. Her administration
was for her people a very wholesome change from the capricious
tyranny of the late overseer, who had been accustomed
to permit the utmost license and laxity among the laborers
for four or five days, and then, growing alarmed, to hurry
and worry, and drive and maltreat them for a week, to make
up for lost time. Catherine’s government was regular, firm,
just and merciful. And she was loved, respected and served
accordingly. There were some exceptions, but they were
very few and unimportant, and soon fell under the general
rule.</p>

<p class='c006'>And thus, in the perfect performance of every duty, domestic
and social, that devolved upon her as wife, friend,
mistress and Christian, Catherine passed the winter. The
spring brought the usual accession of busy work, and she
gave herself up to its direction with untiring energy and activity.
She prayed, and labored, and trusted in Heaven, and
Heaven prospered her work, and all went well. Before the
first of June, she had paid off all those heavy notes, which
had been accumulating interest so long. There were other
heavy debts, but she saw her way clearly through, discharging
them before the end of the current year.</p>

<p class='c006'>But she never, never heard from Major Clifton. He seemed
just as lost to her as if the grave had received him. She
took all the principal newspapers, for the sake of keeping
the run of the campaign; and oh! often her cheeks and very
lips paled, and her heart sickened and sunk with terror, to
read of the awful perils of war, and to think that he was exposed
to them. But terror was not the only emotion raised
by these descriptions of engagements. No—her whole soul
glowed with patriotic ardor, when she read of the gallant repulse
of the combined land and naval forces of the British,
under Admirals Warren and Cockburn, and General Sir
Sydney Beckwith, from Craney Island, by a mere handful of
our troops; and her heart swelled with love and enthusiasm,
when in the same account, she saw her husband’s name mentioned
with the highest encomiums upon his bravery, discretion,
and invaluable services.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_410'>410</span>Autumn came, bringing along with its other associations
intensely distinct images of the last sweet, calm days she had
passed at Hardbargain with her dying mother, and these
vivid recollections stimulated afresh her devotion and her
energy. During her administration, to clear the estate of
debt, and at its close, to restore it unincumbered into the
hands of her husband, was now her dear object. When the
harvest was gathered in, she consulted several of her most
intelligent and enterprising neighbors, concerning the state
of the agricultural markets, and afterwards proceeded to
Baltimore in person in order to obtain the best possible
prices for her crops. She succeeded in effecting highly advantageous
sales, and with the proceeds she returned home
and paid off several of those heavy debts.</p>

<p class='c006'>And so the autumn passed, and winter came, with its leisure,
its stormy days, and its long nights. Nothing occurred
to break the monotony of daily life until the last of December,
when she collected the half year’s rent from Hardbargain,
and paid off all the remaining debts, except one inconsiderable
note of six hundred dollars. On the morning of
the first of January, she sent as usual to the village post-office
for her papers. When the boy returned, he handed
her a letter directed in the hand-writing of Major Clifton.
Oh! joy at last!—she tore open the envelope, and seized the
enclosure—it was nothing but a check upon the Bank of
Richmond for five hundred dollars. She let it fall unheeded,
covered her face with her hands, and wept silently. But
when her fit of silent weeping was over, she arose, took the
check, went and collected what money she had left in the house,
and ordered her carriage and drove to L——, and lifted
that last note. Then Catherine had the joy of seeing the
property entirely free from debt.</p>

<p class='c006'>And so passed the winter and came the spring of 1814.
And still she heard nothing from Major Clifton. And since
reading the account of his gallant conduct on Craney Island,
she learned nothing of him. And still from her loop-hole of
retreat, she anxiously watched the progress of the war, seizing
upon all the published accounts, and reading them with the
greatest avidity. How diligently she searched the papers to
find his name, and how eagerly her eyes darted down upon
any officer’s name beginning with a C, which always turned
out to be Crutchfield, Corbin, Carey, anything but Clifton!
Oh, how barren was all this war news, after all!</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_411'>411</span>But Admiral Cockburn’s piratical fleet was now in the
Chesapeake, spreading devastation and terror through all its
islands, coasts, and tributary rivers; and every paper was
filled with accounts of his marauding incursions and savage
atrocities, that defied just description, much more exaggeration.
Hear what a cotemporary historian says of him:</p>

<p class='c006'>“Throughout the waters and shores of the Chesapeake,
Admiral Cockburn now reigned supreme, ubiquitous and irresistible.
The burglaries, larcenies, incendiarisms, and
mere marauding, perpetrated by Admiral Cockburn, were as
odious and ignoble, though less bloody and horrible, than the
inhuman atrocities of the British savages in the West. Slaves
in large numbers, large quantities of tobacco, furniture, and
other private property, protected by the laws of war, and
seldom taken, even if destroyed by land troops, were seized
upon by the sea-faring warriors with piratical rapacity. The
predatory attacks of the enemy in the Chesapeake were
limited to isolated villages, poor farm-houses, and other indefensible
objects taken or destroyed. Destruction was the
punishment proclaimed and executed for resistance. The
house and barn were burned of whoever fired a shot, or drew
a sword in self-defence. Many respectable persons in comfortable
circumstances were reduced to poverty by these depredations.
The poor were especial sufferers. With shores
so indented with creeks and bays, the whole force of a State
under arms would have been unequal to cope with such overwhelming
aggressors.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Reading frequently such accounts as this, and even more
alarming ones than this, is it strange that Catherine sickened
with terror and anxiety for the safety of him who was exposed
to all the horrors of this unsparing warfare.</p>

<p class='c006'>At length the shock came. It was on the evening of the
day after harvest-home, and she had given all her people a
holyday, even down to the messenger whose daily duty it was
to bring her papers from the post-office, telling him that he
might take the whole day, and bring her the mail when he
returned home at night. Thus, instead of receiving her papers,
as usual, in the morning, Catherine had to wait until
the boy’s return in the evening. She was sitting in the
spinning-room, awaiting the assembling of her servants, whom
she had just summoned to evening worship, when they all
entered, and with them the post-boy, who came up and laid
before her the single paper that had come that day. She
<span class='pageno' id='Page_412'>412</span>took it, to lay aside until after the evening’s devotions were
over—but a magic name on the outside arrested her attention.
She caught up the paper, and read in large capitals:</p>

<p class='c015'>“<span class='sc'>Engagement at St. Leonard’s.</span> <i>British forces under
Admiral Cockburn repulsed with considerable loss. Major
Clifton dangerously wounded.</i>”</p>

<p class='c006'>She read no farther—the room swam around her—she
reeled, and fell into the arms of Henny, who sprang forward
to receive her. Her people crowded around her, in great
anxiety. But only one moment she fainted thus—then she
recovered, controlled herself, resumed her seat, and after
sending the servants all back to their places, by a wave of
her hand, opened the Bible, and commenced the evening’s
exercises. Her face was very pale, her hands quivered in
turning the leaves, and her voice faltered, so as to be nearly
inaudible, but she persevered, and got through with the service,
even unto the benediction. After it was all over, she
detained them a moment, by a gesture, and then said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Your master has been dangerously wounded.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Murmurs of surprise, grief and anxiety agitated the assembly,
and testified to their affectionate concern.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Go now quietly to your homes, and to-morrow perhaps
I may be able to tell you more.”</p>

<p class='c006'>They dispersed slowly, turning glances of uneasiness and
distress at the silent anguish of her countenance.</p>

<p class='c006'>She too, went out. How she spent the night is best known
to Heaven. In the morning when she appeared among her
household—the wasted cheeks, the sunken eyes, the hollow
temples, and the written agony of the brow, alone proved the
consuming sorrow of her heart.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Jack—I want Jack,” she said, as soon as she reached
her parlor. And the favorite servant appeared before her.
“Jack, I think you love me,” she said.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Try me, mist’ess dear, an’ see ef I doesn’t.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And I think you love your master?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! my Lor’! Try me—jes on’y try me, mist’ess—dat’s
all.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I wish you to go to him from me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! do—do—do—<i>do</i> sen’ me, mist’ess! It’s war I
longs for to be.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I shall. The distance is over a hundred miles. You
must pick the best horse in the stable, and start within an
<span class='pageno' id='Page_413'>413</span>hour, and ride day and night until you reach your destination.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“’Deed, mist’ess, I won’t let de grass grow onnerneaf of
my feet.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Very well, then, go now—have you had your breakfast?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, ma’am.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Go now, then, and prepare for your journey, while I
write you a pass. And when you are quite ready, come to
me, and I will give you farther directions about your journey.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Jack hastened out—and his mistress remained for a few
minutes, with her hands pressed to her heart, repeating to
herself, with agonizing earnestness—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Would—oh!—would to Heaven, I too, might go.” Soon
she started, as with sudden recollection, and hurried off to
write the pass, and the directions about the road. And when
in less than half an hour Jack appeared before her again, she
was ready for him. “Here,” she said, “is your pass, and
written directions, lest you should forget what I tell you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nebber fear me forgettin’, mist’ess, dear.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You must take the road to Alexandria, which is seventy
miles from here. When you reach that town, take the ferry-boat
and cross the Potomac to the Maryland side. Then inquire
your road to the village of Benedict, on the Patuxent,
which is thirty or forty miles further down the country.
When you reach the village, ask the way to St. Leonard’s.
Arrived at your journey’s end, find Colonel Wadsworth, or
Major Stuart, or Captain Miller, show your pass and tell your
errand, and they will direct you where to find your master.
Do you understand?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, mist’ess.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“All this that I have told you is written down here on
this piece of parchment; take care of it, lest you should forget,
and lose your way.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be berry cautiencious.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And now listen to me, Jack;” her voice broke down,
some emotion seemed struggling in her bosom for expression—she
quelled it and went on—“When you find your
master, write to me at once; thank Heaven I taught you to
write! write then to me at once, and tell me how he is. Will
you promise me that?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Faithful, mist’ess—faithful.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_414'>414</span>“And, Jack, when you have once found him, <i>be faithful
unto death</i> to him. Never leave him. Nurse him, wait on
him, watch over him day and night—<i>do so</i>, if you love him,
Jack;” again the inward struggle choked her voice, and
when she resumed, it was with broken and faltering accents,
“and, Jack, attend—take this note—and <i>when his fever is
off</i>—mind you, <i>when he is calm</i>—give it to him.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, mist’ess, dear.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“That is all I have to say to you. Now hasten. Good-bye; and may Heaven bless and speed you.”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_415'>415</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXXVI.<br> <span class='large'>THE NIGHT JOURNEY.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The heart once broken by the loved,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Is strong to meet the foeman.—<span class='sc'>Mrs. Browning.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Nearly a fortnight of extreme anxiety passed away, during
which Catherine heard nothing from her messenger. On the
evening of the thirteenth day of his departure, however, a
letter was brought to her, directed in the well-known, but
alas! not very familiar hand-writing of Major Clifton. Oh,
joy! He was living then, and even well enough to write.
With a fervent ejaculation of deep gratitude to Heaven, she
broke the seal. But her face paled as she read—</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span class='sc'>On Board the British Ship Albion</span>, }</div>
      <div class='line in14'>“August 21st, 1814.  }</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-l c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span class='sc'>Catherine</span>:—</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c015'>“Are you then destined to be forever fatal, not only to
me, but to every human creature that is faithful to me?
See what your reckless disregard of others’ lives has
done!—doomed a poor, fond, faithful creature to a felon’s
death! Attend, woman! to what I am about to write. I
was not dangerously wounded, as the newspapers reported,
but slightly hurt, and taken prisoner, and conveyed on board
this, the Admiral’s ship—as they did not report. Thus, the
poor fellow, whom you sent on this death’s errand, not finding
me in the American camp, and hearing that I was a prisoner
on board the British fleet, true to your command, to find
and communicate with me, and reckless of his own danger,
procured a boat at Benedict, and came out alongside this
ship. You know the result, as well as I can inform you.
The wretched boy was taken and put in irons as a spy, and
has been doomed to be hanged at the yard-arm. He only
<span class='pageno' id='Page_416'>416</span>waits the Admiral’s orders for execution. My own inconvenience
is nothing beside his cruel fate—yet, nevertheless,
I may as well inform you that I, who was upon parole, when
your messenger sought to communicate with me, have also to
thank your interference for being put under arrest, and nothing
but the relaxation of strict discipline, incident upon
the departure of the two commanders, and a mere fortuity,
affords me the opportunity of writing, and sending this note.
Admiral Cockburn and General Ross are now on their march
to Washington City. And my object in writing to you is
merely this: to assure you, by all my hopes of salvation, that
unless you, in your unequaled machiavelism, find some way
of saving this boy from death, I will never see, or speak to
you again.</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c017'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>ARCHER CLIFTON.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>Still clasping the letter, her hand and head fell with a
gesture of utter despair.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, what’s de matter, Miss Kate, honey? no bad news,
I trus’,” said Henny.</p>

<p class='c006'>A deep, heart-breaking sob only answered her.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My goodness, Miss Kate, deary, what is it den? is marster
dead? Oh, deary me, Miss Kate, chile, don’t keep on looking
dat a way—’deed, you puts a scare on to me!—don’t!
Sider how it’s de Lord’s will, honey, an’ let de tears come,
let de tears come, chile! <i>Do</i>, honey. ’Deed, troubles like
de measles; ef it don’t break out, it strikes in an’ kills you
dead—”</p>

<p class='c006'>A gasp from Catherine, and a gesture imploring silence,
while she spanned her temples with both hands, and tried to
think clearly.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My gracious, Miss Kate, don’t look so ghashly, honey—don’t.
<i>Is</i> marster dead, sure enough?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“He’s not dead, he’s not dead,” said Catherine, huskily,
while she waved her hand for peace.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, den, honey, long as der’s life der’s hope, an’ no
’casion for ’spair. Is he berry bad, honey?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“He’s well—well,” said Catherine, in the same tone.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, den, long as he’s well, what ’casion you take on
so, honey——Oh! my Lor’—taint—taint poor brother Jack
as anything’s happened to?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Henny! Your master and Jack have both been
taken prisoners by Admiral Cockburn!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Miss Kate! Oh, my Lor’, Miss Kate! An’ dey
<span class='pageno' id='Page_417'>417</span>do tell me how he eats his prisoners ’live,” exclaimed Henny,
falling down into a chair, flinging her check apron over her
head, and beginning to cry.</p>

<p class='c006'>Almost heedless of her handmaid’s violent demonstrations
of grief and terror, Catherine walked up and down the
floor, with her hands clasped around her temples, in the very
agony of thought. To save the boy from death—<i>how</i> was
she, at that remote distance, to save him? Oh! it seemed a
mockery, a snare, to put forgiveness upon such an impracticable
condition! Yet she thought him no setter of snares.
She thought over the whole of the letter, searching for a
<i>hint</i>; she needed not to look at it again—every line and
word was burned in upon her brain and heart—she thought
over the whole of it, earnestly searching for a clue to action—she
found it at length in the phrases, “He only waits the
Admiral’s order for execution,” and “Admiral Cockburn and
General Ross are now on their march to Washington City.”
She thought if she could see the Admiral, she might yet save
his life—of so little worth as a sacrifice to the enemy, but of
such inestimable value to her. The date of the letter was
the twenty-first—this day was the twenty-third. “Oh! he
is probably executed by this time,” said Despondency. “But
possibly not,” said Hope. She tried to think clearly, to separate
the dreadful chaos of thought and passion, and to weigh
and adjust circumstances, so as she might decide and act
promptly. Admiral Cockburn and General Ross must be
near Washington, if they had not already reached the city.
Washington was two full day’s journey from her home,
but every hour was precious, for life and death might hang
upon it. She could perform the journey in a day and night.
Her resolution was taken. Going up to where Henny sat
crying, and rocking herself backward and forward, she
said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Rise, Henny, and go and tell James to saddle my horse,
<i>my rough coated pony</i>, Henny, he is the strongest and the
fleetest, and bring him around to the door.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Miss Kate! does you think he’ll eat ’em sure
’nough?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What do you mean, Henny—are you crazy?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Admirable Cockbu’n, honey. Does you think he’ll eat
Marse Archy an’ brother Jack, sure ’nough? I hopes not,
’cause you see, chile, brother Jack, he’s so poor an’ lean, an’
Marse Archer, he mus’ be tough an’ stringy ’nough, too long
<span class='pageno' id='Page_418'>418</span>o’ all dis yer warfarin’, but Lor’, ’haps he’ll think der good
’nough for sojers rations, and give ’em to dem.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Henny that is all a notion.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“’Bout der eaten ’em, honey?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, yes—<i>don’t</i> stop me now, Henny! hasten! hasten!
quick! quick, Henny! Have my pony caught, and then
hurry back to me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But, Miss Kate, are you sure?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, yes, I’m sure. Oh! hurry, hurry!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The woman went out, and Catherine sat down and penned
a hasty note to her neighbor, the down-east tenant of Hardbargain,
requesting him to give a slight supervision of affairs
at White Cliffs during her absence for a few days. By the
time she had sealed and directed it, Henny re-appeared.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Go fetch my riding-dress, Henny,” was her next prompt
command.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My goodness, Miss Kate, where—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Go, Henny, at once, and don’t stay to question me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The maid obeyed, and her mistress rang the bell, and
gave the note she had written to a boy, to carry to Hardbargain.</p>

<p class='c006'>As he left the room, Henny entered it with the riding habit.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Help me on with it at once, Henny,” said Catherine,
meeting her.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My goodness, Miss Kate! you to be goin’ out this time
o’ night, an’ we-dem in so much trouble. You didn’ ax me
to tell nobody who wur to wait on you; but Jeemes, he’s
gettin’ ready.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, no, I don’t want anybody.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear me, mist’ess, honey, where’s you gwine?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Didn’t I tell you? To Washington City.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“To Washington?” exclaimed Henny, letting the dress
fall from her hands, and looking up in stupor.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, yes, didn’t I tell you—to Washington, to see Admiral
Cockburn, and save your brother. I do not believe
of Cockburn—I never believe of any one—as ill as is reported
of them, and I think if I go and make a proper representation
to him, I shall be able to save Jack.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Henny stood gazing at her mistress in the same stupor.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come, come, Henny! give me the other sleeve around
here,” said Catherine, impatiently.</p>

<p class='c006'>Still Henny stood and stared in a stupor, until suddenly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_419'>419</span>all her muscles and limbs gave way, and she sank down before
her mistress, embraced her knees, looked up into her
face, and said, in tones of earnest, deep affection—</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Don’t</i> go, mist’ess, <i>don’t</i> go—don’t trust yerse’f long o’
Admirable Cockburn an’ his hang-gallows sojers. <i>Don’t.</i>”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I must, Henny.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Oh! no, no.</i> Memorize what happened at Raison River,
an’ at Ham’ton, how dey nyder spared sexes nor ages—nyder
ole paralytic men nor little babies, nor der young moders—dem
leastes’ ob all. Don’t mist’ess, dear.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I <i>must</i> Henny. It is the only chance of saving your
brother.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, dear me! Oh, my heart’s ready for to break; but
nebber mind—don’t go, mist’ess, don’t go. Let him die,
mist’ess, tain’t nothin’ only <i>but</i> death arter all! an’ Admirable
Cockburn, ’save his funnelly soul, can’t do nuffin’
’tall <i>but</i> kill him. An’, poor fellow, he hadn’ long to live
no how, wid a’sumption in his breas’, an’ so it on’y comes
a little sooner an’ a little deffunt like. Don’t go, Miss Kate,
dear, let him die. I’se his sister, an’ I’se been a mammy to
him, but I sez so, an’ <i>he’d</i> say so, too, brother Jack would,
ef he could on’y speak long o’ you! Sure he’d lay down his
life willin’, an’ so would us all, sooner ’an you should fall
in wid Admirable Cockburn.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know it, Henny! I know it! Don’t talk to me any
longer, though every word you say but fixes my resolution
to go.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Miss Kate! oh! <i>don’t, don’t</i>,” exclaimed Henny,
clasping her knees, and repeating all the arguments and
entreaties she had used before. But Catherine was firm
as sad.</p>

<p class='c006'>“If you <i>mus’</i> make an effort, sen’ a messenger long
of a note, Miss Kate. Dar! do dat—now dat’s a good
trought.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, Heaven forbid! I have had enough of risking poor
ignorant creatures, who cannot keep themselves out of
danger.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, den, Miss Kate, <i>who</i> is you gwine for to take long
o’ you, to wait on you, chile?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“There, give me my hat, Henny.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, honey, <i>who’s</i> you gwine to take wid you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I told you no one, Henny—where are my gloves?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Here dey is, honey. Oh, mist’ess, dat’s susanside, an’
<span class='pageno' id='Page_420'>420</span>nothin’ ’tall else. Take Jeemes ’long o’ you! He’s brave
as a lion—comes to ’fendin’ at <i>you</i>.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, James would need rest and food on the journey—I
shall require—I shall stop for neither. Besides there is not
a horse here who could bear his weight continuously for so
long a journey. My strong little mountain pony, I think,
may carry my light weight to the journey’s end with very
little stopping.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Miss Kate! ’deed I shall pray for you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, do, Henny—that is the only way in which you can
help me. Come, go with me out.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Stay, mist’ess, stay one minute! Ise trought ob anoder
trought.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Long as you will go onattended, please don’t be ’noyed
at what I’m gwine to say.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Only be quick, Henny, that is all.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, den, ’long as you will go widout any ’fence or
’tection—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Except the Lord, Henny.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, honey, sure ’nough—’cept de Lord’s—hadn’t you
better put on—hem—a-hem—male boy’s clothes?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>What?</i>”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Wouldn’t it be more of a ’tection to you? Now, der’s
a suit in de house, you calls to min’, as ’ill jus’ fit you. Dem
as ’longed to Miss Georgy, when she were a masquerade-play-actorin’
here wid de city folks, here one Christmas.
Dey’d fit you to a tee.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, thank you, Henny!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You ain’t mad ’long o’ me for sayin’ of it, is you, Miss
Kate?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mad? Poor girl! No, Henny.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nor likewise ’noyed in yer feelin’s?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, no, you did but mistake,” answered Catherine,
getting into her saddle, while James held the pony, and
Henny affectionately arranged the riding skirt around her
feet and handed her the whip.</p>

<p class='c006'>“There, there, that will do; good-bye, all of you,” said
Catherine, feverishly.</p>

<p class='c006'>Henny burst into loud wailing. Catherine paused and
laid her hand upon her shoulder, silencing her while she
said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My poor girl, do not fear. I have committed myself to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_421'>421</span>the Lord! I am in His hands. I trust in Him, else I
should not dare do this which seems to you so much like
madness. I trust in Him, and no evil can befall me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But oh! mist’ess, mist’ess! If you should arter al’
perish!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“If I perish, I perish!—it will be no evil if the Lord
permits it!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I doesn’t b’lieve de Lord am gwine fur to ’mit it! I feels
safe ’bout young mist’ess, <i>I</i> does! I b’lieves how ef Admirable
Cockburn or any of his jail-birds was to come fur to
sturve Mist’ess, trustin’ in Hebben as she does, how a thunderbolt
would strike him down sooner, an’ she as puts her
trus’ in de Lord, should come to any harm.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, or a yethquake, if ne’ssary!” exclaimed the more
ardent Henny. “I ain’t ’feard for you no longer, mist’ess
dear! Hebben is wid you!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine waved her hand in adieu, gave reins to her pony
which bounded beneath her, and seemed to fly over the lawn.
She was fevered, excited—“mad inspired,” say either.
Night was closing darkly around her, but its sedative shadows
had no power to soothe her excited nerves—the dews
were falling, but they had no efficacy to cool her fevered
veins; a long journey lay before her, but its length could
not discourage her; dangers were thickly strown about her
path, but they could not appall her; her only desire, her
only anxiety, was to reach her destination in season, if possible,
to rescue this boy from death, because he was dear to
Clifton—dearer than she herself, his wife, was, she now
thought; and now her life itself seemed of little worth,
since the hope that was life’s earthly end, was laid low.
Her only remaining hope was to save this life—her only
remaining fear, to fail in doing so.</p>

<p class='c006'>Her path, for many miles, lay through the deep, interminable
wilderness of forest, that, rising and falling with the
low mountain ranges, extended over more than half the
county. Her path was so narrow, and the branches of the
trees often so low and interlaced, that a single start of her
horse, or a single moment’s hesitation to bow her head,
might have dashed her brains out against the intersecting
branches of the trees. And in the deep darkness of the
night, and in the despairing absence of her perceptive faculties,
this danger beset her every instant. But she rode on,
like a monomaniac, strangely heedless, and, like a somnambulist,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_422'>422</span>strangely preserved. As night deepened, and lowered,
and thickened around her in the awful depths of the
wilderness, the distant howl of the hungry wolf, the nearer
cry of the fierce wild cat, and once the more fearful whistle-signal
of some outlawed desperado fell upon her ear. But
even these appalling sounds struck no terror to a heart,
stunned by despair into insensibility to danger. And she
rode on through these terrific perils, strangely unconscious,
and strangely protected.</p>

<p class='c006'>At length, as she descended the last steep, and drew near
to the outskirts of the wilderness, the lights of the small
village of L—— gleamed through the interstices of the
woods—appearing and disappearing, jack-o’-lanternlike, until
she emerged from the forest and came full upon the hamlet.
It was so late at night, that all the houses were shut and
dark, and the only lights were those she had seen in the forest,—the
lights of the stage and post-office. She passed
like a meteor through the gloomy street, eliciting only a
“What the deuce was that?” from a loiterer in the stage-office,
who had seen her flight, and emerged again upon an
open plain, over which her road lay for many miles. Another
village gleamed up from the plains—was reached, passed,
and left far behind with the same lightning-like speed.</p>

<p class='c006'>She rode all night, less sensible to danger and fatigue than
the hardy little mountain pony that was carrying her light
weight, but straining every nerve and sinew in the service.
The night was deeply dark—the clouds thick, heavy and
lowering; she had no means of computing time or distance,
but farms, forests and fields continued to loom, appear and
vanish, as she fled past them. She watched the East with
feverish anxiety for day. But still mountain, meadow, and
moorland came and went, as she approached and hurried
by them, and still deep darkness hung like a pall over
Heaven and earth. Vainly she watched the East, for
hamlet, village or town in turn was seen and reached and left
behind, and still a wall of dense blackness blocked up the
Orient.</p>

<p class='c006'>A new and very serious danger threatened her every instant—her
poor horse, fatigued nearly to death, was ready to
fall, and she did not know it. He reeled and tottered, and
stumbled and recovered himself many times, and she did not
see or feel it! nay, she mechanically exerted every nerve
and sinew to hold him up, and keep him on his feet, while
<span class='pageno' id='Page_423'>423</span>totally unconscious of her own exertion. Like a sleep
walker was she in her deep abstraction.</p>

<p class='c006'>She was in a deep forest again riding for life, and the
veins in her arms were swelled out like cords, with straining
to hold the horse up on his feet. She could no longer see the
Eastern horizon, but it was growing lighter, and she knew that
morning was dawning. She rode on, and on, and on, and
at length came out of the forest in time to see the level rays
of the rising sun striking redly across the fields. The windows
of a farm-house flashing back the early light gleamed
upon her vision, and at the same time her horse reeled and
fell with her. “Good Lord!” “Are you hurt?” “Run
here, Tim.” “Call your mist’ess, Peter.” “Where are you
hurt, lady? can you tell us?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine awoke as out of a dream, to see many people
around her all asking questions, and all attempting to extricate
her from her saddle. She passed her hand across her
brow, as was her wont when trying to dispel thought, and
she looked at them in perplexity.</p>

<p class='c006'>“My Lord, I’m afraid she’s very much hurt! Can you
speak, lady? Where is your injury?” said the eldest man
of the party, at length, lifting her in his arms.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I—no—I’m not hurt—not the least; is the horse?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“We don’t know, ma’am; I’m sure it’s a blessed thing
you’re not killed yourself,” said another of the group, who,
with several more, were trying to raise the pony upon his
legs.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Pray put me down upon my feet. Thank you. I’m not
hurt. How far is Washington City from this place?” said
Catherine, as she stood watching her horse.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Good forty miles, lady. I don’t think he’s hurt, but
poor fellow, he’s trembling with fatigue,” said the farmer,
answering her, and then examining the horse, which was
raised at last and stood trembling and blowing.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Can he take me to Washington to-day?” asked Catherine,
as she leaned against the fence for support.</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>He?</i>—Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Why look at him, lady:
Besides, can you go there yourself anyhow? Why you’re
ready to drop now! Better go in and let the old woman
put you to bed and give you some breakfast.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is true I’m very stiff and weary—having ridden all
night. But I must reach Washington without delay; there
is one I care about under sentence of death. If I reach
<span class='pageno' id='Page_424'>424</span>there in time, I may get a reprieve and save him. I <i>must</i>
go to-day.” Catherine spoke this, frequently pausing for
breath. When she ceased—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Some of her ‘lations gwine to be hung, an’ she gwine to
see President Madison to get him off! May depen’, that’s
it!” whispered one farm laborer to another.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Can you let me have a horse to take me there to-day?
I will pay twice—ten times his value,” said Catherine, raising
her heavy eyelids to the old farmer’s kind face.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Lady, I’ll let you have another horse in two hours from
this, on condition that you go in to my old woman and take
some refreshment, and lie down to rest for that time. And
not a minute sooner, and not on any other terms whatsoever,
even if it was your father was going to be hanged—would I
let you have a horse; because I see very clearly that, unless
you take some rest, you will drop down dead before you get
a mile farther on your road.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It is true—it is the voice of Providence, I think—I
thank you very much; I will rest. Please take care of my
poor pony.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“He shall be looked after, lady. Take my arm.” And
the worthy farmer drew Catherine’s arm within his own, and
carefully and respectfully supported her to the house, where
he gave her into the charge of his wife, saying, “Here, wait
upon this lady, honey! be a mother to her, honey! for she’s
sorrowfully in want of one.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The farmer’s wife placed her in a stuffed chair, drew off
her gloves, untied her hat and removed it, unfastened her
spencer, and asked her if she would have breakfast, which
was just ready to go on the table.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, thank you. You are very kind. The Lord reward
you. But—rest, I want only rest,” said Catherine, ready to
swoon, for the sense of fatigue was growing upon her.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, <i>rest</i>, that’s all she wants, or rather that’s the most
she wants now! Put her to bed! let her sleep for two hours,
and have a cup of strong coffee and a broiled chicken ready
for her when she wakes. That will set her up again, and
help her to reach her journey’s end,” said the kind-hearted
man.</p>

<p class='c006'>Supported by the farmer’s wife, Catherine was guided up
the stairs to a cool and quiet room, where she dropped upon
the bed. No sooner had her head touched the pillow, than
the room, the white-washed wall, blue window-curtains, the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_425'>425</span>evergreens on the whitened fire-place, the picture of the annunciation
over the mantle-piece—all reeled around her
senses as a vision, and wheeled off, carrying with them the
outside world and all consciousness of being.</p>

<p class='c006'>To her, existence was blotted out for two hours.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Wake up, lady: wake up! your breakfast is ready, and
so is your horse!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine started up at the voice of her landlady, and
gazed around, bewildered. Then memory flashed upon her,
and she sprung to her feet, and began hastily and nervously
to fasten her habit.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Here is water, lady, and napkins—and is there anything
else I can bring you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, thank you, you are very good.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“How do you find yourself?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Better—I think. How long have I slept?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Just two hours. I wished to let you lie longer, but my
dear old fellow insisted on keeping his word with you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I’m glad he did. It was very needful. But you are
kind, and I thank you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine bathed her head and face, and the good hostess
combed and arranged her hair, and fastened her habit and
took her down stairs, where a comfortable breakfast awaited
her. It was yet but seven o’clock, and the farmer assured
her that she had time enough to reach Washington by night-fall,
and that she would be far better able to do it from
having had this rest. She hastily swallowed a few mouthfuls
of food, drank a cup of strong coffee, that gave her a sort
of fictitious strength, and then arose from the table and
quickly prepared to resume her journey. The good woman
followed her with many kind wishes, and the good man set
her in her saddle, and while adjusting her comfortably, gave
directions about the nearest way to W——, the next considerable
town upon the road. Then he gave her the reins,
and prayed God to bless her. She thanked her kind hosts
earnestly again, put whip to her horse and galloped away,
leaving her valuable pony in pledge.</p>

<p class='c006'>The farm-house, with its garden, orchard and vineyard,
barns, wheat-stack and stubble-fields vanished behind her
flying steed. The country was now open, and she flew on
and on before the wind. And now she had entered the
forest, and she hurried through its deep shadows, flecked
with golden sun-glances. When she emerged again, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_426'>426</span>found herself in the open meadows, it was high noon, and the
August sun was pouring down his burning rays with intolerable
power. But on and on she rode, unconscious of suffering
in herself, and unheedful of the fatigue of her panting and
perspiring steed.</p>

<p class='c006'>It was two hours past noon when she reached the town of
W——, and at the very first inn on the suburbs her horse
stopped, of his own will, nor could she, with all her efforts,
persuade or force him to budge a step. A boy, a colored
woman, and then the landlord, his wife and all the children
came out, to see a lady riding, unattended, who could not
make her horse go.</p>

<p class='c006'>“He wants food and drink, I suppose,” said Catherine, to
the landlord, who at last came to offer her aid. And then
she alighted, and requesting the host to have the animal attended,
very quickly, followed the landlady, who conducted her
into the rustic parlor. She was now so fatigued and stiffened,
that the act of standing or walking was really painful, so
she sank down upon the lounge, and declining all the landlady’s
offers of refreshment, waited a weary half hour, while
her horse was feeding. At the end of that time, she mounted
again, and resumed her journey. She passed through the
town, and over the wooded hills that environed it on the
east, and came down upon the plains. The heat of the afternoon
was of that close, breathless, insufferable kind, that
always forebodes an awful storm. The sense of suffering
was beginning to force itself upon her, and as for the animal
she rode, she could not, by any means, coax or drive him
beyond a walk. Then her mind became again anxiously
concentrated upon the end of her journey, to the total exclusion
of all other thought, and all sense. It was in this
state that she arrived at the foot of a steep hill, covered with
copse-wood, ascended its top, descended the other side, and
reached a small river at its foot. She drew up her feet,
doubled her riding-skirt up over the horse’s shoulders, and
guided him into the ford, and—with the water splashing
around, and rising even to the animal’s neck, she crossed
the river—so mechanically, so unconsciously, that had people
asked her, thereafter, whether she had forded a stream in her
journey, she could not have told them.</p>

<p class='c006'>The sun was declining to his setting, and the sky was
heavy with clouds, while still the air was close, sultry,
stifling and oppressive. Everything indicated the approach
<span class='pageno' id='Page_427'>427</span>before long of a tremendous tornado. The shades of evening
were falling thickly around her when she was passing
through the dense, low-lying forest south-west of Washington.
When she emerged from its deep obscurity and came
out into the open country, an alarming phenomenon arrested
her attention; the eastern horizon was luridly lighted by a
low, dull, red glow, like the earliest dawn of a wintry morning.
Her road led directly towards this murky light, and
her eyes were fascinated to it. As she rode and gazed, the
blood-tinged illumination seemed to glow and brighten on her
vision, and presently after, began to send up meteoric streams
of fire towards the clouds. As the distance lessened between
herself and the awful conflagration, it began to illumine her
path more and more distinctly and fearfully, until every object
for miles around was plainly visible in the lurid glare.
And then at last Catherine recognized it for a burning city—the
city of Washington wrapped in flames!</p>

<p class='c006'>On descending the road towards the Potomac, a scene
difficult to describe met her view. All up and down the river
and on either shore, were seen in the red glare multitudes
of fugitives—some seeking to cross, some in boats on the
water, and some landed and hurrying in disorder up the
country. Soon after this, she met great numbers of terrified
women and children, flying from their desolated homes. The
greatest possible consternation and confusion prevailed among
these panic-stricken fugitives. The most terrific reports
were rife: That the enemy were in hot pursuit—that the
slaves had been incited to revolt, and mad with emancipation,
and drunk with all manner of licentious excess, were
perpetrating more horrible and revolting atrocities than those
which at Hampton, the year before, steeped the country in
blood and shame.</p>

<p class='c006'>Rendered by despair senseless as the dead to all those
dangers, Catherine laboriously pushed and threaded her way
down the road, blocked up with horses, carriages, foot-passengers,
baggage wagons, cattle, and all the miscellaneous
emptyings of a hastily and fearfully evacuated city. As she
drew near the Long Bridge, she heard by the frightened
talk of the flying multitude, that the end of the bridge on
the Virginia side had been burned to prevent, or at least
delay, the pursuit of the enemy. She then turned her horse’s
head up the course of the river, with the intention of crossing
by the Georgetown Ferry. She had no trouble in picking
<span class='pageno' id='Page_428'>428</span>her way through the thicket under the hills that bordered the
Potomac from this point, for every minutest object on the
way was made painfully distinct by the light of the burning
city. When nearly opposite Georgetown, she descried the
ferry-boat put off from the other shore, and propelled rapidly
across the river. She stopped her horse, intending to wait
and return with it. In less than five minutes it touched the
beach, and a carriage with a small party of ladies, escorted
by a guard of nine cavalry volunteers, landed.</p>

<p class='c006'>In the hurried consultation that ensued among them,
Catherine learned that the party consisted of Mrs. Madison
and her friends and attendants, flying from the burning
Presidential Mansion. When they had turned their horses’
heads up the river road, Catherine rode down to the boat,
and addressed herself to the ferryman, asking to be taken
over. The man looked at her in astonishment, and when he
saw that she was in earnest, advised her strongly against the
trip, telling her that she had best turn rein and ride as fast
and as far as possible in the opposite direction—that every
one had fled or was flying from Washington, that the city
was in the undisputed possession of the enemy, who were
demolishing, burning and laying waste the metropolis at
pleasure. There was no need to tell that—the fact was
awfully visible by the light of the great conflagration. But
Catherine still persisted in her purpose, replying to his objections
that some one whom she did not wish to desert was
in the hands of the enemy; and at last prevailed upon him
to put her across.</p>

<p class='c006'>She was landed on the flats west of the city. Here crowds
of women and children, pale with terror, and weeping and
wailing for their ruined city and lost homes, waited impatiently
to be taken across the river, out of the way of more
horrible fates, which the atrocious reputation of Cockburn
and his Cossacks reasonably taught them to dread. Catherine
left them hurrying in mad confusion into the boat, while
she hastened on to the very scene of peril from which they
were flying. She passed swiftly over the low and marshy
fields that then lay between the river and the heart of the
city, and entered upon Twenty-first Street, above the War
Department, and turned into Pennsylvania Avenue.</p>

<p class='c006'>What a scene! Volumes of smoke, as from an enormous
volcano, were disgorged in massive clouds, and settled like a
black canopy over the doomed city. The President’s Palace
<span class='pageno' id='Page_429'>429</span>and the Treasury Building, swathed in their shrouds of fire,
illumined all the scene with terrific splendor. Even at the
distance of several hundred yards off, her eyes ached with
the insufferable light and scorching heat. At the distance
of a mile, the Capitol, wrapped in its mantle of flame, sent
forth a hail-storm of sparks and burning brands.</p>

<p class='c006'>In strange and awful contrast to this appalling progress of
destruction, was the dread silence that reigned over the falling
city. All the terror, consternation, hurry and distraction
were left without. Here, upon the very scene of action,
all was comparatively quiet. The houses were shut up, and
if they contained any inmates, they were hiding in obscurity.
The streets seemed forsaken by the conquerors, as by the
conquered. There was no shout of soldiery, no martial music,
no sign expression of a grand military triumph anywhere,
no sound to be heard from the powerful enemy in possession,
except a distant, dull, heavy, monotonous tramp, as of many
retreating hoofs. The flames were doing their work of destruction
in silence, only broken by the occasional crash of
some falling roof, cupola, or pillar, or some reverberating explosion.
Catherine passed under the blinding glare and
scathing heat of the burning Treasury Building, and turning
the elbow of the Avenue, came upon a sentinel, who instantly
levelled his musket and challenged her, with “Who goes
there?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“The Admiral,” said Catherine, drawing rein.</p>

<p class='c006'>The sentinel lowered his musket with a surly “Pass on,”
followed by a low, insulting comment. Catherine had merely
intended to express her errand, and had chanced upon the
countersign.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Where shall I find your commander?” she next said.</p>

<p class='c006'>“The General?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No—Admiral Cockburn.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Corporal,” said the soldier, in a low, distinct voice. The
Corporal of the Guard advanced.</p>

<p class='c006'>“What did you want, mum?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“To be conducted to the presence of the Admiral,” answered
Catherine, with an imploring glance. Perhaps some
thing in her countenance moved the pity of the officer—perhaps
he thought her a sufferer from the devastation of the
city. At least he volunteered to be her guide, and requesting
her to accompany him, led the way down the avenue
towards the Capitol.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_430'>430</span>“Did you know, mum, that a curfew had been proclaimed,
and the citizens forbidden to appear in the streets after eight
o’clock in the evening?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, and if I had, I should have been still obliged to
disregard it, for a matter of more than life and death hangs
upon my interview with the Admiral,” replied Catherine,
speaking out of the fullness of her heart.</p>

<p class='c006'>The distance between the Treasury Building and the Capitol
was about one mile, and the glare of the conflagration at
each end, revealed a line of sentinels, posted at regular intervals
the whole length of the avenue.</p>

<p class='c006'>A ride of ten minutes brought them to the encampment
of the enemy on the Capitol Hill, east of the burning edifice.
Here, indeed, prevailed much of the noise and disorder
consequent upon the relaxation of discipline after a day of
severe action. Nearly four thousand men were resting, some
leaning upon their muskets, some seated upon the grass, and
some flat upon the ground, in the death-like sleep of drunkenness
or exhaustion.</p>

<p class='c006'>A group of officers, with their gorgeous scarlet and gold
laced dresses resplendant in the glare, stood watching the
progress of the fire. Towards these the Corporal conducted
Catherine. One from among them advanced, laughing
coarsely, as he exclaimed—“Who have we got here, Corporal?—a
woman, by George! and a young and pretty one, too,
to judge by the pretty figure. You’re welcome, madam.
What, afraid? Well, I suppose you have formed a terrible
opinion of me from the newspapers, which delight to represent
us all as devils. Never fear me. Satan is not half so
black as the saints paint him! You shall be far safer under
any government than under Madison’s. Ross says he makes
no war upon letters or ladies. Ho, ho, ho! Ross—<i>he’s</i>
sentimental, you know! Well! d—— letters, but <i>I</i> make
no war upon ladies either, except with Cupid’s weapons—ho,
ho, ho, ho, ho! What, afraid still. Come! let’s see your
face; never saw a shy woman yet that had not a face worth
seeing.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Abashed at this manner of address, Catherine hung her
head, until the Corporal whispered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Rear Admiral Cockburn.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Then she stole a glance at the speaker.</p>

<p class='c006'>A flashy, overdressed, yet slovenly person, a florid complexion,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_431'>431</span>a clear, mirthful, audacious blue eye—a sensual
mouth, and a free, dashing, insolent manner, marked the
licensed Pirate of the Chesapeake, and the boon companion
of the profligate Prince of Wales.</p>

<p class='c006'>“What, shy yet! By your leave, my dear!” said the
Admiral, chucking his hand under Catherine’s chin, and
raising her face. Poor Kate’s face, as well as her hair and
her dress, was stained with dust and tears and perspiration,
and her features were pale and haggard with sorrow, anxiety
and extreme fatigue. The profligate dropped her chin with
a start, as if it had burnt him, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Whisht! Ugh! Brownies and kelpies, and witches on
broomsticks! Oh! ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! <i>Ugh!</i> what a face!
Here, Corporal, I pass her over to you; you seem to be kindly
disposed. There is no accounting for tastes, so—Oh! ho,
ho, ho, ho, ho! I make you a present of her. <i>Oh-h!</i>
where can I find a dozen pretty girls to get the cross out of
my eyes?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Mortified, repulsed, despairing, Catherine stood by her
horse, with one arm thrown around his neck, and her head
resting upon it.</p>

<p class='c006'>A low hum of voices around her, seemingly incident upon
some one’s arrival on the scene of action, and then a sweet,
deep-toned voice near her, inquiring—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Can we be so happy as to serve you in any way, lady,
I should be most grateful for the opportunity. To be able
to render any service is always a most soothing amelioration
to me of the harsh duties of war.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Major-General Ross,” whispered the friendly Corporal,
stooping to her ear.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine raised her head, and saw, bending towards her,
a very handsome man, in the early prime of life, of a grave,
sweet, thoughtful, and somewhat melancholy expression of
countenance, who regarding her with respectful sympathy,
repeated his offers of service, saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“If I am so fortunate as to be able to assist you, lady,
pray do not hesitate a moment to command me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Thank you, thank you—I—wished to speak with the
Admiral—but—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“With <i>me</i>! oh, ho, ho, ho, ho! I beg your pardon! I
beg to decline the honor! Talk to Ross—he’s sentimental,
<i>and</i>—responsible! the father of a family, etc.—‘a married
<span class='pageno' id='Page_432'>432</span>man myself, with several sweet children, and venerate the
sanctity,’<a id='r3'></a><a href='#f3' class='c018'><sup>[3]</sup></a> etc. Eh, Ross? Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!”</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f3'>
<p class='c006'><a href='#r3'>3</a>. Words used by the generous and unfortunate General Ross, while
trying to soothe the fears of Mrs. E——</p>
</div>

<p class='c006'>“Speak with me, lady. I shall be most happy to aid you.
What is it? Have you or yours suffered, or received any
injury by our soldiers that I can redress? Can I help you
in any way?” asked General Ross, in gentle, earnest tones.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, yes, I think you may have power to do me a vital
service.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Name it, lady. My word is pledged.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“His word is pledged! Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!—pledged
to a scare-crow!—pledged to a kelpie!—pledged to a witch
on a broomstick! Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! <i>Oh-h!</i>” shouted
the coarse Admiral.</p>

<p class='c006'>The eye of Ross flashed for an instant, but sheathed its
fire as he turned to Catherine, and, taking her hand respectfully,
drew her aside from the proximity of the brutal Cockburn,
who, in addition to his other graces, was now doubly
inflamed by drink and triumph.</p>

<p class='c006'>“A tryste! a tryste with the Queen of the Kelpies! Oh,
ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!” roared the Admiral, holding his sides,
and bending forward to shout his insulting laughter, and then
stalking off.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Explain, lady. I shall be proud to serve you. Pray
have confidence in me, madam, and believe in the sincerity
of my words,” said General Ross, still holding her hand,
while she passed her other one slowly to and fro across her
forehead, as was her habit when embarrassed, trying to clear
her mind and arrange her thoughts.</p>

<p class='c006'>But as soon as she was relieved from the presence of the
coarse and insolent Cockburn, she recovered breath and self-possession,
and spoke clearly and to the point.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I thank you, sir,—I deeply thank you. I will tell you.
I heard, in my distant mountain home, that my husband,
Major Clifton, of the —— Regiment of Volunteers, had
been dangerously wounded in the action at St. Leonard’s. I
did not hear that he had also been taken prisoner. Believing
him to be still in the American camp, and fearing that he
needed more constant attention than he could get, and feeling
very anxious to hear directly from him, I sent his favorite
servant to find him, directing the man to remain with him,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_433'>433</span>and to write me of his state. He, this servant, was a poor,
rustic negro, sir, totally ignorant of the usages of war.
When he reached the American camp, he discovered that his
master was a prisoner on board the British fleet. He procured
a boat and boarded the Albion. He was taken as a
spy, of course, and, to end the miserable story, awaits only
the orders of Admiral Cockburn to be executed. I heard
that yesterday evening, and I instantly set off, and between
that hour and this have ridden more than seventy miles, almost
without stopping for food or rest, and entered the city
to-night alone, when all were flying from it, to beg this man’s
life from the Admiral. Now, you know, <i>you know</i>, how vital
is my request, my prayer.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You could not have done more for your father, lady!”
replied General Ross, with a gentle, earnest wonder on his
fine countenance. “You could not have done more for your
father than you have done for this slave.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do not wonder, sir. He would have laid down his life
for us. But, oh, sir! time presses—death threatens!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Be at peace, lady! The life or death of this slave, of
such vital importance to you, is really a matter of so little
moment to Admiral Cockburn, that I have not the slightest
hesitation in promising to secure for you his pardon and
liberation.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, may the Lord forever bless you, sir! I never, never
can tell you how grateful I am—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Peace, peace, dear lady. It is absolutely nothing. I
would to Heaven I could really do anything to merit your
kind word and kind remembrance, when others are cursing
me for what the stern duties of war force me to do!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I shall ever remember you, sir, with the deepest gratitude.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And now, Mrs. Clifton, you must have rest and refreshment.
My head-quarters are at Doctor E——’s. His
amiable family are at home. They will gladly afford you
comfort and assistance. Permit me to conduct you thither.”</p>

<p class='c006'>He replaced her carefully in her saddle, and taking the
reins, led her horse until they reached the commodious mansion
of Doctor E——. Here he introduced Mrs. Clifton,
who was received with respect and sympathy. Leaving her
in the care of the kind and hospitable family, he then set out
to seek Admiral Cockburn.</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine was shown to a chamber, and afforded the refreshments
<span class='pageno' id='Page_434'>434</span>of a partial bath and food. After which she lay
down on a sofa, to rest, and await the return of the gentle
and generous Ross.</p>

<p class='c006'>In about half an hour she was summoned to the parlor,
where she found him standing. He advanced to meet her,
and said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mrs. Clifton, I have the pardon here, but I very much
fear—” and his face clouded over—“I very much fear it will
be too late.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘<i>Too late!</i>’” echoed Catherine, sinking into a chair, as
she repeated the saddest words in the language—“Too late.
Is he dead?” she asked, covering her face with her hands.</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, Mrs. Clifton, but he has been ordered for execution
at eight o’clock to-morrow.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<span class='sc'>It is not too late!</span>” exclaimed Catherine, starting
up, with electric energy. “Give me—oh! give me the pardon!—I
will take it there in time!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Lady, the distance is over forty miles—and the necessary
delays, and the dangers that threaten a young female, traveling
alone by night, through a country infested—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Oh!</i> give me the pardon! give it  me, I implore you!
I will take it there safely, and in time! Heaven has protected
me through dangers as great, and Heaven will protect
me through these! Oh, for the love of Heaven, do not
hesitate! Every moment is inestimable when a ‘<i>too late</i>’
threatens us! Give me the pardon!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nay, lady, I can send a courier with the pardon, rather
than that you should go, for many reasons.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, no, no, your courier would want to stop, to eat and
drink—or he might fall in with some of our people, and be
killed or taken,—or if he escaped, through his explanation
of his errand—why, that very errand would be rendered futile,
by the time lost in investigation. <i>I</i> shall pause for nothing.
Heaven will protect and speed me. Oh! give me
the pardon. Do not delay! <i>All</i> depends upon promptitude.
Alas! excuse my importunity! but give me the pardon!”</p>

<p class='c006'>General Ross attempted to dissuade her; but neither arguments
nor persuasions had the least effect upon her resolution.
At last, overruled by her earnestness, vehemence and
faith, he yielded—handed her the pardon, and went out to
see if he could procure her a fresh horse.</p>

<p class='c006'>When he entered again, after a successful search, he found
her equipped for her second night’s journey, and standing in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_435'>435</span>the midst of her astonished hosts. He informed her that her
horse was ready, and also that he had provided her a guard,
to escort her beyond Bladensburg. Then she took a hasty
and grateful leave of her amiable entertainers, and accepting
the arm of the Major-General, left the house.</p>

<p class='c006'>As General Ross placed her in the saddle, and handed her
the reins, he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Heaven protect and speed you, lady. Farewell—and
sometimes remember me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I will remember and pray for General Ross while I live,”
said Catherine. And then she put whip to her horse, and
rode away, upheld by a wonderful energy.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_436'>436</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXXVII.<br> <span class='large'>THE GOAL.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Thro’ waves, thro’ storms and clouds</div>
      <div class='line in2'>He gently clears thy way,</div>
      <div class='line'>Trust thou his grace—so shall the night</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Soon end in joyous day.—<span class='sc'>Moravian.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>Incalculable is the power of the spirit over the flesh.
In the intense absorption of her soul by one hope, Catherine
was carried above all consciousness of the excessive exertion,
and all sense of the extreme fatigue that was oppressing and
harassing her bodily powers almost to dissolution. But a
watchful Providence, that had already thrice arrested her
dreadful journey, now a fourth time interposed to compel her
to rest. She had parted with her escort, when past the British
outposts, beyond Bladensburg. And by the time she
had reached Long Old Fields, the storm, that had been
threatening all the evening, burst suddenly, with terrible
violence, driving her for shelter into a farm-house. And
again, wondering and compassionate hosts persuaded her to
lie down and repose, and once more, as soon as her weary
head dropped upon the pillow, deep sleep, like an irresistible
mandate of the All-Merciful, fell upon her, and, despite of
pain of body and anguish of mind, she slept soundly for
several hours;—slept, as the prisoner sleeps the night before
execution;—slept, as the martyr sleeps in the intervals of
torture upon the rack;—slept, while the tempest raged with
awful fury;—while the rain fell in torrents, and the wind
rushed through the forest, carrying destruction on its wings;
while gigantic trees were twisted off, or torn up by the
roots, and great rivers were swelled to floods;—she slept the
deep, dreamless sleep “God giveth His beloved.” Probably
to this Providential sleep she owed the preservation of her
life, for the spirit that can goad the flesh to exertion unto
death, cannot save it from dissolution.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_437'>437</span>When she awoke, the storm had passed, and the stars were
shining dimly in the early dawn of day. She started up, remorseful
and affrighted to find she had slept so long, and to
recollect that her journey was not half over. It was now
four o’clock, and she had yet nearly thirty miles to ride before
eight, or all was lost! Her pitying hosts tried to persuade
her to wait and partake of their early breakfast, which,
they said, would be ready in half an hour; but finding her
bent upon setting forward, they hastily got some refreshment
together, and permitted her to mount her horse and depart.
But she had not proceeded many yards, before she found that
the motion of her steed gave her great pain—pain so sharp,
as to force itself to be felt through all her intense mental
abstraction. She checked her horse’s trot, and put him into
a gallop, whose smooth, wavy motion, somewhat relieved her
distress.</p>

<p class='c006'>The morning was sparklingly brilliant after the storm: the
forest trees and the grass were spangled by the rain-drops,
and the slanting rays of the rising run striking deep into the
foliage, flecked all its green leaves with golden light. Her
horse was fresh, his blood was up, and on they sped like an
arrow through the woods.</p>

<p class='c006'>Suddenly she stopped and reeled backwards—that sharp
pain again; it pierced her side and chest like a sword; it
caught away her breath, and caused the drops of perspiration
to burst from her pale forehead. But not for pain, or even
for the fear of death, must she pause. She might perish, but
her purpose must first be accomplished, if possible.</p>

<p class='c006'>Bracing her nerves, and steeling her soul against the sense
of suffering, she put whip to her horse, and flew on, as before
the wind, leaving forest, meadow and hamlet—farm-house,
field and flood, far behind her. Again and again the sharp
agony arrested her, like the hand of death—but in vain to
stop her progress—each time the pang could only delay her a
moment, and then on and on she sped, spurning the ground
away in her desperate flight.</p>

<p class='c006'>Before her, in the distance, glimmered the blue Patuxent,
the longed-for goal. Oh! that river; for an hour past it
had seemed as near as now. Would she ever approach it?
On and on she sped, while woods and towns and plains whirled
behind her in a mad reel. A fearful change was coming over
her. The sense of pain, with all other sense, had gradually
left her. A stupor of weariness supervened; her brain
<span class='pageno' id='Page_438'>438</span>reeled, her sight failed. Oh! that river, how it gleamed
and disappeared, and gleamed again before her. Would she
ever, ever be nearer to it? How dim the sunlight was, and
how unsteady the ground; and the boundaries of the sky and
earth were molten together and lost; and it was no longer
the action of her horse, but the dreadful rocking and upheaving
of the ground, that kept her moving, moving, moving,
forever. Oh! that river! how it glimmered and sparkled,
and sparkled and flashed into her brain. Would she ever,
ever, ever reach it, or was she going round in a circle forever?
Reason was failing at last—past, present and future—things
that were, and things that seemed, swam thickly together
upon brain and heart; surely the hour of dissolution had
come, for dense darkness and heaviness were settling like
grave clods upon brain and heart. Oh! God, that river!—had
she really reached it at last, or was it an illusion of delirium?
Its waves rolled and flashed in silvery splendor at
the foot of the hill, below her feet! But what was that?
Angels in Heaven! what was that? A sight to call back
ebbing life! Down in the dell, the glitter of bayonets and
the glow of scarlet coats—an open square of British infantry,
enclosing an execution scene! Clutching the pardon from
her bosom, and holding it aloft at arm’s length, she roused
her fast failing strength for a last effort, and hurled herself
and steed furiously down the hill upon the scene of doom.
The flash of steel around her—the gallows tree—the cart—the
prisoner—the fatal noose—and more than all, close beside
her, the form of him—her own—her Clifton—madly
loved in life and death, and then—darkness closed in upon
her life, and all was lost.</p>

<p class='c006'>As the reins fell from powerless hands upon the horse’s
neck, the noble animal stood stock still; had he lifted a leg,
it must have been fatal to the swooning rider; but he stood
like a statue, while her form swayed to and fro for a moment,
and then Archer Clifton sprang forward and received her in
his arms. He picked up the paper as it fell from her stiffening
fingers, and guessing its purport, passed it to the officer
in command. Then he sank upon one knee, drew her insensible
form to and supported it against his breast, while he
untied her hat and loosened her spencer.</p>

<p class='c006'>A little bustle ensued around him; but he did not heed it,
bending over Catherine. The execution was stayed, the prisoner
released and poor Jack, half-dead with terror before
<span class='pageno' id='Page_439'>439</span>and half mad with joy now, had still strength and sense and
affection enough left to run to a spring hard by, and dip up
his hat full of water, and the next instant he was kneeling
with it by the side of his mistress, to bathe her hands.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Who is she?” “Where did she come from?” “What
is her name?” “Who <i>is</i> the lady?” “Do you know her,
sir?” asked some of the officers, crowding around with offers
of assistance.</p>

<p class='c006'>“This lady is my wife, gentlemen! Air! air, if you
please!” exclaimed Archer Clifton, waving them off, and
giving his sole attention to Catherine. “Kate!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The sound of that thrilling voice—the clasp of those thrilling
arms, had power to call back her spirit from the confines
of the invisible world. Her pale, pale eyelids quivered.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Kate!” he exclaimed again, raising her higher upon his
breast.</p>

<p class='c006'>A shuddering sigh convulsed her bosom—her languid eyes
unclosed.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Kate!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, Kate!” she echoed, nodding her head with that
quick, nervous, spasmodic gesture common to her.</p>

<p class='c006'>“And why have you done this thing? Why have you
placed yourself <i><span lang="fr">en scene</span></i> like a third-rate opera dancer?”</p>

<p class='c006'>She raised her fading eyes to his face, pleadingly, murmuring—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Your wishes—the reprieve!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, what of that? Was there no one to bring it
but yourself?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Too feeble to enter upon the long explanation required,
she only shook her head, murmuring at intervals—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Forgive—forgive—I could not see him die. Patience,
patience—indeed, I will not trouble you, love,—I will go
away again, far away! Maybe God will let me die!”</p>

<p class='c006'>The last words were breathed forth in a long, deep sigh,
and she sank away again into insensibility.</p>

<p class='c006'>Poor Jack, kneeling by her side, bathed her hand with the
water he had brought, and with his tears that fell like rain.</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton laid her head down upon the green sward,
and rising to his feet, addressed the officer in command,
saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Sir, I am a prisoner of war, as you know. Yet, my wife
is in a dying state here, and I wish to convey her to a place
of safety and repose.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_440'>440</span>“Major Clifton will consider himself on his parole, and
command any assistance we may be able to render him or his
heroic wife,” said Captain ——, at the same time showing
him a note from General Ross to that effect, which had been
folded in with the pardon.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I think, sir,” added the officer, “that there is a farm-house
near here, belonging to a planter of the name of
Greenfield, where your lady would be hospitably received,
and well taken care of; perhaps you had better send your
servant thither to borrow a carriage.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Thanking the officer for his civility and good advice, Major
Clifton immediately acted upon it by dispatching Jack to the
house, while he himself supported Catherine until the arrival
of the carriage. He then placed her in it, and she was
driven slowly to “Greenwood.” Here she was kindly received
by the planter’s wife and sisters, who tenderly undressed
her and put her to bed. A physician was summoned,
who, when he arrived and looked at her and felt her pulse,
and heard the circumstances, pronounced her insensibility to
be not a swoon, but a trance-coma—the result of excessive
fatigue of mind and body. He said that such stupors, if
prematurely broken, might end in convulsions and madness—or
if left, too, to themselves, might terminate in
death; that her state was exceedingly critical, and that her
rest was by no means to be broken, unless there was a perceptible
failure in her pulse, in which case the stimulants
and restorative he should leave must be applied and administered,
and himself instantly summoned. And so he left
her.</p>

<p class='c006'>Having seen Catherine thus at rest, and having received
many assurances from her gentle-hearted hostess that every
care and attention should be given her, Major Clifton took
leave, and returned to render himself up to his captors, who
were just about to return to their ship. He went with them.
And when they had arrived on board the Albion, an agreeable
surprise awaited him. A gentleman in the uniform of
an American general stood upon the deck, attended by a flag
of truce, and Major Clifton immediately recognized Colonel
(now General) Conyers, who instantly advanced to meet him,
and shaking hands heartily, exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“You did not expect to find me here? I have come
concerning the arrangement of a change of prisoners. Colonel
Lithgow of his Britannic Majesty’s —— Regiment
<span class='pageno' id='Page_441'>441</span>and taken prisoner by our people in the same engagement in
which <i>you</i> fell into the hands of the enemy, is now offered in
exchange for yourself.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir,” said Captain ——, advancing towards them,
“and I am exceedingly happy to say that an exchange has
been effected, and to congratulate you on your restoration to
liberty.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton bowed deeply, and requested the use of a
boat to leave the ship.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nay—yourself and General Conyers will stay and dine
with us?” asked Captain ——.</p>

<p class='c006'>But Major Clifton, thanking him for his invitation, and
also for much kindness and attention received during his sojourn
as a captive among them, declined remaining longer,
and repeated his request for a boat.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, <i>mine</i> is here at your service. <i>I</i> am going ashore
with you of course,” said General Conyers.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I beg your pardon, sir! the boat you came in has been
taken by Captain Fairfax, who has gone ashore with it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah, true!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Captain Fairfax?</i>” asked Archer Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, my friend, Captain Fairfax. Frank accompanied
me hither in search of <i>yourself</i>. Some news of vital importance
he had to communicate, which he did not impart to me.
He could not wait for your return at all, so he went ashore
in search of you. He would have found you sooner if he
had waited here, which proves the truth of the old proverb—“Most
haste, least speed.””</p>

<p class='c006'>“The boat is manned, sir,” said a lieutenant to Major
Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>General Conyers and himself then took leave of the British
officers, entered the boat, and were rowed swiftly to the
land. As soon as they had stepped upon the beach, and
found themselves alone, Conyers grasped the hand of Clifton,
and shaking it cordially, said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“So, you have won noble Catherine? Well, I congratulate
you with a whole heart, though you have won her from
my hopes.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Won her from your hopes?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ay, Archer, I loved her.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Loved her?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, and love her!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Love her?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_442'>442</span>“Yes, and shall <i>always</i> love her, highly and purely though,
as a saint loves an angel.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You astonish me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And I shall astonish you more, perhaps. Three several
times in one year I wooed her, and three several times was
my suit rejected by her.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I say you astound me! Your suit rejected by Catherine!
<i>Yours?</i> Can this be possible?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Possible as that I was nearly driven to despair by her
rejection.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton threw his hand to his brow and gazed at the
speaker in amazement, while he compared the claims of General
Conyers with his own. General Conyers, with his haughty
and powerful connection in town and country; his immense
unincumbered estates; his high military rank; and last, not
least, his eminently handsome person, accomplished mind,
and graceful address;—General Conyers, in every social,
official, and personal dignity, highly superior. And himself,
with his limited circle; his debt-encumbered property; his
medium post in the army; and his very moderate share of
personal attraction, and he exclaimed again—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine reject <i>you</i>?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Three distinct times, most firmly.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, upon what possible pretext could she have done
so?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ay, sure enough! Upon what possible pretext?”
smiled General Conyers, ruefully. “Upon the plea that she
did not love me, save only ‘as a sister or a spirit might.’ I
won her respect, esteem, friendship, all but her love! She
was a frank, high-minded, pure hearted girl. She gave me
the greatest proof of confidence she could possibly give, and
at the same instant struck the only death-blow to dangerous
hopes that she could possibly strike, she told me that she
could never be more than a faithful friend to me, for that she
loved another.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton started, and grasped the arm of his companion,
but instantly recovering his self-control, he inquired,
in a calm voice—</p>

<p class='c006'>“And who did she say was that other?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nay, she never breathed his name. She could not have
done that. She was trying to do me good when she informed
me. I remember well her sweet and holy looks and words.
At first she flushed and paled, hesitating between generous
<span class='pageno' id='Page_443'>443</span>impulse and womanly reserve; and then as principle rose
above instinct, her face glowed with an expression such as I
have seen in the pictures of St. Agnes;—a warm, high, holy
look, an inspired look, such as might well become the countenance
of the Virgin Martyr, and she said, speaking to herself,
‘There is no good reason why I should not reveal any
secret of my heart, if the revelation can help any other soul
to tranquillity and strength.’ Then to me—‘Listen: You
are not the only sorely disappointed one. Who, indeed, is
joyous that is past childhood? I, too, have missed life’s
crowning joy—the love of one I love. But what then? If
we cannot have joy in this life of probation, there yet remains
duty, and the peace its performance yields; and friends,
and the cheerfulness their society gives; and God, and the
divine comfort His service brings.’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“She said that? She said that?” groaned Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes. You seem strongly moved, Archer?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am! I am! You do not know with how much reason!
But go on! Tell me more of her.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“She never breathed the name of him she loved to my
ear, yet I knew her whole secret. I had suspected it months
before. Shall I tell you why?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! Go on!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It was at the Governor’s levee, where I was first introduced
to her, and where you met after a long absence; I was
present at the casual meeting. I beheld the strong emotion
that she could not conceal. Some hours after that I was
near her, when unobserved by all except myself, and unconscious
of my presence also, she chanced to witness the
reconciliation between yourself and your chosen bride. I
saw her face grow paler than death, and then the meek head
bow in submission, and the meek hands fold as in prayer,
and the meek voice murmur low and fervently, ‘Thank God!
Oh! God help me to say that sincerely.’ I had been interested
in her before; but I saw that, and I loved her from
that hour, the sweet, the lovely, the Madonna-like maiden!
I loved her with an affection as free from passion as it was
from selfishness, and as free from both as her own pure,
saintly nature. And I offered her my heart and hand, as I said.
And she sweetly and gratefully declined them, as I might
have known before;—unveiling the sanctuary of her priceless
heart, to quiet me forever with the revelation of another
master there.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_444'>444</span>“Oh, God! Oh, God!” said Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“What disturbs you so, Archer?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Never mind. Never mind! And so, rejecting you as
a lover, she won you as a friend?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“For life and death and eternity. Yes.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“That was a triumph! Rejected lovers seldom become
friends! That was a rare triumph! But then Catherine is
a rare woman.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Very rare!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Truly nick-named ‘Maria Theresa.’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Catherine! ‘Maria Theresa?’ By whom? By some
one, I suppose, who, recognizing her strong, practical mind,
sees nothing better in her nature—sees not the pure heart
and the lofty spirit of infinitely higher value than that.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Heaven bless you, Conyers, for your good opinion of
Catherine. But I wish to put a case to you, only an imaginary
case, you observe, Conyers?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes! Well?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Suppose you had married Catherine?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“That is very imaginary! Well?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And suppose that you had discovered her to be unworthy
of your good opinion?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Impossible! It could not have happened, because she
could not have been unworthy.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But suppose that her unworthiness had been made manifest
to you beyond all chance of mistake or doubt?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“D—n it! Don’t let me be profane. It <i>couldn’t</i> have
been made manifest to me, I tell you! Could any person or
anything demonstrate to me that the sun darkened the earth,
or the clouds dropped powdered charcoal, or that fig trees
bore thorns? There are some things that can’t be proved,
because they can’t exist!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton thrust his hand in his bosom, and drew
thence a letter in a gray envelope, and handing it to General
Conyers, asked—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Do you know that hand-writing?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Certainly, I do.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Whose is it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mrs. Catherine Clifton’s.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Are you sure?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Pooh! Of course I am! I am familiar with the writing!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Could you swear to it?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_445'>445</span>“You are very emphatic in this matter! Let me see the
letter again. Yes, I could swear to it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And now will you do me the favor to read it?”</p>

<p class='c006'>General Conyers, with some hesitation, began to read, but
before getting half through, the blood rushed to his brow,
and crushing the letter in his hand, he hurled it beneath his
feet, and setting his heel upon it, ground it into the earth.</p>

<p class='c006'>“What do you think of it, now?” asked Clifton, bitterly.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Think of it!—it is an infernal forgery! If any man had
brought me that letter, and said that Catherine wrote it,
I should have treated it just as I have done now, to show my
contempt for the forgery; and then I should have raised it
with my sword’s point, and thrust it down his throat, to express
my loathing of the forger or the accomplice.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And yet, just now you could have sworn to the hand-writing.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Death! Yes! And for which presumption I earnestly
beg your pardon, Clifton!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And now you are quite as much convinced that she did
not write it. How can you explain this?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, simply thus—that the whole of Catherine’s noble
life is a refutation of the slander contained in that letter. Sir,
it is a d—d forgery! Look at it! See how easy the hand
is imitated! Give me a pen and ink, and though I have not
much talent for imitation, I will produce you a fac simile of
Catherine’s hand-writing. I repeat, I beg your forgiveness
for saying that that was Catherine’s. I said so, because it
strongly resembled hers, and I did not know the vile purport!
Oh, I trust, Clifton, that you signally punished the
conspirator who wrote it! I can well believe that you neither
eat, slept, said your prayers, went to church or into her
presence, until you had pursued the forger, and punished him
or her to the utmost extent of the law!”</p>

<p class='c006'>They had now arrived at Greenwood, and Major Clifton,
without replying, conducted his companion into the house,
and introduced him to the planter’s family. On inquiry concerning
the state of Catherine, he learned that she still lay
without any sign of life, except the faint beating of her heart.
Leaving General Conyers with his host, he went up into his
wife’s chamber. He wished to be alone with her. There is
something in a sound faith that always makes a strong impression.
The deep, thorough earnestness of confidence in
Catherine’s perfect integrity, exhibited by Conyers, had
<span class='pageno' id='Page_446'>446</span>shaken Clifton’s firm convictions of her guilt to their uprootings,
as the whirlwind shakes the oak. Ay, and <i>he</i> was
shaken—literally shaken, terribly shaken, by strong passion,
as he exclaimed to himself—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, would to Heaven I could think as he does! I am
no longer a youth, credulous of happiness, but if I could only
thoroughly believe in Kate as he does—or once see her innocence
proved, it would fill my heart with joy.” He entered
the chamber, and went up to her bedside. There was a pallor
spread like death over her brow. “But she was always so
pale,” he said, in a voice tremulous with tenderness. So
still she lay, so profound was her repose, that her breathing
could not be seen or heard, until, alarmed, he stooped and
listened, and perceived that her respiration was deep, soft,
slow and regular. Her sleep was evidently necessary, healthful
and recuperative. He stood and gazed at her sculptured,
marble-like face, as her head reposed upon the pillow. He
had never seen that noble countenance in the deep repose of
sleep before. No, and waking, it had always been disturbed
by care, or grief, or anxiety, or bashfulness. Now the noble
face was in perfect rest. The majesty of truth sat enthroned
upon the fine, broad, open forehead, with its eyebrows arched
far apart, and more elevated, because the eyelids were shut
down, with their dark lashes lying long and still upon the
pale cheeks. And the beauty of goodness lay folded in every
curve of the lightly-closed and perfect lips. She looked a
queen in repose—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“A Queen of noble Nature’s crowning,”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>whom it were disloyalty to suspect, and treason to accuse.
As he gazed, the earnest faith of Conyers came back with
tenfold power to his soul. He more than half abjured his
evil convictions, and a flood of tenderness came over his
heart. There was no one to see his weakness—not even
<i>her</i>—the sleeper. He went and closed the door, and returned
and kneeled by her side. He took her hand, and
bowed his head over it. From that trance-sleep there was
no fear, because there was no possibility of waking her yet.
He kissed and pressed that hand with sorrowful passion—murmuring—“For
once—for this time, I will, <i>I will</i> believe
you true, my own dear Catherine. My whole nature starves,
it starves, and withers, and dies for a perfect reconciliation,
a perfect union with you. Oh, for once, let soul and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_447'>447</span>heart be satisfied—let me steel my mind against the thought
of evil, and fold you around with my love, and press you to
this still denied and hungering, perishing heart.” And he
raised her in his arms, and folded her to his bosom, pressing
an ardent kiss upon her lips. That passionate kiss sent an
electric shock through all her still life. A shuddering sigh
shook her bosom; her lips parted in a light, rosy smile;
color dawned upon her cheeks, and light beamed on her
brow. Alarmed, and remembering the physician’s warning
that a premature awakening might be fatal, he cautiously
laid her down again, and anxiously watched her countenance.
She did not awake; nor did the light depart from her brow;
nor the color from her cheeks; nor the smile from her lips.
“How she loves me. Her soul as well as her person is mine.
How she loves me, even in sleep—even in this trance-sleep,
with all her senses locked. How she loves me—my Kate!
my own! my wife! How she loves me—yet no more than
I love her. Witness this worn frame of mine, that sorrow,
like years, has aged! My own—”</p>

<p class='c006'>A light step upon the stairs, and a rap at the door, and
he hastened to open it. It was the farmer’s little niece,
Susannah, who came to say that Captain Fairfax was in the
parlor, waiting to see Major Clifton. He turned back an
instant, to arrange the coverlet, gave a last glance at the
beloved face, and then followed the child down stairs. The
staircase led directly down into the parlor, and as soon as he
had reached it, he saw Frank Fairfax, who immediately
hastened to meet him, and—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear Frank!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dearest Clifton!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Were the words of affectionate greeting interchanged, as
they shook hands.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, and so you have been married these two years
nearly, and I have never had the opportunity of congratulating
you till now! Well, better late than never, though it
is always a mere form to wish a man joy who has an excess of
it already! But, indeed, you have the jewel of the world!
If you had only waited two years longer, until I had somewhat
recovered the despair of my own awful bereavement, I
should have tried to dispute the prize with you—not that I
was in love with noble Catherine—I never was but once in
love, and I never shall be again—but that I think her just
the most precious woman in the world. Nor am I alone in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_448'>448</span>that opinion. I have been in her neighborhood, looking for
her, before I came down here to find you, and there I found
that she was deeply venerated by her people, and honored,
sincerely honored, by all the proud, county aristocrats. And
General Ross, the gallant General Ross, ‘second only to
Wellington himself——’ we had to see Admiral Cockburn
about this exchange of prisoners, and met General Ross in
his company—I wish you had heard the brave and generous
Ross speak of your wife. As soon as he knew what we had
come for, and recognized your name and <i>hers</i>, he took Admiral
Cockburn aside, and talked with him in the most emphatic
manner, seeming to insist upon something—(and be it
known that General Ross exercises a considerable influence
over Cockburn, and has even restrained him from greater
excesses in Washington than were committed there, obliging
him to spare private dwellings, etc.)—and then they came
back to where we stood, and the arrangement was effected.
And to General Ross’s admiration of Catherine’s character,
and to his generosity, I attribute the ease with which the
business was completed. ‘Sir,’ he said, at parting, ‘had
your army at Bladensburg been composed of men with spirits
equal to that of this heroic woman, your city of Washington
had not been taken.’ But, where is noble Catherine, now?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“In a deep sleep, or rather a trance-sleep, superinduced
by the excessive toil and fatigue she has lately gone
through—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘Like a warrior taking his rest!’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No—I wish you would not apply that line, great as it is,
to <i>her</i>. She is not heroic, which is masculine—my Kate—she
is strong only through her affections, and a very child in
timidity at other times. But, my dear Frank, glad as I am
to see you, I wish to know—you have not told me the ‘business
of vital importance,’ which Conyers says, made you his
companion in seeking me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>The face of Captain Fairfax suddenly clouded over; he
put his hand in his bosom, and then hesitating, said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“You have seen in the papers the obituary notice of a dear
friend?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No! Who is it? I have no very dear friend, out of
this house, now—whom do you mean?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mrs. Georgia Clifton is no more.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton started back, and gazed at the speaker with
an expression of deep concern, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_449'>449</span>“No! Impossible! How could that be? A woman in
such fine health!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Death is always possible; at all times, and to all persons.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“When, and where, and under what circumstances, did
she die? I am very sorry.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“She died a week since, at her house, in Richmond.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am very sorry. The cause of her death?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“One of those virulent summer fevers prevalent in the city
just at this season. Her physicians think that hers was fatally
aggravated by the life of excitement she had led, and by
the friction of something that preyed upon her mind.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Frank paused, and Major Clifton kept his eyes fixed with
interest upon his countenance. Frank sighed, and resumed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“A few days before her death, she sent for me. I went,
and found her laboring under great mental distress. She
seemed half disposed to make me a confidant; but after much
painful hesitation, she reserved her secret, whatever it may
have been, and drew from beneath her pillow this letter,
which she gave me—exacting an oath, that after her death, and
not before—I would hand it to <i>you</i> with the seal unbroken.
She said that the whole future happiness of yourself and your
wife, was concerned in your receiving it. And then, with
many sighs and groans—for her eyes seemed too dry for
tears—she let me depart. I never saw her again. A few
days after that, I heard she was dead.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“The letter?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Here it is. You seem very much agitated, Clifton!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“With reason! Give it me!”</p>

<p class='c006'>And receiving the letter, Major Clifton hastened to the
opposite end of the room and began to read it. It was the
confession of a guilty and dying woman. She wrote, that on
the borders of eternity there was no false seeming, and no
false shame—that all human feelings were lost in remorse, in
terror, and in awe. Then she confessed her mad and guilty
passion for himself, and all the crimes into which it had
tempted her; the slanders that had separated him and his
cousin Carolyn—the forged letter that had brought such
bitter sorrow to himself and Catherine. All was confessed
and deplored. Finally she supplicated his forgiveness, as <i>he</i>
hoped to be forgiven of God.</p>

<p class='c006'>The subtle self-love of a man can pardon much in a woman
whose motive of action is a strong passion for himself. Great
<span class='pageno' id='Page_450'>450</span>as her wickedness had been—great as the suffering it had
caused him, he bore no malice to the dead Georgia. He even
after a time resolved to cover her sin from all eyes—to bury
it in the grave with her. But merciful as he was in judging
Georgia—he was stern enough in condemning himself for so
readily believing his innocent wife to be guilty. And he divided
his broken exclamations between severe self-upbraidings,
and rejoicings at her full acquittal—Frank watching him
with curiosity and strong interest.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! fool! fool! fool!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“What is it, Clifton? Who’s a fool?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! fool! thrice sodden fool that I’ve been! Thank
Heaven. Oh! thank Heaven!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Thank Heaven that he’s a thrice sodden fool! That’s
new cause for thanksgiving! What’s it all about, Archer?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! folly! blindness! madness! Heaven be praised!
Oh! Heaven be praised!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Heaven be praised for folly, blindness, and madness!
Well, Heaven be praised for all things! But what the deuce
is it, Clifton?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mole! mole! Oh, God, how grateful—how rejoiced I
am!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Lord, how grateful and rejoiced he is, that he’s a
mole! Clifton!—What the mischief! Don’t keep on striding
about, talking to yourself, with your hand clapped to your
forehead, like a walking gentleman in a melo-drama, which
you always detested! Besides, you know there is no legitimate
dramatic reason for a married hero to stride about and
obstreperate, excepting only jealousy, and you’re not jealous?
Come! cease starting and vociferating, and tell me the
cause—‘the <span class='fss'>CAUSE</span>, my soul!’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Frank! I’ve been a fool!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“That’s no news.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And a brute!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Who doesn’t know that?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And a cursed villain.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Nay, ‘I wouldn’t hear your enemy say that.’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh! Frank, Frank, what shall I do?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am sure I don’t know, unless you tell me the premises
of action.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I cannot, Frank! Dear Frank, I cannot. The memory
of the dead should be sacred; so should the differences
of——I cannot tell you, Frank.”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_451'>451</span>“Hist! Here’s the doctor.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Old Doctor Shaw at this moment passed through the parlor,
on his way to visit his patient.</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton accompanied him up stairs to her chamber.</p>

<p class='c006'>When they reached her bed-chamber, he noticed that the
smile had departed from her lips, and the color from her
cheeks. The old physician put on his spectacles, and looked
scrutinizingly at her face and hands, laid his hand upon her
forehead and bosom, to get the temperature, felt her pulse,
felt her hands and feet, and finally pronounced her to be
doing very well.</p>

<p class='c006'>“May she not be wakened up, sir?” asked Clifton, almost
selfish in his impatience for a reconciliation.</p>

<p class='c006'>“By no means. She must be let alone—nature is her
best physician, and the sleep she prescribes, her best medicine.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“But, sir, I have something of vital importance to communicate
to her!” persisted Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Sir, it may be of vital importance to <i>you</i>, but it would
be of fatal importance to <i>her</i>, should you rouse her to communicate
it, whatever it is.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton was obliged to restrain his eagerness. The
physician departed, leaving only one simple direction:—that
as soon as she awoke she should be put in a warm bath.</p>

<p class='c006'>Archer Clifton was then summoned down stairs to join the
family at supper. There he found a lively, witty, eccentric
personage, who was introduced to him as “Our neighbor,
Mr. Perry.” And when the evening was over, this gentleman
took an opportunity of drawing the officers aside, and
confidentially informing them that the ladies of Greenwood
were very much crowded with the company of some relations
that were staying with them just then, and that although they
would certainly press their guests to remain all night, the
latter could not do so without putting their kind hostess to
much inconvenience; he concluded by offering, and heartily
pressing upon the gentlemen the accommodations of his own
house. Thanking Mr. Perry for his kindness, they accepted
his proffered hospitality, and prepared to accompany him home.</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton went up stairs, intending only to press a
parting kiss upon the lips of his now doubly beloved Catherine,
but when he reached her chamber, he seemed to forget
every thing but her, and sat down by her bedside, watching
the sweet, pale, majestic countenance in its death-like repose.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_452'>452</span>Ay! gaze on, Archer Clifton, for when you have once
turned your eyes away, sharp heart-pangs must be yours ere
you look upon that sculptured face again!</p>

<p class='c006'>He remained until summoned by Mr. Perry—then pressing
a fond kiss upon the calmed lips, he departed with a tacit
promise to be at her side early in the morning.</p>

<p class='c006'>In the morning!</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_453'>453</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CHAPTER XXXVIII.<br> <span class='large'>CONCLUSION.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>So trial after trial past,</div>
      <div class='line'>Wilt thou fall at the very last,</div>
      <div class='line'>Breathless, half in trance,</div>
      <div class='line'>With the thrill of a great deliverance,</div>
      <div class='line'>Into our arms forever more;</div>
      <div class='line'>And thou shalt know these arms once curled</div>
      <div class='line'>About thee—what we knew before—</div>
      <div class='line'>How love is the only good in the world.</div>
      <div class='line'>Henceforth be loved as heart can love,</div>
      <div class='line'>Or brain devise, or hand approve.—<span class='sc'>Browning.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'>The confidential communication made by Mr. Perry, was
probably a ruse on the part of that eccentric gentleman, for
the purpose of obtaining the assistance of the officers in
“making a night of it” over at his house. Certainly, on
reaching the home of their host, they found company awaiting
their arrival, and they passed the evening in the jolly
festivity of country hospitality. A luxurious supper was
served late at night, from which they did not separate until
the “small hours.” Thus many of the guests overslept
themselves the next morning, which delayed the family breakfast
several hours. Therefore it was after ten o’clock, before
Major Clifton, very much against the will of his odd entertainer,
bid him farewell, and set out to return to Greenwood.
It was eleven o’clock when he reached the farm-house. The
ladies were all in their sitting-room, engaged in their various
domestic occupations of netting, sewing, knitting, etc.,
when he entered, and gave them the morning salutation
And then—</p>

<p class='c006'>“How is Mrs. Clifton this morning, ladies? Can I see
her immediately?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Mrs. Clifton, sir!” said the eldest lady, looking up in
surprise. “Mrs. Clifton is gone sir. Did you not know it?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_454'>454</span>“Gone?” repeated Archer Clifton, incredulously.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>Gone!</i>” he reiterated, in amazement.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir. We certainly thought that you were aware
of her departure.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Most certainly not! <i>Gone!</i> When? how? excuse me,
madam, but where has she gone?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“We do not know, sir, indeed, since you cannot tell us.
We thought that she had gone to join you, at Mr. Perry’s.
We were very sorry, but—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“How long since she left? How did she go? Pardon my
vehemence, dear madam.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“We partake of your anxiety, sir. Mrs. Clifton left us
about four hours since, at seven o’clock, immediately after
breakfast. She went away on the horse that was brought
here yesterday as her own. She left us very much against
our arguments and persuasions. We would gladly have detained
her.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Gone! Good Heavens, was she <i>able</i> to go.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, sir, assuredly she was not.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Archer Clifton sank into a chair, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Pray, tell me, dear madam, the circumstances of this
departure, and all that occurred from the time I left, until
she went away.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, sir, after you left, she continued in the same deep
sleep until nearly nine o’clock, when she began to show
symptoms of awakening. I sent out and ordered the hot
bath to be prepared, and sat down to watch her. As she
drew near to consciousness, her face lost that look of profound
repose, which had previously marked it, and began to
assume an expression of suffering. Her brows folded, and
her lips sprang apart and quivered, as with a spasm of sharp
pain, and her eyes flared open suddenly, and she was awake.
I asked her how she felt, but she shook her head, and closed
her eyes again, and shut her teeth tightly, like one trying to
bear silently some sharp, inward pain. The bath was then
prepared by the bedside, and we began to get her ready for
it; but on the slightest attempt to move her, she groaned
so deeply, that we scarcely dared to lift her for some minutes.
I knew then how it was;—that her muscles were stiff and
painful, from the severe exertion of such a long equestrian
journey. And I knew also that the hot bath would relieve
her; and the doctor’s directions had been peremptory, so we
<span class='pageno' id='Page_455'>455</span>tried again, and placed her in the bath. And very soon the
hot water seemed to alleviate her sufferings. And when we
put her comfortably to bed again, she thanked us very
sweetly. I asked her how she found herself. She answered,
‘Better’—adding, that she thought, by her hard exercise,
she had hurt some part of her chest or side, which had given
her great pain, but which was now partially relieved.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Did she seem very much better? Was her voice strong
in speaking?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, it was very weak and faint, and frequently broken,
as by some inward pain, as I said.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Go on, dear lady.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“We brought her a cup of tea and a plate of toast, of
both of which she partook slightly. It was then after nine
o’clock, and she begged that she might not disturb us—that
we would retire to bed—and said that she was better, and
would try to sleep again. She then composed herself to rest,
and the girls all left the room. I remained watching until
I thought she slept, and then I lay down to rest on the other
bed in the same room. I think she passed a good night, for
I could not divest myself of uneasiness upon her account, and
so I could not get to sleep until after midnight, and during
all that time I never heard her move, or sigh. After I did
get to sleep, however, I slept very soundly, till near six
o’clock. And when I awoke, what was my surprise, to see
her up and dressed, as for a journey. She looked very pale
and ill and sorrowful, and in fastening her habit, she frequently
stopped and leaned against the bed-post for support.
I arose quickly and questioned her wishes, and begged her
to lie down again. But she only waved her hand against
me, with a mute, imploring gesture. I expostulated with
her, but arguments and persuasions were alike in vain—she
only answered, ‘I must go.’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, Heaven! Where, where did she wish to go?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“We do not know. She was not communicative, and we
did not like to question her.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Forgive me, dear madam. Indeed I fear my questionings
must appear almost rude, but my great anxiety must be
my excuse.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Your anxiety is very natural, sir, and we share it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Did she know that I was in the neighborhood? Did any
one inform her?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“We cannot tell whether she knew of your presence here.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_456'>456</span>We did not tell her, for, as I said, she made no inquiries,
and there was a reserve about her despair that shut itself in
from all interference. Indeed it would be scarcely doing
justice to her look of deep sorrow, to say that she was the
most hopeless looking human being I ever saw in my life.
She seemed like one who had seen her last hope go down.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Merciful God!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“We used every method, except force, to prevent her
leaving us, though we were impressed with the idea that she
was going to you. And after her departure, in consulting
together, we were half sorry that we had not essayed gentle
coercion, for we all suspected that the lady’s reason was
clouded.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Great God! I have driven her to madness—perhaps to
death!” thought Archer Clifton, but then he exerted self-control
enough to conceal the depths and extent of his
anxiety, and asked, “What road did she take?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“The North-west road, sir, which branches off towards
Mr. Perry’s a quarter of a mile up, which was one of our
reasons for supposing that she had gone to join you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Taking a hasty leave of the family, Major Clifton remounted
his horse, and rode furiously up the road, meeting General
Conyers and Frank, who had lagged behind on their return
home. Stopping them, he communicated what had happened,
but concealed his worst fears, and merely said that he presumed
that Catherine had left for her Virginia home, in ignorance
of his liberation, and his presence in the neighborhood,
and that he wished, if possible, to overtake her, before she
had proceeded far upon her road. Frank immediately turned
rein to accompany him, while General Conyers, with many
expressions of regret and concern, took leave of them, to
return to Greenwood, and explain their absence.</p>

<p class='c006'>The road lay for many miles through a dense forest, and
they galloped onward for hours without meeting a single
traveler or seeing a solitary house. Near the outskirts of
the forest they came upon a party of stragglers, whom they
judged to be deserters from the British army. But these
men, when questioned, gave cautious and unsatisfactory answers—sulkily
insisting that no lady riding alone had passed
that way. They next inquired of some field laborers, who
were stacking grain a little farther on. They replied that a
lady in a dark riding-dress, riding on a bay horse, and a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_457'>457</span>boy, mounted on a white mare, attended her. Perhaps this
was Catherine, and her attendant some chance passenger.
They questioned more particularly, and the description given
answered to her personal appearance. They asked what road
she had taken, and being told “straight ahead,” they set off
in a gallop. A few miles further on they again inquired,
and were told that such a lady, attended by a boy, had passed
about an hour before. Full of hope, they put spurs to their
horses and hurried on, congratulating themselves that they
were gaining on her so fast.</p>

<p class='c006'>At length they reached a school-house in the woods,
where, tied to a fence, they saw the bay horse, with a side-saddle,
and a white pony, with a boy’s saddle. Dismounting
quickly, Captain Fairfax hastened to the school-room door,
and inquired of the master to whom the animal belonged?</p>

<p class='c006'>“To Mrs. Jones, who has just brought her son to school,”
answered the teacher, full of surprise at the question.</p>

<p class='c006'>And there, indeed, sat “Mrs. Jones” and young Hopeful,
looking as if they considered such investigation into their
property very impertinent, to say the least.</p>

<p class='c006'>Disappointed, Frank returned to Major Clifton with this
explanation, and they looked at each other in chagrin and
perplexity—Major Clifton with great difficulty maintaining
his self-possession, and concealing the dreadful forebodings
that overshadowed his mind. They were now thirty miles
from Greenwood, and the sun was getting low.</p>

<p class='c006'>“I do not see anything better to do, Archer, than to
keep on till we reach Washington City. No doubt you will
see her there, if you do not overtake her before.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Again putting whip to their horses, they galloped on,
passing the great belt of forest, and entering upon the bare
lowlands, lying south of the city. It was late in the night
when they descended the road leading to the Anacostic
bridge. They found that the bridge had been destroyed,
and they experienced much difficulty and delay before finding
a boat to take them across. They entered the ruined
and blackened city a little after midnight. At that hour
little opportunity of search was afforded, and that little was
fruitless. They had much trouble in finding a night’s
lodging in the desolate city, but at length obtained indifferent
shelter, and retired, with the determination to pursue
their investigations in the morning. At an early hour they
arose, and went out, making inquiries in every direction, but
<span class='pageno' id='Page_458'>458</span>in vain. No one had seen or heard of the missing lady
though many cheerfully suggested that she had fallen into
the hands of the British soldiery, who were on their retreat
through the low counties. Strongly impressed with the idea
that she must be in or near Washington, they were unwilling
to abandon their search, but remained in the city all day, and
through the next night, before resigning all hope of finding
her there. Even upon the second morning, Major Clifton
and Captain Fairfax were divided in their opinion as to
whether they had better go back to St. Mary’s, or go on
to R——. Major Clifton, full of the darkest presentiments,
was disposed to turn back. Captain Fairfax, on the
contrary, full of hope and confidence, urged his friend to
push forward. While they were debating, General Conyers
rode up and joined them. He said he had but that morning
reached the city, and had been an hour in search of them.
In answer to their anxious questions, General Conyers informed
them that up to late the night before, no news had
been heard of Mrs. Clifton—that she evidently was not in the
neighborhood he had just left. He seemed grieved and
alarmed to find that they had not yet overtaken Catherine,
but expressed a strong conviction that she must be on her
way home. He advised them to pursue the journey, and
regretting that peremptory duty called him to an interview
with the Secretary of War, and prevented his bearing them
company, took leave, and rode away—turning back once to
beg that as soon as they had found Catherine, they would
write to him at Washington, and let him know. Major Clifton
and Frank procured fresh horses, and leaving their own,
set forward on their anxious journey.</p>

<p class='c006'>The gloomiest forebodings darkened the mind of Archer
Clifton. There was one scene ever present to his mental
vision—where, at the end of her dreadful journey, fainting
from incredible exertion, Catherine had fallen into his arms,
and he had received her with a harsh and stern rebuke for
making a scene:—one look and tone of hers, that filled his
soul with remorse and terror prophetic of doom—her last despairing
gaze—her last despairing tones, before she sank
into insensibility. How plaintively they echoed through his
heart——“Patience, patience, patience——Indeed I will
not trouble you, love——I will go away——Maybe God
will let me die.” Would he ever forget those words, that
voice, that gaze of unutterable but meek despair!</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_459'>459</span>“I have broken her heart. I have killed her. I have
killed her. Woman’s nature could not live through what I
have driven <i>her</i> through! <i>Poor, poor girl!</i>—so bitterly
slandered!—so cruelly tortured! Persecuted unto death—or
worse—unto madness! And where is she now? Perhaps
the waves of the Patuxent roll over her cold bosom—calmed
at last; or perhaps she lives—a mad and houseless
wanderer; but I will not believe this, I will not believe it!
She may be dead; she must be broken-hearted, but not mad!
All-Merciful God!—not mad! She may be dead—and that
would be just, for it would secure her happiness and my own
retribution, in the only way that both could be secured,
perhaps.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Not a hint of this prophetic despair was breathed to Fairfax.
Clifton’s indomitable pride, regnant even over this
anxiety, forbade the communication of his remorse and alarm,
and the great reason he had for both. Yet Frank observed
and tried to cheer his friend’s deep gloom.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come, rouse yourself, Archer, we are nearing L——,
and shall be at White Cliffs by night-fall, and who, but Mrs.
Clifton will meet us at the door, with her gentle smile and
gentle welcome, and then shall we not all spend a jolly evening,
laughing over our cups of tea at the famous wild-goose
chase we have had?” But little effect had Frank’s words on
his drooping fellow traveler. Only as they drew near White
Cliffs his depression rose into feverish excitement. Arrived
at L——, they inquired if Mrs. Clifton had passed through
there, and were informed that she had not. It was long
after night-fall that they reached White Cliffs. Here the
terrified house servants, roused up from their sleep, answered
to all inquiries upon the subject, that they had not seen or
heard from their mistress since she left to go to Washington.
Henny pushed foremost of all to inquire about her “dear
mist’ess and brother Jack.” But with a gesture of desperation,
Major Clifton sent her off unsatisfied, and turned an
agonized look upon Frank. Fairfax was almost discouraged,
but, nevertheless, he answered that silent appeal hopefully,
saying, “Oh! doubtless she will be home to-morrow, or the
next day, at farthest. We ought to have remembered that
she had not recovered from her fatigue, and that she would
probably take her own time in returning. We have outridden
her, evidently.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Major Clifton rejoined by a groan. He ordered refreshments
<span class='pageno' id='Page_460'>460</span>for his guest, and soon after attended him to his room,
and retired to his own, not to rest, but to walk about distractedly,
and then he burst into Catherine’s vacant chamber,
and threw himself down upon her empty bed, in the very
anguish of bereavement. His long residence in the lowlands
of the Chesapeake, during the hot summer months, had pre-disposed
him to illness. His long journey, under the burning
sun of August by day, and heavy dews of August by night,
fatigue and anxiety, loss of food and sleep, all conspired to
bring on the pernicious fever, and before morning Archer
Clifton was tossing and raving in high delirium. Summoned
by the alarmed servants, Captain Fairfax was early at his
bedside, and seeing his condition, dispatched a messenger
for the family physician. For many days, his state alternated
between delirium and stupor, and his life tottered upon the
edge of the grave. And in his delirium all his raving was
of Catherine—still Catherine—now adjuring her as his
Nemesis—now wooing her by the most tender epithets of affection—calling
her his “poor wounded dove,” his “broken-hearted child,” etc. Often, he repeated plaintively her last
sorrowful, hopeless words.</p>

<p class='c006'>At length the crisis of the disease came. The delirium
arose to a frenzy. His spirit, as well as his flesh, seemed to
be passing through the very fires of purgatory. He raved
incessantly—now of Carolyn, now of Georgia, then of his
mother, and always of Catherine—sometimes calling down
the bitterest imprecations upon his own head, sometimes
severely reproaching Georgia, sometimes pleading his cause
with his mother, and always breaking off to soothe and coax
Catherine, as if she were circled in his arm.</p>

<p class='c006'>At length the frenzy fairly exhausted itself, and he sank
into a comatose state, to dream of Catherine, to see visions
of Catherine, to feel her gentle presence, and healing ministrations
all about him. Then came insensibility, which lasted
he did not know how long, for all sense of time and place
and existence itself was blotted out.</p>

<p class='c006'>And at last he awoke—the burning fever had gone out
from his blood, and a delicious coolness ran through all his
veins—the terrible nervous excitement had subsided, and a
luxurious calm lay upon mind and body, until memory came
to disturb it, perhaps to torture it. He was experiencing the
delightful sensations of restoration and convalescence, and
his physical state alone would have been a sufficient cause for
<span class='pageno' id='Page_461'>461</span>happiness, but for one aching, aching spot, one sharp point
of agony as it were in his heart’s core. And when the cry
in his bosom found its corresponding expression, the word
was “Catherine!” “Catherine!”</p>

<p class='c006'>His eyes had opened on his darkened chamber, where,
upon the hearth, glimmered a feeble taper, that scarcely sent
its weak rays beyond the edges of the hearth. He knew it
must be near day, for the low, melodious detonating sounds
of early morning were echoing through the mountains. The
chamber seemed deserted—not if Catherine had been living
would his sick bed have been so abandoned, he thought. He
turned and groaned from the depths of his bosom—“Oh,
Catherine! Catherine.” His room was very dusky—he
could not see the presence by his couch—but now gentler
than “tired eyelids upon tired eyes” fell a soft hand upon
his brow.</p>

<p class='c006'>Surely there was but one touch like that in the world!</p>

<p class='c006'>A new born, feeble hope was trembling at his heart, a
hope that he feared to disturb lest it should die in disappointment;
that he dared scarcely submit to the test of certainty,
lest that certainty should bring not joy but despair.
At last, trembling with doubt, he murmured, “Am I dreaming,
or, dear Kate, are you here?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I am here,” she answered softly.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Darling, are you well?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Very well—but <i>you</i> are not well enough to talk yet,”
said Kate, gently.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dear Kate—how long have you been home?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Since the day you were taken ill,” replied Kate, at the
same time encircling his shoulders with one arm, and raising
him, while with the other hand she placed a glass to his lips.</p>

<p class='c006'>Whether the medicine were a potent sedative, or whether
her gentler touch had a soothing effect, or whether both these
influences acted upon him, I cannot tell; but certainly the
nervous excitement, just raised by the discovery of her presence,
subsided into perfect calmness, and he lay with his
hand folded in Catherine’s, until he fell asleep.</p>

<p class='c006'>When he awoke again it was sunrise, and his room looked
cheerful, and the family physician and Frank Fairfax stood
at his bedside, with their congratulations on his convalescence.
And while they staid, his eyes were roving restlessly
around the room, in search of some one else.</p>

<p class='c006'>And when they went away, Catherine entered, bringing
<span class='pageno' id='Page_462'>462</span>cold water, and came and sponged his head and hands. And
then she went out, and returned with his light breakfast.
She sat upon the bed, supporting his head and shoulders
upon her bosom while he ate. At last—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Take it all away, dearest Kate,” he said, “and sit where
I can see you. It is you who are my restorative.”</p>

<p class='c006'>When the service was removed, and his pillows were arranged,
and he was comfortably laid back upon them again,
he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Dearest Kate, do you know that I know at last, how
deeply you have been injured?”</p>

<p class='c006'>She stooped down to him saying, softly—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Please do not try to talk to-day. Yield to the inclination
you have for sleep. It is so needful to you, and will
prove so restorative. And to-morrow, when you are better,
we can converse.”</p>

<p class='c006'>He smiled upon her, and laid his hand in hers, and while
she clasped it, fell asleep.</p>

<p class='c006'>With a strong constitution like that of Archer Clifton, the
convalescence is rapid. And Catherine’s presence, as he
said, was his true restorative.</p>

<p class='c006'>The fourth morning from this, he was very much better,
and reclined comfortably upon his couch watching Catherine,
who moved quietly about the room setting things in order.
He was much wasted by illness, and his face looked still
more sallow and haggard for the dark, dishevelled hair and
whiskers that encircled it; but his countenance wore an expression
of subdued joy as he lay and watched Kate. At
last—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Are you so much afraid that Henny will disturb me by
rattling a cup and saucer, or jingling a teaspoon, that you
must do all yourself? My devoted Kate, I am not so ill.
Come and sit upon the lounge by me, and let me talk to
you,” he said, holding out his arms.</p>

<p class='c006'>She went and sat upon the side of the couch, and he encircled
her with his arm, while he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“My dear Kate, do you know that I thought I had lost
you?”</p>

<p class='c006'>She raised her eyes in gentle wonder.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, I thought your great and undeserved misfortunes
had killed or maddened you.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“It was the approach of your illness that gave you such
dreadful thoughts,” said Catherine, gently.</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_463'>463</span>“Not entirely, dear Kate. It was your last words when
you fainted on my bosom—do you remember them?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No—I remember nothing very distinctly from the moment
I threw myself in among the soldiery, and saw the
bayonets glittering around me, until I awoke and found myself in the farmer’s house.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ah! don’t you remember that in answer to my harsh
question—harsh Kate, because I was still in blindness—you
answered—‘Patience, patience, patience; indeed I will not
trouble you, love—I will go away; maybe God will let me
die.’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Did I really use those words?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, and with such a look of hopeless resignation! I
thought that I had lost you, Kate. I thought that you were
dead or mad, or at least had been driven from me, for you
said so earnestly, ‘I will go away?.’”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Did I say that? I do not remember. But I suppose I
meant that I would go home. And, oh! do you think—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Think what, dear Kate?”</p>

<p class='c006'>She paused, and her face flushed. She had been about to
say, “Do you think that anything but your own will would
have driven me from you?” But her old shyness returned
upon her stronger than ever.</p>

<p class='c006'>He understood her, and told her so by the tightening
pressure of his arm.</p>

<p class='c006'>“And, dear Kate, we could hear of you nowhere. You
were long in returning, Catherine.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, when I started I was still very unequal to the return
journey, I had weakened myself, and was obliged to ride
slowly. And then I lost my way coming back—that was
how you missed me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And does my Kate know that I know now how deeply
she has been wronged, and how nobly she has borne those
wrongs—returning always good for evil. And can she guess
the remorse and sorrow of heart that hurried on this fit of illness?”
Then suddenly overcome with emotion, he exclaimed:
“Oh, my God, Catherine! can you imagine how I suffered?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, yes, indeed I know it all! I learned all—all—in
the raving of your delirium. Others thought it <i>mere</i> raving
but I knew.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And do you know who forged that fatal letter, Kate?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Who was it, then?”</p>

<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_464'>464</span>“You said, Mrs. Georgia.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes. It was strange you never suspected that, Kate.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I did suspect it.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“You did suspect it!” exclaimed Archer Clifton, in surprise.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And you never breathed that suspicion!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No, because I had no certain evidence against her. It
would have been wrong to have acted upon a mere suspicion.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Just and upright in all things!”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I only believed God’s promises. I left my cause to
Heaven.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“And Heaven has vindicated you, my Kate! You have
seen my sufferings since discovering how unjustly you had
been condemned; but, oh, Kate, I suffered also when I madly
believed you guilty.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I know you did. I do know you did. It was that that
gave point to my own sorrow.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“When I cast you into the fire, while you were tortured,
<i>I</i> was scathed! I loved you too perfectly not to suffer with
you. You were too really a portion of myself, for me not to
suffer through you. I am thinking of that Archbishop,
Kate—whose name I have forgotten—”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Cranmer?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, Cranmer! See how our very unspoken thoughts
rush together, dear wife. Yes, Kate, I was thinking of Cranmer,
who thrust his offending hand into the flames, and held
it there, until it burned to cinders, and dropped off. Oh, my
Kate! was it his hand alone that suffered, or did not his
whole body agonize with it? And so, my Catherine, when
believing you unworthy, I thrust you into the fire, did I not
suffer through you in all my nature? I did! I did, Catherine!
Lift up the hair from my temples, and tell me what
you see?”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate lifted the clustering dark curls, and answered—</p>

<p class='c006'>“A few white hairs.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“<i>The tears I made you shed, bleached them, Kate.</i>”</p>

<p class='c006'>She did not reply, except by meeting his gaze with a look
of earnest affection.</p>

<p class='c006'>He resumed—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes—even then, when insanely I believed it possible for
you to be guilty—even <i>then</i>—every look of anguish on your
brow wrung my bosom—every tear you dropped, fell hot upon
<span class='pageno' id='Page_465'>465</span>my heart. Stoop down. Let me tell you one little simple
thing—I sometimes saw—oh, I used to watch you so closely,
because I could not help it, Kate;—when I was harsh and
stern, I sometimes saw your chin quiver—like a grieved
child’s—and, Kate, my whole soul would be overflowed with
tenderness, which, to conceal, I had to start up and leave the
room, with every appearance of anger that I could falsely
assume.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate wept—her tears fell fast upon his hand, that she had
clasped between her own.</p>

<p class='c006'>“And, oh, Catherine, to think that all this trouble I have
suffered, and have inflicted upon you, should have been so
unnecessary!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Catherine slid from the edge of the couch down upon her
knees beside it, and her countenance grew earnest, and inspired
with faith and love, as she clasped her hands, and
said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Oh, no! it was <i>not</i> unnecessary. God suffered it to be,
and it was well—<i>very</i> well! ‘All things work together for
good, to them that love the Lord.’ And every pang that
has ploughed our hearts in the past, will make them fruitful
of good in the future. One fruit is, that the suffering of the
last two years has drawn our hearts together as nothing else
could have done. Because—”</p>

<p class='c006'>Again in the full tide of her earnest thoughts, the old
bashfulness flushed her cheek, and silenced her tongue. She
wished to say, “Because I think you would never have known
me so well, or held me so dear, if you had not proved me by
fiery trial.”</p>

<p class='c006'>And again his heart rightly interpreted her silence, and he
answered her unuttered thought by saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes, you are right, my own dear blessing! You are
right, for I never should have known your full value but for
the trial you have passed through. Yet not now only, but
always have I loved you, dear wife. I denied it to myself—I
denied it to others—but there it was, the perfect, vital
love, as sure as fate. When I first saw you, Kate, I met in
your face, your voice, your manner,—yes, in every look and
tone and gesture, in your whole unity—something that I had
vainly sought through life—something homogenial to my nature—something
perfectly satisfying. You seemed, dear
Kate, not so much a separate existence as the completion of
my own. What did you say, Kate? Your voice, too, is
<span class='pageno' id='Page_466'>466</span>‘ever soft, gentle and low,’—but speak again dearest. It is
something that my heart listens to hear.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I said that I, too, when we first met,” she hesitated, and
her cheek crimsoned, but feeling that he listened breathless
for her words, she continued,—“Well, only this: I felt as
if I were wholly yours, Archer—I have felt so ever since.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Again she paused from native bashfulness.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Kiss me, Kate,—you never kissed me in your life.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Blushing and timid as the girl that she was, she stooped
and lightly touched his lips with hers. But laughing fondly
he threw his arm around her, exclaiming—</p>

<p class='c006'>“You child! you child! Married two years and cannot
kiss me!” and pressed her to his bosom, for one instant, in
a passionate embrace, that sent life and gladness through all
her veins, and then he said, “I am not ill, Catherine. I
have drawn health from your lips. See who is at the door,
love.”</p>

<p class='c006'>Kate went and admitted Frank, who came in accoutred
for traveling.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Ha! where now, Fairfax?” asked Clifton.</p>

<p class='c006'>“For Richmond to-day.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“No! You will not leave us so soon?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Yes,—the truth is, I <i>must</i>. I have an engagement to
fulfill there on Thursday.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“An engagement! Of what nature, Frank, if a friend
may ask?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Why, the fact is,” said Captain Fairfax, growing very
red in the face, with the effort of pulling on a pair of gloves,
“I am going to be married.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Married! Oh, Frank! and not to tell us anything about
it till now.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Hem! There was no proper opportunity till now,”
stammered the young man.</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, who is the lady, Frank?” asked Clifton, while
Catherine looked and listened with interest.</p>

<p class='c006'>“The only friend that my dear Zuleime found in all her
adversity—Mrs. Knight,” said Frank, and then he added,
quickly, “It was a long time before my mother’s pride could
be reconciled to this, but Ida’s genuine goodness won her at
last.”</p>

<p class='c006'>After the first involuntary expression of surprise, Catherine
and Clifton exchanged glances, and Catherine said,</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, Captain Fairfax, as soon after the marriage as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_467'>467</span>convenient,—instantly after the ceremony, if you please,—you
must bring your bride down, and pass some weeks with
us.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“I thank you, Mrs. Clifton; I profoundly thank you,
but we are going immediately to England. Ida pines to see
her father, who is a country curate, in Devonshire. She has
never been reconciled with him since her first unfortunate
marriage. I have promised to take her to him, and so immediately
after the ceremony, we four—that is, Ida, myself
and our two little girls—are going to embark for Liverpool.”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, altogether, this has put a surprise upon us, Frank,”
said Major Clifton, meditatively running his fingers through
his hair; “but, when you return you will make us a visit.
By the way, how long do you intend to be absent?”</p>

<p class='c006'>“Until the spring. And now I must really bid you
good-bye, regretting very much that I cannot carry you both
along with me.”</p>

<p class='c006'>They shook hands cordially, Clifton saying—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Well, Frank, our very best wishes attend you. May
you have much happiness!”</p>

<p class='c006'>Captain Fairfax turned to take leave of Catherine, but
she said that she would attend him down. She left the room
with him. And when the door shut behind them, Clifton
clasped his hands upon his brow and closed his eyes, as in
deep thought or prayer. When Kate re-entered the room
softly, he said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“Come hither, Catherine!”</p>

<p class='c006'>And she came and knelt by his side, and he encircled her
with his arm, and drew her face down to his bosom, and
raising his eyes toward Heaven, said—</p>

<p class='c006'>“‘A wife is from the Lord!’ Even so, oh, God! How
shall I thank Thee? Hear me consecrate my whole future
life to Thy service, in acknowledgment of this, Thy gift.”</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003'>
</div>

<div class='border'>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div><span class='xlarge'>A SWEEPING REDUCTION!</span></div>
    <div class='c003'>All our 12mo. Cloth Books are Reduced to $1.50 a Copy, including all the Works of</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><i>Mrs. Southworth</i>,</div>
      <div class='line in2'><i>Mrs. Hentz</i>,</div>
      <div class='line in4'><i>Miss Dupuy</i>,</div>
      <div class='line'><i>Mrs. Ann S. Stephens</i>,</div>
      <div class='line in2'><i>Mrs. Warfield</i>,</div>
      <div class='line in4'><i>Dumas</i>, <i>etc., etc.</i></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>As well as other Books formerly published by us at $1.75 each.</div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='large'>CATALOGUE OF BOOKS</span></div>
    <div class='c003'>PUBLISHED BY</div>
    <div class='c003'><span class='xlarge'><span class='sc'>T. B. PETERSON and BROTHERS</span>,</span></div>
    <div class='c003'>PHILADELPHIA, PA.,</div>
    <div class='c003'><i>And for sale by all Booksellers</i>.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>☞Any of the Books named in this Catalogue will be sent by mail, to
any one, to any place, at once, post-paid, on remitting the price of the ones
wanted to T. B. PETERSON &#38; BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.</p>

</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div><span class='xlarge'>T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS,</span></div>
    <div class='c003'>306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia,</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>Desire to direct the close attention of all lovers of good novel reading to the
works and authors contained in their new catalogue, just issued. A strict scrutiny is
solicited, because the books enumerated in it are among the most popular now
in existence. In supplying your wants and taste in the reading line, it is of the first
importance that you should give special attention to what is popularly designated entertaining
reading matter. No library is either attractive or complete without a collection
of novels and romances. The experience of many years has demonstrated
that light reading is essential to even the most studious men and women, furnishing
the mind with healthful recreation; while to the young, and to those that have not
cultivated a taste for solid works of science, it forms one of the best possible training
schools, gradually establishing, in a pleasant manner, that habit of concentration of
thought absolutely necessary to read understandingly the more ponderous works,
which treat of political economy, the sciences, and of the arts.</p>

<p class='c006'>We publish and sell at very low rates, full and varied editions of the works of
all the famous American and Foreign Novelists, whose writings are very entertaining,
specially adapted for all readers. The most of them are bound in strong cloth
binding, and also in paper covers. Examination is asked for our editions of the
writings of <span class='sc'>Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth</span>, whose romances are always in
demand; <span class='sc'>Mrs. Ann S. Stephens</span>, the well-known favorite; <span class='sc'>Mrs. Henry Wood</span>,
the authoress of “East Lynne;” <span class='sc'>Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz</span>, whose stories of
Southern life stand unparalleled in their simple truth and exquisite beauty; <span class='sc'>Mrs. C.
A. Warfield</span>, another very popular Southern writer; <span class='sc'>Miss Eliza A. Dupuy</span>, who
has made a wonderful mark; <span class='sc'>Mrs. F. H. Burnett</span>, the authoress of “Theo;” the
charming and pathetic French and Russian romances of <span class='sc'>Henry Gréville</span>; the
wonderful and famous fictions of <span class='sc'>Gustave Flaubert</span>; the brilliant and artistic works
of <span class='sc'>Octave Feuillet</span>; the highly finished and powerful stories of <span class='sc'>Ernest Daudet</span>;
the popular and pleasing productions of <span class='sc'>Prosper Merimee</span>; the beautiful and
touching love tales of the celebrated <span class='sc'>George Sand</span>; the clever and intensely interesting
writings of <span class='sc'>Jules Sandeau</span>; the exciting and ingenious novels of <span class='sc'>Adolphe
Belot</span>; the picturesque and enchaining works of <span class='sc'>Madame Angele Dussaud</span>; the
exquisitely pathetic romances of the <span class='sc'>Princess Altieri</span>; the strong and graphic
productions of <span class='sc'>Andre Theuriet</span>; the wild frontier sketches of <span class='sc'>Gustave Aimard</span>;
the classic and refined works of <span class='sc'>Madame De Stael</span>; the absorbing and vivid fictions
of <span class='sc'>Alexander Dumas</span>, Pere; the natural and forcible novels of <span class='sc'>Alexander
Dumas</span>, Fils; the startling and mysterious romances of <span class='sc'>Eugene Sue</span>; the trenchant
and unique narratives of <span class='sc'>Victor Hugo</span>; the realistic novels of <span class='sc'>Emile Zola</span>, which
have had a sale in this country unparalleled in the history of recent book-making;
of great interest is <span class='sc'>Sir Walter Scott</span>, whose “Waverley” novels still maintain
a strong hold on the people. <span class='sc'>Charles Dickens’</span> complete writings we furnish in
every variety of style. We publish also the weird stories of <span class='sc'>George Lippard</span>; the
martial novels of <span class='sc'>Charles Lever</span>; the comical nautical tales of <span class='sc'>Captain Marryat</span>;
<span class='sc'>Emerson Bennett’s</span> Indian stories; <span class='sc'>Henry Cockton’s</span> laughable narratives; <span class='sc'>T.
S. Arthur’s</span> temperance tales and household stories; the wonderful and entertaining
novels of <span class='sc'>Eugene Sue</span> and <span class='sc'>W. H. Ainsworth</span>; the quiet domestic novels of
<span class='sc'>Fredrika Bremer</span> and <span class='sc'>Ellen Pickering</span>; the masterly novels of <span class='sc'>Wilkie Collins</span>;
<span class='sc'>Frank Fairlegh’s</span> quaint stories, and <span class='sc'>Samuel Warren’s</span> elaborate romances;
the works of <span class='sc'>Mrs. C. J. Newby</span>, <span class='sc'>Mrs. Grey</span>, and <span class='sc'>Miss Pardoe</span>; <span class='sc'>W. H.
Herbert’s</span> sporting stories; and the graphic Italian romances of <span class='sc'>T. A. Trollope</span>;
also the fascinating writings of <span class='sc'>G. P. R. James</span>, <span class='sc'>Mrs. S. A. Dorsey</span>, <span class='sc'>Sir Edward
Bulwer Lytton</span>, <span class='sc'>James A. Maitland</span>, <span class='sc'>The Shakspeare Novels</span>, <span class='sc'>Charles G.
Leland</span> (Hans Breitmann), <span class='sc'>Dow’s</span> Patent Sermons, <span class='sc'>Doesticks</span>, and <span class='sc'>Henry
Morford</span>, as well as <span class='sc'>Francatelli’s</span>, <span class='sc'>Miss Leslie’s</span>, and all the best Cook Books;
Petersons’ “Dollar Series of Good Novels;” Petersons’ “Sterling Series” of
entertaining books; Petersons’ popular “Square 12mo. Series” of excellent stories;
together with hundreds of others, by the best authors in the world.</p>

<p class='c006'>☞☞ Look over our Catalogue, and enclose a Draft or Post Office Order for five,
ten, twenty, or fifty dollars, or more, to us in a letter, and write for what books
you wish, and on receipt of the money, or a satisfactory reference, the books will
be packed and sent to you at once, in any way you may direct. Address all orders to</p>

<div class='lg-container-r'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>T. B. PETERSON &#38; BROTHERS, Publishers,</div>
      <div class='line in12'>306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div><span class='xlarge'>T. B. PETERSON <span class='fss'>AND</span> BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'>☞ Orders solicited from Booksellers, Librarians, Canvassers, News Agents, and all others in want of good and fast-selling books, which will be supplied at very Low Rates ☜</div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='large'>MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S FAMOUS WORKS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>Complete in forty-three large duodecimo volumes, bound in morocco cloth, gilt back price $1.50 each; or $64.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Ishmael; or, In the Depths, being Self-Made; or, Out of Depths</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Self-Raised; or, From the Depths. Sequel to “Ishmael.”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Mother-in-Law,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Fatal Secret,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>How He Won Her,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Fair Play,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Spectre Lover,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Victor’s Triumph,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>A Beautiful Fiend,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Artist’s Love,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>A Noble Lord,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lost Heir of Linlithgow,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Tried for her Life,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Cruel as the Grave,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Maiden Widow,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Family Doom,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Bride’s Fate,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Changed Brides,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Fallen Pride,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Widow’s Son,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Bride of Llewellyn,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Fatal Marriage,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Deserted Wife,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Fortune Seeker,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Bridal Eve,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Lost Heiress,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Two Sisters,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lady of the Isle,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Prince of Darkness,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Three Beauties,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Vivia; or the Secret of Power,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Love’s Labor Won,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Gipsy’s Prophecy,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Retribution,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Christmas Guest,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Haunted Homestead,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Wife’s Victory,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Allworth Abbey,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>India; Pearl of Pearl River,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Curse of Clifton,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Discarded Daughter,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Mystery of Dark Hollow,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Missing Bride; or, Miriam, the Avenger,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Phantom Wedding; or, The Fall of the House of Flint,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
    <div class='c003'>Self-Made; or, Out of the Depths. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Complete in two volumes, cloth, price $1.50 each, or $3.00 a set.</div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='large'>CAROLINE LEE HENTZ’S EXQUISITE BOOKS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>Complete in twelve large duodecimo volumes, bound in morocco cloth, gilt back, price $1.50 each; or $18.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Ernest Linwood,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Planter’s Northern Bride,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Courtship and Marriage,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Rena; or, the Snow Bird,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Marcus Warland,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Love after Marriage,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Eoline; or Magnolia Vale,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Lost Daughter,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Banished Son,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Helen and Arthur,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Linda; or, the Young Pilot of the Belle Creole,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Robert Graham; the Sequel to “Linda; or Pilot of Belle Creole,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS’ FAVORITE NOVELS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>Complete in twenty-three large duodecimo volumes, bound in morocco cloth, gilt back, price $1.50 each; or $34.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Norston’s Rest,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Bertha’s Engagement,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Bellehood and Bondage,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Old Countess,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lord Hope’s Choice,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Reigning Belle,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Palaces and Prisons,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Married in Haste,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Wives and Widows,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Ruby Gray’s Strategy,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Doubly False,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Heiress,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Gold Brick,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Soldiers’ Orphans,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>A Noble Woman,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Silent Struggles,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Rejected Wife,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Wife’s Secret,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mary Derwent,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Fashion and Famine,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Curse of Gold,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mabel’s Mistake,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Old Homestead,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='large'>MISS ELIZA A. DUPUY’S WONDERFUL BOOKS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>Complete in fourteen large duodecimo volumes, bound in morocco cloth, gilt back, price $1.50 each; or $21.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>A New Way to Win a Fortune,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Discarded Wife,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Clandestine Marriage,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Hidden Sin,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Dethroned Heiress,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Gipsy’s Warning,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>All For Love,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Why Did He Marry Her?</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Who Shall be Victor?</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Mysterious Guest,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Was He Guilty?</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Cancelled Will,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Planter’s Daughter,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Michael Rudolph,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='large'>LIST OF THE BEST COOK BOOKS PUBLISHED.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>Every housekeeper should possess at least one of the following Cook Books, as they would save the price of it in a week’s cooking.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Miss Leslie’s Cook Book, a Complete Manual to Domestic Cookery in all its Branches. Paper cover, $1.00, or bound in cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Queen of the Kitchen; or, The Southern Cook Book. Containing 1007 Old Southern Family Receipts for Cooking,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth, 1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mrs. Hale’s New Cook Book,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth, 1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Petersons’ New Cook Book,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth, 1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Widdifield’s New Cook Book,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth, 1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mrs. Goodfellow’s Cookery as it Should Be,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth, 1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The National Cook Book. By a Practical Housewife,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth, 1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Young Wife’s Cook Book,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth, 1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Miss Leslie’s New Receipts for Cooking,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth, 1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mrs. Hale’s Receipts for the Million,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth, 1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Family Save-All. By author of “National Cook Book,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth, 1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Francatelli’s Modern Cook Book. With the most approved methods of French, English, German, and Italian Cookery. With Sixty-two Illustrations. One vol., 600 pages, bound in morocco cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>5 00</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>MRS. C. A. WARFIELD’S POPULAR WORKS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>Complete in nine large duodecimo volumes, bound in morocco clothe gilt back, price $1.50 each; or $13.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Cardinal’s Daughter,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Ferne Fleming,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Household of Bouverie,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>A Double Wedding,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Miriam’s Memoirs,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Monfort Hall,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Sea and Shore,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Hester Howard’s Temptation,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lady Ernestine; or, The Absent Lord of Rocheforte,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='large'>FREDRIKA BREMER’S DOMESTIC NOVELS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>Complete in six large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.50 each; or $9.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Father and Daughter,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Four Sisters,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Neighbors,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Home,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Life in the Old World. In two volumes, cloth, price,</td>
    <td class='c019'>3 00</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>Q. K. PHILANDER DOESTICKS’ FUNNY BOOKS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>Complete in four large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.50 each; or $6.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Doesticks’ Letters,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Plu-Ri-Bus-Tah,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Elephant Club,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Witches of New York,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='large'>JAMES A. MAITLAND’S HOUSEHOLD STORIES.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>Complete in seven large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.50 each; or $10.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Watchman,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Wanderer,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Lawyer’s Story,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Diary of an Old Doctor,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Sartaroe,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Three Cousins,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Old Patroon; or the Great Van Broek Property,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='large'>T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE’S ITALIAN NOVELS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>Complete in seven large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.50 each; or $10.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Sealed Packet,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Garstang Grange,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Dream Numbers,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Beppo, the Conscript,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Leonora Casaloni,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Gemma,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Marietta,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='large'>FRANK FORESTER’S SPORTING SCENES.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c020'>Frank Forester’s Sporting Scenes and Characters. By Henry William
Herbert. A New, Revised, and Enlarged Edition, with a Life of the
Author, a New Introductory Chapter, Frank Forester’s Portrait and
Autograph, with a full length picture of him in his shooting costume,
and seventeen other illustrations, from original designs by Darley and
Frank Forester. Two vols., morocco cloth, bevelled boards, $4.00.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>WILKIE COLLINS’ BEST BOOKS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Basil; or, The Crossed Path,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Dead Secret. 12mo.</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each in one large duodecimo volume, bound in cloth.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Dead Secret, 8vo.</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Basil; or, the Crossed Path,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Hide and Seek,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>After Dark,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Queen’s Revenge,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Miss or Mrs?</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mad Monkton,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Sights a-Foot,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Stolen Mask,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Yellow Mask,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Sister Rose,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>The above books are each issued in paper cover, in octavo form.</div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='large'>EMERSON BENNETT’S INDIAN STORIES.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>Complete in seven large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.50 each; or $10.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Border Rover,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Clara Moreland,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Orphan’s Trials,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Bride of the Wilderness,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Ellen Norbury,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Kate Clarendon,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Viola; or Adventures in the Far South-West,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Heiress of Bellefonte,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Pioneer’s Daughter,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div>GREEN’S WORKS ON GAMBLING.</div>
    <div class='c003'><i>Complete in four large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.50 each; or $6.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Gambling Exposed,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Gambler’s Life,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Reformed Gambler,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Secret Band of Brothers,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='large'>DOW’S PATENT SERMONS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>Complete in four large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.25 each; or $5.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Dow’s Patent Sermons, 1st Series, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Dow’s Patent Sermons, 2d Series, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Dow’s Patent Sermons, 3d Series, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Dow’s Patent Sermons, 4th Series, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 25</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.00 each.</div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='large'>GEORGE SAND’S GREATEST NOVELS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Consuelo, 12mo., cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Countess of Rudolstadt,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Jealousy, 12mo., cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Indiana, 12mo., cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each published in 12mo., cloth, gilt side and back.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Fanchon, the Cricket, paper cover, 50 cents, or fine edition, in cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>First and True Love. With 11 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents; cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Consuelo. Paper cover,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Simon. A Love Story,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Corsair,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Last Aldini,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Countess of Rudolstadt. The Sequel to Consuelo. Paper cover,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>MISS BRADDON’S FASCINATING BOOKS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Aurora Floyd,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Aurora Floyd, cloth</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Lawyer’s Secret,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>For Better, For Worse,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. ILLUSTRATED.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c020'><i>This edition is printed from large type, octavo size, each book being complete
in one large octavo volume, bound in Morocco Cloth, with Gilt Character
Figures on back, and Medallion on side, price $1.50 each, or $27.00 a set,
contained in eighteen volumes, the whole containing near Six Hundred
Illustrations, by Cruikshank, Phiz, Browne, Maclise, and other artists.</i></p>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Pickwick Papers. By Charles Dickens. With 32 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1.50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles Dickens. With 37 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>David Copperfield. By Charles Dickens. With 8 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens. With 24 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. With 38 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Dombey and Son. By Charles Dickens. With 38 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Sketches by “Boz.” By Charles Dickens. With 20 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Little Dorrit. By Charles Dickens. With 38 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Our Mutual Friend. By Charles Dickens. With 42 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Great Expectations. By Charles Dickens. With 34 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lamplighter’s Story. By Charles Dickens. With 7 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. With 50 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Martin Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dickens. With 8 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Old Curiosity Shop. By Charles Dickens. With 101 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Christmas Stories. By Charles Dickens. With 12 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Dickens’ New Stories. By Charles Dickens. With portrait of author,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>A Tale of Two Cities. By Charles Dickens. With 64 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Charles Dickens’ American Notes and Pic-Nic Papers,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>BOOKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>The following books are each issued in one large duodecimo volume, bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Initials. A Love Story. By Baroness Tautphœus,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Married Beneath Him. By author of “Lost Sir Massingberd,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oliphant, author of “Zaidee,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Family Pride. By author of “Pique,” “Family Secrets,” etc.</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Autobiography of Edward Wortley Montagu,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Forsaken Daughter. A Companion to “Linda,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Love and Liberty. A Revolutionary Story. By Alexander Dumas,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Morrisons. By Mrs. Margaret Hosmer,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Rich Husband. By author of “George Geith,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Lost Beauty. By a Noted Lady of the Spanish Court,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester. A Charming Love Story,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Quaker Soldier. A Revolutionary Romance. By Judge Jones,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Memoirs of Vidocq, the French Detective. His Life and Adventures,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Belle of Washington. With her Portrait. By Mrs. N. P. Lasselle,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>High Life in Washington. A Life Picture. By Mrs. N. P. Lasselle,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Courtship and Matrimony. By Robert Morris. With a Portrait,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Jealous Husband. By Annette Marie Maillard,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Conscript; or, the Days of Napoleon 1st. By Alex. Dumas,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Cousin Harry. By Mrs. Grey, author of “The Gambler’s Wife,” etc.</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above books are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>The following books are each issued in one large duodecimo volume, bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Count of Monte-Cristo. By Dumas. Illustrated, paper $1.00,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Countess of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, price $1.00; or cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Camille; or, the Fate of a Coquette. By Alexander Dumas,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Love and Money. By J. B. Jones, author of the “Rival Belles,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Brother’s Secret; or, the Count De Mara. By William Godwin,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Lost Love. By Mrs. Oliphant, author of “Margaret Maitland,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Bohemians of London. By Edward M. Whitty,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Wild Sports and Adventures in Africa. By Major W. C. Harris,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Life, Writings, and Lectures of the late “Fanny Fern,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Life and Lectures of Lola Montez, with her portrait,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Wild Southern Scenes. By author of “Wild Western Scenes,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Currer Lyle; or, the Autobiography of an Actress. By Louise Reeder,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Cabin and Parlor. By J. Thornton Randolph. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Little Beauty. A Love Story. By Mrs. Grey,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lizzie Glenn; or, the Trials of a Seamstress. By T. S. Arthur,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lady Maud; or, the Wonder of Kingswood Chase. By Pierce Egan,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Wilfred Montressor; or, High Life in New York. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lorrimer Littlegood, by author “Harry Coverdale’s Courtship,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Married at Last. A Love Story. By Annie Thomas,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Shoulder Straps. By Henry Morford, author of “Days of Shoddy,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Days of Shoddy. By Henry Morford, author of “Shoulder Straps,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Coward. By Henry Morford, author of “Shoulder Straps,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above books are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Roman Traitor. By Henry William Herbert. A Roman Story,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Last Athenian. By Victor Rydberg. From the Swedish,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>MRS. HENRY WOOD’S BEST BOOKS, IN CLOTH.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>The following are cloth editions of Mrs. Henry Wood’s best books, and they are each issued in large octavo volumes, bound in cloth, price $1.75 each.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Within the Maze. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “East Lynne,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Master of Greylands. By Mrs. Henry Wood,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Dene Hollow. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Within the Maze,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Bessy Rane. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “The Channings,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>George Canterbury’s Will. By Mrs. Wood, author “Oswald Cray,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Channings. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Dene Hollow,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Roland Yorke. A Sequel to “The Channings.” By Mrs. Wood,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Shadow of Ashlydyatt. By Mrs. Wood, author of “Bessy Rane,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lord Oakburn’s Daughters; or The Earl’s Heirs. By Mrs. Wood,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Verner’s Pride. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “The Channings,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Castle’s Heir; or Lady Adelaide’s Oath. By Mrs. Henry Wood,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Oswald Cray. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Roland Yorke,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Squire Trevlyn’s Heir; or Trevlyn Hold. By Mrs. Henry Wood,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Red Court Farm. By Mrs. Wood, author of “Verner’s Pride,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Elster’s Folly. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Castle’s Heir,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>St. Martin’s Eve. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Dene Hollow,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mildred Arkell. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “East Lynne,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 75</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>ALEXANDER DUMAS’ ROMANCES, IN CLOTH.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>The following are cloth editions of Alexander Dumas’ works, and they are each issued in large octavo volumes, bound in cloth, price $1.50 each.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Three Guardsmen; or, The Three Mousquetaires. By A. Dumas,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Twenty Years After; or the “<i>Second Series of Three Guardsmen</i>,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Bragelonne; Son of Athos; or “<i>Third Series of Three Guardsmen</i>,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Iron Mask; or the “<i>Fourth Series of The Three Guardsmen</i>,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Louise La Valliere. <i>The Sequel to “The Iron Mask.”</i> Being the “<i>Fifth Book and End of the Three Guardsmen Series</i>,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Memoirs of a Physician; or, Joseph Balsamo. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Queen’s Necklace; or “<i>Second Series of Memoirs of a Physician</i>,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Six Years Later; or the “<i>Third Series of Memoirs of a Physician</i>,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Countess of Charny; or “<i>Fourth Series of Memoirs of a Physician</i>,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Andree De Taverney; or “<i>Fifth Series of Memoirs of a Physician</i>,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Chevalier. <i>The Sequel to “Andree De Taverney.”</i> Being the “<i>Sixth Book and End of the Memoirs of a Physician Series</i>,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Adventures of a Marquis. By Alexander Dumas,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Forty-Five Guardsmen. By Alexander Dumas. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Diana of Meridor, or Lady of Monsoreau. By Alexander Dumas,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Iron Hand. By Alex. Dumas, author “Count of Monte-Cristo,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Camille; or the Fate of a Coquette. (La Dame aux Camelias,)</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Conscript. A novel of the Days of Napoleon the First,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Love and Liberty. A novel of the French Revolution of 1792–1793,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>THE “COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO SERIES,” IN CLOTH.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Count of Monte-Cristo. By Alexander Dumas. <i>Illustrated</i>,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Edmond Dantes. The Sequel to the “Count of Monte-Cristo,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Monte-Cristo’s Daughter. Sequel to and end of “Edmond Dantes,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Countess of Monte-Cristo. The Companion to “Monte-Cristo,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Wife of Monte-Cristo. Continuation of “Count of Monte-Cristo,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Son of Monte-Cristo. The Sequel to “Wife of Monte-Cristo,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 25</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>T. S. ARTHUR’S GREAT TEMPERANCE BOOKS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Six Nights with the Washingtonians, Illustrated. T. S. Arthur’s Great Temperance Stories. Large Subscription Edition, cloth, gilt, $3.50; Red Roan, $1.50; Full Turkey Antique, Full Gilt,</td>
    <td class='c019'>6 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Latimer Family; or the Bottle and Pledge. By T. S. Arthur, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>MODEL SPEAKERS AND READERS.  </span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Comstock’s Elocution and Model Speaker. Intended for the use of Schools, Colleges, and for private Study, for the Promotion of Health, Cure of Stammering, and Defective Articulation. By Andrew Comstock and Philip Lawrence. With 236 Illustrations.</td>
    <td class='c019'>2 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Lawrence Speaker. A Selection of Literary Gems in Poetry and Prose, designed for the use of Colleges, Schools, Seminaries, Literary Societies. By Philip Lawrence, Professor of Elocution. 600 pages.</td>
    <td class='c019'>2 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Comstock’s Colored Chart. Being a perfect Alphabet of the English Language, with exercises in Pitch, Force and Gesture, and Sixty-Eight colored figures, representing the postures and attitudes to be used in declamation. On a large Roller. Every School should have it.</td>
    <td class='c019'>5 00</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>The following books are each issued in one large octavo volume, bound in cloth, at $1.50 each, or each one is done up in paper cover, at $1.00 each.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Wandering Jew. By Eugene Sue. Full of Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mysteries of Paris; and its Sequel, Gerolstein. By Eugene Sue,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Martin, the Foundling. By Eugene Sue. Full of Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Ten Thousand a Year. By Samuel Warren. With Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>The following books are each issued in one large octavo volume, bound in cloth, at $2.00 each, or each one is done up in paper cover, at $1.50 each.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Washington and His Generals. By George Lippard,</td>
    <td class='c019'>2 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Quaker City; or, the Monks of Monk Hall. By George Lippard,</td>
    <td class='c019'>2 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Blanche of Brandywine. By George Lippard,</td>
    <td class='c019'>2 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Paul Ardenheim; the Monk of Wissahickon. By George Lippard,</td>
    <td class='c019'>2 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Mysteries of Florence. By Geo. Lippard, author “Quaker City,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>2 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Pictorial Tower of London. By W. Harrison Ainsworth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>2 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>The following are each issued in one large octavo volume, bound in cloth, price $1.50 each, or a cheap edition is issued in paper cover, at 75 cents each.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth, $1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Harry Lorrequer. With his Confessions. By Charles Lever,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth,  1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Jack Hinton, the Guardsman. By Charles Lever,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth,  1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Davenport Dunn. A Man of Our Day. By Charles Lever,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth,  1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Tom Burke of Ours. By Charles Lever,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth,  1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Knight of Gwynne. By Charles Lever,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth,  1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Arthur O’Leary. By Charles Lever,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth,  1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Con Cregan. By Charles Lever,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth,  1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Horace Templeton. By Charles Lever,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth,  1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Kate O’Donoghue. By Charles Lever,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth,  1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Valentine Vox, the Ventriloquist. By Harry Cockton,</td>
    <td class='c019'>Cloth,  1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>HUMOROUS ILLUSTRATED BOOKS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>Each one is full of Illustrations, by Felix O. C. Darley, and bound in Cloth.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Major Jones’ Courtship and Travels. In one vol., 29 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Major Jones’ Scenes in Georgia. With 16 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Swamp Doctor’s Adventures in the South-West. 14 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Col. Thorpe’s Scenes in Arkansaw. With 16 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>High Life in New York, by Jonathan Slick. With Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Piney Wood’s Tavern; or, Sam Slick in Texas. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Humors of Falconbridge. By J. F. Kelley. With Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Simon Suggs’ Adventures and Travels. With 17 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Big Bear’s Adventures and Travels. With 18 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Judge Haliburton’s Yankee Stories. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Harry Coverdale’s Courtship and Marriage. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lorrimer Littlegood. Illustrated. By author of “Frank Fairlegh,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Neal’s Charcoal Sketches. By Joseph C. Neal. 21 Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>2 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Major Jones’s Courtship. 21 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Major Jones’s Travels. 8 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Major Jones’s Georgia Scenes. 12 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Raney Cottem’s Courtship. 8 Illustrations. Paper, 50 cents, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>STANDARD NOVELS, BY BEST WRITERS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Twelve Years of My Life. By Mrs. B. Beaumont, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Iphigenia. A Woman of Progress. By Hugo Furst. Paper 75, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Consuelo. By George Sand. One volume, 12mo., bound in cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Countess of Rudolstadt. Sequel to “Consuelo.” 12mo., cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Indiana. A Novel. By George Sand, author of “Consuelo,” cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Jealousy; or, Teverino. By George Sand, author “Consuelo,” cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Fanchon, the Cricket; or, La Petite Fadette. By George Sand, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Dead Secret. By Wilkie Collins, author of “Basil,” cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Crossed Path; or Basil. By Wilkie Collins, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mystery of Edwin Drood; and Master Humphrey’s Clock, by Dickens,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>John Jasper’s Secret. <i>Sequel to “Mystery of Edwin Drood,”</i> cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Life of Charles Dickens. By Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Lamplighter’s Story, with others. By Charles Dickens, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Old Stone Mansion. By author of “Heiress of Sweetwater,” cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lord Montagu’s Page. By G. P. R. James, author “Cavalier,” cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Earl of Mayfield. By Thomas P. May, cloth, black and gold,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Myrtle Lawn. A Novel. By Robert E. Ballard, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Corinne; or, Italy. A Love Story. By Madame de Stael, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Cyrilla; or Mysterious Engagement. By author of “Initials,” cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Treason at Home. A Novel. By Mrs. Greenough, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Letters from Europe. By Colonel John W. Forney. Bound in cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Frank Fairlegh. By author of “Lewis Arundel,” cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lewis Arundel. By author of “Frank Fairlegh,” cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Harry Racket Scapegrace. By the author of “Frank Fairlegh,” cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Tom Racquet. By author of “Frank Fairlegh,” cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Sam Slick, the Clockmaker. By Judge Haliburton. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Modern Chivalry. By Judge Breckenridge. Two vols., each</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>La Gaviota; the Sea-Gull. By Fernan Caballero, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. Braddon. Bound in cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Laws and Practice of the Game of Euchre and Draw Poker, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Youth of Shakspeare, author “Shakspeare and His Friends,” cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Shakspeare and His Friends, author “Youth of Shakspeare,” cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Secret Passion, author of “Shakspeare and His Friends,” cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Father Tom and the Pope; or, A Night at the Vatican, illus., cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott. One 8vo. volume, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>2 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Life of Sir Walter Scott. By John G. Lockhart. With Portrait,</td>
    <td class='c019'>2 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Miss Pardoe’s Choice Novels. In one large octavo volume, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>4 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Life, Speeches and Martyrdom of Abraham Lincoln. Illus., cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Rome and the Papacy. A History of Rome in Nineteenth Century,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The French, German, Spanish, Latin and Italian Languages Without a Master. Whereby any one of these Languages can be learned without a Teacher. By A. H. Monteith. One volume, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>2 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Liebig’s Complete Works on Chemistry. By Justus Liebig, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>2 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Life and Adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Tan-go-ru-a. An Historical Drama, in Prose. By Mr. Moorhead,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Impeachment Trial of President Andrew Johnson. Cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Trial of the Assassins for the Murder of Abraham Lincoln. Cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Just One Day. By author of “Helen’s Babies.” Paper 50, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>NEW AND GOOD BOOKS BY BEST AUTHORS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Beautiful Snow, and Other Poems. <i>New Illustrated Edition.</i> By J. W. Watson. With Illustrations by E. L. Henry. One volume, morocco cloth, black and gold, gilt top, side, and back, price $2.00; or in maroon morocco cloth, full gilt edges, full gilt back, full gilt sides,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$3 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Outcast, and Other Poems. By J. W. Watson. One volume, green morocco cloth, gilt top, side and back, price $2.00; or in maroon morocco cloth, full gilt edges, full gilt back, full gilt sides,</td>
    <td class='c019'>3 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Young Magdalen; and Other Poems. Bound in green morocco cloth, gilt top, side, and back, price $3.00; or in full gilt,</td>
    <td class='c019'>4 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Hans Breitmann’s Ballads. By Charles G. Leland. <i>Containing the “First,” “Second,” “Third” “Fourth,” and “Fifth Series” of Hans Breitmann’s Ballads.</i> Complete in one large volume, bound in morocco cloth, gilt side, gilt top, and full gilt back, with beveled boards. With a full and complete Glossary to the whole work,</td>
    <td class='c019'>4 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Meister Karl’s Sketch Book. By Charles G. Leland. (Hans Breitmann.) Complete in one volume, green morocco cloth, gilt side, gilt top, gilt back, with beveled boards, price $2.50, or in maroon morocco cloth, full gilt edges, full gilt back, full gilt sides, etc.,</td>
    <td class='c019'>3 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Ladies’ Guide to True Politeness and Perfect Manners. By Miss Leslie. Every lady should have it. Cloth, full gilt back,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Ladies’ Complete Guide to Needlework and Embroidery. With 113 illustrations. By Miss Lambert. Cloth, full gilt back,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Ladies’ Work Table Book. 27 illustrations. Paper 50 cts., cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Dow’s Short Patent Sermons. By Dow, Jr. In 4 vols., cloth, each</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Wild Oats Sown Abroad. By T. B. Witmer, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Miser’s Daughter. By William Harrison Ainsworth, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Across the Atlantic. Letters from France, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, and England. By C. H. Haeseler, M.D. Bound in cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Popery Exposed. An Exposition of Popery as it was and is, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Adopted Heir. By Miss Pardoe, author of “The Earl’s Secret,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Coal, Coal Oil, and all other Minerals in the Earth. By Eli Bowen,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Secession, Coercion, and Civil War. By J. B. Jones,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lives of Jack Sheppard and Guy Fawkes. Illustrated. One vol., cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Christy and White’s Complete Ethiopian Melodies, bound in cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Historical Sketches of Plymouth, Luzerne Co., Penna. By Hendrick B. Wright, of Wilkesbarre. With Twenty-five Photographs,</td>
    <td class='c019'>4 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Dr. Hollick’s great work on the Anatomy and Physiology of the Human Figure, with colored dissected plates of the Human Figure,</td>
    <td class='c019'>2 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Riddell’s Model Architect. With 22 large full page colored illustrations, and 44 plates of ground plans, with plans, specifications, costs of building, etc. One large quarto volume, bound,</td>
    <td class='c019'>15 00</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>HARRY COCKTON’S LAUGHABLE NOVELS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Valentine Vox, Ventriloquist,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Valentine Vox, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Sylvester Sound,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Love Match,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Fatal Marriages,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Steward,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Percy Effingham,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Prince,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>BOOKS IN SETS BY THE BEST AUTHORS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth’s Famous Works. 43 vols. in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$64 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mrs. Ann S. Stephens’ Celebrated Novels. 23 volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>34 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Miss Eliza A. Dupuy’s Wonderful Books. Fourteen volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>21 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mrs. Caroline. Lee Hentz’s Exquisite Books. Twelve volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>18 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mrs. C. A. Warfield’s Popular Works. Nine volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>13 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Frederika Bremer’s Domestic Novels. Six volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>9 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>T. Adolphus Trollope’s Italian Novels. Seven volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>10 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>James A. Maitland’s Household Stories. Seven volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>10 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Charles Lever’s Works. Ten volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>15 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Alexander Dumas’ Great Romances. Twenty-one volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>31 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Frank Fairlegh’s Works. Six volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>9 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Cook Books. The best in the world. Eleven volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>16 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mrs. Henry Wood’s Novels. Seventeen volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>29 75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Q. K. Philander Doestick’s Funny Books. Four vols. in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>6 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Emerson Bennett’s Indian Stories. Seven volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>10 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>American Humorous Books. Illustrated. Twelve volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>18 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Eugene Sue’s Best Works. Three volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>4 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>George Sand’s Great Novels. Consuelo, etc. Five volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>7 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>George Lippard’s Weird Romances. Five volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>10 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Dow’s Short Patent Sermons. Four volumes in all,</td>
    <td class='c019'>5 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Waverley Novels. <i>New National Edition.</i> Five 8vo. vols., cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>15 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Charles Dickens’ Works. <i>New National Edition.</i> 7 volumes, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>20 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Charles Dickens’ Works. <i>Illustrated 8vo. Edition.</i> 18 vols., cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>27 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Charles Dickens’ Works. <i>New American Edition.</i> 22 vols., cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>33 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Charles Dickens’ Works. <i>Green Cloth 12mo. Edition.</i> 22 vols., cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>44 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Charles Dickens’ Works. <i>Illustrated 12mo. Edition.</i> 36 vols., cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>45 00</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div>ALEXANDER DUMAS’ ROMANCES, IN PAPER.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Count of Monte-Cristo,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Edmond Dantes,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Three Guardsmen,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Twenty Years After,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Bragelonne,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Iron Mask,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Louise La Valliere,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Diana of Meridor,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Adventures of a Marquis,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Love and Liberty, (1792–’93)</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Memoirs of a Physician; or, Joseph Balsamo,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Queen’s Necklace,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Six Years Later,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Countess of Charny,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Andree de Taverney,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Chevalier,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Forty-five Guardsmen,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Iron Hand,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Conscript,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Camille; or, The Fate of a Coquette, (La Dame Aux Camelias,)</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Countess of Monte-Cristo. The companion to Count of Monte-Cristo,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Wife of Monte-Cristo,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Son of Monte-Cristo,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Monte-Cristo’s Daughter,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Mohicans of Paris,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Horrors of Paris,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Fallen Angel,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Felina de Chambure,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Sketches in France,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Isabel of Bavaria,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Man with Five Wives,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Annette; or, Lady of Pearls,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Twin Lieutenants,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>George;  or, Isle of France,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Madame de Chamblay,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Corsican Brothers,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Marriage Verdict,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Count of Moret,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Black Tulip,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Buried Alive,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>☞ Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on Receipt of Retail Price, by T. B. Petersen &#38; Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>ÉMILE ZOLA’S NEW REALISTIC BOOKS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c020'>Nana! Sequel to L’Assommoir. <i>By Emile Zola.</i> Nana! Price 75 cents
in paper cover, or $1.00 in morocco cloth, black and gold. Nana!</p>

<p class='c020'>L’Assommoir; or, Nana’s Mother. <i>By Emile Zola.</i> The Greatest Novel
ever printed. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth.</p>

<p class='c020'>The Shop Girls of Paris. With their daily Life in Large Dry Goods Stores.
<i>By Emile Zola</i>, author of “Nana.” Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25.</p>

<p class='c020'>Nana’s Brother. Son of “Gervaise,” of “L’Assommoir.” <i>By Emile Zola</i>,
author of “Nana.” Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25.</p>

<p class='c020'>The Joys of Life. <i>By Emile Zola</i>, author of “Nana,” “Pot-Bouille,” etc.
Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in morocco cloth, black and gold.</p>

<p class='c020'>Her Two Husbands; and Other Novelettes. <i>By Emile Zola.</i> Price 75
cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in morocco cloth, black and gold.</p>

<p class='c020'>Pot-Bouille. <i>By Emile Zola</i>, author of “Nana.” “Pot-Bouille.” Price
75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in morocco cloth, black and gold.</p>

<p class='c020'>Nana’s Daughter. A Continuation of and Sequel to Emile Zola’s Great
Realistic Novel of “Nana.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth.</p>

<p class='c020'>The Mysteries of the Court of Louis Napoleon. <i>By Emile Zola.</i> Price
75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold.</p>

<p class='c020'>The Girl in Scarlet; or, the Loves of Silvère and Miette. <i>By Emile Zola.</i>
Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth.</p>

<p class='c020'>Albine; or, The Abbé’s Temptation. (<i><span lang="fr">La Faute De L’Abbe Mouret.</span></i>) <i>By
Emile Zola.</i> Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold.</p>

<p class='c020'>La Belle Lisa; or, The Paris Market Girls. <i>By Emile Zola.</i> Price 75
cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in morocco cloth, black and gold.</p>

<p class='c020'>Hélène, a Love Episode; or, <i><span lang="fr">Une Page D’Amour</span></i>. <i>By Emile Zola.</i>
Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold.</p>

<p class='c020'>A Mad Love; or The Abbé and His Court. <i>By Emile Zola.</i> Price 75
cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold.</p>

<p class='c020'>Claude’s Confession. <i>By Emile Zola</i>, author of “Nana,” “L’Assommoir,”
“Hélène,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth.</p>

<p class='c020'>The Mysteries of Marseilles. <i>By Emile Zola</i>, author of “Nana.” Price
75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold.</p>

<p class='c020'>Magdalen Ferat. <i>By Emile Zola.</i> Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25.</p>

<p class='c020'>In the Whirlpool. <i>By Emile Zola.</i> Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25.</p>

<p class='c020'>Thérèse Raquin. <i>By Emile Zola.</i> Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.00.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>MRS. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS IN CHEAP FORM.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Ishmael; or, in the Depths—being “Self-Made; or, Out of the Depths.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Self-Raised; or, From the Depths. Sequel to “Ishmael.”</div>
      <div class='line'>The Bride of an Evening; or, The Gipsy’s Prophecy.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Missing Bride; or, Miriam, the Avenger.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Bridal Eve.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Curse of Clifton; or, The Widowed Bride.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Bride’s Fate.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Changed Brides; or, Winning Her Way.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Fatal Marriage.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>Above are cheap editions, in paper cover, price 75 cents each.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The Red Hill Tragedy.</div>
      <div class='line'>Sybil Brotherton.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>Above are cheap editions, in paper cover, price 50 cents each.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Fashion and Famine. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. Cheap edition. 75 cts.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>PETERSONS’ SQUARE 12mo. SERIES.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>The following books are printed on tinted paper, and are issued in uniform style, in square 12mo. form. Price 50 Cents in Paper, or $1.00 in Cloth.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Helen’s Babies. By John Habberton. With an Illustrated Cover.</div>
      <div class='line'>Mrs. Mayburn’s Twins. By John Habberton, author of Helen’s Babies.</div>
      <div class='line'>Bertha’s Baby. Equal to “Helen’s Babies.” With Illustrated Cover.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Annals of a Baby. Baby’s First Gifts, etc. By Mrs. Stebbins.</div>
      <div class='line'>Bessie’s Six Lovers. A Charming Love Story. By Henry Peterson.</div>
      <div class='line'>Father Tom and the Pope; or, A Night at the Vatican. Illustrated.</div>
      <div class='line'>Not His Daughter. A Society Novel. By Will Herbert.</div>
      <div class='line'>A Bohemian Tragedy. A Novel of New York Life. By Lily Curry.</div>
      <div class='line'>Little Heartsease. Equal to Rhoda Broughton’s. By Annie L. Wright.</div>
      <div class='line'>Two Kisses. A Bright and Snappy Love Story. By Hawley Smart.</div>
      <div class='line'>Her Second Love. A Thrilling Life-like and Captivating Love Story.</div>
      <div class='line'>A Parisian Romance. <i>Octave Feuillet’s New Book, just dramatized.</i></div>
      <div class='line'>Fanchon, the Cricket; or, La Petite Fadette. By George Sand.</div>
      <div class='line'>Two Ways to Matrimony; or, Is it Love? or, False Pride.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Matchmaker. By Beatrice Reynolds. A Charming Love Story.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Story of Elizabeth. By Miss Thackeray, daughter of W. M. Thackeray.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Amours of Philippe; or, Philippe’s Love Affairs, by Octave Feuillet.</div>
      <div class='line'>Raney Cottem’s Courtship. By author of “Major Jones’s Courtship.”</div>
      <div class='line'>A Woman’s Mistake; or, Jacques de Trévannes. A Charming Love Story.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Days of Madame Pompadour. A Romance of the Reign of Louis XV.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Little Countess. By Octave Feuillet, author of “Count De Camors.”</div>
      <div class='line'>The American L’Assommoir. A parody on Zola’s “L’Assommoir.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Hyde Park Sketches. A very humorous and entertaining work.</div>
      <div class='line'>Miss Margery’s Roses. A Charming Love Story. By Robert C. Meyers.</div>
      <div class='line'>Madeleine. A Charming Love Story. Jules Sandeau’s Prize Novel.</div>
      <div class='line'>Carmen. By Prosper Merimee. <i>Book the Opera was dramatized from.</i></div>
      <div class='line'>That Girl of Mine. By the author of “That Lover of Mine.”</div>
      <div class='line'>That Lover of Mine. By the author of “That Girl of Mine.”</div>
      <div class='line'>The Count of Monte-Cristo. Cheap edition, paper cover. Price 50 cents.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>PETERSONS’ SQUARE 12mo. SERIES.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Edmond Dantes. Sequel to Alexander Dumas’ “Count of Monte-Cristo.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Monte-Cristo’s Daughter. Sequel to and end of “Edmond Dantes.”</div>
      <div class='line'>The Wife of Monte-Cristo. Continuation of “Count of Monte-Cristo.”</div>
      <div class='line'>The Son of Monte-Cristo. The Sequel to “The Wife of Monte-Cristo.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Camille; or, The Fate of a Coquette. (La Dame Aux Camelias.)</div>
      <div class='line'>Married Above Her. A Society Romance. By a Lady of New York.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Man from Texas. A Powerful Western Romance, full of adventure.</div>
      <div class='line'>Erring, Yet Noble. A Book of Women and for Women. By I. G. Reed.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Fair Enchantress; or, How She Won Men’s Hearts. By Miss Keller.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>Above are in paper cover, price 75 cents each, or $1.25 each in cloth.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Harry Coverdale’s Courtship and Marriage. Paper, 75 cts.; cloth, $1.50.</div>
      <div class='line'>Those Pretty St. George Girls. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, gilt, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Vidocq! The French Detective. Illustrated. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Black Venus. <i>By Adolphe Belot.</i> Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>La Grande Florine. <i>By Adolphe Belot.</i> Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Stranglers of Paris. <i>By Adolphe Belot.</i> Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Major Jones’s Courtship. 21 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Major Jones’s Georgia Scenes. 12 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Major Jones’s Travels. 8 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Simon Suggs’ Adventures. 10 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cts., cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Louisiana Swamp Doctor. 6 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Initials. ‘A. Z.’ By Baroness Tautphœus. Paper, 75 cts., cloth, $1.25</div>
      <div class='line'>Indiana! A Love Story. By George Sand. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Consuelo. By George Sand. Paper cover, Price 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Countess of Rudolstadt. <i>Sequel to Consuelo.</i> Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Mark Maynard’s Wife. By Frankie F. King. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Master of L’Etrange. By Eugene Hall. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>Dora’s Device. By George R. Cather. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>Snob Papers. A Book Full of Roaring Fun. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>Karan Kringle’s Courtship and Journal. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Prairie Flower, and Leni-Leoti. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Monsieur, Madame, and the Baby. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>L’Evangéliste. By Alphonse Daudet. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Duchesse Undine. By H. Penn Diltz. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Hidden Record. By E. W. Blaisdell. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>A Russian Princess. By Emmanuel Gonzales. Paper, 75 cents, cloth,$1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>A Woman’s Perils; or, Driven from Home. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>A Fascinating Woman. By Edmond Adam. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>La Faustin. By Edmond de Concourt. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>Monsieur Le Ministre. By Jules Claretie. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>Winning the Battle; or, One Girl in 10,000. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>A Child of Israel. By Edouard Cadol. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Exiles. The Russian ‘Robinson Crusoe.’ Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>My Hero. A Love Story. By Mrs. Forrester. Paper, 75 cts., cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Paul Hart; or, The Love of His Life. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>Mildred’s Cadet; or, Hearts and Bell-Buttons. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Bellah. A Love Story. By Octave Feuillet. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Sabine’s Falsehood. A Love Story. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Linda; or, The Young Pilot of the Belle Creole. Paper, 75 cts., cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Woman in Black. Illustrated Cover. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>Madame Bovary. By Gustave Flaubert. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Count de Camors. <i>By Octave Feuillet.</i> Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>How She Won Him! A Love Story. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>Angèle’s Fortune. By André Theuriet. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>St. Maur; or, An Earl’s Wooing. Paper cover, price 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Prince of Breffny. <i>By Thomas P. May.</i> Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.50.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Earl of Mayfield. <i>By Thomas P. May.</i> Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>MRS. E. H. BURNETT’S NOVELETTES.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Kathleen. A Love Story. By author of “That Lass o’ Lowries.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Theo. A Love Story. By author of “Kathleen,” “Miss Crespigny,” etc.</div>
      <div class='line'>Lindsay’s Luck. A Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.</div>
      <div class='line'>Pretty Polly Pemberton. By author of “Kathleen,” “Theo,” etc.</div>
      <div class='line'>A Quiet Life. By Mrs. Burnett, author of “That Lass o’ Lowries.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Miss Crespigny,      <i>also</i>      Jarl’s Daughter. By Mrs. Burnett.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>Above are in paper cover, price 50 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.00 each.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>HENRY GRÉVILLE’S CHARMING NOVELS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c020'>Zitka; or, The Trials of Raïssa. A Russian Love Story, from which the
Play of “Zitka,” now being performed to crowded houses at all the principal
theatres in the United States, was dramatized. <i>By Henry Gréville.</i></p>

<p class='c020'>The Princess Oghérof. <i>A Love Story. By Henry Gréville.</i></p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>Above are in paper cover, price 75 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.00 each.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Dosia. <i>A Russian Story. By Henry Gréville</i>, author of “Markof.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Savéli’s Expiation. A Powerful Russian Story. By Henry Gréville.</div>
      <div class='line'>Tania’s Peril. A Russian Love Story. By Henry Gréville.</div>
      <div class='line'>Sonia. A Love Story. By Henry Gréville, author of “Dosia.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Lucie Rodey. A Charming Society Novel. By Henry Gréville.</div>
      <div class='line'>Bonne-Marie. A Tale of Normandy and Paris. By Henry Gréville.</div>
      <div class='line'>Xenie’s Inheritance. A Tale of Russian Life. By Henry Gréville.</div>
      <div class='line'>Dournof. A Russian Story. By Henry Gréville, author of “Dosia.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Mam’zelle Eugenie. A Russian Love Story. <i>By Henry Gréville.</i></div>
      <div class='line'>Gabrielle; or, The House of Maurèze. By Henry Gréville.</div>
      <div class='line'>A Friend; or, “L’Ami.” By Henry Gréville, author of “Dosia.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>Above are in paper cover, price 50 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.00 each.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Marrying Off a Daughter. <i>A Love Story. By Henry Gréville.</i></div>
      <div class='line'>Sylvie’s Betrothed. <i>A Charming Novel. By Henry Gréville.</i></div>
      <div class='line'>Philomène’s Marriages. A Love Story. <i>By Henry Gréville.</i></div>
      <div class='line'>Guy’s Marriage; <i>also</i> Pretty Little Countess Zina. <i>By Henry Gréville.</i></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>Above are in paper cover, price 75 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.25 each.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Markof, the Russian Violinist. Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, $1.50.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>THE “COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO SERIES.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The Count of Monte-Cristo. Illustrated. Paper cover, $1.00, cloth, $1.50.</div>
      <div class='line'>Edmond Dantes. Sequel to “Monte-Cristo.” Paper, 75 cts., cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>Monte-Cristo’s Daughter. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Countess of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, $1.00, morocco cloth, $1.50.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Wife of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, 75 cents, morocco cloth, $1.25.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Son of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, 75 cents, morocco cloth, $1.25.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>BOOKS BY AUTHOR OF ‘A HEART TWICE WON.’</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c020'>A Heart Twice Won; or, Second Love. <i>A Love Story. By Mrs. Elizabeth
Van Loon.</i> Morocco cloth, black and gold. Price $1.50.</p>

<p class='c020'>Under the Willows; or, The Three Countesses. <i>By Mrs. Elizabeth Van
Loon</i>, author of “A Heart Twice Won.” Cloth, and gold. Price $1.50.</p>

<p class='c020'>The Shadow of Hampton Mead. <i>A Charming Story. By Mrs. Elizabeth
Van Loon</i>, author of “A Heart Twice Won.” Cloth. Price $1.50.</p>

<p class='c020'>The Mystery of Allanwold. <i>A Thrilling Novel. By Mrs. Elizabeth Van
Loon</i>, author of “A Heart Twice Won.” Cloth, and gold. Price $1.50.</p>

<p class='c020'>The Last Athenian. <i>By Victor Rydberg.</i> Translated from the Swedish.
Large 12mo. volume, near 600 pages, cloth, black and gold, price $1.75.</p>

<p class='c020'>The Roman Traitor; or, The Days of Cicero, Cato, and Cataline. <i>A Tale
of the Republic. By Henry William Herbert.</i> Morocco cloth, price $1.75.</p>

<p class='c020'>Francatelli’s Modern Cook Book for 1887. <i>Enlarged Edition.</i> With the
most approved methods of French, English, German, and Italian Cookery.
With 62 Illustrations. 600 pages, morocco cloth, price $5.00.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>All Books published by T. B. Peterson &#38; Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa., will be sent to any one, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>PETERSONS’ “DOLLAR SERIES.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c020'><i>Petersons’ “Dollar Series” of Good Novels are the cheapest books at One Dollar each
ever published. They are all issued in uniform, style, in 12mo. form, and are
bound in red, blue and tan vellum, with gold and black sides and back, and are sold
at the low price of One Dollar each, while they are as large as any books published
at $1.75 and $2.00 each. The following have already been issued in this series</i>:</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>A Woman’s Thoughts About Women. By Miss Mulock.</div>
      <div class='line'>Two Ways to Matrimony; or, Is It Love, or, False Pride?</div>
      <div class='line'>The Story of “Elizabeth.” By Miss Thackeray.</div>
      <div class='line'>Flirtations in Fashionable Life. By Catharine Sinclair.</div>
      <div class='line'>Lady Edith; or, Alton Towers. A very charming and fascinating work.</div>
      <div class='line'>Myrtle Lawn; or, True Love Never Did Run Smooth. A Love Story.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Matchmaker. A Society Novel. By Beatrice Reynolds.</div>
      <div class='line'>Rose Douglas, the Bonnie Scotch Lass. A Companion to “Family Pride.”</div>
      <div class='line'>The Earl’s Secret. A Charming Love Story. By Miss Pardoe.</div>
      <div class='line'>Family Secrets. A Companion to “Family Pride,” and very fascinating.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Macdermots of Ballycloran. An Exciting Novel, by A. Trollope.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Family Save-All. With Economical Receipts for the Household.</div>
      <div class='line'>Self-Sacrifice. A Charming Work. By author of “Margaret Maitland.”</div>
      <div class='line'>The Pride of Life. A Love Story. By Lady Jane Scott.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Rival Belles; or, Life in Washington. Author “Wild Western Scenes.”</div>
      <div class='line'>The Clyffards of Clyffe. By James Payn, author “Lost Sir Massingberd.”</div>
      <div class='line'>The Orphan’s Trials; or, Alone in a Great City. By Emerson Bennett.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Heiress of Sweetwater. A Love Story, abounding with exciting scenes.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Refugee. A delightful book, full of food for laughter, and information.</div>
      <div class='line'>Lost Sir Massingberd. A Love Story. By author of “Clyffards of Clyffe.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Cora Belmont; or, The Sincere Lover. A True Story of the Heart.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Lover’s Trials; or, The Days Before the Revolution. By Mrs. Denison.</div>
      <div class='line'>My Son’s Wife. A strong, bright, interesting and charming Novel.</div>
      <div class='line'>Aunt Patty’s Scrap Bag. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, author of “Rena.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Saratoga! and the Famous Springs. An Indian Tale of Frontier Life.</div>
      <div class='line'>Country Quarters. A Charming Love Story. By Countess of Blessington.</div>
      <div class='line'>Self-Love. A Book for Young Ladies, with prospects in Life contrasted.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Devoted Bride; or, Faith and Fidelity. A Love Story.</div>
      <div class='line'>Colley Cibber’s Life of Edwin Forrest, with Reminiscences of the Actor.</div>
      <div class='line'>Out of the Depths. The Story of a Woman’s Life, and a Woman’s Book.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Queen’s Favorite; or, The Price of a Crown. A Romance of Don Juan.</div>
      <div class='line'>Six Nights with the Washingtonians. By T. S. Arthur. Illustrated.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Coquette; or, the Life and Letters of the beautiful Eliza Wharton.</div>
      <div class='line'>Harem Life in Egypt and Constantinople. By Emmeline Lott.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Old Patroon; or, The Great Van Broek Property, by J. A. Maitland.</div>
      <div class='line'>Nana. By Emile Zola.</div>
      <div class='line'>Gambling Exposed. By J. H. Green.</div>
      <div class='line'>L’Assommoir. By Emile Zola.</div>
      <div class='line'>Woodburn Grange. By W. Howitt.</div>
      <div class='line'>Dream Numbers. By Trollope.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Cavalier. By G. P. R. James.</div>
      <div class='line'>A Lonely Life.</div>
      <div class='line'>Across the Atlantic.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Beautiful Widow.</div>
      <div class='line'>Shoulder Straps. By H. Morford.</div>
      <div class='line'>Love and Duty. By Mrs. Hubback.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Brothers’ Secret.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Heiress in the Family.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Rector’s Wife.</div>
      <div class='line'>Woman’s Wrong. A Woman’s Book.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Man of the World.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>PETERSONS’ “STERLING SERIES.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c020'><i>“Petersons’ Sterling Series” of New and Good Books are the Cheapest Novels
in the world. They are all issued in uniform style, in octavo form, price
One Dollar each, bound in morocco cloth, black and gold; or 75 cents each
in paper cover, with the edges cut open all around. The following
celebrated works have already been issued in this series</i>:</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Corinne; or, Italy. By Madame De Stael. This is a Wonderful Book.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Man in Black; or the Days of Queen Anne. By G. P. R. James.</div>
      <div class='line'>Edina; or, Missing Since Midnight. A Love Story. By Mrs. Henry Wood.</div>
      <div class='line'>Cyrilla. A Love Story. By the author of “The Initials.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Popping the Question; or, Belle of the Ball. By author of “The Jilt.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Marrying for Money. A Charming Love Story in Real Life.</div>
      <div class='line'>Aurora Floyd. An Absorbing Love Story. By Miss M. E. Braddon.</div>
      <div class='line'>Salathiel; or, The Wandering Jew. By Rev. George Croly.</div>
      <div class='line'>Harry Lorrequer. Full of Fun, Frolic and Adventure. By Charles Lever.</div>
      <div class='line'>Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon. Charles Lever’s Greatest Novel.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Flirt. A Fashionable Novel. By author of “The Gambler’s Wife.”</div>
      <div class='line'>The Dead Secret. Wilkie Collins’ Greatest Work.</div>
      <div class='line'>Thackeray’s Irish Sketch Book, with Thirty-eight Illustrations.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Wife’s Trials. Dramatic and Powerful. By Miss Julia Pardoe.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Man With Five Wives. By Alexander Dumas, author of “Camille.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Pickwick Abroad. Illustrated by Cruikshank. By G. W. M. Reynolds.</div>
      <div class='line'>First and True Love. Beautifully rich in style. By George Sand.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Mystery; or, Anne Hereford. A Love Story. By Mrs. Henry Wood.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Steward. Illustrated. By the author of “Valentine Vox.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Basil: or, The Crossed Path. By Wilkie Collins. Told with great power.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Jealous Wife. Great originality of plot. By Miss Julia Pardoe.</div>
      <div class='line'>Sylvester Sound. By the author of “Valentine Vox, the Ventriloquist.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Whitefriars; or, The Days of Charles the Second. Equal to “Ivanhoe.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Webster and Hayne’s Speeches on Foot’s Resolution &#38; Slavery Compromise.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Rival Beauties. A Beautiful Love Story. By Miss Pardoe.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Confessions of a Pretty Woman. By Miss Julia Pardoe.</div>
      <div class='line'>Flirtations in America; or, High Life in New York.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Coquette. A Powerful and Amusing Tale of Love and Pride.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Latimer Family. T. S. Arthur’s Great Temperance Story, illustrated.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above books are $1.00 each in cloth, or 75 cents each in paper cover.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The Creole Beauty. By Mrs. Sarah A. Dorsey. Price Fifty cents.</div>
      <div class='line'>Agnes Graham. By Mrs. Sarah A. Dorsey. Price Fifty cents.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>HENRY MORFORD’S AMERICAN NOVELS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Shoulder Straps,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Coward,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Days of Shoddy. A History of the late War,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='large'>THE SHAKSPEARE NOVELS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Shakspeare and his Friends,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Youth of Shakspeare,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Secret Passion,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above three Books are also bound in morocco cloth. Price $1.25 each.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>CHARLES LEVER’S GREAT WORKS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Charles O’Malley,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Harry Lorrequer,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Jack Hinton,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Tom Burke of Ours,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Knight of Gwynne,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Arthur O’Leary,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Con Cregan,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Davenport Dunn,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Horace Templeton,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Kate O’Donoghue,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are in paper cover, or a fine edition is in cloth at $1.50 each.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>A Rent in a Cloud,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>St. Patrick’s Eve,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Ten Thousand a Year, in one volume, paper cover, $1.00; or in cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Diary of a Medical Student, by author “Ten Thousand a Year,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>MRS. HENRY WOOD’S MASTERLY BOOKS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Master of Greylands,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Within the Maze,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Dene Hollow,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Bessy Rane,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>George Canterbury’s Will,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Verner’s Pride,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Channings,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Shadow of Ashlydyat,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Squire Trevlyn’s Heir,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Oswald Cray,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mildred Arkell,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Red Court Farm,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Elster’s Folly,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Saint Martin’s Eve,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Roland Yorke. A Sequel to  “The Channings,”</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lord Oakburn’s Daughters;  or, The Earl’s Heirs,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Castle’s Heir;  or, Lady Adelaide’s Oath,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Edina; or, Missing Since Midnight. Cloth, $1.00, or in paper cover,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Mystery. A Love Story. Cloth, $1.00, or in paper cover,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Parkwater. Told in Twilight,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Lost Bank Note,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Lost Will,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Orville College,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Five Thousand a Year,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Diamond Bracelet,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Clara Lake’s Dream,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Nobleman’s Wife,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Frances Hildyard,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Cyrilla Maude’s First Love,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>My Cousin Caroline’s Wedding,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>A Life’s Secret,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Haunted Tower,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Runaway Match,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Martyn Ware’s Temptation,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Foggy Night at Offord,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>William Allair,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>A Light and a Dark Christmas,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Smuggler’s Ghost,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Rupert Hall,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>My Husband’s First Love,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Marrying Beneath Your Station,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>EUGENE SUE’S LIFE-LIKE WORKS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Wandering Jew,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Mysteries of Paris,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Martin, the Foundling,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Above are in cloth at $1.50 each.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>First Love,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Woman’s Love,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Female Bluebeard,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Man-of-War’s-Man,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Life and Adventures of Raoul de Surville. A Tale of the Empire,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>WILLIAM H. MAXWELL’S WORKS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Wild Sports of the West,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Stories of Waterloo,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Brian O’Lynn,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Life of Grace O’Malley,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS.</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><i>With Illuminated Covers, and beautifully Illustrated by Felix O. C. Darley.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Major Jones’s Courtship. With Illustrations by Darley,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Major Jones’s Travels. Full of Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Major Jones’s Georgia Scenes, with Illustrations by Darley,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Raney Cottem’s Courtship, by author of Major Jones’s Courtship,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Adventures of Captain Simon Suggs. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Major Jones’s Chronicles of Pineville. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Polly Peablossom’s Wedding. With Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Widow Rugby’s Husband. Full of Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Big Bear of Arkansas. Illustrated by Darley,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Western Scenes; or, Life on the Prairie. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Streaks of Squatter Life and Far West Scenes. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Pickings from the New Orleans Picayune. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Stray Subjects Arrested and Bound Over. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Louisiana Swamp Doctor. Full of Illustrations,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Charcoal Sketches. By Joseph C. Neal. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Peter Faber’s Misfortunes. By Joseph C. Neal, Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Peter Ploddy and other Oddities. By Joseph C. Neal,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Yankee Among the Mermaids. By William E. Burton,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Drama in Pokerville. By J. M. Field. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>New Orleans Sketch Book. With Illustrations by Darley,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Deer Stalkers. By Frank Forester. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Quorndon Hounds. By Frank Forester. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>My Shooting Box. By Frank Forester. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Warwick Woodlands. By Frank Forester. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Adventures of Captain Farrago. By H. H. Brackenridge,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Adventures of Major O’Regan. By H. H. Brackenridge,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Sol Smith’s Theatrical Apprenticeship. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Sol Smith’s Theatrical Journey-Work. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Quarter Race in Kentucky. With Illustrations by Darley,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Mysteries of the Backwoods. By T. B. Thorpe,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Percival Mayberry’s Adventures. By J. H. Ingraham,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Sam Slick’s Yankee Yarns and Yankee Letters,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Adventures of Fudge Fumble; or, Love Scrapes of his Life,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Aunt Patty’s Scrap Bag. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Following the Drum. By Mrs. Gen. Viele,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The American Joe Miller. With 100 Engravings,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>SAMUEL WARREN’S BEST BOOKS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Ten Thousand a Year, paper,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Ten Thousand a Year, cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Diary of a Medical Student,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>G. P. R. JAMES’S FASCINATING BOOKS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lord Montague’s Page. Bound in morocco cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Cavalier. By the author of “Lord Montague’s Page,” cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Man in Black,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mary of Burgundy,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Arrah Neil,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Eva St. Clair,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div>MISS PARDOE’S FASCINATING WORKS.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Confessions of a Pretty Woman,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Wife’s Trials,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Jealous Wife,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Rival Beauties,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Romance of the Harem,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Each of the above five books are also bound in cloth, at $1.00 each.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Adopted Heir. One volume, paper, $1.00; or in cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Earl’s Secret. One volume, paper, $1.00; or in cloth,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 50</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>O’MALLEY AND HARRY LORREQUER.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c020'>Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever. <i>Four different
editions</i>: one at 75 cents in paper cover, and three bound in cloth, viz.:
Sterling Series, $1.00, People’s Edition, $1.50, &#38; Library Edition, $1.50.</p>

<p class='c020'>Harry Lorrequer. <i>With His Confessions.</i> By Charles Lever. <i>Four
different editions</i>: one at 75 cents in paper cover, and three bound in
cloth, viz.: Sterling Series, at $1.00, People’s Edition, at $1.50, and
Library Edition, at $1.50.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>T. S. ARTHUR’S HOUSEHOLD NOVELS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Lost Bride,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Two Brides,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Love in a Cottage,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Love in a High Life,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Year after Marriage,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Lady at Home,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Cecilia Howard,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Orphan Children,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Debtor’s Daughter,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Divorced Wife,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mary Moreton,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Pride and Prudence,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Agnes; or, the Possessed,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lucy Sandford,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Banker’s Wife,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Two Merchants,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Trial and Triumph,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Iron Rule,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Insubordination; or, the Shoemaker’s Daughters,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Latimer Family; or, The Bottle and the Pledge. Illustrated,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Six Nights with the Washingtonians; and other Temperance Tales. By T. S. Arthur. With original Illustrations, by George Cruikshank. One large octavo volume, bound in beveled boards, $3.50; red roan, full gilt back, $4.50; or full Turkey morocco, full gilt,</td>
    <td class='c019'>6 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lizzy Glenn; or, the Trials of a Seamstress. Cloth $1.50; or paper,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='large'>MRS. GREY’S CELEBRATED NOVELS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Cousin Harry,</td>
    <td class='c019'>$1 00</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Little Beauty,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1 00</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.50 each.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth91'>
<col class='colwidth8'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>A Marriage in High Life,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Gipsy’s Daughter,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Old Dower House,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Belle of the Family,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Duke and Cousin,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Little Wife,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lena Cameron,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Sybil Lennard,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Manœuvring Mother,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Baronet’s Daughters,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Young Prima Donna,</td>
    <td class='c019'>50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Hyacinthe,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Alice Seymour,</td>
    <td class='c019'>25</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Mary Seaham,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Passion and Principle,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>The Flirt,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Good Society,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c009'>Lion-Hearted,</td>
    <td class='c019'>75</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>☞Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, by T. B. Peterson &#38; Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div><span class='xlarge'><span class='sc'>Ann S. Stephens’ Works.</span></span></div>
    <div class='c002'><b>23</b> Volumes. <b>$1.50</b> each. <b>$34.50</b> a Set.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'><i>T. B. PETERSON &#38; BROTHERS, No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia,
Pa., have just published an entire new, complete, and uniform
edition of all the works written by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, the popular
American Authoress. This edition is in duodecimo form, is printed on
the finest paper, is complete in twenty-three volumes, and each volume is
bound in morocco cloth, library style, with a full gilt back, and is sold at
the low price of $1.50 each, or $34.50 for a full and complete set of the
twenty-three volumes. Every Family, every Reading Club, and every
Private or Public Library in this country, should have in it a complete
set of this new, beautiful and cheap edition of the works of Mrs. Ann
S. Stephens. The following are the names of the volumes</i>:</p>

<div class='lg-container-b'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>BELLEHOOD AND BONDAGE; or, Bought with a Price.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>BERTHA’S ENGAGEMENT.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>LORD HOPE’S CHOICE; or, More Secrets Than One.</div>
      <div class='line in6'>NORSTON’S REST.</div>
      <div class='line'>THE OLD COUNTESS. Sequel to “Lord Hope’s Choice.”</div>
      <div class='line in2'>THE REIGNING BELLE.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>PALACES AND PRISONS; or, The Prisoner of the Bastile.</div>
      <div class='line in6'>MARY DERWENT.</div>
      <div class='line'>THE CURSE OF GOLD; or, The Bound Girl and Wife’s Trials.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>MABEL’S MISTAKE; or, The Lost Jewels.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>WIVES AND WIDOWS; or, The Broken Life.</div>
      <div class='line in6'>THE OLD HOMESTEAD; or, The Pet of the Poor House.</div>
      <div class='line'>THE REJECTED WIFE; or, The Ruling Passion.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>THE WIFE’S SECRET; or, Gillian.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>THE HEIRESS; or, The Gipsy’s Legacy.</div>
      <div class='line in6'>THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS.</div>
      <div class='line'>SILENT STRUGGLES. A Tale of Witchcraft.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>FASHION AND FAMINE.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>RUBY GRAY’S STRATEGY; or, Married by Mistake.</div>
      <div class='line in6'>MARRIED IN HASTE.</div>
      <div class='line'>DOUBLY FALSE; or, Alike and Not Alike.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>THE GOLD BRICK.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>A NOBLE WOMAN; or, A Gulf Between Them.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c006'>☞ <i>Mrs. Ann S. Stephens’ popular books are for sale by all Booksellers
and by the Publishers, at $1.50 each, or $34.50 for a complete set of the
twenty-three volumes. Copies of either one or more of the above books, or
a complete set of them, will be sent at once to any one, to any place,
postage prepaid, or free of freight, on remitting the price of the ones
wanted in a letter to the Publishers</i>,</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>T. B. PETERSON &#38; BROTHERS, Philadelphia.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div><span class='xlarge'>MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c004'><i>T. B. PETERSON &#38; BROTHERS, Philadelphia, have just published
an entire new, complete and uniform edition of all of the celebrated
works written by Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. This edition
is in duodecimo form, is printed on the finest white paper, is complete
in forty-three volumes, and each volume is bound in morocco cloth, with
a full gilt back, and is sold at the low price of $1.50 a volume, or $64.50
for a full and complete set. Every Family, and every Library in this
Country should have in it a complete set of this new edition of the
works of Mrs. Southworth. The following are the names of the volumes</i>:</p>

<div class='lg-container-b'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>THE PHANTOM WEDDING; or, the Fall of the House of Flint.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>SELF-RAISED; or, From the Depths. Sequel to “Ishmael.”</div>
      <div class='line in4'>ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. (Being “Self-Made.”)</div>
      <div class='line in6'>THE “MOTHER-IN-LAW;” or, MARRIED IN HASTE.</div>
      <div class='line'>THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>VICTOR’S TRIUMPH. Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend.”</div>
      <div class='line in4'>A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE.</div>
      <div class='line in6'>LADY OF THE ISLE; or, THE ISLAND PRINCESS.</div>
      <div class='line'>FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, THE MAN HATER.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>HOW HE WON HER. A Sequel to “Fair Play.”</div>
      <div class='line in4'>THE CHANGED BRIDES; or, Winning Her Way.</div>
      <div class='line in6'>THE BRIDE’S FATE. Sequel to “The Changed Brides.”</div>
      <div class='line'>CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow Eve Mystery.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to “Cruel as the Grave.”</div>
      <div class='line in4'>THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or, The Crime and the Curse.</div>
      <div class='line in6'>THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN.</div>
      <div class='line'>THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or, The Brothers.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A NOBLE LORD. Sequel to “Lost Heir of Linlithgow.”</div>
      <div class='line in4'>THE FAMILY DOOM; or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS.</div>
      <div class='line in6'>THE MAIDEN WIDOW. Sequel to “Family Doom.”</div>
      <div class='line'>THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or, The Bride of an Evening.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, The Bridal Day.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>THE THREE BEAUTIES; or, SHANNONDALE.</div>
      <div class='line in6'>ALLWORTH ABBEY; or, EUDORA.</div>
      <div class='line'>FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>VIVIA; or, THE SECRET OF POWER.</div>
      <div class='line in6'>THE BRIDAL EVE; or, ROSE ELMER.</div>
      <div class='line'>THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, The Children of the Isle.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, HICKORY HALL.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>THE TWO SISTERS; or, Virginia and Magdalene.</div>
      <div class='line'>THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, ORVILLE DEVILLE.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>THE WIDOW’S SON: or, LEFT ALONE.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>THE MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW.</div>
      <div class='line'>THE DESERTED WIFE.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>THE WIFE’S VICTORY.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>THE LOST HEIRESS.</div>
      <div class='line in6'>THE ARTIST’S LOVE.</div>
      <div class='line in8'>THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD.</div>
      <div class='line in10'>LOVE’S LABOR WON.</div>
      <div class='line in12'>THE SPECTRE LOVER.</div>
      <div class='line in14'>CURSE OF CLIFTON.</div>
      <div class='line in16'>THE FATAL SECRET.</div>
      <div class='line in18'>RETRIBUTION.</div>
    </div>
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