“THE MEEKNESS OF LOVE”
So she strove against her weakness,
Though at times her spirit sank;
Shaped her heart with woman’s meekness,
To all duties of her rank.—TENNYSON.
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—
“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.”
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—
“Oh! Henny, if you knew how little heart I have to do anything!”
“I _does_ 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.”
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—
“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.”
“An’ that’s the Lord’s trufe, Miss Kate,” said Henny lifting the laden
salver on her head, and settling it steadily, “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.”
“Is your brother going with Major Clifton, Henny?”
“’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!”
And with that Henny set down the salver and began to cry, while her
mistress opened the plate closet.
“Put them in, Henny, and I will see what can be done for you
afterwards,” said Catherine.
Henny obeyed, and then said, as they left the room—
“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—”
“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.”
“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.”
Kate sighed very deeply, with a preoccupied air, but answered—
“I will speak to Major Clifton in your behalf, Henny—now go and ask Mrs.
Mercer to come to me in my own chamber.”
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.”
“I want your assistance, Mrs. Mercer, in preparing Major Clifton’s
wardrobe this week.”
“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.”
“And, certainly, I could not refuse it, Mrs. Mercer. I am sorry your
daughter is ill.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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?”
“Mrs. Mercer, why not? I shall not want it to-day. To-morrow Dandy can
bring it home.”
“God bless you, child! you are so good hearted! It is a sin too to leave
you, so thronged as you are with work.”
“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.
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—
“Will you favor me with your company in my study for a few minutes, Mrs.
Clifton?”
Catherine immediately laid down her work and followed him.
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—
“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?”
“Yes,” answered Catherine attentively.
“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.”
Passing over his bitter jibe, Catherine said—
“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.”
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
_fruits_ ye shall know them—do men gather _thorns_ of _fig trees_?” but
the demon of cherished suspicion whispered, “’Twas all done for a
purpose,” and he hardened his heart, and replied—
“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 have much faith in your natural
talents and acquired experience, but, also, because I have more
confidence in your self-love. And knowing that _you_ know our interests
in the prosperity of this estate to be identical, I rest assured that
you will do for it your very best.”
“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?”
“Will you give me your attention, Mrs. Clifton?” he asked, breaking into
her sad reverie.
Catherine bowed gently.
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—
“You understand, now?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“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.”
“I shall not forget.”
“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 _suspect_ 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.”
“Suppose, for the coming year, you should place my brother Carl here as
overseer? You have tested his skill and probity.”
This was a very unlucky proposition on Catherine’s part. He sat back in
his chair, and looking at her in steady scorn, said—
“Yes, madam, I _have_ ‘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 _command_ you to hold no intercourse with him whatever.”
“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.”
“Jack?”
“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.”
“I have sometimes thought so, however! Well?”
“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—”
“To the point, if you please, Mrs. Clifton.”
“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.”
“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 too young or too old, or too hopelessly
stupid and lumbering.”
“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.”
“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.”
“There are other careful drivers on the place. Please take him with
you.”
“Yes—but those other careful drivers are awkward, ill-looking,
farm-laborers, accustomed to driving and hallooing after ox-teams.”
“Have I been so long used to a carriage, as to be choice in my coachman,
then? Please do not think of that.”
“And then he is your waiter and messenger.”
“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.”
“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—_Mrs. Clifton_,” he corrected himself, suddenly changing his
involuntarily relenting manner into the old sarcasm and scorn.
“Oh, call me Catherine, please call me Catherine,” she said, losing half
her reserve.
“Why? Do you dislike the other name?”
“No—I like it. I am proud of it—not because it is a high, haughty name,
but because it is _yours_. When other people call me ‘Mrs. Clifton,’ my
heart springs with pride and joy, but when you call me so—”
“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.”
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.
Unpityingly, he added—
“And now, Mrs. Clifton, I really must entreat you to excuse me. I expect
Turnbull here, every instant, to have a talk about the stock.”
Catherine arose, trembling, and left the room; one agonized complaint
bursting from her tortured bosom—
“Oh, I would to Heaven this were over—some way!”
He looked after her, with a countenance convulsed with sorrow, groaning—
“_And so would I!_ And so would I to God that this were over—_somehow_!
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—
“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.
Meeting Henny soon after, she told her to be consoled, for that she
thought Jack would be let off.
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.
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 confounded, without opening her lips she turned and left the
room.
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.
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—
“Good-morning, madam,” sat down.
She rang for the coffee, and then took her place at the head of the
table.
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 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—
“What is your pleasure, Mrs. Clifton?”
She attempted to speak, but a mute sob was all that ensued.
With a piercing sarcasm, he asked—
“Can I serve you in any manner this morning, madam?”
With a gesture of deprecation and entreaty, she answered—
“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.”
He frowned, darkly, as with both pain and anger, and replied—
“I have had occasion twice before to remind you, Mrs. Clifton, that this
is a prohibited subject of conversation between us.”
She clasped her hands, in the earnestness of supplication, exclaiming—
“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 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?”
“It is quite sufficient to me, madam,” he answered, haughtily, “that the
proofs of your turpitude are conclusive to my own mind.”
“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.”
“Catherine,” he answered, in a softened voice—“you are not condemned; if
you were, you would not be standing here at my side.”
“What do you mean? good Heaven!”
“THIS,” 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 _not_ 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.”
“And is my case such a one?”
“Your case is such a one.”
“Yet still I beg to be tried! For if _not_ to try them is often the only
way to save the guilty, to _try_ them is oftener the only way to clear
the innocent. Accuse me—hear my defence, and be yourself my judge. I ask
no other.”
“Of what avail were it to rehearse your acts of falsehood and treachery.
You know them this moment even better than I do.”
“Falsehood and treachery—just Heaven!”
“Yes, madam, those were the words I used.”
“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.”
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.”
His strong conviction of her turpitude infected her with despair at
last. She said, very mournfully—
“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 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!”
“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.”
“To betray me!”
“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?”
“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.”
“I _will_ 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?”
Catherine glanced at it—it was the envelope she had directed to Mrs.
Georgia Clifton, and she immediately answered—
“Yes, certainly it is.”
“Ah! it is; when was it written?”
“The last day of your dear mother’s life. Ah! now I remember, it was
from that day you took your favor from me.”
“Yes, madam,” he said, withdrawing the fatal note from the envelope, and
laying it before her, adding, “Do you acknowledge _this_ as your writing
also?”
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—
“Yes, assuredly, that is mine!”
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—
“Would you swear it?”
Catherine took up the letter and examined it.
“Ay! read it, read it.”
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 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.
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—
“I did not write that letter, Archer. I did not write that letter.”
He twisted his hand rudely out of her grasp, and turned away, without
reply.
She clasped her hands earnestly, exclaiming again—
“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!”
An incredulous, insulting smile, was his reply.
“Oh! what shall I say to convince you? _Indeed_, _indeed_ I did not do
it!”
“Come, perjure yourself! Swear it.”
She was silent.
“I ask you to swear it.”
She was still silent.
“Come, now—will you declare upon oath that you did not write that
letter?”
“God sees me! I did not!”
“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?”
“Major Clifton, I cannot!”
“Not swear that you did not write it?”
“No, sir.”
“Then that only confirms and seals the truth of what I knew before,
that, of course, you _did_ write it.”
She wrung her hands in deep distress, and said—
“I cannot swear, Archer. I mean I _dare_ not swear, Archer, even to
prove my innocence, and get back your love.”
“And why, pray?” he asked, with a mocking smile.
“Oh, Archer! my Lord and yours has commanded us to ‘_Swear not at all_.’
I dare not break that command.”
“Tush, girl, you are clumsy. Do you presume to think I can be duped by
that affectation of super-righteousness?”
“Oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven! what shall I do?” said Catherine, in despair.
“Swear, and I will believe you,” he answered, mockingly.
“Oh! _why_ will not my simple word do? Oh! do you think I would tell a
falsehood even to save my life?”
“Do I? Does not an astute diplomatist, like you, know that _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.
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—
“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.”
“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.
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.
Gone! He was gone! His presence that had made all suffering tolerable
was withdrawn, and the place was empty—life itself was empty.
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!
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.
Gone in scorn! Gone in loathing! Gone to return no more but as a
stranger! Oh, insupportable grief! Oh, hopeless anguish! Oh, despair!
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.
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!
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!
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 _hope_, 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.