THE GOAL.
Thro’ waves, thro’ storms and clouds
He gently clears thy way,
Trust thou his grace—so shall the night
Soon end in joyous day.—MORAVIAN.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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 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.
“Who is she?” “Where did she come from?” “What is her name?” “Who _is_
the lady?” “Do you know her, sir?” asked some of the officers, crowding
around with offers of assistance.
“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!”
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.
“Kate!” he exclaimed again, raising her higher upon his breast.
A shuddering sigh convulsed her bosom—her languid eyes unclosed.
“Kate!”
“Yes, Kate!” she echoed, nodding her head with that quick, nervous,
spasmodic gesture common to her.
“And why have you done this thing? Why have you placed yourself _en
scene_ like a third-rate opera dancer?”
She raised her fading eyes to his face, pleadingly, murmuring—
“Your wishes—the reprieve!”
“Well, what of that? Was there no one to bring it but yourself?”
Too feeble to enter upon the long explanation required, she only shook
her head, murmuring at intervals—
“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!”
The last words were breathed forth in a long, deep sigh, and she sank
away again into insensibility.
Poor Jack, kneeling by her side, bathed her hand with the water he had
brought, and with his tears that fell like rain.
Major Clifton laid her head down upon the green sward, and rising to his
feet, addressed the officer in command, saying—
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
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.
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—
“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 and taken prisoner by our people in the same
engagement in which _you_ fell into the hands of the enemy, is now
offered in exchange for yourself.”
“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.”
Major Clifton bowed deeply, and requested the use of a boat to leave the
ship.
“Nay—yourself and General Conyers will stay and dine with us?” asked
Captain ——.
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.
“Oh, _mine_ is here at your service. _I_ am going ashore with you of
course,” said General Conyers.
“I beg your pardon, sir! the boat you came in has been taken by Captain
Fairfax, who has gone ashore with it.”
“Ah, true!”
“_Captain Fairfax?_” asked Archer Clifton.
“Yes, my friend, Captain Fairfax. Frank accompanied me hither in search
of _yourself_. 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.””
“The boat is manned, sir,” said a lieutenant to Major Clifton.
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—
“So, you have won noble Catherine? Well, I congratulate you with a whole
heart, though you have won her from my hopes.”
“Won her from your hopes?”
“Ay, Archer, I loved her.”
“Loved her?”
“Yes, and love her!”
“Love her?”
“Yes, and shall _always_ love her, highly and purely though, as a saint
loves an angel.”
“You astonish me!”
“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.”
“I say you astound me! Your suit rejected by Catherine! _Yours?_ Can
this be possible?”
“Possible as that I was nearly driven to despair by her rejection.”
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—
“Catherine reject _you_?”
“Three distinct times, most firmly.”
“Why, upon what possible pretext could she have done so?”
“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.”
Major Clifton started, and grasped the arm of his companion, but
instantly recovering his self-control, he inquired, in a calm voice—
“And who did she say was that other?”
“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 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.’”
“She said that? She said that?” groaned Clifton.
“Yes. You seem strongly moved, Archer?”
“I am! I am! You do not know with how much reason! But go on! Tell me
more of her.”
“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?”
“Yes! Go on!”
“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.”
“Oh, God! Oh, God!” said Clifton.
“What disturbs you so, Archer?”
“Never mind. Never mind! And so, rejecting you as a lover, she won you
as a friend?”
“For life and death and eternity. Yes.”
“That was a triumph! Rejected lovers seldom become friends! That was a
rare triumph! But then Catherine is a rare woman.”
“Very rare!”
“Truly nick-named ‘Maria Theresa.’”
“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.”
“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?”
“Yes! Well?”
“Suppose you had married Catherine?”
“That is very imaginary! Well?”
“And suppose that you had discovered her to be unworthy of your good
opinion?”
“Impossible! It could not have happened, because she could not have been
unworthy.”
“But suppose that her unworthiness had been made manifest to you beyond
all chance of mistake or doubt?”
“D—n it! Don’t let me be profane. It _couldn’t_ 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!”
Major Clifton thrust his hand in his bosom, and drew thence a letter in
a gray envelope, and handing it to General Conyers, asked—
“Do you know that hand-writing?”
“Certainly, I do.”
“Whose is it?”
“Mrs. Catherine Clifton’s.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pooh! Of course I am! I am familiar with the writing!”
“Could you swear to it?”
“You are very emphatic in this matter! Let me see the letter again. Yes,
I could swear to it.”
“And now will you do me the favor to read it?”
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.
“What do you think of it, now?” asked Clifton, bitterly.
“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.”
“And yet, just now you could have sworn to the hand-writing.”
“Death! Yes! And for which presumption I earnestly beg your pardon,
Clifton!”
“And now you are quite as much convinced that she did not write it. How
can you explain this?”
“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!”
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 shaken Clifton’s firm convictions
of her guilt to their uprootings, as the whirlwind shakes the oak. Ay,
and _he_ was shaken—literally shaken, terribly shaken, by strong
passion, as he exclaimed to himself—
“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—
“A Queen of noble Nature’s crowning,”
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 _her_—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 will_ 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 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—”
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—
“My dear Frank!”
“My dearest Clifton!”
Were the words of affectionate greeting interchanged, as they shook
hands.
“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 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 _hers_, 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?”
“In a deep sleep, or rather a trance-sleep, superinduced by the
excessive toil and fatigue she has lately gone through—”
“‘Like a warrior taking his rest!’”
“No—I wish you would not apply that line, great as it is, to _her_. 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.”
The face of Captain Fairfax suddenly clouded over; he put his hand in
his bosom, and then hesitating, said—
“You have seen in the papers the obituary notice of a dear friend?”
“No! Who is it? I have no very dear friend, out of this house, now—whom
do you mean?”
“Mrs. Georgia Clifton is no more.”
Major Clifton started back, and gazed at the speaker with an expression
of deep concern, exclaiming—
“No! Impossible! How could that be? A woman in such fine health!”
“Death is always possible; at all times, and to all persons.”
“When, and where, and under what circumstances, did she die? I am very
sorry.”
“She died a week since, at her house, in Richmond.”
“I am very sorry. The cause of her death?”
“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.”
Frank paused, and Major Clifton kept his eyes fixed with interest upon
his countenance. Frank sighed, and resumed—
“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 _you_ 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.”
“The letter?”
“Here it is. You seem very much agitated, Clifton!”
“With reason! Give it me!”
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
_he_ hoped to be forgiven of God.
The subtle self-love of a man can pardon much in a woman whose motive of
action is a strong passion for himself. Great 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.
“Oh! fool! fool! fool!”
“What is it, Clifton? Who’s a fool?”
“Oh! fool! thrice sodden fool that I’ve been! Thank Heaven. Oh! thank
Heaven!”
“Thank Heaven that he’s a thrice sodden fool! That’s new cause for
thanksgiving! What’s it all about, Archer?”
“Oh! folly! blindness! madness! Heaven be praised! Oh! Heaven be
praised!”
“Heaven be praised for folly, blindness, and madness! Well, Heaven be
praised for all things! But what the deuce is it, Clifton?”
“Mole! mole! Oh, God, how grateful—how rejoiced I am!”
“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 CAUSE,
my soul!’”
“Frank! I’ve been a fool!”
“That’s no news.”
“And a brute!”
“Who doesn’t know that?”
“And a cursed villain.”
“Nay, ‘I wouldn’t hear your enemy say that.’”
“Oh! Frank, Frank, what shall I do?”
“I am sure I don’t know, unless you tell me the premises of action.”
“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.”
“Hist! Here’s the doctor.”
Old Doctor Shaw at this moment passed through the parlor, on his way to
visit his patient.
Major Clifton accompanied him up stairs to her chamber.
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.
“May she not be wakened up, sir?” asked Clifton, almost selfish in his
impatience for a reconciliation.
“By no means. She must be let alone—nature is her best physician, and
the sleep she prescribes, her best medicine.”
“But, sir, I have something of vital importance to communicate to her!”
persisted Clifton.
“Sir, it may be of vital importance to _you_, but it would be of fatal
importance to _her_, should you rouse her to communicate it, whatever it
is.”
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
In the morning!