THE POISON WORKS.
’Tis slander;
Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue
Outvenoms all the worms of the Nile.—SHAKSPEARE.
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.
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—
“Do not grieve so, dear Archer,” she murmured, with her arm again around
him, “do not grieve, but _pray_.”
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—
“Come! madam! no more hypocrisy now! None here at least! It is useless
hereafter! You have accomplished your design. You _are_ a ‘successful
diplomatist,’ and your ’long slavery’ _is_ now over.”
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—
“Ay, cower with conscious guilt! You are discovered! And you should have
been unmasked before _her_ 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!”
But instead of obeying, she stood like a statue before him.
Then he took her hand and led her through the door, and closed it behind
her.
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.
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,’
_all things_, 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. and who placed a note in her hand. It was
from Major Clifton, and read as follows—
“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.
ARCHER CLIFTON.”
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—
“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.
“CATHERINE.”
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.
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.
“Show him in,” said Major Clifton.
The man went out and soon returned, accompanied by Carl, whose face
expressed the most profound and sincere sympathy.
“Set a chair for Mr. Kavanagh, and retire, James.”
The man obeyed, Carl seated himself, and in person repeated his
condolences, and his tenders of service.
In reply, Major Clifton took from his pocket the forged note and laid it
before him, saying, coldly—
“There is the note your sister wrote to you, and sent by mistake to Mrs.
Georgia Clifton. Read it.”
Carl took it up, wondering what might be the use of reading it _now_,
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—
“I am confounded!”
“I should think so, sir!” coldly remarked Major Clifton.
“She speaks of letting _me_ 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!”
“Ah! Really?” asked Mr. Clifton, ironically.
“Really and truly, and sincerely and positively, I had not.”
“Tautological asseveration is no evidence. Why should she have written
to you thus if you had not?”
“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.”
“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.
“Yes, sir!” answered Carl, boldly. “If the proof positive to _my mind_,
as well as to your own did not exist, I _would_ deny it, and I _do_ 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.”
“Or whom, for certain purposes, she _pretended_ to love and venerate so
much.”
“She _did_, sir! She really _did_. She was sincere in her esteem and
affection. She was sincere in all things.”
“I know she affected rare sincerity.”
“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!”
“Well, sir!” said Major Clifton, sternly, his whole manner changing,
“_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 _you_ 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.”
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—
“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 _am_ willing to share the odium with her, hoping, _knowing_ 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.”
“As you please, Mr. Kavanagh. Yet I should not have sent you away with
your young family.”
“You are considerate, sir!” said Carl, bowing, then adding—“I presume
you have no further commands for me, Major Clifton?”
“None, Mr. Kavanagh.”
“Good-night, sir.”
“Good-night.”
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 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.
Major Clifton came out of the back room and met her face to face.
“What were you doing near that door, Catherine?”
“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.”
Clifton, who had never taken his eyes from her, groaned aloud. Then he
said, gravely and sadly—
“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.”
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.
“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 to abuse her privilege
by too long a stay—slowly left the room. She never saw that face again.
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.
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.
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 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.
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—
“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.”
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.
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.
He broke the silence by saying, coldly—
“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.”
Catherine bowed her head in acquiescence. And with a cold nod, he placed
his hat upon his head, and walked forth.
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.