BETROTHAL.
Twas thy high purity of soul,
Thy thought revealing eye,
That conquered all my pride of heart,
Thou wanderer from the sky.—W. G. CLARK.
Major Clifton held the note between his finger and thumb, in a fit of
abstraction, while a pleasant, contemplative smile dwelt on his face.
“Well, are you not going to answer it?” asked Mrs. Clifton, adding, “The
servant waits.”
“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.”
“Yes, very, very shy, _to you_. 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.”
The door opened, and Catherine entered, from her morning’s household
duties, with her little basket of keys hanging on her arm.
“Come hither, dear Kate,” said Major Clifton, holding out his hand.
Catherine put her little basket in its place, 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.”
He paused for an answer, never removing his eyes from their gaze upon
her glowing cheek.
“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.
Catherine, in extreme confusion, glanced from one to the other, and
finally dropped her eyes again.
“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.
“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.”
“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—
“Forgive—excuse—I know it’s weak, wrong—it is only because—I’m so
grateful!”
The fit of emotion exhausted itself, and she lifted up her face, wiped
her eyes, and said—
“Lady—”
“Call me mother, Kate.”
“Mother! heart’s dearest mother! do you think he mistook me?”
“How, Kate?”
“I couldn’t speak! Indeed, indeed I could not! But I want you to tell
him, _mother_, how grateful I am, and how happy! Tell him, _for I never
can_, 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—”
“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.”
“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!”
“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?”
“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.”
“Thursday, Kate?”
“Yes, Thursday, dear mother.”
The lady then embraced and dismissed her, and settled herself back in
her chair to take a necessary nap.
Catherine left the parlor in that half-blissful, half-fearful trance
that falls upon one when the great life’s desire and 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—
“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?”
The next day Major Clifton rode over to White Cliffs to pay his respects
to Georgia.
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,” asking him if he had not observed a great
change in Mrs. Clifton, ascribable entirely to her influence?
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—
“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.”
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—
“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!”
Major Clifton gazed upon her in wonder. The strong emotion that she had
exhibited, imposed upon him, for there was no doubting its _reality_;
and far from suspecting its _cause_, 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.
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 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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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; _neither does it take me by surprise, I have been
prepared for it months since_. Mrs. Georgia Clifton informed me that
such was your intention.”
“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?”
“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.”
Unconscious of the double meaning of his words, the lady then inquired
into the cause of his gloom.
“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.”
“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.”
A spasm of pain passed over the handsome countenance of Major Clifton,
and he said—
“I will do anything you please, dearest mother; but surely there is no
necessity for haste in this matter.”
“Archer, _there is_. 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.”
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—
“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 _two of them_, 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.”
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—
“Call Henny, my dear Kate, and let her assist you in getting me up
stairs. It has come at last, Kate.”
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.
* * * * *
Mrs. Georgia Clifton was pacing her chamber floor, in all the
distraction of excited evil passions, racking her brain for 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:
“DEAR CARL:—
“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.
“CATHERINE.”
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 imitating the hand-writing of Catherine, she
forged the following letter:
“DEAREST CARL:—
“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_ know how to manage him.
“CATHERINE.”
When she had completed her demon-work, Georgia carefully examined it. It
satisfied her. She smiled, and muttered—“_Any one_ 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!—
“‘I have set my life upon a cast,
And will abide the hazard of the die.’”
* * * * *
In the meanwhile, Catherine watched by the bedside of Mrs. Clifton,
awaiting the return of Major Clifton, with the clergyman and the
attorney.
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.
She held out to him her wasted hand, saying, quietly—
“My dear Archer, I wish to have the marriage ceremony between you and
Kate performed this afternoon, if you please.”
“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 _now_, mother?”
“No, dear Archer, not just yet—I want the holiest things left for the
_last_—I want the will drawn up, witnessed, signed and sealed _first_;
then the marriage ceremony performed; and last, I wish to receive the
Holy Communion—after which, I shall be ready to depart.”
“Mother—the minister and the lawyer are below stairs, awaiting your
leisure—they will remain over to-night. Do not disturb yourself.”
“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.”
Archer Clifton bent and kissed his mother’s forehead, and went down
stairs. In the hall he saw Carl Kavanagh, hat in hand, waiting.
Carl immediately advanced, and said—
“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.
Major Clifton understood the mistake at once, and retaining the note,
replied—
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
“Ah!” said Major Clifton, after greeting her, “I see that you have
received Kate’s note.”
“Yes—one that was never intended for _my_ eyes, but of those of a fellow
conspirator.”
“Conspirator, madam!”
“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!”
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—
“Oh! would to God she had died, or _I_ had, before I knew this!”
“Rejoice, rather, that you are saved!”
“_Saved_, madam!”
“Yes—_saved_. You will never marry her, now. You are perfectly
justifiable in breaking with the unmasked traitress!”
“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.”
“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.”
“My hopes of happiness, did you say, Mrs. Clifton? Ah, lady, can you not
comprehend, then, that when one at my age 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
_no_ 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!”
“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. _My_ friendship is not much,
perhaps, but is it not something?”
“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.”
“To be present at your mad marriage, among other things?”
“Yes.”
“I will not go! I cannot! I cannot witness such a sacrifice.”
“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.
“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!”
“You will think differently, dear lady, and I shall see you again,
shortly.”
“Never!—as the husband of that traitress.”
He did not reply. He raised her hand to his lips, and left her.
Left to herself, mad impulses seized the disappointed woman. 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.
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
_indisposed_ 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—
“Let the marriage ceremony be performed at once, dearest Archer.”
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 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—
“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.”
And she closed her eyes again. After a few minutes, she said—
“Sing to me, dear Kate! You know—Heber’s death hymn.”
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—
“Vital spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, oh! quit this mortal frame;
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh! the pain, the bliss of dying—
Hark! they whisper, angels say—
Sister spirit, come away—
At the end of the first stanza, she murmured, faintly—
“Your voice, too, dear Archer.”
His voice arose now in unison with Catherine’s, and they sang the
remainder—
“The world recedes—it disappears:
Heaven opens on my eyes; my ears
With sounds seraphic ring.
Lend, lend your wings; I mount, I fly!
Oh, grave, where is thy victory?
Oh, death, where is thy sting?”
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—
“Her death
Was like the setting of a planet mild.”