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 Se eee 
 
 
 

 

 

 
FALLEN PRIDE: 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 
 
 AUTHOR OF “MIRIAM, THE AVENGER; OR, THE MISSING BRIDE,” “A BEAUTIFUL FIEND,” 
 “HOW HE WON HER,” “RETRIBUTION,” “CHANGED BRIDES,” “ TRIED FOR HER LIFE,” 
 ““BRIDE’S FATE,” “ WIDOW’S SON,” “‘A NOBLE LORD,” ‘CRUEL AS THE GRAVE,” 
 
 “ FORTUNE SEEKER,” “ALLWORTH ABBEY,’’ “ LOST HEIRESS,” “‘ FAMILY DOOM,” 
 “THE ARTIST’S LOVE,” “LADY OF THE ISLE,” ““HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” 
 “CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “ VICTOR’S TRIUMPH,” “‘ GIPSY’S PROPHECY,” 
 
 ‘‘THE SPECTRE LOVER,” “ MAIDEN WIDOW,” “TWO SISTERS,’’ 
 
 “BRIDAL EVE,” ‘FAIR PLAY,” ‘‘THE FATAL MARRIAGE,” 
 
 ‘* PRINCE OF DARKNESS,’’ ‘‘ BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN,” 
 
 ‘ MOTHER-IN-LAW,” ‘“‘ DESERTED WIFE,” “INDIA,” 
 
 ** DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” ‘‘ WIFE’S VICTORY,” 
 
 ‘STOVE’S LABOR WON,” “THREE BEAUTIES,” 
 
 “THE CHRISTMAS GUEST,” ‘‘ VIVIA,” 
 
 “LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW,” ETO. 
 
 ROA RRS Om AN 
 “*Fallen Pride; or, The Mountain Girl’s Love, is one of the best, if not the best and 
 most absorbing story ever writien by Mrs. Southworth, the Queen of American novelists, 
 It abounds in thrilling incidents, increases in interest at every step, and culminates in a 
 powerful and startling manner. We thus call the attention of our readers to tt, knowing 
 that if they once enter upon its perusal, they will endorse every word we have said in its 
 praise.”—Saturpay Nicur. 
 
 PDP LLB OOOO OPPOPPPPWVPPP_APoPPPPPPPPPPPP PPP 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 
 306 CHESTNUT STREET. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by 
 DAVIS & ELVERSON, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 
 
 MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS, 
 
 Each Work is complete in one large Duodecimo Volume, 
 
 MIRIAM, THE AVENGER; or, THE MISSING BRIDE. 
 VICTOR’S TRIUMPH. A Sequel to ‘‘A Beautiful Fiend.” 
 A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE. 
 FAIR PLAY; OR, THE TEST CF THE LONE ISLE. 
 HOW HE WON HER. A Sequel to * Fair Play.” 
 THE FATAL MARRIAGE, 
 THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW. 
 THE ARTIST’S LOVE, 
 CRUEL AS THE GRAVE. 
 THE CHANGED BRIDES. 
 THE BRIDE’S FATE. A Sequel to ‘‘The Changed Brides.” 
 TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to ‘* Cruel us the Grave.’? 
 THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. 
 THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY. 
 THE FORTUNE SEEKER, 
 THE LOST HEIRESS. 
 THE CHRISTMAS GUEST. 
 THE THREE BEAUTIES. 
 THE WIDOW’S SON. 
 THE BRIDAL EVE. 
 A NOBLE LORD. Scquel to ‘The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.” 
 THE FAMILY DOOM; or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS. 
 THE MAIDEN WIDOW. Sequel to ‘The Family Doom.” 
 THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD, 
 LOVE’S LABOR WON. 
 LADY OF THE ISLE. 
 THE WIFE'S VICTORY. 
 LHE DESERTED WIFE. 
 ALLWORITH ABBEY. 
 FALLEN PRIDE; OR, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE. 
 INDIA; OR, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER, 
 VIVIA; OR, THE SECRET OF POWER, 
 THE CURSE OF CLIFTON. 
 THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER. 
 THE MOTHER-IN-LAW. 
 THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS. 
 THE TWO SISTERS. 
 THE SPECTRE LOVER. RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Above Books are Bound in Morocco Cloth. Price $1.50 Each. 
 
 
 
 Above books are for sale by ull Booksellers. Copies of any one or all 
 of the above books, will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, 
 on receipt of their price by the publishers, 
 
 T. B. PETERSON §& BROTHERS, 
 306 CuEstNuT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, Pa. 
 
| 2 
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 (15) 
 
16 
 
 CHAPTER 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 <rv. 
 XXVI. 
 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
 <xrIx, 
 rey. 
 Seri. 
 <x 3x11. 
 XXXII. 
 XXXIV. 
 XxXV; 
 XXXVI. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES .... ose soccs ewe mane e ane 
 ZOLBIME 26 ses cons esc nc on ce ain sll o's ole aaenne enn 
 THE. Oe TFASTROPHE. . 6 coda cc'ccesc) os nena 
 ‘CIN PALACK CHAMBERS.”... ase ocx suis HiemaneS enn 
 GEORGIA. is.0- secs ccuc's ee .sas6 Vw atlp cree ieee 
 CATHERINE ., viscces ces can cccevedes soe 
 WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM..cceccecccssenes OLD 
 THE RETURN. cs 00 cece oven ss wdals te oioareteinneeeee 
 BETROTHAL... « au 0c. 4 0 peise a's were oles ian entails enn 
 THE POISON WORKS 2 040 esas +00 0.s» 5 uid ose einen 
 DEDICATION. 25 5 00 emcee 50s 0. as sic pialeieie is eiateleite tenn 
 ‘‘pHE MEEKNESS OF LOVE:’’. sds 0 oe =< «s selene 
 CATHERINE’S REGENCY....000¢5 00405 0000 apni anne 
 CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. (ccc caccecce cess scene 
 THE NIGHT. JOURNEY... ,cc0cveeccos esc gene 
 
 THE GOAL. occscecccscs adoe pueclen es 00.6 « cee 436 
 
 KXXVIII. CONCLUSION .<ccesccce tone sceuceen du muna uel 
 
FALLEN PRIDE. 
 
 CHAPTER I) . 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN HUT 
 
 A lonesome lodge 
 That stands so lowe in lonely gien, 
 The little windowe, dim and darke,- 
 Is hung with ivy, brier and yewe. 
 Percy’s RELIQUES 
 
 Upon a glorious morning, in the midsummer of 18—, twe 
 equestrian travellers spurred their horses up the ascent of 
 the Hagle’s Flight, the loftiest and most perilous pass of the 
 Alleghanies. 
 
 Though the sun was near the meridian, and all the sky 
 above was ‘ darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,” and perfectly 
 clear, yet all the carth beneath was covered by a thick, low- 
 lying fog. 
 
 On reaching the highest point of the pass, both travellers 
 drew rein and paused, looking—North, South, East, West— 
 over the ocean of vapor rolling from horizon to horizon below 
 them! And while they so pause, let us catch that nearly ver- 
 tical ray of the sun that falls upon them, lighting up the group 
 like fire above the fog, and daguerreotype them as they stand. 
 
 Both are young men of about the same age, probably 
 twenty-five; both are well mounted upon fine bay horses 
 and both wear the undress uniform of the ———— Regiment 
 of Cavalry ; and here all resemblance between them ceases. 
 
 He on the right hand, who holds in his horse’s head with 
 so tight a rein, causing the gallant steed to arch his beautiful 
 
 peck £0 eracefully, while be lets fly a falcon-glance around 
 (LT) 
 
18 THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 
 
 the shrouded horizon, is Archer Clifton, of Clifton, now huld 
 ing the rank of Captain in the ———— Regiment of Cavalry. 
 liis form is of middle size, strongly built, yet elegantly pro- 
 portioned. His conplexion is dark and bronzed as by ex- 
 posure; his features are Roman; his hair and whiskers 
 trunly cut, are of the darkest chestnut, with what painters 
 call cool lights, which is to say, that there is no warmth of 
 
 esJoring even where the sun lights. Indeed, there is no 
 warmth about the looks of the whole man. His eyes are 
 singularly beautiful and brilliant, combining all those dark, 
 shifting, scintillating, prismatic hues, that would drive an 
 artist mad, for want of colors to portray, or an author to 
 despair, for lack of words to describe. He wears the dark 
 blue uniform of his regiment, and manages his noble charger 
 with the ease and grace only to be found in the accomplished 
 cavalry officer. 
 
 He upon the left hand, who, with languid air and loosened 
 rein, inclines his body form ard, permitting his graceful horse 
 to droop his head and scent the earth, as in quest of herbage, 
 is Francis Fairfax, of Green Plains, a Lieutenant in the com- 
 pany under the command of Captain Clifton: He is of about 
 the same height of Clifton, but his figure is slender almost to 
 fragility. His features are delicate and piquant. His com- 
 plexion is fair and transparent. His hair is also very fair, 
 and waves off from a forehead so snowy, round and smooth, 
 as to seem child-like, especially with those clear blue eyes, 
 that now brood roguishly under their golden lashes, as in 
 profound quest of mischief, and now light up and sparkle with 
 fun and frolic. He missmanages his spoiled pet of a steed 
 with the charming insouctance, only to be seen in the amateur 
 poet, painter, play er, musician, etc., etc., etc. And yet 
 there is sometimes an earnest, thoughtful aspect about the 
 -youth, that surprises one into the suspicion that all his levity 
 is superficial, and hides his deeper and better nature, as stub- 
 ble sometimes covers and conceals a mine of precious metal. 
 
 *« Well!” at last spoke Mr. Fairfax, “it is now about 
 twelve hours since we were eniptied out of that atrocious old 
 etage coach, which, for a week past, has been beating us 
 about in its interior, from side to side, and froin seat to ceil- 
 ing. as if we were a lump of butter in an old woman’s churn, 
 end whose kindest turn of all to us was, when it turned ove: 
 
THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 19 
 
 and shook us out down the precipice, and intc the trough of 
 the Wolf’s Lick, as if we had been apples fed to the pigs 
 
 Oh! by the lost baronetcy of the house of Fairfax, my self: 
 esteem will never recover the effects of it! Perdition seize 
 the picturesque at this price! And ever since long before 
 daybreak this morning, have we been wandering about over 
 these mountain tops, with the earth below us hidden in mist 
 and only the highest peaks looming through the sea of vaper 
 like islands in the ocean! And we plungin, Wildly about in 
 the fog, like death on the pale horse riding the waves! And 
 to the momentarily recurring risk of riding over some hidden 
 precipice of a thousand feet perpendicular. If this be 
 your glorious mountain scenery, to the demon with it! 
 For I had as lief be on the open sea with the ‘ Ancient 
 Mariner!’ ” 
 
 To this half petulant, half laughing philipie Captain Clif 
 ton, while his glance still roved over the shrouded hemis- 
 phere, replied, with an indulgent smile— 
 
 ‘* You cannof see the face of the country for the morning 
 veil she chooses to wear. But wait till high noon, when the 
 sun, her royal lover, in the meridian of his glory, shall raise 
 that gauzy covering, and she, like a right royal bride, shall 
 smile and blush in light and glory.” 
 
 “ By my soul, [ could fancy the lady earth wore this veil 
 to conceal fast gathering tears, rather than smiles or blushes! 
 Anglicé, I think we shall have rain soon—though blistered 
 be my tongue for saying it!—not about the rain Lut about 
 the veil!’ For, look you! Fret as I may at this journey 
 through the mist—yet this fine scenery, under a cloud as it 
 literally zs, gives me a feeling of breadth, grandeur! I ex 
 pand, spread out over the vast area of its shrouded solitudes 
 Oh! it is only on the boundless sea or on the mountain top, 
 with a hemisphere below me, that I feel as if I had room 
 enough to live in! And you give me a feeling of suffocation 
 by drawing in this awful shrouded world to the simile of a 
 lady’s veiled face! But it is not to be wondered at! No, 
 by the shade of Mare Antony, and all other great men, who 
 beld the whole world light in the balance with a woman’s 
 evanescent smile or tear! everything is apropos du femmes 
 
 with you now. Could the musie of the spheres suddenly 
 surst upon your astonished ears, as soon as you had recovered 
 
20 THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 
 
 your senses, your highest note of admiration would be te 
 compare that universal diapason of divine harmony to Lady 
 Carolyn’s silver laugh !” 
 
 “1 do not recollect ever to have heard ‘ Lady’ Carolyn 
 laugh.” 
 
 © T'ex thousand pardons! <A Clifton of Clifton never 
 laughs. But tell me, Captain, whereabouts in the world-~ 
 I incan in the clouds, ave we? And when shall we see this 
 pure pearl of beauty and the rich casket that enshrines her , 
 this stately lily of the mountains and the parterre where she 
 blooms ;—when shall we behold Paradise and the Peri— 
 Clifton and Lady Carolyn ?” 
 
 Without replying to this mock-poetic strain, Captain Clifton 
 remained with his eyes still wandering from East to West, 
 and back again over the rolling vapor. And Fairfax con- 
 tinucd— . 
 
 “T suspect now, by your abstracted air md wandering 
 eye, that you have lost your way in the clouds—not the first 
 time such a thing has happened to a lover, nor would it be 
 strange in a place like this, where the only land-marks are 
 mountain tops sticking out of the fog with a day’s journey 
 between each !” 
 
 At this instant a distant group of peaks broke suddenly 
 through the mist like new isles thrown up by the sea, and 
 glittered whitely in the sunlight against the deep blue 
 Lorizon. 
 
 “See!” exclaimed Clifton, roused from his apathy by the 
 sudden apparition. * Look, Fairfax! I will show you White 
 Cliffs! Look straight before you to the Western horizon— 
 a little North of West. You see a crescent of seven peaks 
 rising through the mist against the sky. That is White 
 Cliffs.” 
 
 “ Looking white enough at this distance—quite ‘ike snows 
 capped mountains, in fact.” 
 
 “Yes. They are of white quartz, and their peaks rising 
 from the girdle of dark evergreens around their base and 
 sides, have quite a cooling effect in hot weather.” 
 
 “Ah! just so. Now how far off are those same blesscd 
 refrigerators ?” 
 
 « About twenty-five miles in a bee-line. But the moun- 
 tain road is very circuitous, and makes the distance nearly 
 
 a 
 
THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 2) 
 
 forty. However, if we ride well, we shall be able to reach 
 Clifton in time to surprise Mrs. Clifton at tea.” 
 
 ‘‘Heaven be praised for that possibility!” ejaculated 
 Fairfax, as they prepared to descend the mountair 
 side. 
 
 As they rode dowa, Captain Clifton, warming slightly from 
 his cool reserve, said— 
 
 “J think, Fairfax, that you, poet and artist as you claim: 
 to be, will rather like Clifton. Tourists, who have visited 
 our part of the country, think the scenery there very finc. 
 It impresses me merely as being unique. There is something 
 formal—but, to myself, not therefore unpleasing in that 
 crescent of seven peaks—the tallest being in the centre and 
 gradually declining thence to the lowest, which may be called 
 the horns of the crescent, and point Southward. These 
 peaks rise from a forest of—first elms and oaks around their 
 base ; then pines farther up their sides; and last of cedars, 
 above which rise the pinnacle of white quartz. This crescent 
 of mountains surrounds and shelters from the North winds 
 the family mansion, which is situated in the woods at its foot. 
 North of the peaks, the country is wild and rugged, but 
 partly covered with thick forest, and affording the best hunt- 
 ing grounds in the world.. There you may course the hare; 
 track the deer; or if your tastes aspire to a fiercer conflict, 
 hunt the wolf, the wild cat, or the bear—!” 
 
 «¢ Or the rattle-snake, copper-head, or moceasin! Thank 
 you, I have no inclination for crusade against those moun- 
 taineers,” laughed Fairfax. 
 
 ‘¢ Perhaps you like angling? There is a trout stream at 
 the foot of the wooded lawn, in front of the house. I must 
 tell you about that, for it is the head waters of a fine 
 river. 
 
 «From the Western cliff there springs a torrent that with 
 _ many a leap, and fall, and rebound, tumbles ‘tumultuously 
 down the side of the mountain, and falling into.a channel at 
 the foot of the lawn flows calmly on, until it meets a second 
 fall, from whence it goes hurrying on, through forests, fields 
 and rocks, taking tribute from many a mountain-torrent, and 
 many a meadow-stream, and widening as it goes, until it bes 
 comes a mighty river, rushing on, to pour its floods into the 
 majestic James. After which, they both go on, breaking 
 
22 THE MOUNTAIN HUT 
 
 through range after range of mountains, and so conquer theit 
 passage to the sea—even as in the feudal days of the olden 
 country, sonie mountain chieftain, gathering his vassals to- 
 gether, came rushing down from his highland home, and 
 laying all the country under tribute in his course, hurried or 
 to throw all his treasures at the feet of his sovereign, and go 
 with hii to the wars.” 
 
 ‘‘ Clifton!” said Fairfax, more seriously than he had yet 
 spoken, ‘all your illustrations—all your metaphors—all 
 your thoughts, fancies and imaginings are—not ‘ of the earth, 
 earthy,’ but worse—far worse—of the world, worldly! Of 
 the world, its castes, customs and conventions—its pomps, 
 vanities and falsities! You speak of the grandest, the most 
 imposing—oh ! let me call it at. once, the most magnificent 
 areca of mountain-scenery in the hemisphere, with all the 
 earth, below and around, covered with a sea of vapor that 
 rises and falls, rolling from horizon to horizon, like the waves 
 of the ocean, and you compare it to a veiled royal bride! 
 You describe a mighty mountain-river, rending its passage 
 through the everijasting rocks, overleaping, uprooting, bear- 
 ing down and bearing on all obstacles to its resistless rush 
 towards the sea, and you liken it to a chieftain gomg to pay 
 tribute to a King! Ah, Clifton of Clifton, the beauty, the 
 glory, and the majesty of the earth pleases you, but the 
 ‘pomp, pride, and circumstance’ of the world inspires you! 
 But when was it otherwise with a Clifton, of Clifton? ‘The 
 spirit of intense worldliness has ever beeen their bane and 
 curse—their sin and its punishment!” he concluded, ro- 
 lapsing into his mock-tragie air. 
 
 «“ Ah! so you are familiar with the popular legend that 
 you have just quoted,” said Captain Clifton. * But,” he 
 added, with a sarcastic smile, ‘‘ were Georzia here, I think 
 she could refute the charge, and prove one Clifton, at least, 
 has been guided by any spirit rather than that of ‘intense 
 worldliness.’ ”” 
 
 “ Georgia?” 
 
 ‘©T beg her pardon! Mrs. Clifton, of Clifton.” 
 
 “Oh! your aunt! but by my soul, Waptaie, that was a 
 very irreverent way of introducing the “old lady! Do young 
 sen in your patriarchal part of the country call old gentle 
 women by their (hristian names ?” 
 
THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 23 
 
 ‘Old gentlewomen!” repeated Clifton slowly, witg 
 inusing smile, adding—‘‘ Georgia is about seventeen years 
 of age, and the most beautiful woman in the world !” 
 
 “ Whe-e-e-ew! Tm amazed! Tm confounded! [’m 
 stunned! Then—the present Mrs. Clifton is the second wife ?”’ 
 
 «© No, sir—Georgia is my uncle’s fourth wife.” 
 
 “ Overwhelmed !—annihilated!”? exclaimed the young man. 
 ‘ The—the—old Blue-beard! the old Henry VIII.! Four 
 wives! Are they all living ?—if not, where does he bury his 
 dead ?” 
 
 “ Fairfax!” exclaimed Captain Clifton, in a tone, and 
 
 with a look, that speedily recalled the young man to himself 
 -—then he added, rather haughtily— My Uncle Clifton is a 
 simple, gentle-hearted old man, excessively fond of women, 
 but mark you, sir!—it is the affection of the patriarch, not 
 of the pacha.” 
 _ Hang me if ever I saw any difference between Solomon 
 the king, and Solimaun the caliph; Abraham the patriarch, 
 and Aroun the pacha, in that respect,” laughed the young 
 man, until, stealing a furtive glance at the cold and haughty 
 face of Clifton, he held out his hand, and suddenly exclaimed 
 —‘ Pardon me, Clifton! or call me out! I—can’t help a 
 jest, to save my soul! but Pll fight or apologize, or render 
 any other sort of satisfaction afterwards !” 
 
 Captain Clifton remembered that Francis Fairfax was his 
 guest, going to spend a long mid-summer furlough at his 
 mother’s house, and so he cleared his brow and answered— 
 
 «¢ Nonsense !” , 
 
 “< Now tell me about Henry VIII.’s fourth Queen—how 
 long has she been married—I mean the present Mrs. Clifton ?”’ 
 
 “¢ About two years. My uncle wedded her when she was 
 fifteen—she is now seventeen—and, as I said, the most beau- 
 tiful creature that you, or I, or any one else, ever did, or 
 ever shall see, anywhere.” 
 
 “ Allons—stop there! False knight and recreant! whose 
 colors do you wear while you uphold the peerless beauty of 
 Georgia? What would Miss Clifton of Clifton say to your 
 admiration 2?” 
 
 * tidiculous, sir! Miss Clifton is herself very beautiful, 
 but not the most beautiful. Miss Clifton has other and 
 ‘arer distinc*ions, I am proud to say ?”” 
 
24 THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 
 
 “Oh, I understand—her family name !—neverthcless, be 
 nanged if I don’t believe you have been in love witk 
 Georgia !” 
 
 ‘‘ Impossible, sir! The perfect beauty of the young girl 
 struck ive forcibly, as it strikes all others—nay, more—im- 
 pressed my imagination deeply perhaps. JI confess to a 
 penchant for female beauty—and—observe—it is the artist’s 
 taste, sir, not the sultan’s. But in love with Georgia! Im- 
 possible, sir! She was a girl of humble parentage !” 
 
 “Ah! then you think it quite ‘impossible’ that a gentle- 
 wan born, should be in love with a girl of ‘humble parent- 
 age ? > 
 
 ‘“‘ Preposterous, sir !—utterly preposterous! Pray, let us 
 hear no more about it!” 
 
 ‘Yet your uncle—” 
 
 ‘‘My uncle married such an one, you would say. Old 
 gentlemen, living on their own estates, will do such things. 
 And the world charitably ascribes it to dotage, smiles and 
 forgives them. You will oblige me by changing the subject, 
 Frank.” 
 
 Fairfax fell into reverie, and Clifton dropped into thought, 
 and they rode on for some time in silence, and in—joy— 
 until— 
 
 “ Floods and furies! Fire and flames!! Lightning and 
 tempests, and sudden death!!!” exclaimed Fairfax, rearing 
 and backing his horse with a.terrible jerk, and throwing him- 
 self from the saddle, bathed in perspiration, and shaking with 
 terror. ‘Look! Look there! There at your feet! Back! 
 Back your horse, unless you wish to ride straight to the 
 kingdom of Heaven, or—to the other place! Oh, blessed 
 Lord! I shall never survive the shock!” 
 
 Captain Clifton backed his horse, dismounted, and follow- 
 ing the index of Fairfax, approached the brink of the awful 
 abyss, and looked down a perpendicular precipice of more 
 than a thousand feet, with the remaining distance lost in 
 shadows and dim vapors, while faintly to the ear came a low 
 and hollow murmur, as of the roaring of many waters at a 
 vast depth ! 
 
 «‘ This is the head of the Devil’s Staircase! We have lost 
 our way '” said Captain Clifton. 
 
 * Devil’s Staircase! I slould think it was! Ugh' Oo 
 
THE MOUNTAIN HU1. 25 
 
 oo-00-ooh ! I shall never survive it! Where does it lead to? 
 Tell me that! ‘To the infernal regions, I suppose, of course. 
 Ur-r-r-r-r !” exclaimed Faiitax, with his teeth chattering. 
 
 ‘¢ We have indeed made a very narrow escape,” said Cap- 
 tain Clifton, gazing thoughtfully down the horrible pit. 
 
 “ Narrow escape! Ur-r-r-r-r !”’ exclaimed Frank, shaking, 
 shuddering, and streaming with cold perspiration. ‘I tell 
 you, when | was providentially led to look down, and saw the 
 fog roll away from beneath my horse’s feet, and reveal that 
 ghastly—Ur-r-r-r-r!_ Ur-r-r-r-r! I believe I shall chatter my 
 teeth to powder !” 
 
 «Come, come, Fairfax! this is really unmanly. Thank 
 an ever-watchful Providence, that has preserved you from a 
 sudden and horrible death, and calm ycurself. Be a 
 man !” 
 
 “Beaman! You might as well say to mw shuddering 
 horse, there—be a horse! This is unhorsely! Ur-r-r-r-r. 
 I tell you it has given me the tertian ague !” 
 
 “Why, Frank! Really!” 
 
 “‘ Look at my horse—look even at that dumb beast! Yes, 
 look at that gallant steed, who would charge upon a phalanx 
 of fixed bayonets, and impale himself upon ther points, if 
 spurred to it—look at him! Positively frozen w*th terror !” 
 
 “‘ Fairfax, you astonish me—certainly you are not really 
 so much overcome.” 
 
 «‘Qvercome! My nerves are shattered to atems, I tell 
 you! Ur-r-r-r-r! It has given me the tertian *guc, and 
 the St. Vitus’ dance! both together!. Ur-r-r-r-r !” 
 
 “¢ Now who would have supposed you to be a—of such a 
 nervous temperament! Come, let me assist you te mount, 
 and then away.” 
 
 ‘What! And at the end of the next hundred yar4s, ride 
 headlong over a precipice of fifteen hundred feet, and hefore 
 night find sepulchre in the maws of fifty turkey-buzzards! ] 
 tell you there is neither a glorious death, an honorable b»rial 
 nor an immortal fame to be found in such a fate!) Hea~ens 
 and earth, no! For instance—* Whatever bceame of *hat 
 poor devil, Fairfax ? asks one. ‘Oh, one day, crossing the 
 mountains in a fog, with his head in a mist, he had the awk- 
 wardness to pitch himself headforemost down the Dev-'’s 
 Ladder, in the Alieghanies,’ answers t’other. ‘ Poor cre» 
 
26 THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 
 
 fue! He was always a miserable—but where was he buried ? 
 ‘ fle wa’n’t buried—the crows eat hin up,’ etc., ete., ete. } 
 Oh! I know what my posthumous fame would be in such a- 
 case. Quite different from that of the future Major-Genera, 
 Francis Fairfax, who, fifty years hence, at a good old age, 
 shall die in his downy bed, with the archbishop praying by 
 him, and be buried with the highest honors of war, and have 
 a national monument raised to hie fame, emblazoning his iin 
 mortal services to his grateful country, in receiving her 
 honors and emoluments for more that half a century! Can’t 
 give up that glorious future for the sake of dashing myself 
 to pieces this afternoon, Clifton. No!” said the young man, 
 folding his arms, and striking an attitude a-la-Napoleon, 
 ‘*¢] have a destiny to fulfill, and shall not stir from this spot 
 until the mist rises or falls.” 
 
 ‘< Mr. Fairfax! it is now drawing late in the afternoon. We 
 shall have a storm before night; and a storm on the moun- 
 tains, let me tell you, is a much more delightful thing to read 
 about in Childe Harold, while stretched at your ease upon 
 the settee in your shady piazza, than to take in pro- 
 pria persone on the Alleghanies,” said Captain Clifton, 
 quietly. 
 
 ‘¢Only warrant me from bringing up suddenly to the 
 jumping-off place before I know it—and Ill make an at- 
 tempt! Yea let him only insure my body unharmed by 
 fire or water, and [ll valiantly follow my leader through 
 flood and flame!” replied Frank, recovering himself with a 
 few more shudders, and preparing to mount. 
 
 s¢ We have left the right road about two miles behind,” 
 said Captain Clifton, turning his horse’s head and leading 
 the way. 
 
 The fog below was condensing very fast. From the North- 
 Western horizon black clouds were rising behind masses of 
 foaming white vapor. The air was still and oppressive, and 
 from all around came a faint, low moaning sound, as if na- 
 ture cowered and trembled before the coming of the terrible 
 ‘storm king.” The fog was now rolling down and gathers 
 ing into clouds below them—revealing the majestic features 
 of the landscape, mountains, vales and forests, rocks, glens 
 and waterfalls, in wild and magnificent confusion-—all wear- 
 ing now a savage and gloomy aspect under the shadow of 
 
THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 27 
 
 the coming storm. Captain Clifton’s eye had been con- 
 stantly on the alert in hope of discovering some mountain 
 cabin, which might shelter them from the fury of the tem- 
 pest, but as yet his search was unsuccessful--no human 
 dwelling even of the humblest description was to be seen. 
 At length the attention of the travellers was attracted by 
 the faint tingling of a bell—then by the bleating of sheep— 
 and then from the deep clouded glen at their right, sprung 
 - up into their path a bell-wether followed by two—five—ten— 
 a whole flock of sheep; and driven by a girl on a pony; 
 a little coarse, sun-burned girl, in a boy’s coarse straw hat 
 and a homespun gown, riding on a little reugh-coated, wiry, 
 mountain pony. 
 
 «¢ A shepherdess, by all that is romantic,” Balan Fair- 
 fax, vaulting aside to let the sheep pass. Then springing to 
 the side of the rough-coated pony, he doffed his hat to the 
 rider and said— 
 
 “My good girl—for the love of Providence, will you tell 
 us where we can find shelter from the storm ?” 
 
 The child raised her fine eyes to the stranger’s face with 
 the look of a startled fawn—and dropped them again in- . 
 stantly. Fairfax repeated his question. The child stole 
 another furtive glance at the fine gentleman in the very fine 
 uniform, and then at her own coarse raiment, and blushed 
 deeply. But before Fairfax could reiterate his request, she 
 said, quietly — 
 
 “ Grandfather’s cabin is not far off, if you and the other 
 gentleman will come with me.” 
 
 * With great pleasure—and ten thousand thanks, my dear 
 little girl. Be so good as to lead the way.’ 
 
 The flock of sheep had gone on before. The girl put her 
 pony in motion, and the gentlemen followed—Mr. Fairfax 
 addressing all his conversation to his little companion; and 
 Captain Clifton riding on in silence and abstraction. 
 
 The sky was darkening very fast, and great single drops 
 of rain occasionally falling. They quickened their pace, and 
 after riding briskly several hundred yards, caine to the head 
 cf a glen, deep down in which was seen a small, lone. cabin. 
 At this instant the sheet lightning glared from horizon te 
 horizon, followed by a report as of exploded and falling 
 _. socks, and then the «ain came down in adeluge. ‘I'he dark- 
 
28 1HE MOUNTAIN HOT. 
 
 ness was so dense now as to hide their way. The girl jumped 
 from her pony, and giving him a little slap that sent him 
 travelling down the path, went up to the head of Clifton’s 
 horse and said, shyly— 
 
 «You can’t see the way, sir, and you don’t know the 
 road—let me lead your horse.” 
 
 «By no means, my good girl,” replied Clifton, speaking 
 in a tone of haughty astonishment. 
 
 Without reply the child turned from him and went to- 
 wards Fairfax. And at the same instant a thunder-bolt wag 
 hurled from Heaven with a terrific crash, riving the ground 
 on which she had just stood. When the panic was over, the 
 first thought of Captain Clifton was for the safety of that 
 presumptuous child. A glare of lightning revealed her 
 lying on the rock. He hastened to her side. 
 
 ‘‘My dear child, are you hurt,” he asked, dismounting 
 and stooping to lift her. 
 
 «Oh! sir, I am so glad to hear you speak! I thought 
 you were struck.” 
 
 « Are you hurt ?” 
 
 “Oh no, sir, I was only thrown down,” replied the child, 
 lightly springing to her feet. 
 
 “Oh, yes! Exchange your mutual condolences and con- 
 gratulations. But who the mischief cares whether I am 
 hurt or not?’ exclaimed Fairfax, stumbling along towards 
 them—for he also had dismounted. 
 
 «You were entirely out of danger,” replied Clifton. 
 
 ‘Out of danger! Who the deuce is out of danger within 
 a hundred miles of these infernal mountains?” 
 
 The rain was still pouring down in floods, and in the inter- 
 val of the thunder, the roar of the swollen torrents was 
 deafening. The question now was, whether to remain stand- 
 ing there exposed to all the fury »f the storm, or to attempt 
 the now dangerous descent into the glen. 
 
 “I could lead your horses down in safety, if you wou!d 
 let me, for I know every inch of the road so well,” said the 
 
 irl. 
 ; Another blinding glare of lightning, another terrific peal 
 of thunder, and another deluge of rain, put a stop to all ree 
 ply. At last the child repeated her offer, saying that she 
 could lead the borses down very well, “on2 at a time.” But, 
 
THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 29 
 
 of course, that was not for a moment to be thought of by 
 the young wen. And her plan was rejected at once. 
 
 «Well, then, the only way will be to go down on toot, 
 and leave your horses here to follow. For you will need 
 your hands as well as your feet in groping down the slippery 
 ro:k through the darkness,” said the girl. 
 
 After alittle more consultation, her last proposition was 
 ailopted, and they began the descent on foot. 
 
 After some twenty minutes’ toil and struggle through 
 darkness and deluge, thunder and lightning, they reached 
 the lowly door of the cabin, pushed it hastily open, and hur- 
 ried in. 
 
 It was very dark, and nothing was to be seen but the red 
 glow of a few smouldering embers on the hearth. Towards 
 these the girl went. 
 
 ‘¢ And what do you think has become of your flock of 
 sheep, my good girl ?” inquired Frank, kindly, remembering 
 her interests while he stood there wringing the water out of 
 his coat skirts. 
 
 ‘«¢ Oh, the bell-wether has led them all into the pen long 
 ago, sir. ‘They are always safe when they are once in the 
 glen,” replied the child, as she lighted a candle. 
 
 ‘The sudden glare of the light showed a rude apartment, 
 with an earth floor, log walls,and a fire-place of unhewn stone. 
 Op the right of the fire-place stood a poor bedstead, upon 
 which lay a venerable, white-haired old man, covered with a 
 faded counterpane, and near the bed sat an old, chip-bot- 
 vumed arm-chair. On the left of the fire-place were two 
 rough plank shelves, the lower shelf adorned with a few 
 pewter plates and mugs; the upper one filled with 
 books !—piles of old dingy, musty books ; and near these 
 shelves stood a spinning-wheel, with a broach of yarn on the 
 spindle, and a basket of broaches under it. At the opposite 
 end of the room, one corner was occupied by a little old oak 
 table, and the other by a ladder leading up through a trap- 
 door into the loftoverhead. <A few rude stools were ranged 
 aloug the walls, junks of smoked venison, ropes of onions, 
 punches of dried herbs, hanks of yarn, and the old man’s oid 
 hat and coat garnished the walls. All this was seen ata 
 gleuce. 
 
 ‘Is your grandfather sick ?”’ inquired Frank. 
 
 
 
30 THE MOUNTAIN HAUT. 
 
 The girl turned her eyes wistfully towards the venerable 
 sleeper, and did not reply. 
 
 ‘Ts your grandfather sick ?’ repeated Fairfax. 
 
 The child raised her eyes sorrowfully to the face of the 
 young man, and remained silent. 
 
 “Is he so very sick ?”’ earnestly reiterated Frank. 
 
 “Tfe is not sick, sir,’ answered the girl, in a low, 3ad 
 voice. 
 
 “What is the matter with him, then?’ thoughtlessly per- 
 sisted Irank. 
 
 Without reply, the girl dropped her eyes, and blushing 
 deeply, turned away. Setting the candle down upon the 
 table, she took a pail of water and went up the ladder, and 
 into the loft. After an absence of a few minutes, she re- 
 turned, and said— 
 
 “If you will go up stairs now, you will find two suits of 
 grandfather’s and Carl’s Sunday clothes. They are not fine, 
 but they are clean and dry.” 
 
 Our wet and jaded travellers thanked their young hostess, 
 and prepared to accept her offer. 
 
 “And if,” she added, ‘‘ you would like to rest after so 
 much fatigue, there is a bed.” 
 
 They reached the loft, and found it a small, low place, 
 with a little window, and a little, clean bed. On ihe bed 
 lay the two suits of homespun, and two coarse towels. And 
 on a stool near, sat a pail of water and a tin basin. 
 
 ‘¢I do believe that little girl has given us her own sanc- 
 tuary. What a dear little thing she is!—so full of courage, 
 and shyness, too! If she were two or three years older, and 
 a great deal prettier, 1 could fancy myself writing poetry 
 about her,’”’ said Frank. 
 
 Clifton made no comment—he was engaged in divesting 
 himself of his wet garments, and thinking about-—Miss 
 Clifton. 
 
 When they had refreshed themseives by washing aud 
 changing their dress, Frank threw himself upon the bed, 
 stretched out his limbs luxuriously, and declared that the 
 rustic’s clothes were very loose and comfortable, and his own 
 position truly delightful. Captain Clifton walked to the 
 window, and looked out at the storm, whith was new 
 abating. 
 
THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 3) 
 
 ¢zank was already sound asleep. 
 
 And wove Ulitton stood at the window, drawing compa- 
 rans betwweeu the meanness of the hut in which he found 
 himself, and the magnificence of the mountain scenery around 
 it, ne heard—in that small, shell-like cabin—he could not 
 help hearine—what follows. First a heave and plunge, as 
 if the old man kelow stairs had started violently from his 
 bed and fallen agat, and then a fearful, shuddering voice 
 exclaimed, ‘ Kate! Kate! they’re coming again! 'They’re 
 after me, Kate! They’re on me! They’re on me! Save 
 
 me, Kate! Save me, Kate! Save—” 
 
 “ Grandfather—dear grandfather,” said the soothing voice 
 of the girl, “there is no one here but me—there, there, be 
 quiet—be still; nothing shall uurt you here—nothing caa 
 you know.” 
 
 “Look! Look, Kate! Look! They’re not men now 
 but devils!” A violent plunge, struggles, exclamations of 
 terror and despair which the low, soothing tones and gestures 
 of the poor girl vainly assayed to tranquillize for some time, 
 and then—silence for a few minutes—which was again in- 
 terrupted by—‘‘ Snakes! snakes, Kate! Snakes! Green 
 snakes! See! see how they dart! They fly! They’re on 
 me! They’re on me! Help! Help!” And the sound of the 
 maniac laying about him furiously. Captain Clifton started 
 up with the intention of going to the poor girl’s assistance— 
 but by the time he reached the head of the ladder, the voice 
 of the child had again calmed tke infuriated man. 
 
 All was quiet for a quarter of an hour, and then another 
 violent start and throw that seemed to shake the little hut. 
 and a horrible shriek of—* A dragon! A dragon, Kate! A 
 green dragon belching flame !” Then a succession of violent 
 shrieks and struggles, which aroused Frank, who springing 
 up in hed, exclaimed— 
 
 6 What the deuce is the matter? Has the Mainr got 
 another fit of mania-a-potu on him?’ Then, as all again 
 was quiet, he rubbed his eyes and said, laughing. “1 do ‘he- 
 lieve I have been talking in my sleep! I drearied we ware 
 in our mess, and the Major was drunk again.” 
 
 «A part of your dream was real. The old man belew 
 stairs has a fit of m1ia-a-potu upon him. 
 
89° THE MOUNTAIN HUTT. 
 
 «What! and you staying here! I must go down and 
 help the girl.” 
 
 “You had better not as yet. She seems to have the pow- 
 er of soothing him. Your presence might, by exasperating 
 him, do more Sharm than good.” 
 
 At this moment another outbreak of fury from the mad- 
 man caused Frank to spring to his feet, and, exclaiming— 
 
 “T can’t let that maniac tear my dear little hostess to 
 preces—” rush to the head of the ladder. 
 
 “J tell you you had best not zntrude—his mania seems 
 perfectly harmless to the child.” 
 
 But Frank was at the foot of the ladder, where, however, 
 an impediment met him. The girl, who had just succeeded 
 in again soothing the madman, came and stood before him, 
 saying, * Pray do not come in, sir, just yet.” 
 
 “ But, my good girl, | must come in and remain to protect 
 you,” gently trying to pass her. She stood her ground 
 firmly ; her dips said— 
 
 “Tam not in any danger. I beg you, sir, do not come in 
 yet :”? but her steady and rather threatening glance said— 
 «Jo not dare to look upon the old man in his Uegradation ! ss 
 
 Frank turned back, and went and perched himself at the 
 top of the ladder to watch over the safety of the girl, and 
 be ready in case of exigency. 
 
 IIe saw the old man lying, clutching the cover around him, 
 while his terror-dilated eyes glared out like a wild beast’s 
 from its lair—all ready for another start and spring! He 
 saw the girl mix a mug of strong vinegar and water, and 
 take it to him, and the old man grasp and quaff it with fiery 
 thirst ; three times she filled the mug, and three times he 
 wulphed its contents with voracity. Then she laid his aged 
 head tenderly down, and went and saturated a cloth with 
 vinegar, and placed it about his burning forehead and tem- 
 ples. Next she took a rustic fan of turkey feathers and 
 stood by him and fanned him until he fell into a sleep, that 
 every moment became deeper and deeper. Finally she gently 
 jaid down the fan, sunk upon her knees by the bedside, and 
 bowed her head upon her clasped hands in silent prayer. 
 At last she arose, pressed a light kiss upon the furrowed 
 eo of the sleeper, and silently went about her household 
 wor 
 
THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 1 | 
 
 From a shed at the back of the house she brough. wood 
 and water, made up the fire, filled and hung on the tea- 
 kettle, set an oven and oven-lid to heat, and again disap- 
 peared through the back door into the shed. In about 
 fifteen minutes she returned with a tray of dough and a pan 
 of venison steaks. She made her dough intoa loaf and put 
 it in the oven to bake, and prepared her venison steaks to 
 lay upon the coals. She set her table with milk and cream, 
 and butter, brought in, doubtless from a rude, but cool 
 spring-house, near at hand. 
 
 When all was done, she sat down to knit, seeming to wait 
 the coming of another—for she often paused and listened 
 with her head turned towards the door, and at length got up 
 and drew from under the bed a trunk, whence she tcok an 
 old, well-patched but clean suit of homespun clothes, with a 
 shirt and a pair of socks, and hung them over a chair. 
 
 Soon after a step was heard without—the door was thrown 
 open, and a thin, dark young man, dressed as a farm laborer, 
 entered. Throwing his coarse hat to the other end of the 
 room, he approached the fire, when seeing the situation of 
 the old man he stopped short, and placing his arms a-kimbo, 
 gazed on him, exclaiming— 
 
 ‘¢ Drunk again, by ————!” and then turned, with an 
 interrogative look, towards the girl. 
 
 A short: wave of the hand—a quick, distressful nod, and 
 the choking down of a sob, told him that it was so. 
 
 The young man let down his arms, and with a frown of 
 mingled sorrow and anger approached and gazed upon the 
 sleeper. 
 
 ‘«‘ Have you had much trouble with him, dear Kate ?” 
 
 The same choking sob and quick nod answered him. 
 
 ““ Where pip he get the liquor? What has he laid his 
 hands on and sold now—any of my books ?” 
 
 “No! nc!—it was my bonnet—but never mind, I can 
 wear your old hat, you know!—it doesn’t matter for me !” 
 
 “Well, now, by all that’s—” 
 
 s Hush, hush, Carl! Don’t swear—he is our grandfather, 
 you know ; and besides,” she added, suddenly dropping ber 
 Toice, there are strangers up stairs.’ 
 
 ‘Strangers! What strangers ?” 
 
 «Two gentlemen whd came 2 in here out of the sto:m.” 
 
84 THE MOUATAIN UT. 
 
 « Uinph !” said the young man, dropping himself into the 
 arm-chai ', and falling into deep thought, es which he was 
 aroused b,: the voice of Kate, saying— 
 
 “ Carl, don’t sit down in your wet clothe ; take those on 
 the chair, and go in the shed and put them on. And mako 
 haste, please, Carl, because supper is nearly ready, and the 
 gentlemen up stairs must be hungry.” 
 
 The young man arose, with a heavy sigh, saying— 
 
 “ J’ll only change my jacket, that I can do here. Oh: 
 Kate!” he continued, as he divested himself of his wet jacket, 
 
 and drew on the other—“ Oh! Kate! what between one thing 
 and another this is no home for you! Indeed, indeed, every 
 morning T go away from you with a heavy heart, and all day 
 long I can hardly work for the dread that’s on my mind 
 about you. If I could only find a place for you to wait on 
 some lady, or to nurse a baby—but, Lord! what with the 
 niggers there is never a place to be got here for a poor white 
 irl.” 
 
 “Oh, Carl, if you could get me the best place in the world 
 —even a place to sew—I wouldn’t leave him. Why, Carl, it 
 xould break his heart. He would grieve himself to death!” 
 
 ‘« And better for him that he should be dead! And better 
 for you and all concerned !” 
 
 “Oh, don’t say so, Carl! Don’t say so! Come and look 
 at him, and let the sight soften your heart to him,” said the 
 girl, taking the youth’s hand, and drawing him to the bed- 
 side. ‘ Look, now, at that poor old wrinkled face—it has 
 not got very long to live, anyhow—and see the two or three 
 thin, white hairs on his temples—and see the poor, poor 
 withered hands—so helpless! Oh! I think it is all so piti- | 
 ful. And now see, he is asleep, but how much trouble there 
 is on his poor old face—no, no! don’t say hard things of 
 him, it cuts me to the heart! And, Carl, no matter how bad 
 his fit may be, he never offers to hurt me or anything else. 
 
 _ Only terror and horror is all that is on him-! He is a gentle, 
 barmless, poor old man. And I always pity him like I pity 
 any one very ill.” 
 
 “Kate! I dare say you think this is all tender-heartedness, 
 and you give yourself a great deal of credit for it! But I 
 tell you it’s nothing but weakness. And it may be the ruin 
 of you, too, Fefore long. And now I tell you, ’m going + 
 
THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 8a 
 
 geta place for you, if Ican. Yes, and make you go to it, ton 
 I can do without you—that is, 1 must do without you' 1 
 can get the breakfast before I go away in the morning. And 
 I can leave something for the old man’s dinner, and coms 
 home time enough in the evening to get his supper! And 
 to-morrow I am going down to the turnpike gate to thrash 
 Scroggings, and bring your bonnet home. And I'll tell him 
 if ever he lets the old man have any more liquor, Pll kick 
 him round his groggery till he hasn’t got a whole bone left in 
 his body. Yes, and I'll do it, too!” 
 
 Kate was placing the supper on the table, but she turned, 
 with the same expression of countenance with which she had 
 stopped Fairfax at the foot of the stairs, and said— 
 
 ‘¢T should be very sorry for any violence from you, Carl. 
 But of one thing be sure—do what you may, 1 will never, 
 never leave our grandfather |” 
 
 ‘There! now, whenever you get that hateful Maria Theresa 
 wok, I hate you, Katterin! I hate to see strength in wo- 
 men! It don’t belong to them, nor grace them, anyhew!” 
 
 “ Strength of affection does, Carl. But now please call 
 the gentlemen down to supper,” said Kate. 
 
 Car] rapped at the foot of the ladder, and summoned the 
 travellers accordingly. 
 
 Now, though Fairfax had honorably withdrawn from the 
 trap-door, the moment he found that his services would not 
 be required, and that the conversation between Kate and 
 Carl was growing confidential, yet every word of that conver- 
 sation had been distinctly heard by both young men, and had 
 produced an effect upon both. Frank with difficulty withheld 
 himself from exclaiming aloud, as pity, disgust, anger or ap- 
 probation moved him in turn. Captain Clifton, far less im- 
 pressible, and more reserved than his companion, had re- 
 mained perfectly quiet and silent, though his thoughts were 
 more practically busy with the case than those of his con- 
 panion. They went down, and were received at the foot of . 
 the ladder by Carl, who, with a sort of rough politeness, 
 placed stools at the table, and invited them to be seated. 
 They placed themselves at the board, at the head of which 
 Kate already presided, with folded hands and downcast eyes. 
 Then to their utter astonishment, the rude, irreverent young 
 man, Carl, stood up and asked a blessing, saying, afterwards, 
 
36 THE MOUNTAIN AUT. 
 
 that he was no parson, nor no Methodist, but Kate would 
 have it so, and he thought it was best upon the whole, not to 
 oppose females in such notions. And then he began to wait 
 upon his guests. 
 
 Their supper consisted of good coffee, with cream and ma- 
 ple sugar; good bread, with fresh butter and cheese; venisuv 
 steak and broiled chickens; and lastly, of a dish of bakea 
 pears, cold, and a pitcher of milk. Frank was surprised to 
 find such excellence of fare amid the ragged poverty of the 
 mountain cabin, but, on afterwards expressing this surprise 
 to Captain Clifton, he was told by the latter, that such con- 
 trasts were by no means rare. Mr. Fairfax applied himself 
 with zeal to the good things before him, until the sharpness 
 of his appetite was sated, and then lingered long over the 
 meal, conversing with his host upon the state of the country 
 in his region, the climate and soil, productions, market, etc., 
 and receiving from the young mountaineer the infoimation 
 that there was no great amount of produce about there, ex- 
 cept in the glens, grazing for the cattle, and that the reads 
 were so bad, and the towns and villages so distant, that no- 
 thing was raised for market, except such kind of produce as 
 could walk thither, to wit: flocks and herds. That his 
 grandfather, before the infirmities of age had come upon hin, 
 had raised herds of kine and hogs, which he drove fifty miles 
 to market every year; but that was some years ago, when he 
 himself was a child. That now they only had a few sheep, 
 which his sister tended while he was at work on a plantation 
 at the foot of the mountain. In reply to a question Frank 
 put while leisurely using his gold tooth-pick, the young man 
 informed him farther that himself and his sister were of Ger- 
 man and Irish descent. That the old man, their grandfather, 
 was a German by birth, but had lived nearly seventy _years 
 m America. That his name was Carl Wetzel, and his only 
 daughter, Caterina, had been married to an Irish emigrant, 
 of the name of Kavanagh. That they were the parents of 
 himself‘and sister. Finally, that they had been dead nearly 
 seven years. It was farther ascertained that old Carl Wet- 
 vcl had been a man of considerable education; and it was 
 easily scen that Carl Kavanagh had inherited much of his 
 father’s Irish quickness of intelligence, and wucb of his 
 grandfather’s German love of knowledge. 
 
THE MOUNTAIN HUY 37 
 
 Frank, on his part, was equally communicative, and, in 
 spite of the haughty reserve of Captain Clifton, informed hi. 
 host that he had come up in that neighborhood for the pur- 
 pose of acting as groomsman at the approaching marriage of 
 his friend, Captain Jlifton, of the Regiment of a- 
 valry, to his cousin, Miss Carolyn Gower Clifton, of Clifton 
 - Place. That their journey, so far, had been rather disas- 
 trous ; that they had set out from Washington City on horse- 
 back, but had become so fatigued by the excessive heat, that 
 they had been obliged, on arriving at Winchester, to take 
 places for themselves in the stage for Staunton, and to hire 
 a man to bring their horses after them—riding one and lead- 
 ing the other, and so alternately. That before reaching 
 Staunton, they had been thrown from the stage—without 
 serious injury to themselves, however, and had been obliged 
 to walk some ten miles to a village on their route, and wait 
 the arrival of their horses, which, fortunately, were not 
 many hours behind them. That they had ridden all day in 
 a thick fog, lost their way, came near going over a fearful 
 precipice, and finally got caught in the tempest that drove 
 them for shelter to the cabin. 
 
 During all this time, Captain Clifton had seemed lost in 
 thought, and only once spoke to inquire of the young moun- 
 taineer whether it were possible for them to pursue their 
 journey that night. To this the young man replied that it 
 would be impossible, even if it were then daylight, inasmuch 
 as the torrents were swollen so greatly. And at the though 
 of pursuing their journey, a pang of remorse for his for- 
 getfulness of his horses shot through the breast of Frank, 
 and— 
 
 ‘¢ What the devil can have become of Saladin?” he ex- 
 claimed, starting up. 
 
 “Oh, he is safe? answered Clifton. I saw them 
 both in the shed as I looked from the little window up 
 stairs.’ 
 
 «¢ Who put them there ?” 
 
 «T tended them,” answered the girl, quietly. 
 
 They all now arose from the table. he girl cleared the 
 board, and carried all the things out to wash up. Carl 
 begged his guests to excuse him, and went out to give the 
 horses a rub down and another feed. 
 
 
 
358 THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 
 
 Captain Clitton threw himself into the arm-chair, crossed 
 his legs, took out his tablets, and began to make memoran- 
 dums. 
 
 Frank impertinently peeped over his shoulder and read— 
 “ Mem. Ask my mother if she can take a little gixl as a 
 ecmpanion.” Clifton closed the book instantly, in silent 
 rebuke of Frank’s impudence. And Frank himself walked | 
 about fidgety and unhappy for not knowing what to do with 
 himself, until, at a restless movement of the old man, he went 
 and poured out a mug of water, and carefully keeping be- 
 hind the eye of the patient, lifted up his head and gave him 
 drink, and after setting down the empty mug, fanned him till 
 he went sound asleep again. 
 
 The brother and sister soon returned. Carl sat down and 
 begun his best efforts at entertainment. But Frank, who 
 amused himself by seeing everything, saw Kate go up stairs 
 into the loft and bring down and carry out his own and his 
 friend’s regimentals. 
 
 After which she came in, and drawing a stool to the table, 
 
 sat down and began to knit, as quietly, as silently, as if no 
 strangers were in ‘her hut. 
 
 Carl took down and laid upon the table a rough draught 
 board, and invited his guests to play with each other. 
 
 Frank eagerly caught at the opportunity, but Captain 
 Clifton declined, on ‘the plea of distaste to the amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 “Play with me, my dear fellow, for pity sake,” said 
 Frank to Carl, “‘and don’t mind my friend there! You see, 
 he doesn’t want to play, neither does he want to talk, nor to 
 do anything but sit and think about Miss Clifton.” 
 
 “Do play with him, and keep him quiet, if you can, my 
 good youth,” said Captain Clifton, turning his chair slightly 
 aside from the table, so that his face was in the shade. Op- 
 posite to him, at the other corner of the table, sat Katherine, 
 with the light shining full upon her face and head, as she 
 bowed it over her work. Captain Clifton did not fall into a 
 brown study, he fell into a study of the brown girl. Let no 
 one presume to misinterpret him. I% was not likely that a 
 man of twenty-five should fall in love with a girl of four- 
 teen. Dotards do such things, not men. Then it was 
 atterly pi2posterous to suppose that Archor Clifton, of 
 
THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 39 
 
 Clifton, Captain in the —-— Regiment of Cavalry, the fasti- 
 dious amateur in female beauty, should be smitten with a 
 hard-featured, sun-burned girl, in a coarse, homespun frock | 
 that the all-accomplished scholar should be charmed with 
 the little ignoramus; that the arrogant conservative of rank 
 should condescend to a low-born mountaineer; or that the 
 expectint bridegroom of the beautiful and haughty Carolyn 
 Clifton, of Clifton, should wish t9 marry a girl who united 
 all these repulsive qualities of ignorance, ruggedness, and 
 low-birth. Yet if he could have looked only two short years 
 into the future ! 
 
 But Clifton was a physiognomist, and liked to study a 
 novel individuality. A new and very curious subject was 
 before him now. At first: he had seen in Kate nothing more 
 than a coarse-featured, dark-skinned country girl. Now, as 
 he sat and watched her at her quiet work, with her counte- 
 nance in the repose of thoughtfulness, he saw that her fea- 
 tures, though certainly not beautiful or classical, were even 
 of a higher order of physiognomy, combming the rarest 
 elements of power and goodness. The broad and massive 
 forehead, straight nose, and square, firin jaws, were the strong 
 and ugly features—the rugged frame work, as it were, of her 
 countenance, and indicated great force of character. But 
 her hair, eyes, and lips were beautiful. Her hair, of rich 
 dark brown, with golden lights, rippled around her forehead, 
 shading and softening its stern strength. Her eyes, large 
 and shadowy, with drooping lashes, and her lips sweetly 
 curved, full, and pensively closed, suggested a profound depth 
 of tenderness. Indeed the brooding brow, the downcast eyes, 
 and the compressed lips seemed to be habitual with her, and 
 gave her countenance an expression of grief and care beyond 
 her years, and of thought and intellect above her station. As 
 Clifton sat aud siudied her, he thought—not of 
 
 “Full many a flower that’s born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air,” 
 
 for the girl did not resemble a flower so much as a hardy, 
 pine sapling of her native mountains. No; that look, strength, 
 intellect, and self-balance—in a word—that oo of POWER. 
 suggested rather—gir/ as she was-- 
 
40 THE MOUNTAIN HOT. 
 
 ‘Some village Hampden with undaunted breast, 
 * * * * 
 
 Some mute inglorious Milton, * * ® 
 Scme CroMwELt guiltless of his country’s blood.” 
 
 lt was a Maria-Theresa face without the wickedness. 
 
 Captain Clifton’s physiognomical studies were interrupted 
 by the abrupt starting of Frank, who exclaimed vehe 
 mently— 
 
 “ Beaten in four games! Now, that’s what I call vut- 
 rageous! Don’t you know, my dear fellow, that there are 
 three persons in the world who should never be beaten—a 
 guest, a woman, and a monarch ?” 
 
 Carl laughed and chuckled, and beating the draught-board 
 tamborine-like above his head in triumph, carried it off and 
 put it away. 
 
 The whole party then arose to retire. Carl took the 
 eandle and showed his guests up into the loft and left them 
 to repose. 
 
 ‘‘ Now where will that child sleep, for we have got her 
 room?’ asked Frank, with concern, as soon as they were 
 alone. 
 
 “Oh-h!” replied Captain Clifton, indifferently, ‘ any- 
 where—on a pallet—perhaps, down stairs.” 
 
 “ But the old man and the young one—”- 
 
 ‘‘Oh-h!” again drawled Clifton, in a bored tone, “if you 
 expect to meet with refinement among the mountain people, 
 you will be disappointed.” 
 
 Long after the travellers had laid down to rest, they heard 
 the sound of footsteps moving about in the room below. 
 They moved quietly and cautiously, as if fearful of disturb- 
 ing the guests; but, as I said before, all sounds, even the 
 Jawest, could be distinctly heard through that shell of 2 
 house. 
 
 On awaking the next morning, the young men found their 
 own clothes well cleaned, dried, and pressed, ready for them 
 to put on. 
 
 “Ah, ha!” said the sagacious Frank, * that is what the 
 poor girl was at work at so late last night.” 
 
 On going down stairs they found the lower room neatly 
 arranged, and breakfast ready for them—hot coffce, corn 
 oone, h»t rolls, vashers of fried bacon, eggs, potatoes, eta 
 
THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 1} 
 
 And there, in the arm-chair, in a clean homespun suit, sat 
 the old man, looking as calm, as self-possessed, as noble and 
 venerable as a Roman senator. He arose and bowed to the 
 gentlemen, and offered his chair to one of them. 
 
 No wonder it bowed the young girl’s head with grief and 
 shame—it pained and humbled even these strangers, to know 
 that this most reverened white-haired patriarch was often 
 transformed by drunkenness into the beast! . It was a dis- 
 ease, Kate had often said, wringing her hands with anguish, 
 - while seeing his degradation. 
 
 It was a disease, and never till vice is treated as such, will 
 an effectual remedy be applied. 
 
 Immediately after breakfast, the gentlemen took leave of 
 the family, and mounted their horses to pursue their journey. 
 Frank, in the thoughtless kindness of bis heart, would have 
 otfered the poor people some remuneration for their enter- 
 tainment, but Clifton, who knew the habits and feelings of 
 the mountaineers better, arrested a purpose that might have 
 given offence. But on parting with Carl Kavanagh, Captain 
 Clifton expressed his thanks for the hospitality that had been 
 extended to himself and friend—adding, that if he could 
 then, or at any time, in any manner, be of use to his kind 
 host, he should be happy to serve him, ete., ete. To this the 
 young man replied— 
 
 “<I thank you, sir. I know Captain Clifton by report, and 
 feel that 1 can trust to his generosity. I have a heavy care 
 —my young sister. If you could hear of a place at service 
 for her among the honorable ladies of your family or acquain- 
 tance, I should feel very grateful indeed, sir.” 
 
 Captain Clifton kindly gave his promise to make inquiries. 
 Frank again shook hands with Cari, bowed to Kate, nodded 
 to the old man through the window, and then the travellers 
 tuned from the door of the mountain hut, cantered kriskly 
 up the glen, and took the road to WuITE CLIFFs. 
 
49 OLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES. 
 
 “ Against the cliffs 
 See’st thou not where the mansion stands? The moo.beam 
 Strikes or the granite column, and tall trees 
 Group shadowy round it.’”,—ANoNyMous. 
 
 A most portentous trial waits thee now— 
 Woman’s bright eyes and dazzling snowy brow.—Moorz 
 
 ‘'HE torrents had been so terribly swollen and overflowed, 
 and the roads so dreadfully washed and guttered by the tem- 
 pest and flood of the preceding evening, that the travellers 
 found the greatest difficulty in pursuing their journey, often 
 having to turn back miles on this road to take another way, 
 and often being obliged to search leagues up and down the 
 course of a river, to find a practicable ford. 
 
 Therefore it was near night-fall when they crossed the last 
 range of forest-crowned mountains, and descended into the 
 wooded valley that lay between them and White Cliffs. A 
 winding road through the woods brought them to the house. 
 The full moon was rising East of the cliffs, and casting their 
 shadow back across the house and lawn. The mansion was 
 a lofty edifice of white stone, with terraced roof, and many 
 irregular, projecting wings. ‘The tall trees surrounding the 
 buildings, the lofty cliffs rising behind them, the dark shadow 
 falling on all; the hour, the silence, and the solitude, gave 
 an air of refreshing coolness and deep repose to the scene. 
 On turning an angle of the building, they saw the drawing- 
 room windows open, and the light from them gleaming out 
 cheerfully across that part of the lawn. At that moment a 
 servant, waiting at the hall door, came down to take their 
 horses. 
 
 All well at home, Dandy ?” inquired Captain Clifton, 
 he dismounted, and threw hiin the reins. 
 
 ‘‘Sarvint, sir All v>ry well,’’ replied the man. touching 
 his hat. 
 
CLIFTON AND TITE BEAUTIES 43 
 
 Captain Clifton led the way up into the hall adjoining the 
 drawing room, where they were met by an old geutleman, 
 who seized both of Clifton’s hands, and shook them slowly 
 and cordially, as he said, dropping each word separately, 
 with a hearty, luscious emphasis— 
 
 “¢ Why—my—dear—boy—how glad I am—to see you!” 
 
 ‘And I am very happy to be with you, sir; and to find 
 you looking so well. Allow me to introduce to your ac- 
 quaintance—Lieutenant Fairfax, of my company,” said Cap- 
 tain Clifton, presenting his friend. 
 
 “Glad to seeyhim! Glad to see Mr. Fairfax! Glad to 
 welcome any friend of my nephew’s to Clifton. How do you 
 do, sir? Knew your relative, Lord Fairfax, of Greenway 
 Courthouse. Excessively fond of hunting. Kept bachelor’s 
 hall. Very great mistake, that—very! Hope you won’t 
 follow his example! Fine man, however, and I honor his 
 memory! Come in, sir! come in! Come in, Archy! My 
 —dear—boy—I’m—so—del—ighted to see you!” 
 
 Whenever he spoke to his nephew, he seemed to dwell 
 upon each separate syllable with a cordiality impossible to 
 describe. 
 
 He was a large, old gentleman, clothed in a fresh, fragrant 
 suit of pale blue linen, with his hair as white as votton, his 
 fresh, rosy complexion, fine teeth, and clear, kind, blue eyes, 
 making a most refreshing picture of simplicity, cheerfulness, 
 and cleanliness of soul and body in old age. He- was of a 
 sanguine temperament, and under great provocation, could 
 get into a passion, too. And what old father of a family, 
 with two grown daughters, and a young wife, all under 
 eighteen years of age, and all beauties, has not enough com- 
 bustible material to burn the house down, or set his own tein- 
 per on fire ?—yet such was the kindness of his heart, that 
 even when in violent anger, stamping up and down the floor, 
 grasping desperately at his own white temple locks with both 
 hands, and vociferating in stentorian tones—it was all, ay 
 Frank afterwards said, shooting with blank cartridges—he 
 never said a word, or did a thing, to wound a single soui. 
 
 “T trus' the ladies are all well, sir,’ said Captain Clifton, 
 as he followed his uncle. 
 
 «< Yes—-yes—that is to say, Carry is well, but not well 
 pleased, She expected you yesterday—didn’t consider the 
 
14 CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES. 
 
 storm any excuse for your absence. Ah! you dog—you sad 
 dog—at your age would J have kept a lady waiting? Nay, 
 would I do it now? But come, shall I present you to the 
 ladies now, or do you prefer first the ref: eshment of the bath 
 and a change of dresst? Your own and your friend’s bag- 
 gage arrived this morning by the wagon, and has been con 
 veyed to your rooms.” 
 
 “Oh, a change of dress, by all means!”’ suggested Frank. 
 
 “ Dandy—Danpy !” exclaimed the old gentleman, raising 
 his strong’ voice, till the servant appeared, “show Mr. 
 Fairfax to General Washington’s room.” —, 
 
 General Washington had slept one night at Clifton, and 
 from that time to this, the room he occupied has been 
 “ General Washington’s room.” 
 
 The servant conducted Mr. Fairfax up stairs. And then 
 the old gentleman, turning to his nephew, took his hands 
 again, and said— ws 
 
 ‘¢My dear boy, once more I must say, I’m—so—glad—ta 
 —see you! Yow are at home, you know. So go and find 
 your room, and ring and give your orders, my son, for you 
 are so. And I will go and let the ladies know that you have 
 eome, though I dare say they know it already.” 
 
 _ And shaking his hands, he let them go and turned slowly 
 away. 
 
 Half an hour sufficed the young gentlemen to make them- 
 selves presentable. At the end of which time they descended 
 the stairs, and were met in the hall by old Mr. Clifton, who 
 ushered them into the drawing-room. 
 
 This apartment was a most delightful summer room. It 
 was very spacious, occupying the whole first floor of one 
 of those irregular wings of the house. The ceiling was lofty, 
 the walls were covered with pearl white paper, and the floor 
 of white oak was waxed and polished to an ivory smooth- 
 ness. On three sides were tall windows, reaching to the 
 floor, and opening out upon the piazza or the lawn, and 
 draped with snowy, flowing curtains. On the fourth side 
 was the open fire-place, whitened inside, and having on its 
 marble hearth an alabaster vase of lilies, whose fragrance 
 fi‘led the air. The walls were adorned with tall mirrors, and 
 with choice paintings, all of a cool, refrigerating character, 
 such as: An Alpine Scene, A Green Forest Glade, with 
 
CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES. 45 
 
 Deer Reposing, A Mountain Lake, A Shaded Pond, with 
 Cows, A Farm Yard in a Snow Storm, ete. A piano stood 
 at the farthest end of the room. A harp reclined near it. 
 A. few marble-topped stands and tables, scattered over with 
 rare prints, books, virtu, bijouterie, etc., stood at convenient 
 distances. A lady’s elegant work-table, with its costly tri- 
 fles, was a pleasing feature in the room. Sofas, ottomans, 
 divans, and lounging chairs, “fitted to a wish for study or | 
 repose,” were everywhere at hand. 
 
 Through the open windows came the evening wind, laden 
 with the fragrance of flowers, the murmur of falling waters, 
 the whisper of leaves, and the cherry chirp of insects— 
 those night songsters who begin when the birds go to sleep— 
 nature’s vesper choir. While from the open windows could 
 be darkly seen the tall shadowy trees, the towering white 
 cliffs, and, in the distance, a bend of that great river which 
 took its rise here, and which there sleeping among the dark 
 green hills, with the moon shining full upon it, seemed a re- 
 splendent mountain lake, flashing back the moonbeams from 
 its bosom in rays of dazzling light. The whole effect of 
 the room and the scene was delightfully cooling and re- 
 freshing. 
 
 When Mr. Clifion conducted his guests into this saloon, 
 it was occupied by three young ladies, who, immediately on 
 their entrance, arose to receive them; and whom, in present- 
 ing his visitors, Mr. Clifton severally named as, My wife, 
 Mrs. Clifton,—my daughter, Miss Clifton, and my second 
 daughter, Zuleime. Captain Clifton, in turn, saluted his aunt 
 and cousins. Miss Clifton, his betrothed, received him with 
 cold hauteur. 
 
 So, these were the beauties—and beautiful, passing beau 
 tiful, they were indeed, though differing from each other in 
 beauty, as “Sone star differs from another in glory.” But 
 let me describe them. 
 
 Jarolyn Clifton is tall and elegantly proportioned, and 
 m-ves with high-bred dignity. Her features are Greciaa— 
 her complexion is dazzlingly fair, save when the pure rich 
 blood mantles in her check, and crimsons the short and scorns 
 ful lip. Her eyes are blue, and half veiled by their fair 
 lashes, as in disdain of aught that might seek their glance. 
 Wer fair hair is carried up from her forehead, and falls in 
 
 3 
 
46 CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES 
 
 bright tendril-like curls around the back of her neck, Jend- 
 ing an intellectual and queenly grace to the proud *heaa, 
 The costume of that day closely resembled the prevailing 
 mode of cur own. Miss Clifton wore a dress of pale blue 
 silk, made low in the neck, with a long-waisted stomacher, 
 tight sleeves reaching to the elbows, and ample flowing skirt. 
 The neck was trimmed with a fall of deep lace, then called 
 a ‘‘ tucker,” and answering to the present berthé. The tight 
 half-sleeves were trimmed at the elbows by deep lace ruiiles, 
 shading the arm. . A necklace of large strung pearls around 
 her throat, a bracelet of the same on her arm, and a pear|- 
 headed pin run through the Grecian knot of ringlets at the 
 back of her head, completed her toilet. She carried in her 
 hand and toyed carelessly with a beautiful fan of marabout 
 feathers. She was the daughter of the first Mrs. Clifton, of 
 Clifton, a fair, proud Maryland lady, one of the haughty : 
 Gowers, who lived long enough to augment by precept and 
 example, tle double portion of family arrogance Carolyn 
 Clifton had inherited from both sides of her house. ° Miss 
 Clifton had “ received her education” at a first-class *¢ La- 
 dies’ Institute ” at Richmond. 
 
 Zuleime, the younger sister, was about fourteen years of 
 age, but well grown and fuli-formed for her years. She was 
 the daughter of the second Mrs. Clifton, a beautiful West 
 Indian Creole, who died in giving her life. She had the 
 snowy skin and damask cheek of her father’s fair race, 
 and the glittering black hair and sparkling black eyes of her 
 Creole mother. Her dress was of plain white muslin, with 
 short sleeves and low neck, and coral necklace, which well 
 set off the exceeding brilliancy of her complexion. Zuleime 
 was home for the mid-summer holidays. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton, of Clifton, Georgia ! 
 
 ‘«¢ Yes, she is indeed the most beautiful woman in the whole 
 world,” exclaimed Fairfax, to himself, as he turned from the 
 fair and dignified Carolyn—the brilliant and sparkling Zu- 
 lsime, to the dark and graceful Georgia. She is of mediute 
 heizht. Her complexion is a rich, dark, uniform olive, het 
 yery cheeks being of the same hue, but so transparently clear, 
 that that which would mar the perfcction of another face, 
 adds deeper beauty to hers. Yes! the delicate bloom of 
 the fair Carolyn, and the bright damask blusb of the bril- 
 
CLIFTON AND THE SEAUTIES. 17 
 
 liant Zuleime, seem common-place beside the perfevt beauty 
 of the pure, clear olive cheek of the dark Georgia. Her 
 hair is intensely black, with depths under depths of dark 
 ness, lurking in the labyrinths of irregular curls that cluster 
 around, and throw so deep a shadow over her witching face. 
 Her eyebrows are black andarched. Her eyelashes are leng, 
 black, and drooping.- Her eyes are—pause—I have been 
 trying to think of something to which her wondrous eyca 
 may be compared, for darkness, profundity and power. Mid- 
 night? No, her eyes are darker, stiller, and more solemn 
 yet. Thunder clouds? No, for her eyes are more stormy 
 and impending still—and their electric stroke is silent as it 
 is fatal. In short, her eyes resemble nothing but themselves. 
 Her dress is of black gauze, over black silk, nade high to 
 veil her neck, and finished with a narrow black lace, within 
 which gleams around her throat a necklace of jet and gold. 
 She wears no other jewelry. <A large black lace mantilla is 
 carelessly thrown over all. When she moves her every 
 movement is undulating grace—her motion might be set to 
 music. And when she sits still she 1s so still, and dark, and 
 beautiful—and something else, besides, that the gazer expe- 
 riences something like the fascination and terror one feels in 
 looking down the depths of a dark chasm. 
 
 She was the daughter of a portrait painter in Richmond, 
 and this was what Captain Archer Clifton, in his arrogance, 
 called humble parentage. Mr. Clifton had met her under 
 the following circumstances: On finally withdrawing his eld- 
 est daughter from school, he wished, before carrying her 
 home, to have her portrait taken, and went for that purpose - 
 to the studio of Mr. Fuller, portrait and miniature painter, 
 where he chanced to see her for the first time, the artist’s 
 beautiful child, Georgia. He took so strong a fancy to this 
 oewitching creature, that he delayed his departure—prolong- 
 ing his stay in the city for three wecks, at the end of which. 
 besides the accomplished Miss Clifton, with her elegant 
 wardrobe, splendid jewels, costly presents, and finished por- 
 trait—he took home the artist’s daughter as the fourth Mrs. 
 Ulifton, of Clifton much to the indignation of the haughty 
 Carolyn, who never ceased to treat her beautiful young step- 
 mother with scorn and contempt. 
 
 Sup] er was announced, and the old gentleman, rising, 
 
 
 
48 - CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES. 
 
 requested his nephew to lIcad in his wife, while he himself, 
 took the arm of his eldest daughter, and left Zuleime to Mr. 
 Fairfax. They crossed the hall and entered a large and 
 pleasant dining-room, where stood an elegant table, laid with 
 a damask table-cloth, set out with silver plate, and Sevres 
 orcelain, and laden “ with all the luxuries of the season.” 
 Vaiters of perfect dress and address were in attendance. 
 
 “‘T assure you, Miss Zuleime, that contrast is all the sea-_ 
 soning of existense—and this is a high seasoning. For yes- 
 terday we sat down tu eat supper off of pewter plates, on a 
 bare board, in a mean hut, in company with rude moun- 
 taineers, and to-night we sit at the elegant tea-table of 
 Clifton, surrounded with beautiful, refined, and accomplished 
 ladies,” said Frank, as he handed his lively companion into 
 her chair, and took the seat by her side. : 
 
 The sprightly Zuleime laughed, and said she doubted 
 whether he would find more substantial or savory fare here 
 than he got at the mountain-hut. 
 
 After all were seated, and all served, the conversation 
 became general and vivacicus—old Mr. Clifton being evi- 
 dently “the life of the company.” He chatted, jested, 
 laughed, told anecdotes, and finally, inspired Frank, who 
 gave a laughable description of their adventures on the Alle- 
 ghanies ; of being upset in the stage-coach, and pitehed into 
 Wolfs Lick; of being lost in the fog, and near going down 
 the Devil’s Staircase ; finally, of being caught in the tempest, 
 and shut up in a mountain-but with a raving maniac. At 
 this the old gentleman began to rally his proud daughter on 
 her gratuitous ill-lhumcur of the preceding evening, at the 
 said delay, and then to scold the yoeng men for their effemi- 
 nacy and want of gallantry, courage, in suffering themselves 
 to be deluged by the storm. Now, to be charged, all at 
 once, with effemmacy, and want of gallantry, and courage, 
 even in jest, was too much, and in Frank’s case, teo near 
 the truth to go without reply. So he began vehemently to 
 clear his fame, assuring the assembled conipany that it was 
 not altogether effeminacy, for that they had been hospitably 
 sheltered in the cabin of a beautiful shepherdess. 
 
 ‘“‘ Yes,” said Frank, maliciously, “so beautiful that Clifton 
 there couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and while I sat and 
 played checkers with her brother, he sat and studied her 
 
CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES. 49 
 
 face, ‘and it were a book’—for hours. I wish you had sven 
 him, Miss Clifton— 
 
 ‘¢» Never gazea the moon 
 Upon the water as he sat and read 
 As ’lwere Ler eyes.’ 
 
 Fact, my dear lady, and I should be guilty of misprision of 
 treason, to conceal it!”’ laughed Frank, shaking his head at 
 his friend. 
 
 “ Ah-h-h! H-a-a-ah!—are you there, my fine fellow!” 
 chuckled the old gentleman, gleefully rubbing his hands, 
 and pointing his finger at his nephew, greatly enjoying his 
 discomfiture. 
 
 ‘‘T assure you, sir,” began Captain Clifton, gravely. 
 
 “Oh! don’t assure me! don’t assure me! Assure 
 Carolyn! What d’ye think o’ that, Carolyn? What d’ye 
 think 0? that? More cause for ill-humor last night, than 
 ye thought, eh! What think o’ that?’ he continued, mer- 
 cilessly. 
 
 And Carolyn— 
 
 ‘¢Oh, what a deal of scorn looked bez.utiful 
 In the contempt and anger of her lip!” 
 
 There are some women who cannot bear jest upon such 
 subjects—who cannot tolerate that their lovers should louk 
 with common curiosity—far less gaze with interest or admi- 
 ration “ for hours,”” upon any other young female face. And 
 such a woman was Carolyn Gower Clifton. Captain Clifton 
 knew this, and adoring her above all things, silently wished 
 Frank and the mountain girl both at the bottom of the Devil’s 
 Staircase. | 
 
 The old gentleman chatted and laughed; Frank jested 
 and blundered; the sprightly Zuleime sparkled and over- 
 flowed with fun and frolic, and the meal went on merrily, 
 notwithstanding. 
 
 W hen supper was over they adjourned to the airy summer 
 drawing-room, where they distributed themselves according 
 to their several humors. Miss Clifton passed impcriously 
 down the room, and took her seat upon a distant divan. 
 Captain Clifton followed, with a troubled air, and sat down 
 
50 CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES. 
 
 on the low ottoman at her feet. They doubtless thought 
 
 if they thought at all—-that they were in a very obscv.« 
 nook. But rank bad the impertinence to see them. There 
 sat the haughty and scornful girl, with chin erect, lip 
 curled, and eyelids cast down in disdain upon her suppliaut. 
 And there sat Archer Clifton, with his high, proud face 
 ‘turned up to hers, with an earnest, pleading, passionate 
 
 aze ! 
 
 . «¢ Now, by the venom of Cupid’s shaft !” exclaimed Frank, 
 to himself, «I cannot see what Clifton finds to worship in 
 that arrogant girl. If it were this bright, warm Zulemne, 
 here, now! But her! I might really suspect im of being 
 a fortune-hunter, and Aer of being an heiress, if I didn’t 
 know that Archer Clifton is himself the heir of the entailed 
 estate of Clifton, and that if his uncle were to die to-night, 
 he might, if he pleased, turn all these penniless women out 
 of the house to-morrow! Can’t understand it, for my life! 
 But I suppose the bond of sympathy between them is their 
 name acd their pride !” 
 
 “Do you find talking to yourself a very amusing pastime, 
 Mr. Fairfax,” asked Zuleinie, touching him on the elbow. 
 
 “No, my dear, delightful little girl, I don’t. What a 
 delightful thing, in a country house, is a beautiful girl of 
 fourteen, home for the holydays—a black-eyed, red-lipped 
 girl, in a white muslin gown and a coral necklace !” 
 
 “Are your soliloquies as good natured as your conversa- 
 tion, Mr. Fairfax,” inquired the laughing Zuleime. 
 
 << Not quite, I’m afraid, my dear.’ 
 
 “Do you know how to play chess, Mr. Fairfax?? she 
 asked, opening the chess-board. 
 
 “‘[ know how to play anything you wish me to play, my 
 love—even the fool!” 
 
 “Oh! the latter is not so rare or difficult an accomplish- 
 went,” laughed the maiden, taking her seat, and begiuning 
 to arrange the chess-men. Trank sat down, and they com- 
 menced the game in earnest. 
 
 All this time the old gentleman, with his white head and 
 rosy face, and kind smile and glance, had been walking 
 leisurely up and down the floor slowly, rubbing his hands 
 with an air of great enjoyment—pausing now by the work- 
 table at which sat his beautiful wife, and gazing on her 
 
CLIFTON AND TUE BEAUTIES. 5] 
 
 fondly while he toyed with the elegant. trifles of her work- 
 box—then sauntering off towards the chess-table, and patting 
 the head of his * little black-headed darling’”’—as he called 
 Zuleime—or passing a jest with Frank as he overlooked the 
 game—until the boy came from the post-office somewhat late ; 
 when taking the paper ke went and ensconced himself in an 
 easy-chair on the opposite side of his wife’s work-table, and 
 
 was soon busied in the perusal of the debate on Mr. Jeffer- 
 son’s bill for cutting off entails. Frank felt very much 
 pleased that the old” boy, as he mentally called him, was 
 “quieted at last, and that he himself had at length an oppor- 
 tunity of initiating his charming companion into the mys- 
 teries of flirtation, while she imparted to him the secrets 
 of chess. 
 
 The room was now very quiet. And Frank was soon deeply 
 immersed in his game. Yes—the room was very quiet, it 
 seemed the sanctuary of domestic love and happiness! At 
 one extremity sat the betrothed lovers, conversing in a low 
 tone, softer than the hum of far-off bees. At the other ex- 
 tremity sat the graceful young wife, placidly pursuing her 
 quiet work, and seeming more like the darling spoiled child 
 of the old man, her husband, who sat reading by her side, 
 and whose kind eyes often wandered from the paper and 
 rested fondly upon her. About midway of the room, sat 
 Frank and his bright companion, too deeply interested in 
 their chess to notice the happy lovers, or to observe the quiet 
 contentment of the old man with his beautiful darling. Yes, 
 this room seemed a temple of domestic truth and trust- -of 
 family peace and joy. At least so thought Frank, until 
 raising his eyes from his game, his glance chanced to fall for 
 an instant upon the face of Mrs. Clifton. 
 
 It might have been the darkness of her surroundings 
 which threw into such strong relief that fearful countenance, 
 for the black dress and flowing black mantilla veiled all her 
 form, while the clustering deep black curls darkly shaded 
 her face. Her form was turned from the table and bent 
 over the arm of the chair—her bosom was heaving, her lips 
 apart and humid, her nostrils slightly distended, and her 
 eyes, those dreadful eyes, fixed with a passionate, fierce, 
 devouring gaze upon some distant object. 
 
 Frank ‘impulsively followed the direction of that consuming 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
 LIRDADY 
 
59 CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES, 
 
 gaze, to where the betrothed lovers sat fully reconciled, 
 Clifton, unconscious of all eyes, but those blue orbs that 
 smiled so graciously upon him, was pressing Carolyn’s hand 
 to his lips in an ecstacy of love and gratitude. Frank 
 turned again to Mrs. Clifton. Her countenance had changed 
 as by the passage of a thunder-cloud. Her bosom was stil] 
 as death. Her brow and cheek was darkened, her teeth and 
 lips clenched together, her eyes fixed upon the lovers with 
 the baleful glare of ademon. If the head of the fabled Me~ 
 dusa had suddenly met his astonished gaze, he could not 
 have felt a deeper thrill of horror. And yet it was only a 
 look—the look of an instant—it came and went like the 
 swift swooping past of a fiewd’s wing—but the shadow on all 
 things seemed to remain. No more did that room seem the 
 blessed retreat of household faith and love—no! a deadly 
 serpent lay coiled among its flowers—a deadly poison lurked 
 Ir its cup of joy—the shadow of a demon’s wing was brood- 
 ing in the air—the house was CURSED! 
 
 Frank was of a highly honorable nature, but nervous and 
 impressible—he could no longer confine his attention to the 
 game; he misplayed awkwardly—ridiculously. Zuleime 
 laughed at him—and her silver laughter struck almost un- 
 pleasantly upon his ear. He lost the game, and finally, 
 complimenting his young antagonist upon the excellence of 
 her own play—an excellence which he admitted he had not 
 fully brought out—F rank arose from the table and sauntered 
 out into the piazza, exclaiming inwardly—* Ugh! I believe 
 in Satan, since I’ve seen that woman! Ugh! Whe-ew! 
 Every time I think of her I shall feel hot and smell brim- 
 stone!”? I said that Frank was of an extremely impressible 
 nature. He stood now upon the piazza at the back of the 
 house, and the majestic crescent of cliffs was before him. 
 The quiet of the night, the freshness of the dew, the coolness 
 of the breeze, the beauty and sublimity of the mountains 
 rising from their girdle of forest, with their peaks bathed in 
 moonlight—the distant glimpse of the bend in the river, 
 where it lay like a silver lake among the hills—the divine 
 peace and holiness of nature fell soothingly, refreshingly 
 upon his excited nerves. And after sauntering up and down 
 the piazza for some twenty minutes, he returned to the par- 
 for in a happier mood. There he found the family grouped 
 
SLIFTON AND TUE BEAUTIES. oe 
 
 around the table on which sat a silver basket of pme-apples 
 with cut-glass plates, and silver fruit knives and napkins. 
 
 “ Come, Mr. Fairfax, my dear fellow, we are waiting fo1 
 you,” said the old gentleman, beckoning him. 
 
 Frank joined thes a3 the tabic, aad after this repast was 
 ever, the family separated and retired to bed. 
 
54 MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN. 
 
 Soe 1s a ady of confirmed honor, of an unmatchable spirit, and de 
 terminate in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate alfront, nor 
 siow to feel where just provocation is given.—CuHarLes Lams. 
 
 Cuirton by the morning sunlight! Oh! that I could 
 show it to you as Fairfax saw it from the balcony of his 
 chamber on the morning after his arrival! The whole face 
 of the country was very high. yet even this elevated land 
 was broken into hills and valleys, rocks and glens. Behind 
 the house arose the white cliffs so often mentioned, shutting 
 out the Northern view, but before the house lay the valley 
 in which the plantation was situated, and around that, Hast, 
 West and South, stretched a magnificent panorama, ridge 
 beyond ridge of mountains, covered with gigantic forests, 
 clothed with the richest verdure, rolling on until they gradu- 
 ally faded away in the distance, their forms lost among the 
 clouds of the horizon. It seemed a vast, boundless ocean of 
 greenery, of which the vales and mountains were the stu- 
 pendous waves, charmed to sleep. 
 
 It was a magnificent solitude. Nota human dwelling to 
 be seen. The planters’ mansions—if there were any in the 
 neighborhood, were low in the vales, and hidden from sight. 
 The mountain torrent, as it came leaping down the side of 
 the cliff, running through the wooded lawn, losing itself in 
 the forest vale, and reappearing as a mountain lake among 
 the distant hills, was a beautiful feature in the landscape. 
 The deep intense blue of the clear skies, the early splendor 
 of the sun-light, the murmur of the breeze among the wav- 
 ing trees, the joyous songs of birds, gladdened all the scene, 
 and put to flight Frank’s blue devils, long before Dandy 
 ealled him to breakfast. 
 
 The breakfast-table was set in the lawn under the shadow 
 of the pine elms. 
 
MRS. CLIFTON OF HARDBARGAIN. 509 
 
 The old gentleman, in his suit of cool white linen—the 
 sisters in neat morning dresses of white cambric, and thie 
 dark Georgia, in her usual dress of black, were assembled | 
 on the piazza. They greeted Mr. Fairfax with lively wel- 
 come, telling him that Clifton had not yet made his appear- 
 ance. But even while they spoke, Captain Clifton joined 
 them, and they sat down to breakfast. Those breakfasts on 
 the lawn! How many times in after years, in the sultry 
 heat of the city hotel, did Fairfax recall them! 
 
 Soon after breakfast, Captain Clifton invited Mr. Fairfax 
 to accompany him in a ride up the ridge to his mother’s 
 farm. And after taking leave of the ladies they set out. 
 They left the house by | the back way, and took a winding 
 bridle-path up the side of the cliffs. The day was very fine 
 and cool, and their path was shaded by overhanging trees. 
 {t was altogether a delightful ride, and as they went up, 
 Mlifton, who led the way, turned his head around and in- 
 quired— 
 
 “Frank! what instigated you to romance so last night 
 about our sojourn at the mountain hut ?” 
 
 “Romance? I didn’t romance, except in saying that the 
 girl was beautiful. I said ¢hat for your credit !” 
 
 “On! I ought to be exceedingly obliged to you!” 
 
 “ Yes—I think so, too—but what malicious Puck gave 
 you a love-weed, and fooled you into sitting and studying 
 that ugly little girls hard face all the evening ?” 
 
 “‘T did not think her ugly at all. She has a noble conn- 
 tenance. A most noble countenance. One, of which an 
 empress might be proud of!” 
 
 “Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! J saw nothing buta 
 mountainous forehead, anda strong portcullis jaw! ‘ Noble:’ 
 Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! T said yowd taken the lov e-powder ! he 
 
 «¢ Yet even you cannot find any but a noble simile in speak- 
 ing of her ‘ugly’ features!” 
 
 “Ah! what will Miss Clifton think of this adiniration ?” 
 
 “Sir, Miss Clifton has my deepest homage, and when she 
 is my wife, she will indulge no follies. But, Fairfax, you 
 sie absurd, and I beg you will abandon this ridiculous con- 
 versation. You know that I have always had a proclivity 
 - to the study of character. Nature made me something of a 
 physiognomist. And if there be any truth in my favorite 
 
{6 MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN 
 
 science, that mountain girl’s face presented the most extra- 
 ordinary combination of power and goodness I have ever 
 met with.” 
 
 ‘¢Oh! then you only studied the maiden as the botanist 
 would study a new plant, the geologist a new fossil, or the 
 naturalist a strange animal ?— 
 
 —‘“ Or the astronomer a new STAR? Precisely, sir! Ex- 
 cept that the human being is the highest and most absorbing 
 study of all!” 
 
 “ Really! really! this passes belief—the proud, fastidious 
 Archer Clifton, to be smitten with an ugly mountain girl !” 
 
 «Frank! Nonsense—you really anger me. Listen, then, 
 and I will tell you why that child—for she is but a child— 
 interested me so much. I saw in her face the signs of won- 
 derful force of character, as yet undeveloped, and I saw in 
 all her actions that which corroborated their testimony. I 
 was surprised to find all that in the humble mountaineer, 
 and speculated as to what, in her very humble situation, it 
 might lead. That was simply all!” 
 
 «¢ And did you not wish to be a providence to the moun- 
 tain girl, and open a field for so much energy ?”’ 
 
 “Perhaps such a thought might have presented itself to 
 my mind. If so, it was dismissed at once. A highly gifted 
 man of low birth must have extraordinary talents indeed, 
 and be placed in extraordinary circumstances, to elevate 
 himself above his condition—for a girl in such a case it is 
 impossible. But, Fairfax, really this conversation has taken 
 a more serious tone than I designed it should. Really, 
 nobility of character, though very rare ameng the lower 
 classes of society, is yet not so impossible as to excite our 
 wonder. There are others like Kate Kavanagh—” 
 
 —‘ How pat you’ve got her name! Now J had forgotten 
 it !” 
 
 “Pooh! I say there are others like her. They are born 
 great—they live and die, and the world hears nothing of 
 them. And talents that might have swayed the counsels of 
 a monarch, and decided the destinies of an empire, have 
 been employed to direct the household of a shepherd, and 
 determine the fate of asheep! Such is the order of society, 
 and better, far better so, than that its boundaries should be 
 thrown down, its ranks intermingled !” 
 
MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN. 67 
 
 “There spoke a Clifton of Clifton!” said Frank. 
 
 They were now at the top of the ridge, and entering upon 
 w hard, stony, balf-reclaimed farm, in the midst of which 
 stood a rnde, but substantial house, built of hewn rocks of 
 every shade of gray, and surrounded by trees. - Below them, 
 all around, rose the forest-erowned hills; behind them the 
 white cliffs concealed the mansion of Clifton from their sight 
 all around them lay fields of stunted corn. 
 
 ‘This is Hardbargain,”’ said Captain Clifton, opening a 
 tude farm gate, and holding it open, while his companion 
 passed through. 
 
 ‘«¢ Hardbargain! a most appropriate name! I should think 
 it the hardest of all bargains, to receive this farm as a pre- 
 cious gift,” replied Frank, looking around upon the stony 
 field and stunted corn. 
 
 “Yes,” admitted Captain Clifton, “it is awell-merited title. 
 It was once called Rocky Ridge. A poor man got a grant 
 of it,and settled there first—spent all iis health and strength 
 in trying to bring the rugged soil under cuitivation—failed 
 — christened the place Hardseva/ble, and sold it to my grand 
 father for thrice its value. My grandfather repented the 
 purchase, re-christened the ill-starred farm Hardbargain, 
 and, as the Clifton estate was entailed upon bis eldest son, 
 gave this farm asa portion to his younger son, my father. 
 My father was then a subaltern officer in the Continental 
 Army, and absent with Washington, at Valley Forge. My 
 mother, with myself, then an infant, was a temporary 
 sojourner at Clifton. No sooner had my grandfather made a 
 git to my father of this nearly barren farm, than my mother 
 set all her faculties at work for its cultivation and improve- 
 ment. My mother was nearly penniless, being the daughter 
 of a family of decayed fortune. My father was unable to 
 send her anything except the Continental notes, with which 
 he himself was paid, but which would scarcely pass farther. 
 But being determined not to eat the bread of dependence by 
 remaining at Clifton after my grandfather’s death, my mother 
 sold all her j jewelry and plate, which had been left her by a 
 deceased maiden aunt, and applied the proceeds of the sale 
 to the improvement of Hardbargain. She hired laborers 
 There was a rude log hut, built by the first settle: upon the 
 ‘and. She hired a woman, and placed her in that hut to 
 
58 MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN. 
 
 keep house and cook for them. She read books on agricul- 
 ture, and consulted my uncle’s overseer upon the same sub- 
 ject. And every morning she rode up and spent the day at 
 Hlardbargain, overlooking the laborers. She was her own 
 overseer! Frank! you appreciate high worth when you see 
 it I may, besides, tell you anything—you are my only 
 companion—I tell you that my dear mother was one in ten 
 thousand. She was a true heroine, a heroine of domestic 
 life. Abandoning all her habits of elegance and refinement, 
 despising luxury, ease and comfort, disdaining the sneers of 
 the world, and giving herself to toil and hardship, and weari- 
 ness of body and mind, that she might win from the desert 
 an independent home for her family! My dear mother haa 
 no reason to suppose, and never admitted the possibility that 
 my uncle would not be blessed with a male heir, that /, her 
 son, for whom she toiled to secure a rugged farm, would be 
 the inheritor of entailed Clifton! And so she toiled, year 
 after year, until at the end of the war, when the army was 
 reduced, and my father came home, he found a comfortable 
 house, and a productive farm.” 
 
 Clifton seemed to have fallen into one of his fits of remi- 
 niscence ; scarcely conscious that he was talking to his true 
 but volatile friend, scarcely conscious that he was talking al 
 all, he went on— 
 
 ‘“‘ My first recollection of my dearest mother, is of a very 
 noble looking lady, of dark complexion, black hair, and gray 
 eyes. I recollect, when an infant of four years old, being 
 brought out from the mansion house of Clifton every morn- 
 ing, to the back road gate, where she sat upon her horse 
 awaiting me, with a little basket, containing our dinner, 
 hanging on the horn of the saddle. I used to be lifted to 
 the saddle before her, and while her left arm encircled me, 
 with her right hand she would guide her horse around the 
 base of the cliff, and take the winding bridle-path that led 
 up the Recky Ridge, upon which -lay her sterile farm of 
 (lardpargain. Oh! I remember how she used to ride from 
 field to field, making investigations, and giving directions t@ 
 her rude workmen—and with what deference the rough mu 
 were used to address her—hat in hand. I remember, tov, 
 our cold dinners, taken under the shade of an elm tree, 
 whose lowst branches sheltered a fine spring---the bead 
 
MR&. CLIFTON OF HARDBARGAIN,. 5Y 
 
 waters of that very torrent, which, in course of time and 
 space, swells into the mighty river I told you of. Oh! my 
 noble mother! how few would have displayed her courage 
 and fortitude !—not one in a million but would have rather 
 sat down in the luxurious ease and abundance of Clifton, 
 where she had a long welcome for as long as she shculd 
 choose to stay—rather than have dared the toil and hard- 
 ship that she cndured. The land was at last cleared up, the 
 farim laid off in order, and brought under the best possible 
 cultivation. A comfortable house was built, and my mother 
 moved into it to receive my father when he should come © 
 home, at the disbanding of his company. He came at last— 
 it was a happy time—and well I remember how my mother’s 
 young, but stern and weather-beaten face, bloomed ana 
 softened again into youth and beauty and womanhood, by her 
 soldier’s side. But, ah! he had survived all the horrible 
 perils and sufferings by cold, hunger, and the foe, endured 
 by our army during that long and terrible struggle, and re 
 turned safe, to die in a time of peace—to die at home, where 
 every care and comfort surrounded him. Yes, he came home 
 in the winter of —82. Towards the spring, he took a slight 
 cold—it was neglected as of little account—it settled upon 
 his lungs—before winter came again, he died, and the first 
 snow that fell, fell upon his grave. My honored mother was 
 a strong-minded woman. After what I have told you, you 
 know that she was! She loved him as only the strong can 
 love. She suffered as only the strong can suffer. She rose 
 above that death-blow to her happiness as only the strong 
 ean rise. But she has never been the same woman since. 
 Wher a few years had passed, and her son’s welfare demanded 
 her care, she aroused every faculty of her mind and body, 
 for the ‘purpose of insuring’ his greatest good. Even at 
 ‘hat epoch of time, there was no reason to suppose that 1 
 should inherit the Clifton estate. My uncle was then in the 
 prime of manhood, had married his second wife, and by no 
 means despaired of male issue. My dear mother taxed soul, 
 body and estate to the utmost, to defray my expenses at 
 college, during the seven years of my resiuence there. It 
 was also to her persevering exertions, as well as to the late 
 military services of my deceased father, that I owed my com- 
 aission in the army. They say that mzsfortunes never come 
 
60 MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN. 
 
 single. Good fortune certainly ne-er does, if I may judge 
 of vur own experience of both. When I had left college, 
 the heaviest tax was raised from our income, and when I ob- 
 tained a commission in the army, my year’s pay more than 
 doubled the annual income from the proceeds of the farm. 
 At this time also my mother received a legacy from an aged 
 and distant relative, which enabled her te steck her farm 
 well, and furnish her house comfortably. #urthermore, my 
 uncle having lost his third wife, and at last given up all 
 thoughts of a son of his own, began to take quite a paternal 
 terest in me—insisting, when off duty, I should spend al] 
 my time with him—and finding neither myself nor my mo- 
 ther disposed to forego each other’s society, would have per- 
 suaded the latter to take up her abode under his roof. But 
 that arrangement did not suit my mother. She, who in hen 
 young womanhood had too high a spirit for dependence- 
 preferring to give herself to severest toil and privation, rather 
 than live in easy luxury under another’s roof—vcould not in 
 her sterr maturity be bribed to give up her well-earned in- 
 dependence. Nor indeed, under any circumstances, should 
 T have consented to the plan. We compromised the matter 
 by my agreeing to spend half the time of furlough at Clifton. 
 This was the more congenial to my feelings, as my cousin 
 Carolyn had now left school permanently. As for my uncle, 
 he consoled himself for his disappointment in not getting my 
 mother’s society at Clifton, by marrying a fourth wife.” 
 
 “<T am impressed with the idea that your mother is a very 
 proud woman, Clifton!” said Frank, taking advantage of 
 Cxptain Clifton’s first thoughtful pause. 
 
 ** No, no,” he answered, slowly, as in half reverie, * no— 
 she is not what the world calls proud—she is no conservator 
 of rank, as Tam. She is the only frue republican I know 
 in this whole Republic. Sprung, herself, from an ancient, 
 uoble, and haughty race, she yet honors talent and virtue, 
 when met with in the lowest ranks, as much—nay, I verily 
 believe, more, than when found in the highest circles, where - 
 it is natural they should be more frequently seen.” 
 
 ——‘‘ But here we ere, and you shall judge for yourself,” 
 concluded Captain Clifton, as he opened a gate admitting 
 them into a shady yard, in the midst of which stood the house. 
 They alighted at the gate and gave their horses into the cbarge 
 
MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN. 61] 
 
 ef a negro boy, avd walked on to the house. It was a plain 
 oblong stone building, of two stories, with a deep, shady 
 piazza, running the whole length of the front. It was divided 
 through the centre by a wide passage way, the front and 
 Lack doors of which were both open and drawing a fine draft 
 of air, and from which opened four large airy rooms, two on 
 aside. ‘hey stepped up on the piazza, and were met at the 
 front door by a neatly clothed negro girl, who admitted them 
 iuto the passage, and opening a door on the right hand next 
 the front, showed them into a cool, breezy, but plainly fur- 
 nished parlor; the walls and ceiling bemg simply white- 
 washed, and the floor bare but highly polished with wax, as 
 was the summer custom of the country at that day. The 
 fire-place was open and filled with green bushes. The win- 
 dow-curtains, and the lounge, and easy chair covers, were 
 all of chintz. There was a reality of substantial and perma- 
 nent comfort about the place, that Frank thought he had 
 never seen elsewhere. And when Clifton invited him to be 
 seated, and he rested himself in one of those coo] arm-chairs 
 in that shaded room, he declared that a feeling of at-home- 
 ativeness came over him, such as he had never experienced 
 since he left his own mother’s house, and never hoped to feel 
 again until he should have a house of his own. The negro 
 girl whom Clifton addressed as Hennie, then left the reom to 
 summon her mistress, and shortly after the lady of the house 
 entered. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, was now about fifty years 
 of age—tall, and inclining to en bon point, but not more sc 
 than well became her years. Her complexion was dark, and 
 her hair and eyes black. Her features were strongly marked 
 and commanding, indicative of great strength of will and 
 indomitable firmness of purpose, all moderated, however, by 
 the expression of her countenance, which was at once com- 
 posed and gracious. Her manner was marked by unaffected 
 dignity and courtesy—her dress was of very plain dark silk, 
 made high to the throat, and with sleeves coming down to 
 the wrists, a small ruff set closely around her neck, fastened 
 with a mourning pin. Her only head-dress was her own 
 biack hair, which, though slightly mingled with gray, was 
 worn uncovered. Indeed, cap or turban upon that ncble 
 head would have looked impertinent. She advanced into the 
 
 4 
 
6% MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN 
 
 room and greeted her son with affection, and welcomed M:. 
 Fairfax with courtesy, though her words were so few, and 
 her manner was so calm, as to seem cool. Frank thought 
 her a very noble looking woman, though somewhat stiff and 
 coid. Indeed, all strangers, and superficial observers, 1] ought 
 her cold and proud. Never was a greater misapprehension 
 of character—never did a larger or more generous heart live 
 in the bosom of woman—albeit, its pulsations were of the 
 ealmest and most regular character. She sat down and en- 
 tered into an easy conversation with her son and his friend, 
 inquiring into the particulars of their journey, and making 
 comments as they were related. Once during the recital her 
 cheek almost imperceptibly changed. It was at the telling of 
 the hair-breadth eseape at the brink of the Devil’s Staircase, 
 but upon that she made no observation whatever. She rang 
 a little hand-bell, which was answered by the entrance of 
 Hennie. She took a bunch of keys from her pocket, and 
 giving them to the girl, directed her to bring refreshments. 
 Hennie left the room, but soon returned bearing a large 
 waiter with home-made wine, cake, and a basket of fine 
 peaches and pears. While they regaled themselves upon 
 these luxuries, she inquired after the health and well-being 
 of the family of White Cliffs, and having received satisfactory 
 answers, turned to Mr. Fairfax and hoped that he was suffi- © 
 ciently well pleased with their neighborhood to favor it with 
 a Jong sojourn. Frank assured her that he should never 
 grow weary of the delights of his visit, and should conclude 
 it only when compelled to do so, and then with great regret. 
 The conversation then became of more general interest. The 
 weather, the condition of the roads, the health of the neigh- 
 borhood, &c., were discussed. And then the discourse tuck 
 a higher tone, and the agricultural and political condition 
 and prospects of the whole country, and the great probability 
 of another speedy war with Great Britain, were debated. 
 And Mr. Fairfax wondered at the extent of information, the 
 strong grasp of mind, and the depth and justness of thought, 
 displayed by this recluse lady upon subjects apparently sa 
 fureign tu her daily experience, 
 
 They made quite a long morning visit, and before their 
 departure, Captain Clifton took an opportunity-—while Mr. 
 Fairfax was walking around the room and staring at some 
 
MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDEARGAIN. 64 
 
 
 
 old family pictures, among which hung a portrait by 
 of Oliver Cromwell, as Lo rd Protector of England-—to draw 
 his mother aside, Sh say to her— 
 
 ‘¢ Madam, | have a proposition to make to you, or a favor 
 to ask-——as it may turn out.” 
 
 “© What is it, my son?” gravely inquired the ladv. 
 
 ‘You heard Mr. Fairfax speak of the young mountain-gir] 
 whom we met just before the storm, and who kindly con- 
 ducted us to her grandfather’s cabin ?”” 
 
 rei e8.”” 
 
 “It is of her that I would speak, and for her that I would 
 enlist your sympathy and protection—” 
 
 “Go on, | attend, my son.” 
 
 “You have given me some credit for msight into character 
 If my judgment is worthy of your consideration, this young 
 girl is deserving of your kindest offices.” 
 
 ‘¢ Does she deserve them ?” 
 
 “¢ Madam, she impressed me as being a child of high moral 
 and mental endowments, and the trying experience of one 
 
 night proved the truth of that impression.” 
 
 “é Does she need my good offices ?” 
 
 “Mother! with the finest intellectual capacities, she is 
 nearly destitute of all opportunities of intellectual culture. 
 That is bad—but not so deplorable as what follows. Kate 
 Kavanagh—that is her name—is far removed from all of her 
 own sex. Her young brother, her only protector, is absent 
 from home from earliest dawn till, late at night. Her only 
 companion is an old ‘nan, an habitual drunkard, subject to 
 frequent and furious fits of manza-a-potu. Her case, upon 
 my showing, may not be so exigent. But if you had seen 
 her as I did, it would seem so. Her brother being best ac- 
 quainted with the circumstances, is the best judge in the 
 premises, and is very anxious upon his sister’s account, and 
 wishes to get her a place at service.” 
 
 “ But if she is a girl of so excellent a nature as you have 
 supposed, will she leave her aged relative ?” 
 
 “Not willingly, certainly —but—I wish the oy portunity 
 of improving her condition afforded her, indeed, 1 promised 
 her brother Carl that it should be presented.” 
 
 “I know Carl Kavanagh—--he worked for me during the 
 
§4 MRS CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN. 
 
 last year. J formed a good opinion o/ him. If his sister is 
 equal to him she must be a meritorious girl.” 
 
 «© She is very superior to him, madam.” 
 
 The lady was mistress of great promptitude and decision 
 of action. With her eyes fixed upon the ground she re- 
 fleeted for a few moments, then lifting them, said— 
 
 “ Write to your friend Carl Kavanagh—” 
 
 “ Not my friend, dear madain, an’ it please you!” haughtily 
 interrupted her son. 
 
 A slight shade of disapproval or of displeasure clouded the 
 lady’s brow for a moment, and she said— 
 
 ‘Write then to your dependent, Carl Kavanagh, and let 
 him know that I am willing to receive his sister into my own 
 iervice on trial—and that he may bring her hither as soon 
 as is convenient.” 
 
 ‘¢ Thank you, dearest madam, I will write to-day, and send a 
 messenger with the letter. Jam really pleased and grateful 
 or this kindness,” said Archer Clifton, pressing his lips to 
 the cheek she offered to his salute. 
 
 The young men soon after took leave, being engaged to 
 dine that day at home at White Cliffs. 
 
 ‘¢ Clifton!” said Mr Fairfax, as they rode along, * excuse 
 me for telling you freely how highly I honor your mother. 
 Yes! you may stare! /—the irreverent—the rash said— 
 excuse me for telling you how highly I honor your mother— 
 for, by my faith, she is a lady whom to praise is presump- 
 tion! But, my dear Clifton, how is it that she resembles so 
 closely that old portrait of Oliver Cromwell, which hangs, 
 besides, between two family portraits. It is not possible you 
 claim descent from him ?” 
 
 ‘My mother does, by the female line. I do not think I 
 have much of his nature. In his time I should have been a 
 royalist. My mother venerates his character very highly.” 
 
 «¢ By my soul! she is like him enough in feature.” 
 
 “Yes, and in many points of character, she is strikingly 
 like him.” 
 
 In conversation such as this the friends reached White 
 Cliffs, and Mr. Fairfax retired to his chamber to dress for 
 dinner, and Captain Clifton entered the library for the pur: 
 pese of writing a letter to Carl Kavanagh. 
 
Go 
 
 THE TIDE OF FATE, 3 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE TIDE OF FATE. 
 
 There is a tide in the affairs of man, 
 Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.—SHAKSPEARE 
 
 “ There is a tide in the affairs of ‘woman,’ 
 Which, taken at the flood, leads—’’? God knows where.—-Byr dn. 
 
 CaptTaIn Clifton had written to Carl Kavanagh, inforraing 
 him of the situation he had procured for the sister of the 
 latter, at Hardbargain. And within this letter he had in- 
 closed a longer one, to Kate, filled with good counsels and 
 urgent reasons why she should yield to the wishes o? her 
 brother, and accept the place offered to her. After hav- 
 ing dispatched these letters by a boy, who left White Uliffs 
 that afternoon, on horseback, he delivered himself up to the 
 delights of Miss Clifton’s society, forgetting all about. the 
 mountain-girl, until the next day, when, being seated in the 
 library, his messenger returned, entered his presence, and 
 handed him a packet. It was a letter from Carl Kavanagh, 
 inclosing one from Kate. He read Carl’s epistle first. It 
 began by expressing much gratitude_to his benefactor, for 
 his kindness in having procured a situation for his sister, and 
 went on by expressing much sorrow that he could not prevail 
 upon Kate, either by entreaties or threats, to accept it, and 
 unbounded indignation at what he called the girl’s wicked 
 stubbornness. The letter closed by reiterating the thanks 
 of the writer. Captain Oliften held the letter open in his 
 hand, and lifting his head, fell into deep thought. It was 
 strange how much this little matter depressed him. Account 
 for it, any philosopher that can. Some proud people have a 
 pioclivity to patronage—Captain Clifton was very proud, 
 and perhaps he was piqued at being prevented playing the 
 patron. Perhaps it was really disappointed benevolence. 
 Only it is certain that Archer Clifton did not possess that 
 quality to an immoderate degree—and having once done his 
 duty of charity, would be likely to content himself with any 
 
66 THE TIDE OF FATE. 
 
 result. Perchance he felt a deeper interest in the rugged 
 little mountaineer than he would have acknowledged, even 
 to himself. Perhaps it was prescience—the shadow of com- 
 ing events. Be that as it may, Archer Clifton walked up 
 and down the floor in silent thought, occasionally broken by a 
 slight sigh. It was wonderful how much the knowledge that 
 he should not have this child at home in his mother’s housé 
 vexed his soul. | 
 
 At length he recollected Kate’s own letter, yet unopened. 
 But of what avail to read it! It would certainly be the 
 counterpart of Carl’s. He opened it. It was not, however. 
 In the first place, the paper was perfectly clean; and in the 
 second, the writing, spelling, and style, were rather. better. 
 She acknowledged the goodness of Captain Clifton, in taking 
 thought of her humble wants—expressed regret that she 
 could not avail herself of his kindness—could net Jeave her 
 grandfather, who needed her services, and subscribed herself 
 Uaptain Clifton’s obliged and grateful servant. It was very . 
 nich like Carl’s, after all. But here is a postscript. What 
 more can she have to say, after what she has said, thought 
 Clifton, as he turned to it. It read thus— 
 
 «<P, S.—-I hope Captain Clifton will pardon me, if he thinks 
 that I am doing wrong—but it has come into my head, that 
 as (‘aptain Clifton is about to marry, and reside in future at 
 White Cliffs—and as Mrs. Clifton of Hardbargain, will then 
 be quite alone—and as she is not so young, or active, or 
 able to ride about her plantation, overseeing her field hands 
 as formerly—perhaps she will be thinking of getting a farm- 
 manager—if so, will Captain Clifton kindly remember my 
 brother Carl, and speak a favorable word for him to the lady 
 of Hardbargain, who already knows and trusts kim? If 
 Carl gets a situation as overseer, I can keep house for him, 
 and we can both take care of our grandfather. Indeed I am 
 afraid Captain Clifton will be justly angry with me for this 
 liberty.” 
 
 s¢ What a letter !”” exclaimed Archer Clifton, as his face 
 alternately lighted up with satisfaction, or became clouded 
 with thought. ‘ What a letter for a rustic girl of fourteen! 
 Yet characteristic of Aer and of her situation. Showing the 
 germs of zeflection, forethought, courage and promptitude, 
 
om 
 
 THE TIDE OF FATE. 6 
 
 the gifts of nature, mingled with that frankness bordering 
 upon presumption, which belongs to total ignorance of the 
 world. To dare to speak familiarly of our domestic affairs! 
 But yet how naively she deprecates my displeasure, at what 
 she feels may be received as presumption.” 
 
 So deeply did Captain Clifton study Kate and her letter; 
 Kate’s remarkable countenance, with its breadth of brow and 
 gentleness of eyes, haunted him. 
 
 He was a man of prompt decision and action—so, having 
 once admitted the idea that his mother needed an overseer, 
 he exclaimed— 
 
 «Yus my mother must be relieved from her arduous oc- 
 cupation—unbefitting a lady of her rank, and especially of 
 her age. Why could I not think of that before? Why 
 should I never have seen the necessity, until Catherine held 
 it up before me? Yes—my mother must have a manager on 
 her farm, and Carl Kavanagh shall be the man. 1 will pay 
 his salary myself.”? And he rung the bell, ordered his horse, 
 and in less than fifteen minutes was on his way to Hard- 
 pargain. 3 
 
 As he rode up to the house, he met a girl with a pail on 
 her head, going to the spring, and inquired of her where her 
 mistress was to be found. He was told, * down in the wheat 
 field.” So, turning his horse’s head a little to the left of the 
 house, he rode down the slope of the hill, to a wide harvest 
 field, where he found Mrs. Clifton, seated on her mule, super- 
 intending the operations of some fifteen or twenty laborers, 
 who were employed in stacking wheat. He rode up to his 
 mother’s side, alighted, and held out his hand, saymg— 
 
 «¢ How-do-you-do, to-day, madam? LBusily engaged as 
 ever, I see, mother.” : 
 
 ‘« How-do-you-do, Archer? Yes, very busy.” 
 
 While Captain Cliftor was revolving in his mind the best 
 way of introducing the object of his visit, which he had 
 reason to believe would be distasteful to the energetic, inde- 
 pendent lady—-she quite unconsciously anticipated his in- 
 tention, and relieved him from his embarrassment, by say- 
 ing— 
 
 A The heat is extremely oppressive, and I begin to find 
 this business too much for me, Archer. This continuing out 
 
 in the fields day after day. and all day long, throughout 
 
68 THE TIDE OF FATE 
 
 this burning weather, begins te tell, even upon my constitu 
 tion.” 
 
 Archer Clifton looked at his mother and noticed for the 
 first tiuie a slight but certain change in her countenaneg 
 invisible, perhaps, to an indifferent glance, but seeming te 
 the eye of affection, fearfully like the very earliest premoni< 
 tory symptoms of decay. That look pierced him to the 
 heart. The fainter sound of her voice, too, had vaguely 
 suggested failing strength—it fell upon his ear like a pro- 
 phecy, a warning, a knell. He realized then, for the first 
 time, that his mother was mortal—was growing old—that 
 some day he should lose her. He felt then, for the first time, 
 how much Ae—a man—had rested on this good mother—and 
 his heart was troubled within him. And yet it was all caused 
 only by a transient weariness in the look of her face, and a 
 faintness in the tone of her voice. But more than all things 
 else on earth—more deeply—though less ardently—than his 
 own fair expectant bride—did Archer Clifton love his mo- 
 ther! It had even been said, some years before, by one who 
 knew him best, that Clifton could never love any woman 
 with the full force of his nature unless in qualities of mind 
 and heart she resembled his mother. But of course, Captain 
 Clifton had disproved that prophecy by adoring his cousin, 
 the haughty and beautiful Miss Clifton. This is a digression 
 —to return— 
 
 As the new pang of fear for his mother’s health sped 
 through his heart, Archer Clifton took her hand—he had a 
 singularly sweet and persuasive voice and manner, when 
 moved by his affections, and said— 
 
 ‘‘There is no necessity for it, dear mother. Surely, the 
 motive that prompted you when I was a lad, and when this 
 farm was our only prospect, has long ceased to operate.” 
 
 “TI know it, Archer. Fcr some years past this personal 
 superintendence of the fields has been more a matter of 
 habit, than a matter of necessity. If I could find a good 
 manager I might try one.” 
 
 “What do you think of Carl Kavanagh in that capacity, 
 mother ?”” 
 
 “Qarl! I never thought of him at all. He has never 
 managed a plantation.” 
 
 “ But yet he has been a farm laborer many years--has a 
 
THE TIDE OF FATE. 6% 
 
 practival knowledge of agriculture, and is, besides, a man of 
 more intelligence than is usually to be found in his class.” 
 
 «“ Yes—he is,” said the lady, thoughtfully. 
 
 “ He is also a man of excellent moral character, and faulte 
 less habits—qualities not too frequently met with among 
 tnose of his grade.” 
 
 “ True—most true—but yet he is young, and has had u0 
 experience in overseeing.” 
 
 “ And never will have, dear madam, unless some oné gives 
 him the opportunity of making the trial. And as for his 
 youth, mother—why lis youth is positively an advantage—- 
 for with his practical knowledge, intelligence and honesty, 
 he will be free from the conceit and crotchets of an old 
 manager, and will the more readily fall into your system.” 
 
 “There is something in that,” said the lady. ‘ And now, 
 Archer, you will remain and dine witi me to-day. And re- 
 member, that when this week is out, the next week belongs 
 to me. Ycu must bring your friend with you when you 
 come. Where did you leave him 2?’ 
 
 “Plaving battledore with Zuleime. But, dear mother, 
 about this Cari Kavanagh—I hope you will consider the plan 
 favorably, and try him.” 
 
 ‘J will think of it, Archer, because you propose it, if for 
 no other reason. And now the horn is blowing for the hands 
 to go to dinner, and my task for the day is relieved. Let 
 us return to the house.” 
 
 They turned their animals’ heads, and rode up the ascent, 
 and entered the shady yard. Then the lady alighted from her 
 mule, gathered up her riding skirt, and leaning on the arm 
 of her son, entered the house. A plain but substantial din- 
 ner was soon served. Archer Clifton enjoyed his mother’s 
 plain meals more than the most luxurious dinners—not hut 
 that he had a taste for luxury—what man has not ?—but that 
 ‘here was a home comfort about his mother’s table, that gave 
 him appetite and spirit. And then, after dinner, he could 
 go and stretch himself upon the best lounge in that large, 
 shady, breezy parlor, with a book, and read or doze until she 
 ' had attended to the putting away of her things, and had 
 locked up her pantries. Then she would come and sit in the 
 rockiig-chair by his side, while he could stretch himself at 
 ease, in any ungainly attitude he pleased, and fee! what a 
 
 7 
 
T THE TIDE OF FATE. 
 
 refreshing thing it was to throw off his dignity in the pre- 
 sence of the only one with whom he could do so-—his own 
 familiar mother. Not but that he honored—nay, revered her 
 -—but that he enjoyed only in her house, that deep, full 
 seuse of home freedom, which not orly her son—but to a 
 vertain degree all others felt, who possessed the privilege of 
 the lady’s friendship. 
 
 This afternoon, then, he was lying at his ease on the cool 
 lounge between the two front windows, which were drawing 
 strong drafts of air, and flapping the festooned curtains lazily. 
 He had thrown himself out at full length upon the lounge, 
 in the most delightfully degagé attitude, albeit it was some- 
 what angular and awkward—his head being thrown back 
 over the end of the lounge, his hands clasped above his fore- 
 head, and his elbows very prominent, one foot, minus a slip- 
 per, hoisted upon the window-sill, and the other slippered 
 foot dangling on the carpet. But the picturesque beauty of 
 his dark, handsome face, atoned for all the rest. His mother 
 sat in an easy-chair near him, with her feet upon a footstool, 
 and a workstand by her side. She was engaged in stitching 
 wristbands—for that vigorous woman never required a lounge 
 in the day-time—but though she never took one, yet she 
 never blained the indulgence of that habit in others for which 
 she herself felt no inclination. She was the most liberal and 
 benevolent of all human beings, in every act of her daily life. 
 She was happy in seeing others comfortable around her. She 
 was ever pleased to see them enjoying those relaxations which 
 her own strong nature did not need. Indeed, courage with- 
 out asperity, fortitude without indurancy, strength without 
 hardness, self-denial without sternness, power without arro- 
 gance, formed the peculiar excellence of her character. No 
 wonder that her son revered her. No wonder it had been 
 said of him, that he never could love a woman with all the 
 power of his nature, unless in mental and moral endowments 
 she resembled his mother. As they talked together this 
 vfternoon, the hours slipped away till late in the evening, 
 vefore the image of the beautiful Carolyn had power to draw 
 him from the fete @ téte. During the afternoon he had pre- 
 vailed with his mother to receive Carl Kavanagh as her overs 
 eccr—an’ to have the comfortable log-cabin which had been 
 
THE TIDE OF FATE. 71 
 
 occupied by the first prcprietor of the soil, prepared for the 
 reception of the family. 
 
 When Archer Clifton at length arose to take his leave, 
 he pressed his mother to his heart with so much fondness 
 and power, that the quict, calm lady laughed, a little, low, 
 jolly laugh, and jested about Carolyn’s jealousy—even of hia 
 mother. 
 
 Captain Clifton returned to White Cliffs, and gave him-~ 
 self up for the rest of the evening, to the charms of Carolyn’s 
 conversation. 
 
 The next day was one of festivity. Mrs. Cilfton, of Hard- 
 bargain, caine over to dine at White Cliffs, and to meet a 
 large party of the neighboring gentry. The day after that, 
 the whole party dined and spent the evening at Hardbargain 
 --and this was the commencement of a series of neighbor- 
 hood entertainments in honor of the approaching marriage, 
 which were kept up for several weeks. The wedding was 
 to come off in the course of a month—the present delay being 
 owing to this circumstance: old Mr. Clifton had sent to 
 England, by the good ship Rockbridge, Captain Cater, an 
 extensive order, including a splendid outfit for the bride; 
 an they were now awaiting to hear of the the arrival of the 
 Rockbridge at Norfolk. In all the excitement of social 
 enjoyment, Captain Clifton had found time to ride to the 
 mountain hut, and arrange with Carl Kavanagh to come and 
 take the situation of overseer at Hardbargain. He agreed 
 to pay the latter a liberal salary, and to provide a comfortable 
 house for his family. One thing surprised and annoyed 
 him. Kate, who had written so freely, frankly, almost pre- 
 sumptuously to him—received him with the old cold shyness 
 and reserve—not even expressing the least gratitude for the 
 kindness he had shown in getting the situation fur her brcther, 
 or the trouble he had condescended to take in commng per- 
 sonally to inform them of it. He agreed with Carl, that the 
 latter, with his grandfather and sister, should remove to 
 Hardbargain in the course of the week—and on his own part 
 he promised to have the ]og-house prepared for their re- 
 ception. He shook hands with the eld man and Carl cr 
 parting, “ut when he offered the same civility te Kate, she 
 
72 THE TIDE CF FATE, 
 
 turned pale and trembled, and when he took her hand he 
 found it cold. 
 
 ‘‘ I do not think you are\well, my dear girl—your moun- 
 tain air does not engender chills, does it?”’ he asked, pressing 
 the cold fingers. 
 
 She raised her eyes one brief instant to his, and dropped 
 them quickly again, while her pale cheek and brow became 
 suffused with crimson, and her hand that he held in his own 
 throbbed like a heart. 
 
 ‘‘ When we get you to the plantation you will be better, 
 my dear girl,” said Clifton, kindly, shaking her hand and 
 letting it go. 
 
 Captain Clifton rode away full of thought—speculating 
 more upon Catherine’s reserve than became a gentleman of 
 his station and importance. What was it to him that a rustic 
 girl was too sly to express in person, her thanks for a faver 
 received, even though she had ‘ screwed her courage to the 
 sticking place” to write to him and solicit it? Many people, 
 more conversant with the world than Catherine, can write 
 that which they never can bring their lips to say. Besides 
 it was no matter—what was that lowly maiden to him, the 
 heir of Clifton, and the prospective husband of the highest 
 and haughtiest lady in the land? Yes—what to him except 
 an object of his high patronage could be that girl of—not 
 only “humble parentage,’ but indubitably low birth? He 
 rode on dissatisfied, he knew not wherefore, with her and 
 hinself. 
 
 As for Catherine, she stood—lost—where he had left her 
 —lost to the consciousness of her grandfather’s and of Carl’s 
 presence—with her eyes fixed upon the ground, blaming ber- 
 self for her awkwardness and seeming ingratitude ; wonder- 
 ing if he blamed her too; wondering why it was that when 
 she saw him enter she grew cold and trembled so ; and when 
 he spoke to her in that gentle tone, and looked at her with 
 that gentle gaze—her whole nature shrank away in fear and 
 trepidation—and though she would have given the world fos 
 the ability to express her gratitude and regard, all power of 
 attering a grateful word or of lifting a grateful glance to his 
 face, deserted, and left her pale and trembling before the 
 mian wnom she had no cause to fear, and every reason to 
 crust. Catherine stood with her mind dcep in this problem, 
 
THE TIDE OF FATE. tS 
 
 until the harsh voice of Cari startled her, saying, in rasping 
 toues— 
 
 “Well! are you going to stand there burrowing your 
 2yes in the ground all day? A pretty way you have behaved! 
 Please goodness, you’ve got no more manners than a dumb 
 Lrute. I take my oath [am ashamed of you! Now there 
 was Captain Clifton, a gentleman of so high rank, conde- 
 
 s:ending to come here and tell us himself of the place he 
 iid got for us, even after your unmannerly refusal of that 
 first place—and here were you with not one word of thanks 
 to give—no! please Heaven, not so much as one civil look! 
 I wonder what he’ll think of you?’ 
 
 «< What, indeed ?”’ repeated Catherine, very aoe 
 
 But Carl scarcely recognized her voice. It was no longer 
 the childish treble—it was the deep, full, melodious voice of 
 rich womanhood. 
 
 * Why, the kindest thought he can have of you, will be to 
 think you are a fool—that is all.” 
 
 “ Carl, I was in fear of him.” 
 
 “in fear of him! In fear of Archer Clifton! A man 
 whom all the country knows to be of the highest honor— 
 and one to whom even /, cautious as J am, could trust you 
 
 with, to go from one end of the world to the other!” 
 
 &T know that, Carl—I know he is a gentleman of honor, 
 but—but—I tremble before him, and have not courage to 
 lift my eyes—” 
 
 “But that is so confoundedly ridiculous, now! why are 
 you afraid of him ?” 
 
 Kate shook her head and waved her hand in that quick, 
 short manner which was peculiar to her, and turned away— 
 repeating in her own heart the question—Yes, why, why, 
 way?” 
 
 Whether the maiden found an answer to her question or 
 not, remained a secret to Carl; this was the first and last 
 conversation they ever held on the subject; and whatever 
 phenomena the opening heart of the maiden revealed to her- 
 self, were carefully shrouded away from the eyes of all. 
 
 
 
 How beautiful was Carolyn Clifton! So fair, so purely, 
 so divinely fair, so radiant, so refined, so stately! How fit 
 
74 THE TIDE OF FATE. 
 
 a consort for the proud Archer Clifton: How his heart 
 swelled with admiration and pride as he gazed upon her 
 queenly form—and how it glowed to think that in a very 
 few days that fair and stately lady, who never deigned to own 
 a passion, whose love he only guessed by her proud exaction 
 of exclusive service, who scarcely condescended to extend her 
 snowy hand to his salute—would be his own, his own, his wife, 
 his property, his other self—whose form he might press to 
 his bosom in the fullest freedom of possession! And as he 
 sat by her side and held her hand, and gazed upon her inac- 
 cessible, delightful beauty; oh! how slowly, slowly, to his 
 impatient, burning, throbbing heart—how slowly, dragged 
 the days and hours. 
 
 Well—oh very well would it have been for Archer Clifton, 
 could he have rent his gaze from his magnetic idol a moment, 
 and caught a certain pair of evil eyes upon him. . Their 
 baleful glare might have shed upon his path some light to sae 
 the pitfalls in his way. 
 
THE OLD MAN AND UGHIS BRIDE. 75 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 There is a divinity that shapes our ends, 
 Rough hew them as we will.—SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 CarL KAVANAGH and his sister were settled in the low 
 gabin on the farm of Hardbargain. Carl, as an old acquaint- 
 ance of the mistress, and a late laborer on the plantation, fell 
 readily into his new business of oversceing it. Catherine 
 began to busy herself in the management of her new and 
 very comfortable home. Their cabin contained a sitting- 
 room, kitchen, and two chambers. Mrs. Clifton had gratified 
 her own kindly and benevolent disposition by adding several 
 plain articles of furniture to the small stock possessed by the 
 poor family. She had, besides, given Catherine a set of half- 
 worn, white dimity curtains, and a pair of coarse, home-made, 
 white counterpanes. These gave an air of neatness, ap- 
 proaching—lI had almost said refinement to the sitting-room, 
 and two little bed-rooms. Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, 
 was not addicted to taking sudden likings—indeed, though a 
 lady of perfect frankness, benevolence and liberality of judg- 
 ment, she was cool and prudent—yet, notwithstanding this 
 _her kindest affections were at once attracted towards Kate 
 It is true she had been prepared to think well of the child 
 from an intimate knowledge of her brother Carl’s honesty 
 and intelligence, but at the first sight of Catherine, the noble 
 countenance.of the mountain-girl riveted her esteem. There 
 are some faces which we know at a giance cannot belong to 
 other than a fine, high-toned character. And such a coun- 
 tenance was that of Catherine. And it won upon the lady 
 every day, as no merely beautiful face could ever have done. 
 For hers was a brow— 
 
 “‘ Where every god did seem to set his seal to give the worla assurance 
 or 
 
 a peerless woman. Often Mrs. Clifton invited Catherine to 
 bring her work and sit with her through the afternoon, and 
 
76 THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE. 
 
 seldom did she let the girl return without placing in her hand 
 some book just suitable to. her very age, and the stage of 
 progress of her mind. And oh! did not the heart of the 
 maiden kindle and glow with love and admiration for the 
 noble lady, who, without one particle of pride, or the least 
 pretension to condescension—condescended so much. And so 
 Citherine grew to understand and appreciate Mrs. Clifton, 
 nud to look upon her with a feeling amounting almost to 
 worship. How happy were those afternoons spent with her 
 in the cool and breezy parlor. How deeply grateful was 
 pce for all her benefits—how anxious to prove her grati- 
 g for her benefactress. But Kate was 
 very shy, and her love only spoke in the stealthy look of af- 
 fection fixed upon the lady, and withdrawn with a deeply 
 blushing cheek if discovered. But by these tokens sure did 
 Mrs. Clifton know the sweetness and the tenderness, the 
 modesty and the sincerity of the maiden’s hidden heart. “And 
 all this time was Catherine wishing for the ability to tell her 
 friend how much she thanked and loved her. One afternoon 
 she mustered up the courage to tell the lady that she should 
 like to read to her any time that it would be agreeable ; also, 
 that she had some skill in doing up laces and such things, 
 and that she should be happy if she could assist Mrs. Clif- 
 ton in such matters. Mrs. Clifton placed her hand affee- 
 tionately on Catherine’s head, and declined all her offers of 
 service except that which related to the reading—which she 
 accepted—hoping thereby to improve her protégé in many 
 ways—to direct her choice of books, to correct her elocution, 
 and to awaken her understanding of what she read by ques- 
 tions and comments. So they ‘began a course of historical 
 realing with Rollin’s Ancient History. And that which 
 this excellent lady commenced as a duty of kindness soon 
 became a matter of daily recreation. It was indeed a rare 
 intellectual pleasure to arouse, cultivate and hold communion 
 with a fresh, vigorous, original enthusiastic mind like that 
 of Catherine. And those afternoons were almost as happy 
 for the lady as for her protégé—happier for Catherine they 
 could not have been. Once, the shy girl was entirely car- 
 ried out of herself and her reverie by the following circum- 
 stunce: The lady had inadvertently let fall that she was a 
 wescendant of Oliver Cromwell, when Kate, hurried beyond 
 
 
 
THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE. 77 
 
 her consciousness, clasped her hand and gazed fervently up 
 in her face, exclaiming— 
 
 “‘ Descended from Oliver Cromwell! Descended from 
 Oliver Cromwell, that friend of man ? that friend of freedom? 
 Oh! it is no wonder, lady, that you are so noble. so supe 
 rivr to all the world!” 
 
 «« My Catherine,” said the lady, calmly withdrawing her 
 nand * You know too little—far too little of the world, to 
 judge how I stand in comparison to others. And what know 
 you of Oliver Cromwell? Our reading has scarcely reached 
 the invasion of Britain by the Romans.” 
 
 “Oh, lady! lady! lady!” said Kate, warmly, being not 
 yet recovered from her trance—*‘ lady—Carl and I had not 
 many books, so we read what we had over and over again! 
 And one of the books we read the most was the life of Oliver 
 Cromwell!” 
 
 “You are generally so shy, Catherine, that it is a blind 
 work in me to direct your studies, not knowing what you 
 have read and what you have not.” 
 
 Yes—very delightful to both were these seasons, and very 
 strong was the affection beginning to cement between the 
 rady and the maiden. ‘There was only one thing that dis- 
 curbed Catherine in the perfect enjoyment of these after- 
 noons. When Archer Clifton would surprise them by 
 suddenly entering the room, and throwing himself into 
 an arm-chair or upon a sofa, her heart would stand still, 
 and her whole frame tremble with an agitation as impossible 
 to comprehend as to conquer. And yet much as _ his 
 arrival disturbed her, his departure failed to make her 
 happy. On the contrary, it left a strange sadness and yearn- 
 ing she could not shake off. But then ‘these things were of 
 rare occurrence. Captain Clifton very seldom found time to 
 visit his mother—he was contented to know that she had a 
 companion ;—and as for Kate, he never thought of her at 
 all—she was provided for and forgotten. Body, soul, and 
 spirit were taken up—absorbed in the contemplation of his 
 promised bride, and in the anticipation of her possession. 
 Catherine knew he was soon to be married, but what of that? 
 She was a child, with no knowledge at her tender years to 
 understand her own heart, and no skill to define its first de- 
 velopmerts. 
 
 5 
 
18 |. THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE. 
 
 At White Cliffs “‘all went merry as a marriage bell.’ 
 The “ Rockbridge’ was at length telegraphed at Norfolk. 
 A letter with an invoice was received by Mr. Clifton, whe 
 immediately dispatched a special messenger to reccive his 
 valuable portion of the cargo. The wedding-day was fixed 
 for that day week, and great preparations were on foot. 
 Tke gentry of the neighboring counties were invited. The 
 mansion-house was “swept and garnished” from garret to 
 cellar. Frank and Zuleime were daily rehearsing their parts 
 as bridesmaid and groomsman, which Frank declared to be 
 only an apprenticeship to the business of enacting bride and 
 groom. Some city guests from Richmond had arrived by 
 particular invitation, four or five days before the expected 
 wedding. ast of all came the wagon with the boxes from 
 Norfolk. They were opened in the hall—such treasure of 
 splendid attire, and such sets of jewelry! And, above all, 
 such a trousseau for the bride—conspicuous in which was the 
 bridal dress and veil—the bridal dress and train of richest 
 white brocade heavily embroidered with silver, after the gor- 
 geous fashion of that time—the bridal veil of finest lace- 
 the orange flower wreath of pearls and emeralds—the pear] 
 embroidered gloves and slippers—the pearl and silver mounted 
 fan, and all complete in correspondence. And richer still 
 was a ball-dress of blue silver-embroidered brocade, with its 
 elegant coiffure of ostrich feathers, the sight of which Zuleime 
 declared was enough to precipitate any girl into matrimony. 
 
 Every one was too happy, too busy and too self-important 
 tu notice the deathly hue of Georgia’s cheek, far less to de- 
 tect the fitful glare of the well-guarded eye. Every one but 
 her husband, who, leaving his daughters and their maids to 
 unpack the boxes, followed her into her own chamber, saying, 
 as he fondly laid his hand upon her shoulder— 
 
 s¢ My darling doesn’t seem to be merry.” 
 
 She shrank—shuddered from his touch, exclaiming, almost 
 snriuly— 
 
 *+ Leave me!” 
 
 ® Leave you, my dear !—my child .—why leave you?” he 
 asked, passing his hand gently around her shoulders. 
 
 “‘ Leave me. leave me!” she cried, sharply, casting off 
 the arm and springing back—her cheek blanched, her teeth 
 wuapping, her eyes sparkling fire, more like a terrified wolf 
 
THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE. 79 
 
 than a woman, “have I not told you never, never to come 
 near me in my dark hour?” 
 
 ‘¢ But why should my cherished pet have dark hours ?”’ he 
 persisted, approaching her. . 
 i ** Keep off! keep off! old man, you know not what you 
 
 ra) 199 
 
 “Yes, ’m old—I know I’m old—I wish I wasn’t, for I 
 love you, my darling. Yes, I love you more tenderly and 
 less selfishly than if I was younger. I love you entirely— 
 altogether— your little dark face—your little fiery ways— 
 your little outbursts of temper that no one sees. but me, who 
 look upon it with indulgent eyes. Would a young man love 
 you so tenderly, Georgia ?” 
 
 “‘ Driveller! you make me loathe you! — ‘My little fiery 
 ways.’ ‘My little outbursts of temper,’ forsooth! How 
 little do you understand me! You sting my soul to frenzy 
 with your dotage, and then twaddle about liking my Jitile 
 outburs!s of temper,’ forsooth.” . 
 
 “Dotave! Yes! I really do suppose you consider it 
 dotage |” 
 
 “Yes! drivelling! idiotic! imbecile dotage!” 
 _ © Ves! I do suppose you think it is! T am too old for you, 
 Georgia—I know it, alas! too well, now that it is too late— 
 and yet you did not raise the least objection to becoming my 
 wife, Georgia.” 
 
 “Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! Obdjectioa’ I was but 
 fifteen years of age when you bribed me to your arms with a 
 set of jewels, and a gold mounted work-box! I was a child, 
 delighted with glittering toys! and fond, yes! very fond of 
 the grandfatherly old man that poured them into my lap! 
 Did that child-fondness deceive you ?”’ 
 
 “It did, it did! You were very fond of me when you 
 were achild! Would to God I could have spell-bound you 
 to that age, so you never could have grown older! Oh! I 
 could find it in heart to shame my manhovud, to shame my 
 gray hairs and weep! I should not have married you, Geor- 
 gia, child! I should not have sacrificed you to my selfish 
 love—yet, no! It was not selfish love: I wished your 
 greatest good. I wished to surround you for life with all the 
 means and appliances of happiness. I wished to lavish 
 wealth upon y-u—ay, wealth of gold, and wealth of affee- 
 
80 THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE. 
 
 tion, too: I wished to give you a sumptuous home, splendid 
 apparel, costly jewels, carriages, servants—all those things 
 which women value so much, and scheme, and plot, and en- 
 deavor for so perseveringly! I wished to give them all tu 
 my darling, before she should have time to feel the need of 
 them !” 
 
 “Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!” bitterly laughed the gil. “Oh! 
 do you know what women value more than gold and jewels, 
 and dress, and carriages, and horses, and servants !—I’ll tell 
 you—the ungalled, unfettered heart’s freedom !” 
 
 “T know it! Oh! Iknowit! My love has destroyed 
 aed happiness. Oh, Georgia! did you never see a beautiful 
 
 ird, and long to have it for your own, only to caress and 
 pamper and pet it? Oh, Georgia! my child, my pet, my 
 bird! that was the reason I wanted you! I wanted to cherish, 
 and fondle, and make you happy !” 
 
 “ Ah-h! And did you never see such a bird as you spoke 
 of, in spite of all the petting, and pampering, and fondlings, 
 beat out its weary life against its prison bars and die Y” 
 
 “Don’t die, Georgia! Don’t die! Hope! Alas! I 
 wished only to make you happy—I have failed! I have 
 made you miserable!” 
 
 “< ¢ Miserable, ruined! despairing! desperate!” she cried, 
 wildly wringing her hands. 
 
 “‘ Nay, not despairing, Georgia! I am an old man, as you 
 justly said—gquite an old man. I have not very long to live, 
 and when I die, Georgia, you will still be a very young we- 
 man. Bethink you, you are scarce seventeen—in ten years 
 more you will be but twenty-seven, and is it even likely that I 
 shall live so long as that? No! And after my heart is 
 cold, and my head is laid low, Georgia will be a beautiful 
 young widow—ay, and with a rich jointure, too! I shall 
 take care of that!” 
 
 “Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! pathetic! I tell you, that if you 
 were to dic to-morrow, my life is not the less ruincd—de- 
 spairing!”” bitterly exclaimed the young woman. 
 
 “ Nay, but that cannot be, Georgia. Ruined? Despair- 
 ing? What! at seventeen years of age? Nonsense, my 
 love! Nothing but crime can make the youthful despair! 
 Nonsense, iny child! You are hysterical!” he said, moving 
 towards her with outstretched arms 
 
THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE. 8} 
 
 “Dotard! driveller!” she cried, turnirg fiercely upon 
 him, with eyes blazing with scorn and malignity. « Jmbecile! 
 Will you leave me to myself ?” 
 
 The old gentleman turned away, walked several times 
 slowly up and down the floor, and finally saying— 
 
 “Yes, | know Iam a dotard! I know it, and I grow 
 ashamed of dotage—” clapped his hat upon his head and 
 walked out. 
 
 Bitterly did the old man rue his folly, yet, alas! he knew 
 but half the cause of that ingrate and wretched woman’s 
 fierce outbreaks of temper. 
 
 She followed his retreating form, with a glaring of mingled 
 rage and fear, gnawing her white lips, while she muttered, in 
 a low, fierce tone— 
 
 “1 could tear my heart out! I could bite my tongue off, 
 for thus betraying me! Shall I ever have power to chain 
 and guide the tiger in me? But he with his doting, and they 
 with their dalliance, goad me to extremity? But,” she ex 
 claimed, clenching her fist, setting her teeth, and glaring, 
 while all her countenance darkened with rage and anguish— 
 ¢ But, before they shall MARRY under my very eyes, and live 
 here, maddening my soul and senses, day and night, by the 
 view of their love and joy, I will pull down ruin on the heads 
 of all! Yes, although myself should be the first to fall !” 
 She paused in silent thought some time, then rising, said, 
 “ Down, tiger heart! Down! crouch! Be smooth, brow! 
 Be smiling, lip! Be tender, eyes! Be soft. voice! And 
 now to go and pacify the old man, before his vexation betrays - 
 me to the others. Ah! it is well they have never witnessed 
 my excitement! Come! in time I shall learn to curb wild 
 impulses, and only spring upon my prey when time and place 
 is fit!” 
 
 Soft, smooth, fascinating, seductive, she glided from her 
 chamber out into the upper piazza, where the old man’s slow 
 and heavy footfall was heard—she glided after him, and with 
 an air of sweet, familiar, childish freedom, she raised his arm, 
 and putting her beautiful head under it, drew his hand 
 around her neck and over her bosom, and looking up plead 
 ingly, simply, into his benevolent face, murmured, merely— 
 
 “Tam so sorry Mr. Clifton!” 
 
89 THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE 
 
 «Never mind' never mind, my dear!” said the old or 
 tleman, stooping and kissing her brow. 
 
 “Oh, but Lam! so sorry!” 
 
 “You, child! Do you think I mind your little petu- 
 lance ?” 
 
 “Oh! you are good, you are good. Indeed, ’m quite 
 anworthy of you!” she whispered softly, pressing her head 
 against his bosom, and clinging close. 
 
 “ You, darling!” cried the old man, stroking her curls in 
 delight. 
 
 «‘T am such an irritable, petulant child! I am sure no one 
 would have patience with me but you—that is the reason I 
 love you so!” 
 
 - © You do love me then?’ gazing fondly in her witching 
 face. 
 
 “Oh, dearly! dearly! look in my eyes and see if I 
 don’t!” f 
 “Yes! I know you do, my pet! And I love you 
 entirely !” ; 
 
 “Ah! how can you then! I have so many faults! 
 
 “T love your little faults, and all! Come! Brighten 
 ap! Never mind! I love to see my darling bright and 
 cheerful.” 
 
 ‘Ah! how can I, when I remember my fit of ill 
 temper !” 
 
 “Say no more about it, my love! That’s the reason why 
 [love you' For those very little gnats of temper! They are 
 followed by such a sweet re-action! and then my child is so 
 frank, so ingenuous in her little penitence !” 
 
 “Ah! But then I am such a spoiled child! And 
 always was! Father spoiled me. And now you spoil me 
 worse than ever !” 
 
 “« My sweet! you can’t be spoiled! you are so ingenuous! 
 But now tell me, what vexed my little girl this evening? 
 Come, let me hear?’ asked the old man, caressing the 
 syren. 
 ie Well! now it was this!’ I thought you loved Carolyn 
 and Zuleime better than me!” replied the artful woman, 
 gazing half-reproachfully, half-pleadingly up méto his smiling 
 face. 
 
 “ Love Carolyn and Zuleime better than you! Why you 
 
 199 
 
THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE. 83 
 
 jealous little witch!’ exclaimed the old man in rapture. 
 “ Love them more than you! Why, I have to pray Hea- 
 ven’s pardon daily, for net loving them a hundredth part as 
 much !—kiss me!” 
 
 Georgia nerved her loathing heart to give the demanded 
 kiss, and then went and joined the party in the parlor, as 
 beautiful, smooth, seductive, dangerous as ever; while the 
 old man walked up and down the piazza, smiling to nimself 
 and saying— 
 
 “She is a child—nothing but a child!—a sweet, willful, 
 witching child !” 
 
 Alas! little recking of the household treachery, the houses 
 hold wreck that ‘ child” was preparing! 
 
84 THE RUPTURED TIE. 
 
 CHAPTER Vt. 
 
 THE RUPTURED TIE. 
 
 Alas! they had been friends in youth, 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth; 
 And constancy lives in realms above, 
 And life is thorny, and youth is vain, 
 And to be wroth with one we love 
 Doth work like madness on the brain 
 
 Wuat ruin a single spark of fire may spread, if carelessly 
 or designedly dropped amid combustible or inflammable 
 material. : 
 
 What desolation a single word may cause, if thoughtlessly 
 or intentionally let fall into a passionate, impetuous heart. 
 
 The three scenes I am about to describe, took place very 
 nearly as they are related. 
 
 But first a few words of explanation. 
 
 I feel that I have scarcely done justice to the character 
 of Carolyn Clifton, in presenting her only by that cold and 
 frosty crust of pride, which was but the superficial covering 
 of a high-spirited, honorable nature. Her manners were cold 
 and haughty—almost scornful and arrogant—it is but too 
 true. And most people, her family included, supposed her 
 to be destitute of sensibility. Perhaps she was lacking in 
 warmth of affection for her immediate domestic circle. Her 
 whole heart, with all its deep, profound, untold, unguessed 
 devotion, was given to Archer Clifton. And while secretly 
 bestowing upon him her entire, undivided love—she openly 
 exacted a full, unshared return—an exclusive worship. 
 
 In truth, in her proud, secret heart, she was a little jealous 
 of Clifton’s affection for his mother! She did not love her 
 father so devotedly! -why should Clifton worship his mo- 
 ther sot ‘To this jealousy she had never given breath, of 
 course—indeed, to her own passionate love, she had never 
 yet given word—preferring, in her high toned, maiden pride, 
 
THE RUPTURED TIE. 85 
 
 to leave it to be mferred. She had never even Jocked her 
 jealousy, yet Mrs. Clifton, with the fine instinct of a woman 
 and a mother, guessed it, and in her presence, skillfully 
 elujed all demonstrations of affection from her son. And so 
 well was the proud, exacting spirit of Miss Clifton known in 
 her own family, that even the sprightly and mischievous out- 
 law, Zuleime, dared take no childish liberty with her sister’s 
 betrothed. Thus it happened that Frank Fairfax’s unlucky 
 jest had deeply offended the arrogant lady, the more cspe~ 
 cially as in that day, and in that neighborhood, the term 
 “ mountain-girl,”” was too often the mildest name for an evil 
 woman.—This fact, of course, Frank was not acquainted 
 with. And, therefore it was, that he could not understand 
 Carl Kavanagh’s excessive anxiety to send his young sister 
 off the mountain ; and could not in the least comprehend the 
 intense indignation of Miss Clifton, and the difficulty Arcner 
 Clifton had in restoring her good humor. Even now, Caro- 
 lyn Clifton had not forgotten the circumstance. And truth 
 to tell, she was not well pleased at the continued interest 
 displayed by Captain Clifton for his protégé, in bringing her 
 and her family upon his mother’s plantation. But she was 
 too proud again to allude to the subject. Carolyn Clifton 
 had never known a care or a contradiction in her life. Her 
 heart was a sound, strong, high, proud thing, and therefore, 
 very like to break itself without fear, full tilt against the first 
 impediment that opposed it. She was, besides, like all women 
 of her fair complexion and fine tempered nerves—“ a dis- 
 cerner of spirits.” And this quick, delicate, and sure per= 
 ception never failed her, except when she was agitated and 
 blinded by inward passion. Thus, perhaps, quite uncon- 
 sciously, she read the heart of her betrothed—and knew it 
 better than he did himself—and thus, perhaps, involuntarily, 
 sLe afterwards acted on that knowledge. 
 
 At all events, there was quite enough combustible material 
 on hand for a single spark to ignite it and spread a conflu: 
 gration. — 
 
 And the spark—and many sparks were not wanting. <A 
 thoughtless jest of Frank’s—a slight word dropped by 
 Georgia at exactly the right, or rather the wrong time and 
 place—and the whole neighborhood of R County 
 vere agog with gossip. And Captain Clifton and his pro- 
 
 
 
86 THE RUPTURED TIRE. 
 
 tégé, were the subjects. Some, right in the face of his well- 
 known engagement to Miss Clifton, did not hesitate to say 
 that she, his protégé, was a beautiful girl, whom he intended 
 to educate and marry, and that his republican mother was 
 highly in favor of the plan. Others told how tastefully the 
 overseer’s house had been furnished and adorned, and—- 
 without the slightest foundation in truth—how many hours a 
 day Captain Clifton now spent with his interesting pupil. 
 The suspicious and malignant circulated a still darker tale, 
 and wondered how long it would last, and how it would all 
 end. And then they denounced Captain Clifton, blamed his ~ 
 mother, and pitied Miss Clifton! And all this time, while 
 the whole county was ringing with various and contradictory 
 reports, the persons most concerned knew nothing about it. 
 
 Until the day before the wedding, it was suddenly 
 brought to the knowledge of both parties, in the following 
 manner :— 
 
 The company assembled at Clifton, consisting of old Mr. 
 Clifton’s brother-in-law and sister, Judge and Mrs. Cabell, 
 of Richmond, with their three daughters and son, Frank 
 Fairfax, Zuleime, and Captain Clifton, had gone over to dine 
 by previous engagement with Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain. 
 Carolyn Clifton had been compelled, by a slight headache, 
 to remain at home. And Georgia had chosen to stay to keep 
 her company. _ The two ladies sat in the dressing-room of 
 Miss Clifton. Carolyn was silent and abstracted, yet her 
 countenance betrayed more of inward joy than she suspected. 
 A great contrast was her fair, placid face, to that of Georgia, 
 dark, and traversed by spasms of pain-like clouds hurling 
 past a stormy sky. But if Carolyn lifted her fair lashes a 
 moment, instantly that dark face cleared, ere its expression 
 could be detected. At length she ventured, in a sweet tone, 
 to say— 
 
 “‘ Carolyn, my dear, to morrow is your wedding day. And 
 -—but—there is something which you ought to know before- 
 hand, and which for weeks past I have keen trying to gain 
 courage to tell you.” 
 
 “Well, madam?” asked Miss Clifton, slowly lifting her 
 snowy lids. 
 
 ‘“‘T should—that is, I might expose myself to the resent- 
 ment of all your family by telling you.” 
 
THE RUPTURED TIE. 87 
 
 ‘¢Then you had best not tell me, madam.” 
 
 «And yet you ought to be informed, and must. | 
 sbould never forgive a friend for keeping such a secret from 
 me.” 
 
 A vague fear and tremor seized upon Carolyn Clifton, ané 
 kept her silent. The dark lady went on— 
 
 “1 think the honor, the happiness, even the tranquillity 
 of your married life, depends upon your previous knowledge 
 of this circumstance.” 
 
 “‘ Madam—the honor, happiness, and tranquillity of my 
 married life pass into the keeping of my husband, Captain 
 Clifton, and in him I have the utmost confidence,” remarked 
 Carolyn, coldly and proudly, though, alas !—not truly. 
 
 _ Heaven forbid that I should unnecessarily mar that con- 
 fidence! But, my love, you will be sure to hear it, when 
 too late, and from less friendly lips than mine!” 
 
 «Will it please you, then, madam, to speak out frankly 
 and honestly, and let us know what it is,” said Carolyn, 
 scornfully, at the same time that her heart was rising with 
 - emotion. 
 
 ‘Ts it possible you do not guess ?”” 
 
 “ T do not take the trouble to do so, Mrs. Clifton.” 
 
 «¢ Ah! you have always treated me with scorn and hauteur, 
 Miss Clifton. Yet that, alas! does not relieve me of the 
 painful duty of putting you on your guard. In a word, then, 
 do you understand the nature of the relations subsisting 
 between Captain Clifton and the sister of his mother’s over- 
 seer ?” 
 
 The brow of Carolyn Clifton flushed crimson—but she 
 answered, coldly— 
 
 « Madam, I believe that young person has been the object 
 of Captain Clifton’s benevolence.” 
 
 «Ah! I believe so too' His benevolence is certainly in- 
 disputable, and his honor should be above suspicion!” ex- 
 claimed Georgia, fervently. 
 
 “ Madam—zt is!” coldly replied Miss Clifton. 
 
 “ Yes—and yet, Carolyn, my love, a poor and beautiful 
 young maiden cannot continue to be the reeipient of a hand- 
 some young officer’s beneficence with credit to herself, honor 
 to him, or peace or safety to his wife !” 
 
88 THE RUPTURED TIE. 
 
 “Is she so very beautiful?’ was the question sur , «ed 
 from the haughty girl. 
 
 “‘ Passing beautiful, I think, Carolyn, and this it is that 
 makes the country gentlemen jest so about the matter. They 
 give a far different motive than benevolence to the kindness 
 of Captain Clifton to his lovely charge. J know that they 
 do him gross injustice! But this thing should not go an. It 
 is a dangerous relation—dangerous to Archer’s own fidelity, 
 dangerous to your peace, and most dangerous of all, to the 
 poor girl’s reputation. I advise you to speak to Archer. J 
 would do so myself, but it is too delicate a matter for me to 
 speak to a young gentleman about. Now in these palmy 
 days of courtship, he may listen to you as he never would, 
 perhaps, afterwards, and you will be able to prevail with him 
 to send this dangerous young beauty, his protégé, away. 
 Yes! and you may tell Archer that J advise this, for the 
 good of all parties. Tell him that the whole neighborhood 
 is ringing with gossip that may become slander. Tell him 
 that 1 say the parties most concerned in this rumor, or in 
 any rumor, will be ever the last to hear it. Tell him that I, 
 his friend, Georgia, venture to do him this service, informing 
 him through you. Let there be no concealments. Let all 
 be open candor. JI did feel afraid, when I began to tell you 
 this—but now it is out, I feel relieved—I have more 
 courage.” 
 
 “Madam!” said Carolyn, more haughtily than before— 
 ‘‘ Captain Clifton is quite capable of directing his own cop- 
 duct! And if he were not, I should never resign to him the 
 future control of mine! And, farthermore, madam!” she 
 added, sarcastically, “I too highly honor the man about to 
 become my husband—I have too much self-respect and deli- 
 cacy, to inquire into the nature of Captain Clifton’s indi- 
 vidual and private amusements, whether they relate to 
 hounds, horses, or beggar girls! I leave such investigations 
 to the daughter of the sign-painter!” and with an aix 
 of the greatest possible scorn and arrogance’ she arose, and 
 left the room. Yet under that proud, disdainful bearing, a 
 thousand scorpions, of doubt and jealousy, maddened her 
 soul. She went at once into her own room, and having 
 locked the door, that no rash intruder should look upon her 
 weakness, gave herself up to the anguish of her emotions— 
 
 
 
THE RIPTURED TIE. 89 
 
 Low pacing up and down the floor, wringing her hands in 
 distraction—now throwing herself, face downward, upon the 
 bed, in despair. And yet she had no confidence in Mrs, 
 Clifton’s honesty of purpose either 
 
 In the meantime, the party assembled at Hardbargain 
 were enjoying themselves and the hospitalities of their hostess, 
 to the fullest extent. 
 
 The late dinner was over; the ladies were lounging about 
 in arm-chairs, or on sofas, in the breezy parlor—dozing, 
 reading, or chatting in low tones, all serenely enjoying that 
 pleasant feeling of home freedom and repose, into which Mrs. 
 Clifton ever charmed her guests. 
 
 The gentlemen had left their wine, and in parties of two 
 and three were strolling about the shady yard, o1 out 
 through the fields and orchards, to cool their heads, previous 
 to joining the ladies at the tea-table. 
 
 Archer Clifton, with his cousin, Major Charles Cabell, and 
 Frank Fairfax, took the wooded path leading down the South 
 side of the ridge to a fine spring in the hollow. They came 
 to a log cabin, half hidden by surrounding and overhanging 
 elms—and literally covered with climbing and creeping vines 
 Before the door sat a girl, spinning on a little wheel, who, at 
 the first glimpse of strangers, instantly arose, and taking up 
 her wheel, retired into the house. Captain Clifton left his 
 companions, and going up to the door, called, saying— 
 
 ‘Catherine, my good girl, bring me a gourd here.” 
 
 Kate Kavanagh came, and with her eyes fixed upon the 
 ground, and her face suffused with a deep blush, handed the 
 required article, and instantly disappeared within. 
 
 «‘ By all the angels, what a fine face!” exclaimed Major 
 Cabell, gazing after her. 
 
 Archer Clifton sho; a quick, piercing glance at the speaker, 
 who, meeting it full as he turned, laughed, exclaiming, as if 
 & new discovery had been made 
 
 “Oh! Ay! Soh! you are there, are you? So then, 
 this is the mountain-beauty, the hidden treasure of Archer 
 Clifton; that has set all the country ladies agog w th scandal, 
 and all the country gentlemen mad with envy ?” 
 The het blood rushed to Clifton’s brow. 
 
90 THE RUPTURED TIE. 
 
 “Oh! now, don’t be iealous! Don’t be alarmed! Your 
 treasure is safe from me—though, by all the ‘queens of cht 
 valry, hers is a noble face—a face to bleed and die for! 
 None of your pretty lily and rose baby beauties that may be 
 seen by hundreds anywhere—but a noble girl, fit for a mons 
 arch’s love and counsellor!” 
 
 In an instant Archer Clifton strode up and stood with 
 bended brow and folded arms before him; and said, in a low, 
 deep, stern tone of concentrated passion— 
 
 “You are my relative, friend, guest! Your three-fold 
 claim upon my forbearance should protect you from any re- 
 sentment for words spoken against my honor. But, I charge 
 you, retract your words! And if you harbor one single sus- 
 picion against that young girl, you are a villain! S’death, 
 sir! Has the world come to such a pass, and is the honor 
 of Archer Clifton of so little worth, that he cannot protect a 
 poor young maiden without injury to her? By Heaven! be 
 warned! For if you do but breathe one breath to dim the 
 lustre of that girl’s good name—by the good Lord that made 
 us good, and the demon that turned us to evil! relative, 
 friend and guest as you are, I will slay and drag you to her 
 feet to die!” 
 
 So sudden, so mighty—so appalling was this burst of pas- 
 sion, that for a moment after it was over, Cabell and Fairfax 
 stood as if transfixed with astonishment. Then Cabell, in 
 the frankest way in the world, held out his hand, exclaim- 
 ing— 
 
 “T like that! D—dif I don’t! Come, Clifton—I was 
 wrong, forgive me! give me your hand! By my soul, T like 
 a man that will stand up for—there! by all that’s fatal, I 
 had liked to have tripped again !” 
 
 ‘‘ Understand me, sir,” said Archer Clifton, sternly. ‘You 
 know me to be on the eve of marriage with our cousin. She 
 is my liege Jady, and never for one instant in thought, word 
 or deed, has my allegiance swerved from her service. And 
 more, gentlemen, both! <A single word touching the fair 
 fame of her—of Catherine, I mean—touches me home.” 
 
 They were here overtaken by two or three other gentle 
 men, and the conversation took another and less perilous 
 turn, as they wandered down towards the mineral spring. 
 After slaking their thirst, the party divided. Major Cabell 
 
THE RUPTURED TIE. 91 
 
 jemed the three latest comers, and Clifton and Fairfax turned 
 towards the farm-house. 
 
 «You seem to be moody this evening, Archer,” said 
 Frank, after they had pursued their way for some time in 
 silence. 
 
 «¢ Yes—that foolish jest of Cabell’s has annoyed ue. Tt 
 is villamous! It is diabolical! Such light words, in which 
 a young girl’s fair fame is laughed and jested away, may be 
 thoughtless, but they should be pumished with death !” 
 
 “ That’s a harsh sentence !” 
 
 <¢ A just one!” 
 
 <¢ You feel this bitterly !”” 
 
 “Tpo. For her name has been used! Frank! you be- 
 lieve that if a word of disrespect were to be breathed by any 
 man against my mother, I would lay that man dead at my 
 feet without an instant’s grace ?” 
 
 “Yes! I thoroughly believe that you would send such an 
 one to his last account in a great hurry.” 
 
 «¢ And if any one were but to /ook an insult to Catherine, 
 it would rouse all the ferocity of the demon in me to over- 
 throw and trample him to death !” 
 
 «¢¢ All this I steadfastly believe,’ as the catechism says 
 about total depravity !” 
 
 «And, Frank! you, yourself have sometimes spoken flip- 
 pantly of my regard for that girl—never so insultingly as 
 ~ Cabell did just now, else you would not now possess my 
 esteem and friendship—but you have trifled with the subject. 
 Now understand, Frank, that I shall consider it a deep per- 
 sonal »ffront in future if you repeat it!” 
 
 «You haven’t heard me joke to you about Kate for a long 
 time.” 
 
 «¢ No—I certainly have not.” 
 
 «¢ No—for be hanged if the matter is not getting far too 
 serious for jesting !” 
 
 «¢ What do you mean ?” 
 
 «Archer! Have you never heard it said that those whom 
 it concerns first to be made acquainted with an injurious re- 
 port are usually the ast to hear it, and when they are tnno- 
 sent, they are the more exposed for bezng innocent, because 
 they never suspect the slander, and never guard against it?” 
 
 ‘©In Heaven's name, what do you mean ?” 
 
92 THE RUPTURED TIE. 
 
 “This. Cabell’s jest was but the echo of the whole county 
 talk. Ihave been asked, I suppose, twenty times, by twenty 
 different young men, to tell them all about our adventure 
 upon the mountain.” 
 
 “That was because you first of all represented it as an 
 adventure.” 
 
 “] confess it! In shame and confusion I confess it— but 
 then many times I am also asked what is the precise nature 
 of the relations subsisting between yourself and this girl ?” 
 
 BIND, NO 17 . 
 
 «“ Yes, I tell you!” 
 
 “No! no one dares to question that!” 
 
 “But they do, I tell you! Ay, and answer their own 
 qnestions in a manner that reflects very little honor upon the 
 parties !” 
 
 “¢ Would God I had never seen the girl! Would God I 
 had never brought her here! I would give my right hand 
 rather than evil should befall her! But wuo is it that dares 
 slander her? Tell me! Give me some name! Let me 
 have SOME one to make an example of!” 
 
 “‘ Nay, Clifton! you .can’t make an example of women and 
 children !”? said Frank, evasively. 
 
 “ By Heaven, sir, they have husbands and fathers, who 
 shall be held accountable for the license of tongue they allow 
 their wives and daughters !” 
 
 ‘¢Nay, now, Archer! This is a mere matter of gossip, 
 that will die out, if you are discreet !” 
 
 “To dare to talk of her! They never looked upon her 
 face' Else they never could associate the thought of evil 
 with that noble brow, those thoughtful eyes, and serious lips! 
 To slander her!” 
 
 “Nay, nay—it is not slander; only what I am afraid 
 should become such. It is only fun—joke—” 
 
 ‘<< 'To dare to joke of her !” 
 
 “<«¢ Her!’ Verily, Clifton, any one to hear you breathe 
 ‘her? with your full soul’s volume poured into the little 
 word, would think there was but one ‘fer’ in the world! 
 Arclay, you take a very strange interest in that yirl. Are 
 you sure that you are not in love with her ?” 
 
 “In -ve with her! Nonsense—she is a child '” 
 
THE RUPTURED TIE. 93 
 
 «¢ Well then, are you sure you should not be in love with 
 her, if she were a woman 2” 
 
 * Ridiculous! She is a low-born girl !” 
 
 “Oh Iforgot' I beg pardon! You demonstrated that 
 to me before.” 
 
 ‘«« And, besides, sir, please to remember that all my love 
 and faith are due to my cousin, Miss Clifton; and that she 
 has my whole heart! I love, admire, honor, my beautiful 
 betrothed bride—nor for her proud sake will I brook that 
 any one should think it possible that I could even in thought 
 fail in full loyalty to my liege lady! But, Frank' my soul’s 
 dear brother! as I tell you everything, I will tell you this! 
 that I feel the very deepest interest in Catherine’s welfare! 
 If you ask me why—lI tell you I do not know! It surprises 
 and confounds myself! But from the first moment I looked 
 upon her noble face, I felt that interest stir within my deep- 
 est soul. And it has never since ceased !” 
 
 «¢ [| swear you are enamored of her !” 
 
 ‘“‘ Preposterous, Frank! you make me angry! It is a 
 very different thing from being enamored of her, let me tell 
 you! There is my beautiful, but cold and scornful bride, up 
 at Clifton! Well, I am the most patient of all adoring 
 slaves! I wait upon her sovereign eyes all day long! I 
 am proud to submit to her whims—to do her lightest bid- 
 ding, and pick up her lap-dog—or to obey her severest 
 command, and exile myself from her gracious presence all 
 day long! But now observe the difference! I feel a deep, 
 strong, strange interest in Kate. I cannot account for it. 
 I feel a sort of unratified right of property in her. I wish 
 to do her good. But I wish that all the good she may ever 
 possess in the world, may come from only me! and that for all 
 good things with which I cannot supply her, she may suffer 
 the want rather than owe their possession to another!. Very 
 like Jove, is it not? But I wish to control her destiny! 1 
 wish to have her in my power !—7n all honor, however! It 
 galls me to think that I have no right of authority or guar- 
 dianship over her! I ardently desire such a right! I long 
 to have the disposal-of her person and fate! I crave with a 
 frantic craving, to have more than a father’s—more than a 
 husband’s—more than a master’s right over her! I would to 
 
 Goi she were born mine—my own—body, soul and spirit! 
 6 
 
94 THE RUPTURED TIE. 
 
 My own to use or abuse—to crown or kill, as I listed !” 
 exclaimed Clifton, passionately, while his cheeks and very lips 
 were white and dry, and his eyes burned with a fierce, con- 
 suming, inward fire. And forgetting all things real, he felt 
 as in a vision, a girl’s spirit swoop down upon his bosom, and 
 a dream voice murmur in his ear—‘‘ Oh! if it will give you 
 one instant’s joy to press me strongly to your heart—crush me 
 to death in the fold, and my soul will exhale in rapture to 
 Heaven.” The fervid vision came and passed like lightning, 
 and Clifton roused himself from reverie, with a smile and a 
 sneer, saying—‘ Very like love, all that! is it not ?” 
 
 But as Frank did not reply, and as they had now arrived 
 at the gate leading into the yard, the conversation ceased. 
 
 The early tea-table was set out under the shade of the 
 great oaks, and the ladies were walking about, taking the 
 evoning air in the yard. As supper was only waiting the 
 arrival of Captain Clifton and Mr. Fairfax, it was now speedily 
 served. | 
 
 After tea was over, the carriages were all brought round. 
 and the company took leave of Mrs. Clifton, and departed. 
 
 Captain Clifton and Mr. Fairfax were the last to leave. 
 They mounted their horses and took the brid!c-path down 
 the mountain-side. This separated them from the rest of 
 their party, who went by the road. They did not, however, 
 converse. Frank was thoughtful, and Clifton himself buried 
 in a deep reverie. 
 
 It was quite early when they arrived at White Cliffs; and 
 the remainder of the party had not yet arrived. Mr. Fairfax 
 joined Mrs. Clifton in the garden, and Archer Clifton sought 
 his lady-love, where he was informed he would find her, 
 namely, in the Summer saloon. He threw down his hat and 
 entered hurriedly, intending to surprise from her a hasty kiss. 
 Carolyn was standing looking out of the window upon the 
 rich sunset scene—the last sun that would set upon her 
 maiden life, perhaps, she thought. On seeing Clifton she 
 moved away, and retreated to the work-table at which she 
 seated herself. Clifton approached, and with an air of gal- 
 lantry, half serious, half playful, kneeled upon one knee 
 and kissed her hand. She drew it coldly away—but that 
 was the custom of the * proud ladie,” and did not surprise 
 her lover Ile arose and drew a chair to her side and seated 
 
THE RUPTURED TIE. 95 
 
 himself, and began to affect an interest in her littlo lady-like 
 occupations. Her right hand rested upon a pile of beautifully 
 fine linen cambric handkerchiefs—an item in the imported 
 trousseau. He laid his hand upon hers, and asked her some 
 trivial question about them. 
 
 Now, Carolyn, after a day’s extreme suffering, had almost 
 gained a victory over her passion. Her haughtiness had almost 
 saved her. Not to one soul in that house—not to Georgia, 
 had she betrayed the least sign of the cruel suspicion that 
 had nearly maddened her brain. Not for all Clifton—not 
 for all the world would she have betrayed her passion to her 
 lover—or condescended to admit that she could be jealous 
 of him; for she felt that once to accuse him would be to 
 impose upon her the necessity of breaking with him. How 
 could she, in honor, marry a man to-morrow whom to-day 
 she had accused of treachery ?—besides, she was not sure— 
 could never be sure of his moral dereliction. And while 
 there was a donbt in his favor, she must conquer or 
 conceal all suspicion, or, letting escape, must break with 
 him, even at this last moment——-must break with him for- 
 ever! At least so her high spirit and her pride argued. 
 She could not part with him—pride forbade that also.— 
 What! the marriage of Miss Clifton of Clifton broken off at 
 the last moment, “and all about a mountain-girl? Pah! 
 Forbid it, all the shades of all the buried Cliftons! Hearts 
 might break, but haughty heads must not be bowed! Bet- 
 ter lost peace than lost place! And then she loved him !— 
 toved him the deeper for suppressing all signs of love !—and 
 she could not bear to lose him! And banish him she must, 
 if she should once betray the jealous passion of her heart. 
 This mighty motive kept down tbe rising storm. Yet all 
 depended upon her vigilant self-control. Should a look, a 
 word of suspicion, escape her then, she felt the curbed frenzy 
 of her soul would have broken all bounds; even as by the 
 smallest fracture in the dyke, the mighty and irresistible sea . 
 is let in upon the land, carrying destruction and death before 
 it! All depended on her silence. So, to keep her lover 
 frem noticing her mood,—or fatally inquiring its cause—and 
 to give him employment, she pushed the pil¢ of handkerchiefs 
 towards him, saying calmly— 
 
 “‘ Mark them for me ’” 
 
96 THE RUPTURED TIE. 
 
 Clifton smilingly took them, found the little vial of indeli- 
 ple ink, and went to work—himself well pleased to have 
 some service to perform for his liege lady, that would, with- 
 out disrespect to her, deliver him from the duty of keeping 
 tip a running conversation, for which he felt mdisposed. 
 
 She need not have feared that Archer Clifton would ob- 
 serve her mood. He himself was too abstracted, too thought- 
 ful, to be critical or inquisitive. He was deeply troubled by 
 the recollection of the conversations of the afternoon, affect- 
 ing Kate Kavanagh. Instead of benefiting, had he really 
 wronged that excellent girl ?—darkened the very morning 
 of her just opening life with the clouds of suspicion? And 
 was even his mother’s protection insufficient to shield her in- 
 nocence from such attacks of slander? Yes!—for the fact 
 pf his mother’s protection was not even acknowledged. 
 Slander shuts its eyes to truth, while it opens its lips to false- 
 hood. Should he send her back to the mountain, and expose 
 her to all the evils of that life? No, no!—his whole heart 
 protested against that course. Yet what to do to save her? 
 He could not decide then. He could not even get his own 
 consent to consult his mother. What! wound her ear with 
 the repetition of such a story? Never! His usual prompti 
 tude of decision and action forsook him quite. A ery wag 
 in his heart, and be could only repeat to himself her name 
 in deep sorrow,—*Oh, Kate! Kate! Kate Kavanagh !” 
 until her very name “ Kate Kavanagh,” became the refrain 
 of a‘plaintive silent melody! Meantime he pursued his oc. ° 
 cupation quite mechanically, marking and laying down, one by 
 one, the handkerchiefs, until the whole dozen was complete. 
 
 Carolyn Clifton watched his complete and mournful abstrac- 
 tion with increasing suspicion. 
 
 When all the handkerchiefs were marked, he took the 
 parcel, and shaking off sad thought, smilingly laid them be- 
 fore his lady’s eyes, gayly entreating her to examine his work, 
 and reward him with a kindly word if it should please her. 
 
 Miss Clifton took up the parcel, her eyes fell upon the 
 topmost handkerchief, and she started violently. She swiftly 
 turned it over and looked at the second, and the blood rushed 
 to her brow! At the third, and it receded again, leaving 
 her pale as death! She hurriedly went through the dozen, 
 then springing ta her feet. she hurled the parce] to the fioor, 
 
THE RUPTURED TIE. | 97 
 
 ~and setting her heel upon it, lifted her proud form to its 
 loftiest height, and stood, her chest expanded, her head 
 thrown back, her cheek kindling, her eyes blazing,—full ! 
 full !—yet proudly suppressing all utterance of passion! 
 Captain Clifton st rted to his feet, exclaiming— 
 
 “Carolyn, my dear cousin !” 
 
 But spurning the parcel beneath her heel, she turned ims 
 periously away, and walked up the room. 
 
 He followed her, repeating— 
 
 “Carolyn, my dearest Carolyn! what is it?” 
 
 Turning and flashing upon him her fierce, imperious eyes, 
 she stretched out her arm, and pointed in scornful silence tc 
 the handkerchiefs on the floor. 
 
 He went and picked them up to examine them. Oh! 
 treacherous absence of mind! Oh! fatal refrain of the 
 mental melody! Oh! horror of horrors! Catastrophe of 
 catastrophes! Upon every handkerchief was beautifully 
 marked—* KatE KAVANAGH.” 
 
 ‘“¢ Confirmation strong 
 
 As proof from Holy Writ.” 
 
 Ay, and a great deal stronger, as sight is more convincing 
 than faith ' What was to be done? It was in vain to deny 
 or attempt to explainit! Yet he must try, even if he should 
 make himself ridiculous. Hurling the fatal “* handkerchiefs” 
 down with virulence, he sprang to the side of tne outraged 
 and indignant beauty ; seized her hand, exclaiming, velie= 
 
 ment] y— 
 
 «¢ My dearest love—pardon! pardon! This is all a mis- 
 take !” ! 
 
 Spurning his clasp from her hand, she turned away in 
 arrogant silence. 
 
 Dropping upon one knee, he took her hand again, and 
 looking up in her face, said, in a voice of entreaty— 
 
 “My Carolyn! this is all a mistake!—the most absurd 
 mistake! The effect of the merest absence of mind! The 
 most ridiculous thing !” 
 
 « Oh, sir!” she answered, with slow and withering scorn, 
 drawing her hand away again, ‘I do not doubt it was a mis- 
 take. I never supposed ycu would dare an intentional insult 
 to my father’s daughter !” 
 
- 
 
 98 TIE RUPTURED TIE. 
 
 «But, Carolyn, my dearest cousin, only permit me to exe 
 plain—” 
 
 ‘© Oh, sir, I entreat you spare me the humiliation of hears 
 ing the story!” she sneered, with curling lip. 
 
 “ee But, Carolyn, my dase loved bride! My bride, that 
 will be, to-morrow—if you will allow me to tell you all the - 
 simple truth—the reason why this young girl’s name ran in 
 my head so.’ 
 
 “Oh, sir.” she exclaimed, raising both hands, and turning 
 away her head in loathin g— I implore you!—-I most humbly 
 beseech you to forbear! Spare me details that might shock 
 my—delicacy !” 
 
 “ Carolyn,” he said, gravely and reproachfully rising, and 
 taking her hand—* this does not become you.” 
 
 Throwing off his hand, with scorn and indignation, she 
 replied— 
 
 “It would less become me, sir, to listen to the history you 
 would tell.”? Then subsiding into a mood of contemptuous 
 irony, she said, with a sneering smile—* Believe me, sir, I 
 feel more disgusted at your bad taste than shocked at your 
 sin, or wronged by your bad faith.  mountain-girl! 
 Truly, I am humiliated to think so base a rival should have 
 moved me—even to contempt. I am dishonored, sir, in that. 
 Had your wandering fancy fixed upon one of my cousins— 
 one of the elegant Misses Cabell, I might have mourned your 
 infidelity, but should have been saved this deep humiliation 
 for myself, and this utter contempt for you—but a mountain- 
 girl! A coarse, ignorant, ill-bred mountain-girl! Oh-h-A! 
 that you should have stooped, or I should have been moved, 
 by so low a creature as that! I could bury my head with 
 shame !” . 
 
 “Carolyn!” he said, sternly, “ permit me to inform you—” 
 
 “No, sir !”’ she exclaimed, scorn writhing her lips, indig- 
 nation bing from her eyes—“ No, str! You shall tell 
 ne NOTHING! It would ill-become my mother’s daughter to 
 
 -isten to the revolting history of—your base amour with the 
 mountain-girl!” 
 
 Yes, in the bitterness of her passion, she forgot her maiden 
 delicacy, and spoke those shameful words to his astonished — 
 ears ! 
 
 Miss Clifton!” he replied, severely, folding his arms 
 
THE RUPTURED TIE. Qi 
 
 and gazing sternly and steadily into her blushing fuce—-for 
 she was already blushing for her temerity —until she quailed 
 before him—“ Miss Clifton, you mistake my purpose—I have 
 no intention, now, to explain anything—the man who would 
 condescend to deny so base a crime as you have charged upon 
 me—is not too high or pure tocommitit. Therefore, I deign 
 to say nothing for myself. But for the admirable girl that 
 you have slandered—I will say this: Had a man dared to 
 asperse the fair fame of Catherine Kavanagh—though that 
 man had been my bosom friend—he should have expiated his 
 falsehood with his life:—Had any other woman breathed a 
 breath of slander on her—her husband or -her father should 
 have atoned for the fault :—For yourself, Miss Clifton—you 
 shall retract your words, before ever I shall call you wife!” 
 
 This roused her passion to ungovernable fury. Turning 
 ghastly white, while the light seemed to leap from her eyes, 
 she exclaimed; in a low, deep, intense tone— 
 
 ‘‘ DEATH, sir!. Do you threaten me? Insult me in my 
 father’s honse? Leave it! You are unworthy to stand 
 upon this floor! Brcone!” . And reaching out her hand, 
 she seized the bell cord, and rang a peal that presently 
 brought a servant to the dcor. The advent of a third party, - 
 though that party was a menial, constrained the lady to re- 
 member herself. Miss Clifton was her cold, serene, dignified 
 self again. Turning to the servant, she said, haughtily, 
 “ Show Captain Clifton to the front door, and bring round 
 his horse, instantly. He returns to Hardbargain, to-night.” 
 And she bowed to Clifton, and calmly and imperiously walked 
 from the room. 
 
 The man stood waiting and bowing. Captain Clifton 
 snatched his hat, saying— . 
 
 ‘«‘ Let my horse be brought round, without delay, Dandy, 
 and tell your master, when he returns, that he shall hear 
 from me at Hardbargain.” 
 
 When the man had bowed and retired, Captain Clifton 
 passed out through the open leaf of the window, into the 
 piazza, and thence down into the lawn, to speak to Frank, 
 who was just entering from the garden with Mrs. Clifton on 
 his arm. 
 
 Georgia saw at a glance, that her train of gunpowder had 
 caught, an the mag>zine had blown up, and her dark, beau- 
 
100 THE RUPTURED TIE. 
 
 tiful, demoniac, witching face lighted up with a iurid joy for 
 one unguarded instant, and then all was self-recollection, 
 self-control, and sweet, smooth, serene, alluring glamour. 
 
 Bowing deeply to Mrs. Clifton, he said—- 
 
 “‘ Madam, an unexpected event sends me from Clifton this 
 evening. Pray make my adieus to my uncle and cousin, 
 And permit me to commend my friend here to your hospi- 
 table care until such time as he pleases to become my guest 
 at Hardbargain—if, indeed, he will not ride thither with me 
 to night,” he added, turning to Frank. 
 
 Fairfax was too surprised to speak. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton, who was not surprised at all, yet affected 
 much interest, said, archly— 
 
 “Oh, but we shall see you back very early to-morrow 
 morning !” 
 
 ‘“T regret to add, madam, that it is not likely,” he said, 
 with another bow; then turning to Frank, he asked— 
 
 “ Will you ride with me to-night, Fairfax ?” 
 
 Frank glanced at the lady on his arm, and then looking 
 rebukingly at Clifton, begged to be excused. 
 
 “Well, then, you are my guest, Fairfax, and my mother 
 has often pressed you to give her a few weeks of your com- 
 pany. Join me at Hardbargain as soon as possible—the 
 sooner the better. To-morrow even—” 
 
 “ To-morrow!” archly smiled the wily lady. To-morrow, 
 I fancy, his attendance and your own will be required Aere. 
 Do you forget ?—Well, that is the worst instance of absence 
 of mind I ever saw or heard of! A young bridegroom to 
 forget, for an instant, his wedding-day! ‘Too bad, even for 
 you, the notoriously-absent-minded Archer Clifton !” 
 
 Not wishing to enter into explanations, Captain Clifton 
 merely replied with another bow—a most convenient, safe 
 and polite manner of answer, since, without lack of courtesy, 
 it committed nothing. | 
 
 Then, taking leave of both lady and gentleman, and re- 
 paren his invitation to Frank, he turned and went to take 
 
 is horse from the servant that held it, threw himself up into 
 the saddle, and, with a parting wave of his hat, rode away at 
 full speed. 
 : * Clifton looks darkly —what can be the matter?’ asked 
 ‘rank. 
 
THE RUETURED TIE. 101 
 
 “Oh, nothing! probably Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, 
 has been troubled with some refractory servant, and has sent 
 for her son to come up and reduce him to order—or possibly 
 there may be some dispute or difficulty in settling the des 
 mands of the hired harvest hands. They are often even 
 dishonest in their extortions.” 
 
 “‘Deferring to your better judgment, madam, still, I fear 
 not! I think such trifles would scarcely have raised so dark 
 a thunder-cloud upon Clifton’s brow,” said Frank. 
 
 “Oh, well! At worst it is but some lover’s quarrel with 
 his most exacting queen, Carolyn!” playfully replied the 
 lady. | 
 
 Frank was not satisfied—he was pained. This most dan- 
 gerous dark beauty fascinated and frightened him by turns. 
 He had never seen the fiend in her face since that first night, 
 and her witching power had almost erased the remembrance 
 of it from his mind. Indeed, if he had ever recollected it, it 
 ' was with wonder and remorse that he should have ever read 
 such fearful meaning in a Iady’s frown, and he ascribed it to 
 the phantasmagoria of his own fatigued nerves and over- 
 excited brain. But now he felt vaguely anxious, suspicious, 
 foreboding—he scarce knew wherefore. He had no rea on 
 to reply to the lady again, for at the instant she finisied 
 speaking, the carriages drove into the yard, bringing the 
 company from Hardbargaia, and they walked forward te 
 weicome them home. 
 
102 THE SEVERED HEARTS 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE SEVERED HEARTS. 
 
 Alas! how slight a cause may move 
 Dissension between hearts that love— 
 Hearts that the world in vain had tried, 
 And sorrow but more closely tied ; 
 That stood the storm when waves were rough, 
 Yet in a sunny hour fell off, 
 Like ships that have gone down at sea, 
 When Heaven was all tranguillity! 
 A something light as air—a look— 
 A word unkind or wrongly taken ; 
 Oh, love that tempests never shook, 
 A breath—a touch like this hath shaken.—Moors. 
 
 Some hours after the arrival of the company, old Mr, 
 Clifton sat alone in his study, examining piles of accounts, 
 merchants’, mechanics’, and hired laborers’ bills, that had 
 come in as usual upon the first of July, many weeks before, 
 yet had not, up to this night, been settled. For many years 
 past the financial affairs of the Master of Clifton had been 
 falling behindhand. The cause of this was that no planta~ 
 tion and plantation house can thoroughly succeed without 
 the personal superintendence of an efficient mistress to assist 
 the master’s effort. Often, indeed, it happens, that while 
 the master himself is engaged in state politics, or off at the 
 legislature, or at congress, or on the circuit as a judge of the 
 court, or in the metropolis of the state, or of the nation, 
 holding some high office under the government—the mistress, 
 at home upon the plantation, is the main-spring of all its 
 business—superintending—not only the house and house- 
 maids, with their multifarious cares and avocations, such as 
 a city housewife cannot conceive of, but managing the planta- 
 tion also—keeping: the overseer to his duty, adjudging 
 equitably all difficulties that may arise between him and the 
 slaves under his charge—looking over all the numerous 
 accounts, paying debts, and, when necessary, retrenching 
 
THE SEVERED TDEARTS.. 103 
 
 expenses. Now the Clifton plantation had been singularly 
 unfortunate in a series of inefficient mistresses, even before 
 it fell in regular succession to the present Mr. Clifton. And 
 after that, affairs were worse than ever. His first wife, the 
 haughty Miss Gower, the mother of Carolyn, was far too 
 great a lady to look after a housekeeper and overseer, and 
 her successors had been all young girls, very worthless, ox- 
 cept as pets and playthings, and who had, besides, to be 
 indulged every year with their winters in Richmond, or in 
 Washington—a two-fold evil, as it took the master from his 
 plantation and men, and the mistress from her house and 
 maids, and laid them, besides, under the heavy expense of 
 city hotel living, dressing, dinner-giving, theatres, balls, 
 concerts, etc. Once in awhile, as a bridal treat, or at the 
 successive “‘ coming out” of daughters, a winter in the me- 
 tropolis may be well enough. But when continued year 
 after year, through a lifetime, to the total neglect of the 
 plantation, the revenues of no ordinary estate will hold out. 
 So it followed, that as the master and mistress ceased to 
 look after the overseer and the housekeeper, the overseer 
 and housekeeper ceased to look after the men and maids, © 
 and the men and maids grew careless and indolent in the 
 performance of their duties. Thus, as the expenses rose, 
 the income fell. And thus, at the present time, old Mr. 
 Clifton was almost irredeemably in debt, and all the Clifton 
 property, except the land, mortgaged to its full value. The 
 mortgage might foreclose at any instant. And at this pre- 
 sent moment, the poor old master of great Clifton had not 
 the ready money to pay his harvest hands. The extent of 
 his liabilities was, however, so little known in the neighbor- 
 hood, that his credit was still good, and almost high—and 
 the estate of White Cliffs was still considered as one of the 
 most prosperous in the county, and the owners still held as 
 very enviable people. While old Mr. Clifton sat pondering 
 most dismally over his impracticable accounts, the study 
 door was suddenly thrown open, and Miss Clifton entered, 
 in great excitement, and threw herself into a chair before 
 her father, exclaiming— 
 
 <¢ Father, I have been insulted !” 
 
 The old man, never indifferent to his children’s cry—ever 
 ready in the midst of Lis own real cares, to hear and sympa- 
 
104 THE SEVERED HEARTS. 
 
 thize even with their fantastic griefs—looked up from his 
 papers in perplexity, inquiring— 
 
 “What is it? What did you say, my child?” 
 
 «<7 have been insulted !—outraged sir !” 
 
 The old man gazed at her in surprise, repeating— 
 
 “<Tnsulted, outraged !? ” 
 
 “Yes, sir! contemned, despised, scorned, insulted, out 
 raged, rejected !” 
 
 The old man placed his hands upon the arms of the chair 
 and gazed in astonishment, exclaimmg— 
 
 “¢< Insulted!—outraged!’ Whom? You, my daughter 
 Miss Clifton! Impossible.” 
 
 “Yes, sir! me, your daughter—Carolyn Clifton!” 
 
 «¢ Who has presumed—who has dared—Y’ 
 
 “‘Uaptain Clifton, sir, ‘has dared!?”? replied the indig 
 nant beauty, rising in her excitement. 
 
 The old gentleman stared at her in blank wonder for 4 
 minute, and then—taking her hand— 
 
 «Sit down—sit down—sit down—sit down,” he kept re- 
 peating, ‘and tell me all about it.” 
 
 Carolyn drank a glass of ice water that stood near her on 
 the table, and then, in a cooler manner, told her father ex- 
 actly what had passed, and how it had finally ended. 
 
 The old gentleman scratched his snow-white head in vex- 
 ation and perplexity, but the winter bloom of his broad, rosy 
 face, was neither heightened nor lowered at the hearing of 
 the tale. He did not by any means display the indignation 
 the offended beauty had expected. 
 
 “Well, sir!” at last she.said, rather haughtily, “‘ what do 
 you say to this?” 
 
 He put his arm fondly arvund her waist, and drew her te 
 him, saying, caressingly— 
 
 ‘‘ You’re a fool, Carolyn! <A vain, jealous little fool, 
 that’s all! Nay, now !—no airs with your old father! Ac- 
 cording to your own showing, it has been Archer that has 
 been ‘ contemned, sate scorned, insulted, outraged, re 
 jected !’ and the rest of it—and upon no just grounds, either! 
 as I can easily prove to you. Iam very much mortified—- 
 deeply humbled, indeed, to hear that my daughter, a high- 
 born young maien, should have forgotten her feminine pride 
 _ and delicacy, and ~eproached hea lover with an intimacy with 
 
THE SEVERED HEARTS. 102 
 
 & mountain -girl—a race of women, with very few exceptions 
 so low and wretched, that a young lady should ignore thei 
 very existence. Oh, my conscience, Carolyn! why do you 
 not cover your face, and die with humiliation? I do noi 
 wovder a man of such high honor and delicate sensibility as 
 Archer Clifton, should have been shocked and disgusted. 
 Nay, my child !—no airs with me! No tossing of the head, 
 and curling of the lip with me! I am your father. You 
 must listen tome. You have done Archer the most out- 
 rageous injustice. And your jealousy is as ridiculous as it is 
 delicate. In the first place, this girl, though brought up 
 on the mountain, comes of respectable, if humble parentage, 
 and possesses, by all accounts, a higher toned moral and in- 
 tellectual nature than most young ladies are endowed with. 
 She is as far removed from vice as my own Carolyn! In the 
 secund place, she is the protégé of Mrs. Clifton, as well as 
 of Captain Clifton, and enjoys that excellent lady’s esteem 
 and friendship, spending half of every day in her company, 
 except when visitors are at the house. In the third and last 
 place, she is not a beautiful woman, but an ugly child—being 
 scarcely fourteen years of age, and having the ugliest face I 
 ever saw in my life—at least J think so, though Mrs. Clifton 
 guys it is a noble face. It has large features, and is full of 
 strength and expression, like a boy’s. There, now, that’s 
 yll! Now! what do you think of yourself?” 
 
 During this short explanation, Carolyn’s beautiful counte- 
 pance had changed expression as rapidly and as variously as 
 during the lay ‘of the minstrel the harp changes and varies 
 its notes. At its close she dropped down by the side of the 
 old man, and throwing her arms and her head upon his knees, 
 in utter weakness and dejection, sobbed— 
 
 ‘‘Father! how shall I ever be forgiven ?”’ 
 
 He raised her to his knee, and putting his arm around her 
 waist, drew her head upon his bosom, and said— 
 
 ‘It is an ugly lover’s quarrel, certainly, my love! And 
 Archer Clifton is as proud ag youare! But it must be made 
 up! It must be made up! A very ugly quarrel, indeed. 
 And on the eve of your marriage, too! But it must be made 
 up! It must be made up! Ah, doubtless he will be over 
 to-worrow vight! He feels as bad as you do, I'll warrant 
 
106 THE SEVERED HEARTS 
 
 he does! J’ll warrant he does! J snuuld, I know, if 4 
 were he!” 
 
 “¢ Ah, father! no he does not! He wus in the right! 1] 
 was in the wrong!” 
 
 “ Yes! you were wrong, Carry! And I hope it will be a 
 lesson to you! But that makes no difference in Ais feclings, 
 pot a whit! He suffers as much as youdo! Why, when I 
 have a difficulty with my poor little pet, Georgia, if she ig 
 ever so wrong, and I ever so right, 1 am nevertheless the 
 most miserable man alive!” 
 
 ‘Ah, father, but there is a great difference—I am not 
 Archer’s pet, but.was to be his consort. We—Archer and 
 myself, are nearly equal in station, ay, education, disposi- 
 tion, and so are more responsible for our conduct towards 
 each other!” sighed Carolyn, dropping her head dejectedly 
 upon his bosom. 
 
 «Oh, well! now if you are so full of doubts and fears! 
 it is but ten o’clock! I will mount my horse, and ride up to 
 Hardbargain, and knock the young gentleman up—lI doubt 
 if he is asleep !—and bring him back here, to-night !” 
 
 “ Not for the world! Not for ten thousand worlds!” ex 
 claimed the proud girl, vehemently. 
 
 « Ali, then I don’t know what to do with you—go to bed, 
 and try to sleep, and if you can’t do that, ring for the house- 
 keeper, and make her give you some of her nostrums, to put 
 you to sleep! And go into a state of non-existence, that 
 shall obliterate the time between this and to-morrow morn- 
 ing. And to-morrow, Ill warrant Archer will be here to 
 breakfast with us, and to beg your pardon for the sins that 
 you committed! for that’s the end of all lovers’ quarrels! 
 No matter who’s right and who’s wrong—who’s sinned 
 against, and who’s sinning, the gentleman has to do the pen- 
 ance! There! kiss me, and be off with you!—and hark ye, 
 Carolyn! don’t forget to kneel down and pray Heaven to 
 give you the grace of a mecker temper !” 
 
 Carolyn Clifton went to her room and retired to bed, to 
 heat ler pillow with her feverish head, to wet it with her 
 hot tears—to sigh, and groan, and toss, and sob all night. 
 This bitter, bitter quarrel, was the first trouble the girl had 
 ever had ir all her favored life. And she was impatient 
 
THE SEVERED HEARTS. 10T 
 
 with it, indignant at it. She was angry with herself for her 
 injustice and indelicacy ; angry with Clifton for not forcing 
 upon her the explanation she would not consent to receive, 
 but which, had she been forced to hear, would have arrested 
 the quarrel, and saved this cruel suffering; angry at the te- 
 chous night, that lingered so long, keeping her in agonizing 
 suspense; angry at the morning, that delayed its coming, 
 and bringing her the peace and joy of a reconciliation. And 
 sc she tossed, and groaned, and suffered, like one in high 
 fever, while the long, long night was slowly, slowly passing 
 away. 
 
 In the meantime Captain Clifton had ridden away, not sa 
 angry as shocked, repulsed and alienated by the unprece- 
 dented behaviour of his lady-love. He disliked all demon- 
 strations of emotion, and detested all exhibitions of evil 
 passion ina woman. It was the high-bred delicacy and re- 
 finement—the queenly placidity—the cool reserve and stately 
 dignity of Carolyn Clifton, that had attracted his first admi- 
 ration. And though he sometimes gallantly complained of 
 her cruelty, he would not have had her manner one degree 
 warmer. But now this fair, cool, peerless queen o’er her- 
 self and her emotions, had yielded to passions that might 
 gcvern a serving-maid—to suspicion, jealousy, and fierce 
 anger——had descended to virulent, vituperative abuse! And, 
 hencetorth, she was discrowned, and degraded from her pride 
 of place. 
 
 He arrived at Hardbargain—gave his horse in charge of 
 a servant, and entered the house. 
 
 The candles were just lighted in the parlor, and Mrs. Clif- 
 ton and her favorite Kate sat sewing by the work-stand. Ag 
 he entered, Kate arose as usual with the intention of with- 
 drawing, but he signed to her with his hand, and said in a 
 tone of command— 
 
 «« No—stay, Catherine, and once for all give up that habit 
 of retiring as soon as myself or any other visitor enters ” 
 
 The young girl returned to her seat and resumed her work 
 Then with a sort of spirit of persecution upon him, as one 
 would think, he went to the maiden and inquired, impa 
 tiently-— 
 
108 THE SEVERED HEARTS. 
 
 «Why do you always do that? Why do you always rise 
 and leave as soon as any one enters the room ?” 
 
 She glanced up at him with those large, shy eyes, and in- 
 stantly veiled them again, while the blush deepened on her 
 cheek. Her heart—her disobedient, rebellious heart, that 
 would not be calm when she bade it—was beating fast against 
 her bosom, as it ever beat, when he looked at her, or spoke 
 ty her. To have saved her soul alive, she could not have 
 put her motive into words, and told him that she ever feared 
 her society, or even her presence, might not be as acceptable 
 to Mrs. Clifton’s visitors as it was to that kind lady herself. 
 She only bowed her head and blushed the deeper that she 
 could not answer, and yet deeper still, that she felt him 
 gazing on her. He was gazing on her!—gazing down on 
 that beautiful, dark auburn hair, rippling and glittering under 
 the light of the lamp—on that broad monarchal forehead, on 
 those even eyebrows and long eyelashes, dropping fine 
 shadows on the glowing cheek—yes! gazing and thinking of 
 Major Cabell’s enthusiastic admiration, and wondering why 
 all the world did not agree with him in thinking that counte- 
 nance grandly beautiful! Yet even while admiring her so 
 much, he spoke angrily, and said— 
 
 ‘Catherine! You have a second habit even worse than 
 the first! Lately you have taken up the practice of not re- 
 plying to me when I ask you a question—and when you are 
 obliged to raise your eyes to mine, you drop them instantly 
 as if mine burnt them. Now I have always disliked and 
 suspected eyes that cannot look freely into other eyes!” 
 
 At this the very forehead of the girl burned with a crimson 
 flush. Clifton took hold of her hand, which fluttered in his 
 own like a frightened bird, and said, in a kinder tone— 
 
 “Come, my child! see now if you can look me hanestly 
 in the face, and tell me why you will not talk to me ?” 
 
 But Kate’s distress became so great that Mrs. Clifton jn- 
 terposed, and said— 
 
 “ Do, Archer, leave her alone! It dees seem to me, sen, 
 that you take a malicious pleasure in tormenting that pocr 
 girl because she is so shy! Don’t mind him, Kate! He has 
 been a tease ever since he was a boy, when he used to pull 
 rhe ears of kittens and puppy dogs. Take up your work, 
 ehild, and hurry on with it. And you, Archer! I am as 
 
 ce 
 
THE SEVERED HEARTS. 109 
 
 much surprised as pleased to see you back here to-night. To 
 what am I indebted for the pleasure ?”’ 
 
 «¢ My dear mother, I will tell you after awhile—let me be 
 quiet now a little time.” 
 
 And Mrs. Clifton looked up in surprise, and noticed, for 
 the first time, how deeply troubled was Archer Clifton’s face. 
 After watching him a few minutes as he sat and watched 
 Kate, she said, suddenly — 
 
 “Oh! I have a letter for you—arrived by the afternoon 
 wail. Henry brought it from the post-office this evening 
 after you left. Perhaps it was in quest of that you came, 
 and its contents may dispel your uneasiness,” and rising, the 
 lady went to the card rack, hanging above the mantle-piece, 
 and brought him a letter, which he tore open and read hastily. 
 Then starting up, he exclaimed, Good! Good! Most ex- 
 ecllent, most opportune !” : 
 
 «What is it, my dear Archer? Iam very glad it gives 
 you such satisfaction, at any rate! What is it?” 
 
 “¢ An order from head-quarters to join my regiment imme- 
 diately, to take command of a detachment to march within 
 ten days for the Indian frontier—to put down an insurrec- 
 tion there !” 
 
 “No!” exclaimed the lady, in amazement. 
 
 “¢ Yes, indeed, my good mother!” replied Archer Clifton, 
 sxultingly. 
 
 “No! You astonish me! Ordered upon active duty— 
 apon distant and dangerous service at the very time you are 
 «bout to be married! Call you that opportune—fortunate ? 
 { call it most inopportune, unfortunate !” 
 
 “Ah! madam, you do not know! What, and if my mar- 
 riage were already broken off! Is it not lucky—I mean 
 providential, that I can join my regiment immediately, and 
 depart for a distant scene, and active service, in which I may 
 firget the sorrow and the humiliation !” 
 
 « Your marriage broken off? What? Now; at the last 
 moment? A marriage that has been looked forward to for 
 so many years? ‘To be broken off when every thing 1s ready! 
 Impossible, it cannot be!” 
 
 “J assure you upon my word, madam, it is but to 
 true!” 
 
 ‘* Why—what-—do you tell me?’ exclaimed the lady, in 
 
 T 
 
110 THE SEVERED HEARTS 
 
 increasing astonishment. ‘“ When did it happen? Whee 
 eaused it? Had Mr. Clifton anything to do with it ?”’ 
 
 “Tt happened this evening after my return to Clifton. Mr. 
 Clifton had nothing whatever to do with it—not having 
 reached home at the time it occurred. It was occasioned b 
 a most humiliating quarrel between niyself and Miss Clifton !” 
 
 “Qh, a quarrel! A lovers’ quarrel! That is nothing! 
 Though, in truth, it surprises me that the calm, proud Caro- 
 lyn should descend to such a thing, as it does that my own 
 son should deign to take a part in it. But it is really no- 
 thing! Such things occur in almost every courtship !” 
 
 “And those who quarrel in courtship should never venture 
 upon uatrimony.” 
 
 “Ah! that is an inhuman, unfaithful sentiment, my son! 
 Young people are like other young natures, petulant, vain 
 irascible, exacting—but life trains them into modesty, so- 
 briety, forbearance. For this quarrel, Archer, it must be 
 adjusted' It shall be to-morrow morning!” 
 
 ‘No, madam, it shall not! This quarrel is irreconcilable, 
 believe me!” 
 
 “ Pooh, pooh! What! with Carolyn? Nonsense!” 
 
 “Mother! you shall judge! She has descended from her 
 high place of maidenly pride and delicacy, and betraying the 
 most revolting phases of suspicion, jealousy and fierce anger 
 she has charged me with infidelity, base treachery and vice !” 
 
 “ Dreadful! dreadful! as all angry words and acts ever 
 are! But not unpardonable! Spoken in the frenzy of pas- 
 sion—they will be retracted to-morrow! And then you must 
 be reconciled. Things must go on as they have been planned 
 There must be no discreditable exposure of this affray. The 
 marriage must take place, as proposed, to-morrow evening 
 Then, if you must join your regiment, why it will be easily 
 understood that you must. And there will be no reproach 
 under those circumstances in leaving your newly wediled 
 bride under her father’s protection !”” 
 
 “ Tinpossible, madam! Miss Clifton has to-night exhibtied 
 her character and disposition in such revolting colors, that { 
 gun never, never take her to my bosom!” 
 
 “ You are angry now, Archer! You will thirk better of 
 it! [trust in Heaven you may do so before there is an ex- 
 posure. Think what will be the astonishment of the wed 
 
THE SEVERED HEARTS. 1h] 
 
 ding-company who will assemble to-morrow evening— tha 
 mortification of the family at Clifton, and worse than all, the 
 scandal! the nine days wonder!” 
 
 I thought my dear mother had too strong a mind to fear 
 these bugbvars of the little, when a just occasion for meeting 
 ‘and braving them occurs.” 
 
 « But I do not consider this an adequate occasion. That 
 this quarrel will be finally adjusted, I firmly believe. And 
 I think it a pity and a shame that to-morrow evening, three 
 hundred guests should be disappointed and dispersed, to 
 spread a subject of speculation and scandal all over the 
 country. And this merely because you will yet a little 
 longer indulge your anger '” 
 
 “Tam not angry, mother. If I were only angry I should 
 let the marriage go on, if Miss Clifton thought proper to do 
 so, for I should know that my anger would pass away. No, 
 Iam not angry, mother, but shocked, repulsed, and totally 
 estranged. I could no more marry Miss Clifton now, than | 
 could take any other loathed object to my bosom! The idea 
 makes me shudder !”” 
 
 ‘Still I affirm that all this is intense anger, nothing else 
 and that there will come a reaction. Why in anger, Archer 
 the object is as much loathed as in love it is desired—but 
 that is temporary, and this, I hope, you will find permanent 
 I hope, at bottom, you respect Carolyn? J esteem her. She 
 has been a spoiled child, but has so many undeveloped good 
 qualities, that she only wants the discipline of a little affee 
 tion to make her a very excellent woman. [I shall say 1y 
 more about this affair to-night, but wait to see what disposi- 
 tion I shall find you in to-morrow !” 
 
 At this moment there was a knock at the door, and instauly 
 afterwards Henny came in and informed her mistress that Mr. 
 Kavanagh had come to take his sister home. 
 
 “ Ask Mr. Kavanagh to sit down in the hall. Put up 
 your sewing, Catherine, my dear!” said the lady. 
 
 Cathe~ine arose to fold up her work, while Captain Clifton 
 woked very much as if he would like to stop her again. 
 
 “Does she not remain with you at night, madam?’ 
 
 “ Certainly not—her brother always comes for her at byd- 
 time.” 
 
 “ How early does she came in the morning ?”’ 
 
112 THE SEVERED HEARTS, 
 
 «She never comes in the morning. Catherine has ner 
 own domestic affairs to attend to during the forenoon. She 
 never gets here till late in the afternoon.” 
 
 «‘ Then J shall not see her to-morrow—not see her again 
 for many months—perhaps never see her again! Come here, 
 Catherine !” 
 
 Catherine came to-his side, and stood, as usual, with her 
 eyes fixed upon the ground, and her cheek painfully flushed. 
 Ife took her hand and pressed it in his own, while he said— 
 
 “Catherine! you have heard all that passed between my- 
 self and Mrs. Clifton, this evening ” 
 
 A quick, short, but not ungracefal nod was all her answer. 
 
 «And you know that I am going away on a distant and 
 dangerous service ; I leave here very early in the morning— 
 I may never come back, Catherine,” he said, slowly, looking 
 at her steadily 
 
 Her hand in his grew cold—her cheek paled—her heart 
 itopped still as death—but no word did she speak in reply. 
 
 “Catherine! before I go, I intend to give you a command— 
 fo you hear me ?” 
 
 A spasmodic nod was her reply. 
 
 ‘© ] may be gone many years. In the meanwhile you will 
 grow up to womanhood, Catherine ; do not have any lovers— 
 beaur—as young girls call them, while I am away—and above’ 
 all things, do not choose a husband without first consulting 
 me through my mother.” 
 
 Not knowing what to reply to this, Catherine remained 
 perfectly silent. 
 
 «‘ Will you obey me in this, girl?” he asked, rather impa< 
 tiently. 
 
 A low, earnect sheling « Yes sir,” was her answer. 
 
 “Kiss me, then! for I may never return,” said Archer 
 Clifton, folding her for one moment to his bosom, and press- 
 ing a kiss upon her full lips. 
 
 3ut her lips grew cold at the touch—her face paled and 
 fell away from his bosom—her form drooped and sank back 
 wver his arm, where she lay like one dead, in a swoon. 
 
 Surprised, alarmed, Clifton raised her in both arms, and 
 hastened to the lounge, where he laid her, calling to his 
 mother. The lady came forward without any trepidation, 
 and bringing a bottle of Hungary water, began to chafe her 
 
THE SEVERED HEARTS. 113 
 
 vemples and face, and finally gave that task to Clifton, while 
 ehe herself loosened Kate’s dress. 
 
 «“ What could have been the cause of this, mother? In 
 she subject to these attacks 2?” 
 
 «* T never knew her to faint before, though I have seen nex 
 ander very trying circums.ances with that old man, hez 
 yrandfather.” 
 
 «¢ What could have occasioned it ?” 
 
 “‘ Why, the sudden news of your going away on dangerous 
 service, of course,” said Mrs. Clifton, as she resumed the 
 bottle, and continued to chafe the girl’s face and hands. 
 «The chila loves you, Archer; she has a very grateful, 
 affectionate Leart, and very strong feelings. She loves us 
 poth. And when you bade her good-bye, for a long and 
 perilous absence, is it strange she should have been over- 
 come? When swters talk of danger, children may be 
 forgiven for being frightened. Do go and tell Kavanagh 
 that Kate must remain here to-night, and dismiss him.” 
 
 He went, and before he came back again, Kate, with a 
 long drawn sigh, had vpered her eyes and recovered. 
 
 “You must raise her, 1nd take her up stairs, my dear 
 Archer. She must suflu zo more agitation to-night,” said 
 Mrs. Clifton. 
 
 And he lifted the form of “atherine, and took her up stairs, 
 while his mother called Heniy. When they had laid the 
 oung girl on a bed, and left her to the care of Henny, and 
 bad returned to the parlor agaia—Captain Clifton said— 
 
 “ Mother! take care of that ;irl! She has been the inno- 
 cent, unconscious cause of my trouble to-day, but I cannot 
 feel dislike or even indifference cowards her. Take care of 
 that humble maiden, mother, as if she were your daughter 
 and my sister. Don’t let any 1astic beaux come near her, 
 mother. J cannot endure the itea of her marrying, or ven 
 being wooed by any low, misesable fellow of her brotner’s 
 grade. And do not permit any young gentleman of tke 
 neighborhood to trifle with her heart, or endanger her good 
 name. You know how easily, even without her fault, that 
 sole possession of a poor maiden is lost. The thought that 
 such an unmerited misfortune should befall Kate, exasperates 
 me beyond measure, and I feel like quarreling with the 
 whole order of society !” 
 
114 THE SEVERED HEARTS. 
 
 “What, you! the proud conservator of rank! Truly 
 Archer, one would think Carolyn had some little ground of 
 complaint !” said the lady, with her little, low, half dignified, 
 half jolly laugh. 
 
 “This from yow mother!” exclaimed Archer Clifton, re- 
 proachfully. “I thought you knew me better. You do 
 know me better! But I must have some hand in this girl’s 
 good fortune.” 
 
 Mrs. Clifton, who was walking about the room, quietly set- 
 ting things in order for the night, made no reply, but only 
 smiled. And soon after she lighted a night-lamp, and 
 placing it in the hand of her son, bade him good-night, and 
 retired to her chamber. Captain Clifton remained pacing up 
 and down the room, in troubled thought, some time after she 
 had eft, before seeking his own couch. 
 
LOST AFFECTION. 115 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 LOST AFFECTION. 
 
 ‘Oh! cast not thou 
 Affection from thee! In this bitter world 
 Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast; - 
 Watch—guard it—suffer not a breath to dim 
 That bright gem’s purity.”.—Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 MoRNING came at length. Carolyn Clifton arose unre- 
 freshed, weak, dizzy and sick. ‘This was the first night’s 
 rest she had ever lost in her life. And on looking in the 
 glass—habitually the first thing the beauty ever did after 
 rising—she was shocked to see what havoc one night’s evil 
 passions had made in her appearance. What a fright she 
 had become! How pale her cheeks, how dragged the 
 muscles, how red, dim, and sunken her eyes! And this 
 upon her wedding-day—and when she had a quarrel to make 
 up with her intended husband, too! When, in fine, every 
 circumstance pressingly demanded that she should appear in 
 the highest beauty. Would Archer Clifton—would that 
 fastidious, artistic worshiper of the beautiful—feel inclined 
 to a reconciliation with such a spectre as herself, she mentally 
 inquired, as she gazed wonderingly, deploringly, upon her 
 haggard face? Carolyn was vain and proud and scornful— 
 so vain and proud and scornful that she did not know—could 
 not imagine that that very haggard face—haggard with sor- 
 row for the estrangement and the separation, would be a 
 stronger appeal, make a deeper impression upon the heart of 
 her lover, than all the glory of her beauty had ever done. 
 And thus vanity, pride and scorn punish their subject, not 
 only by depriving her of very much respect and affection she 
 would otherwise have, but by making her insensible of that 
 love and esteem that really does surround her. 
 
 Carolyn at length rang for her woman. And after some 
 little delay she came in, evidently just aroused 1p out of her 
 
116 LOST AFFECTION. 
 
 sleep, and wondering that her young mistress should summon 
 her before sunrise. But as soon as she saw her lady, her 
 wonder gave way to alarm, and she exclaimed— 
 
 ‘“My good gracious alive, Miss Carolyn! What’s der 
 matter, honey? 
 
 “ Has any one arrived this morning, Aunt Darky ”” 
 inquired Miss Clifton, without noticimg the old woman’s 
 alarm. 
 
 “‘ No, chile, sure not! Who should ribe at dis onlikely 
 hour ob de mornin? Ledst it war de doctor. Has you 
 sent for de doctor, honey? But Lord, indeed, chile, you 
 better lay down agin. Don’t keep on standin’ dere holdin’ 
 up your hair, weak as you looks, an’ [ll run an’ see!” 
 
 ‘“ Aunt Darky, Lam not ill. I have. had a bad night’s 
 rest-—that’s all. Go—and—” 
 
 “A bad night’s res’, an’ like enough, honey! I had « 
 berry bad night’s res’ de night afore, me an’ Old Nick tock 
 up ’long o’ each oder! ’Deed chile, I was sort o’ scared 
 an’ sorter happy, ’cause I was scared! An’ decd, chile, 
 ~’tween so many confrydictions, I could’n onderstan’ myself 
 and kept awake all night! Lord, honey, it’s nat’ral! We’s 
 all alike, ’cept ’tis de collor, an’ dat’s only outside show, 
 skin deep. But bless you, honey, that wan’t nothin’ to the 
 night resses I’se lost since dat, with long o’ eryin’ babies an’ 
 teethin’ babies, an’ sick chillun, an’ ole man Nick comin’ 
 home drunk ebery time ole Marse give him any holyday 
 money to spen’ on hisself! Now praise be de Lor’, de chil- 
 lun’s all raise’ an’ married an’ settle’ off, an’ Vm a free 
 ?oman! An’ I tell my galls how I ain’ gwine be bother’ 
 long o’ der chillun, now in my ole days !” 
 
 ‘* Aunt Darky,” said Miss Clifton, feeling in no way flat- 
 tered by the parallel, “ go and get my bath ready, and have 
 a cup of strong coffee brought the instant I leave it.” 
 
 “Yes, honey—an’ hadn’t de baff’s water better have de 
 air tuk off o’ it, as you’se not so strong dis mornin’ ?” 
 
 ‘Yes, yes—what makes you trouble me by questions! 
 You ought to know what is proper to be done.” 
 
 «¢ An’ so I allus does know, honey—ony when I does my 
 r:os’ properess’, you doesn’n alluz’ see it intc dat light an? 
 you fines fau’rt long 0’ me,” said the old body, as she ‘eft 
 the room. 
 
 
 
LOST AFFECTION, 113 
 
 Wher Miss Clifton had left her warm bath, and had par- 
 taken of the rich strong coffee—strong as the essence of 
 coffee, and made rich and thick by being half cream and 
 sugar, and brought to her in a tiny porcelain cup, she felt 
 suificiently refreshed to be able, with the assistance of her 
 woman, to make her morning toilet. 
 
 When she had finished dressing it was still very early, and 
 wo hours remained before breakfast—but she left her room, 
 and met her father, who was an early riser, in the upper 
 hall. 
 
 He came forward and kissed her. Then held both her 
 hands, and looked in her face, exclaiming—* What! pale, 
 my child? Oh, tut! tut! tut! tut! tut! That’s all 
 wrong! All wrong!” 
 
 “Father! has he come yet ?” 
 
 “« No, no—it’s quite early yet! He’ll be here anon! You 
 should not have risen these two hours !” 
 
 “Father, I could not sleep! I could not even lie in 
 bed |” 
 
 “Oh, pooh! pooh! pooh! All folly! All nonsense! 
 Go back and rest.” 
 
 *‘Wather, I cannot! My words to him were so wrong! so 
 bitter! so insulting! I feel them to have been such, and J 
 can never rest until I have told him so!” said Carolyn, 
 dropping her head upon the only bosom to which her 
 haughty heart could bear to confide its sorrow and its re 
 pentance. 
 
 “Well, so you were wrong, very wrong! It will teach 
 you a lesson that will henefit you for the future. And for 
 the present it will blow over. There, there, there—if you 
 can’t be still, go and amuse yourself by making me a nico 
 mint-julep! I want it before I go out in the fields—the 
 morning air on my empty stomach isn’t good for me.” 
 
 He then kissed Carolyn and let her go. As she left him, 
 he saw to his surprise Frank Fairfax emerge from his cham- 
 ber, with a portmanteau in his hand. Frank Leg ee set 
 it down, and advancing, said— 
 
 “Ah, sir! I was just about to seek you, to let you know 
 that, to my infinite regret, I must leave you to-day.” 
 
 «To day? You astound me! What is sp now! You 
 mustn’t go—you shan’t!” 
 
118 LOST AFFECTION. 
 
 “Sir, I have received an order to join my regiment with 
 out delay!” 
 
 ‘“‘ Oh-h-h, that’s bad! That’s bad! Devil fly away with 
 military life! That’s what was always hiking away Archer 
 at the very time I wanted him most. But no frantic hurry' 
 You ueedn’t go to-day! You mustn’t. Why, this is the 
 wedding-day, you rascal !” 
 
 “‘T know it, sir! But, to my everlasting regret, [ must 
 forego the pleasure of being present upon that occasion. My 
 _ order is a peremptory one, to join my regiment instantly.” 
 
 “Well, well! To-morrow’ll do! To-morrow’ll do! One 
 day cannot make so much difference !” 
 
 ‘< My dear sir, I surely need not tell you that soldiers 
 should be ‘minute men’ in their obedience. Besides, if I 
 do not seize the opportunity of meeting the Staunton stage 
 as it passes through L to-night, I shall have to wait 
 three days for the next stage. So, you see—” 
 
 «Yes, yes; 1 see! Iam always called upon to see some- 
 thing I don’t want to see! Ah! here comes the mint-julep! 
 Did Miss Carolyn mix it ?”’ 
 
 This was addressed to the colored boy who brought a pint 
 tumbler on a little waiter. 
 
 “‘ Yez, zur,” said the boy. 
 
 “Do you take julep in the morning, Frank? Try this. 
 Another julep for me, Nace!” 
 
 “ No, no, I thank you, sir! JI never do. I wish you 
 good-morning till breakfast time,” said Frank, taking up his 
 portmanteau, and going down stairs. 
 
 Frank put his little burden down in the lower hall, and 
 went into the summer saloon, where he was sure, by the pre- 
 cedent of the last thirty days, of finding Zuleime at the 
 window, doing her sampler-work. Yes, there she was, in her 
 white muslin and coral, with her jet black hair and damask 
 cheeks! He went and sat down by her, (after saying 
 “ Good-morning,’”’) and sat. for some minutes in perfect 
 silence, watching Zuleime work the word £Love, in crimsor 
 silk. At length— 
 
 “Whom do you love best in the world, Zuleime?” he 
 asked. 
 
 «‘ How can you ask? Whom does everybody love best 
 
 
 
LOST AFFECTION. OES 
 
 her nain sell,’ as the Welchman says, of course!’ exclaimed 
 the merry maiden. 
 
 “Humph! Well, whom do you love the next best to 
 yourself ?”? 7 
 
 “Why, let me see,” said the girl, pausing thoughtfully, 
 with her needle poised in her hand; “I think, that next to 
 myself, I love—Zuleime Clifton best of ali the world!” 
 
 “T thought so! And JI can lay my hand upon my heart, 
 and say, that you don’t love Zuleime Clifton a whit better 
 than I do!—no, nor half so well! Ill throw down my gage 
 on that, and fight it out to extremity! Come !—What have 
 you to say to that?’ asked the young man, with all the 
 earnestness in his face and manner that his light words 
 wanted—“ say, speak! What do you say to that ?” 
 
 “Why, that you are as foolish as Zuleime herself, in 
 loving such a little, out-of-the-way baggage, that is neither 
 woman nor child, nor good nor bad, nor any thing else in 
 particular.” 
 
 “ Well, at any rate, we both agree in loving and worship- 
 mg Zuleime, however we may differ in our opinion of her— 
 J, for instance, thinking her a beautiful, joyous, delightful 
 
 irl. So, it’s settled, isn’t it ?? 
 
 “ What is settled ?” 
 
 “Oh, you know, you tease !” 
 
 ‘<] know the weather is settled, if you mean that!” 
 
 “ Pooh !” 
 
 “J don’t know that the naval trouble with Great Britain 
 js settled, if you mean that!” 
 
 “ Pooh, pooh!” 
 
 ‘Tt know that the marriage dower of thirty thousand dol- 
 lars is settled upon Carolyn, if you mean that !” 
 
 “¢ Pooh, pooh, pooh !” 
 
 “ Well, I shall not try to guess again, lest you should say, 
 *Pooh, pooh, pooh, pooh !’—four times !” 
 
 “ Zuleime!” said the young man, earnestly, “I think, 
 without presumption, I may say that I know your disposition 
 towards me. Zuleime, I wish that we should pass all our 
 
 lives together, side by side! I would like to open my heart _ 
 
 and bid you look into it and read for yourself. I hate to 
 say, ‘I love you,’ (though if you could look into my heart!) 
 Oa, that phrase, ‘I love you,’ Zuleime, is so fallen, is se 
 
120 LOST AFFECTION. 
 
 prostituted, so degraded from its high meaning— I Jove you 
 so often means ‘ [ need your wealth,’ ‘need your family in- 
 fluence,’ I desire your delightful beauty!’ Oh, Zuleime, 
 dearest girl, how then shall I express my true, sincere, earn- 
 est devotion to you?’ 
 
 «“ You needn’t—I know you like me, Frank,” murmured 
 Zuleime, very low. And then she added, lower still—* But 
 I am nothing but a wild school girl, and, seriously, I fear it 
 isn’t right for me to listen to such words for years to zome 
 yet. And I fear father might not like it, only that he likes 
 you so very well.” 
 
 ‘ And Zuleime bent over her sampler, diligently, commenc- 
 ing the next word, fjope, in azure silk. 
 
 ‘J know it, Zuleime! Dear, candid girl, I know it all— 
 all the seeming error! But, Zuleime, | am going away to- 
 day,” (she looked up in surprise,) “and I may be gone for 
 several years. When I come back I shall certainly return 
 a captain, if not probably a major, or possibly a colonel. 
 Before I go, I wish to have a fair understanding with your- 
 self and your father, so that I may go away with some feel- 
 ing of security. I want you both to promise that when I 
 return you will give me your hand.” 
 
 ‘You may speak to father, Frank. But I tell you frankly 
 now, what I wish you had heard before. It is this :—that I 
 have been promised to my grim cousin, Major Cabell, ever 
 since I can remember anything. And till you came, I have 
 always, whenever 1 have anticipated the future at all, looked 
 forward to being his hum-drum wife, and living in a grim 
 three-story red brick, in a row, and opposite another row of 
 stiff, prison-like red brick houses, each one of which, taken 
 singly, is more dreary than all the rest. I didn’t like the 
 prospect, Frank ; but I thought it was my fate, and the best 
 father could do for me, and so I thought of no other possi- 
 bility but the grim red brick house in the city and Major 
 Cxubell. Besides, father is so good a father, and so fond and 
 indulgent, that it seemed too wicked to think of disappoint- 
 ing his gentle wishes, that never take the form of commands. 
 And so, Irank, although whenever I would think of the 
 grim brick house, with tall dark chambers, and the narrow, 
 atony, distracting street before it, and Major Cabeil, my 
 beart would sink very heavy, and I would think, young as T 
 
LOST AFFECTION. i223 
 
 was, that there was scarcely any hope for me at all—yet, I 
 would recollect my dear good father wished it, and I would 
 pluck up my spirits and feel blithe asa bird again. It was 
 all understood at the school where I am getting finished, ag 
 they call it. And father left word that Major Cabell should 
 be admitted to visit me. So when I am there he comes to 
 visit me frequently, and takes me out riding, or driving, and 
 to concerts. And the girls whisper together, and say that I 
 am engaged—” 
 
 “‘ Stop—stop—stop—stop! Pardon me, Zuleime! Par- 
 don me, dear girl! But, I am giddy—indeed, I am ill! 
 Have you yourself promised to marry him?’ 
 
 “No, surely not; and that is the reason why I consider 
 myseli in some sort free—but of my duty to my good father. 
 No, he has never even asked me. He considers my father’s 
 promise quite sufficient, and our marriage quite a matter of 
 eourse. And so I used to consider it, too. These things 
 are often done, Frank. These betrothals, I mean. Any 
 one might suppose the custom obsolete—having died in the 
 dark ages. Itis not. It prevails here to a considerable ex- 
 tent. It 1s done to keep family property together, or family 
 mterest closely cemented. And, Frank, he has never courted 
 me yet. You see he considers me a child still. And so I 
 am, compared to him, in years. And so I should be, in all 
 things, « child, but that the shadow of that grim brick house 
 is alwavs falling on my heart!” 
 
 «And yet, with all this, you are a very, very merry 
 maiden !” 
 
 “Yes, so I am. I try to be! I keep adin up in my 
 head to prevent me hearing what my heart wants to say! 
 Goodness! I can do nothing for the poor thing, you know, 
 and what’s the use of stopping to listen to its ery ~—thaé 
 would only encourage it to complain the more. Don’t look 
 so sorry, Frank! It is not all effort! It could not be, you 
 know I’m naturally of a glad, elastic temper; and but for 
 this drawback, Heaven knows what I should be! the wildest, 
 maddest, most harem-scarem, most heels-over-head, skip- 
 over-the-moon madcap that ever turned a quiet home topsy- 
 turvy, and drove a quiet family to distraction! The Bible 
 eays,— (rod loveth whom He chasteneth, and _ scourgeth 
 every sun (2nd daughter) whom He receiveth.’ Then | think. 
 
122 LOST AFFECTION. 
 
 (I do think, sometimes, young and volatile as I am,) L think 
 that every one whom God redeems has some sorrow, and that 
 that sorrow is always the precise on? fitted to cure their be- 
 setting sin! As the proud are still kept down by poverty 
 a1.d oppression, the vain lose their charms, or the power of 
 enhaucing them, eic., ete., etc., among all the erring whom 
 God designs to set right. And I, who am naturally so wild 
 and thoughtless, must be sobered and made thoughtful by 
 ‘the prospect of that prison before me!” 
 
 «< Zuleime, does this man love you?’ 
 
 « Wrank, if I say he does not Aate me, it is the extent of 
 
 all favorable things I can say about the state of his mind . 
 
 towards me. No, he does not love me. It is entirely a be- 
 trothal of convenience. Sometimes I look forward to my 
 future life in that great unknown city, which I should dislike 
 under any circumstances, and especially to pass my whole 
 life in, with one I do not like, and who does not like me, and 
 I wonder how I shall contrive to exist,—J, who love to be 
 in the country, on this dear old homestead, with my fond old 
 father and my tender old nurse, and the colored folks who 
 love me so well,—and where I have so many occupations,— 
 and, oh, my soul and body! I think how shadl | ever put 
 life through in that packed up city! Sometimes I thmk— 
 for I must have something to occupy my whole soul with— 
 
 that I will be very gay and worldly, and dress, and visit, and » 
 
 give balls, and go to bails, and theatres; but then again I 
 reflect that it would be wicked to spend all one’s time and 
 attention upon such things. And then I think I shall try to 
 grow serious enough to join a church, and that I will be a 
 leading member, and a Sunday School teacher, and a patron- 
 ess of the Bible Society, and of the Missionary Society, and 
 a getter-up of new kinds of benevolent associations, and 
 Dorcas circles, and be a Committee woman, and a distributor 
 of tracts, and a collector of subscriptions, ete. One mus 
 d» something to fill up the long, long days; one must live 
 somehow, and, upon the whole, I thought this latter plan 
 miyht do, as it would occupy me entirely, and is not so 
 wicked as the other.” 
 
 «Ah, I don’t know that, Zuleime! But, my dearest girl, 
 sease all these troubled thoughts about the futw e, unnatural 
 ~ your ag, and unwholesome to yourself! ‘fais whole 
 
 ON Ee ee 
 
LOST AFFECTION. £23 
 
 ajeud must be swept away like a cobweb. He doesn’t love 
 you. You don’t love him. He has never asked you to 
 marry him. You have never promised to doso. Itis a 
 mere betrothal of convenience, made by the parents of both 
 for the purpose of keeping family property together, and 
 cementing family interests. Oh, it is all wrong! And there 
 is nothing in it! JI will speak to your father. I will enter 
 the lists with this Major Cabell, as a competitor for your 
 hand. In all worldly circumstances, which are ever of the 
 greatest value in a Clifton’s estimation—in family, wealth 
 and social position, Iam his peer. Besides, I wear iny lady’s 
 favor, which he does not! I will go to your father now and 
 tell him as much, shall I, Zuleime ?” 
 
 The young lady was busy threading her needle with golden 
 yellow silk, and did not answer. He repeated the question. 
 
 “Yes,” murmured Zuleime, beginning to embroider the 
 last word of the trio,—Zaitlh,—im sunbeam silk. No time 
 was to be lost. He raised her hand to his lips, and darted 
 out upon the lawn to meet old Mr. Clifton, whom he saw ap- 
 proaching the house. 
 
 “¢ My dear sir!” exclaimed Mr. Fairfax, rather excitedly 
 “T have something of the utmost importance to say to you 
 Will you take a turn with me?” 
 
 “My dear sir!” repeated the old gentleman, smiling, 
 “breakfast is ready! Let’s go on to the house!” 
 
 s¢ But my dear sir! my business is urgent!” 
 
 ‘¢ My very dear sir! the coffee is getting cold!” said tho 
 old man, laughing at Frank’s excitement. 
 
 “¢ Mr. Clifton,” said the young man, gravely and sadly, | 
 ‘immediately after breakfast I must leave here. This, then, 
 is the only opportunity I have or shall have of communicating 
 to you what is on my heart to say—and it really zs on my 
 heart.” 
 
 «Say on then, my dear boy! say on!” exclaimed the 
 benevolent old gentleman. But Frank, now that he had got 
 leave to speak, was struck dumb. He thought it was per- 
 fectly easy and simple to ask for Zuleime, but now the re- 
 quest, like Macheth’s amen, stuck in his throat. “ Come,’ 
 said the old gentleman, rnnning his fat arm through Frank’s 
 slender one, ‘‘ give me the support of your arm, for I am not 
 so young and active as vou are, and let us take a little walk 
 
124 LOST AFFECTION. 
 
 up the path tewards Hardbargam. Perhaps we may meet 
 Aicher, and bring him back with us to breakfast. He is not 
 at the Aouse, is he?” 
 
 “No, sir,” said Frank, glad to recover the use of his 
 tc ngue. 
 
 “We expect him here to breakfast. We shall probably 
 meet him. Come! Well, row! what is it?’ he asked, ag 
 . they turned their backs on the house. 
 
 Frank had plucked up his courage, and now spoke to the 
 purpose. 
 
 « Mr. Clifton, as lam going away immediately after break- 
 fast, and as I am to be absent for an indefinite length of time, 
 I wish before I leave to tell you that which lies upon my 
 leart—” here he paused a little time to collect his thoughts 
 and fine words, while the old gentleman attended with an 
 encouraging expression of countenance. Frank resumed— 
 “Mr. Clifton, I love your daughter Zuleime. And I have 
 come to beg your sanction to our engagement!” As the old 
 man only said, “ Whew-w-w-w!” Frank continued—“ You 
 know my rank in the army, and my prospect of promotion. 
 You are acquainted with my family, and are aware of their 
 interest and influence in the country. Allow me farther te 
 add, that my own private fortune amounts to fifty thousand 
 dollars. And I will settle thirty thousand on my bride. 
 Besides which—” 
 
 “Stay, stay—my dear fellow, stay!” interrupted the old 
 man, with a troubled look. ‘This is ‘all nonsense, now! 
 Zuleime is a child. And you have not known her more than 
 six weeks. Love Zuleime! Pooh, pooh! You young men 
 are so flighty and fickle in your fancies! You get frantic 
 about every new face you see, and think yourselves in love! 
 T’ooh, pooh! Now, Frank, my boy, come! let’s hear no 
 nore of it! It’s all nonsense! You young officers are always 
 in love, or faneying yourselves so! I dare say, you have 
 been in love with all the daughters of all your commanders, 
 and Heaven forefend, a little platonically smitten with all 
 their wives, too! Come, I know you! Nonsense! Let’s 
 hear no more of it!” 
 
 «¢ Mr. Clifton, I am no trifler in matters of the affections 
 T never Aave been. I never shall be, lL hope! And when J 
 tell you, uvon my sacred honor, that never in my life have ! 
 
LOST AFFECTION. 125 
 
 ‘flirted, as it is called, with a woman—-that never in my life 
 have I either loved or addressed the language of love to a 
 woman—exccpt Zuleime—you will believe me!” 
 
 % Oh-h-h-h!” exclaimed the old gentleman, with an ex- 
 eeedingly bored look. “It’s all folly, all nonsense, I tell 
 you: A sudden fancy! Nothing more! Let’s drop the subject.” 
 
 “« Mr. Clifton,” said the young man, gravely and sorrowfully, 
 for he saw that the old gentleman rather evaded than demed 
 or accepted his suit, “ I have never, in my whole life, been 
 addicted to taking sudden and evanescent fancies, as you 
 might judge, from what I told you! And when I tell you 
 that I love your daughter Zuleime, I mean that I love her 
 sincerely and earnestly, with my whole heart and soul—and 
 that I shall love her to the last hour of my life '” 
 
 “ Bah! bah! It’s all tom-foolery, I tell you! You get 
 yourself shut up in a country house with a pretty girl, and 
 of course you fall in love with her! To be sure! What else 
 could you do? It’s expected of you! You'd disappoint us if 
 you didn’t! But it is such love as will not outlast your — 
 journey to your regiment.” 
 
 ‘Tt will outlast my life! I know it will! I feel it will!” 
 said Frank, earnestly, vehemently. 
 
 “Tah! tah! tah !—you’ll fall desperately in love with the 
 first pretty syuaw of the friendly tribes who shall come to 
 bring moceasins to your frontier fort!” 
 
 “Oh, God!” groaned the young man, bitterly, dropping 
 his face into his hands. ‘There is no way of making a 
 serious impression upon you, and I am going away in two 
 hours !’? His tone and manner so affected the really impres- 
 sible and benevolent old gentleman, that he half embraced 
 hia with his fat arm, saying— 
 
 “« Now don’t, Frank! Do be a good boy! Don’t! Do! 
 It’s all folly now! Indeed itis! Do! Don’t! Now cone 
 sider—how many pretty girls there are in the world! Don’t, 
 Frank! A great deal prettier than my girl. Never fret 
 about her. Do, Frank. Besides, she’s so young! <A mere 
 sehool-girl. Only fifteen last Monday. Pooh, pooh! Not 
 io be thought of, you know! Far too young!” 
 
 “Sir, 1 can wait. I only wish your sanction to our engage: 
 ment. I can wait three or four years, if necessary, or any 
 iength of time at all, if I may hope to get her at last!” 
 
 8 
 
126 LOST AFFECTION. 
 
 “She is tov young, I tell you, Frank! Too young to 
 know her own mind. Only fifteen. Ridiculous!” 
 
 “ But, sir, Ihave heard of gentlemen older and more 
 settled ee myself who have actually married girls of fifteen. 
 / only ask an engagement!” 
 
 “¢ You mean me, you dog! I know you do! Isee you do! 
 But, Frank, seriously and solemnly, I wouldn’t do so again! 
 And for the very reason that J committed that egregious 
 folly, that bitter wrong against a young girl, I will not suffer 
 
 any one else to do the saine wrong to my child, if I can help 
 
 it! }99 
 
 “ No, Mr. Clifton—pardon me, but are you not about to 
 commit a more grievous wrong to your own lovely, gentle 
 child? Have you not? Pardon me! Pardon me! But have 
 you not promised her hand where she cannot give her heart ?” 
 
 ‘No! Heaven forbid! I promised her to Charley Cabell. 
 She used to like him very well. I did the best I could for her 
 happiness. I have secured it—unless—unless—oh, my God, 
 Frank!” suddenly exclaimed the old man, in his turn ex- 
 tremely agitated, and wiping the perspiration from his brow, 
 “<1 hope—I trust in God you haven’t entrapped her affec- 
 tions! Frank! Frank! She 7s engaged to Major Cabell! 
 I didn’t tell you so when you first asked me for her, because 
 —because—for many reasons—” (wiping the streaming per- 
 spiration from his brow) ‘it is—it is—disagreeable to re- 
 member and to talk about it! But—but—she 7s engaged to 
 Major Cabell, and—and for many reasons—family reasons— 
 it is necessary that the engagement should be fulfilled! 
 Unless—unless—some inevitable, tnsurmountable obstacle 
 
 was to arise and prevent it! Frank! Frank! I am in a © 
 
 great strait! a dire, doleful strait! but—but—sooner than 
 make my girl unhappy, or stand in the way of her perfect 
 happiness, I would—I would—I would die in a jail! Where 
 
 I may die! Where I may die!” Nothing could exceed ‘he 
 
 force of the emotion that agitated the old man, shaking his 
 huge form, and choking up his utterance. 
 
 Mr. Fairfax looked at him witk mingled astonishment, 
 wonder and compassion. 
 
 “ Boy—boy—you haven’t entrapped my dear child’s 
 heart?” again inquired the old gentleman, trembling with 
 excess of feeling. 
 
 i I a 
 
LUST AFFECTION. 127 
 
 “ Ent-apped is uot exactly the word, sir,” said Frank. 
 proudly and mournfully. «I learned to love her, and I 
 won her love without designing to do either !” 
 
 “Lost! Lost!” cried Mr. Clifton, dropping bis head upor 
 his bosom. He walked on in sileace so desponding, that 
 Fairfax could not bring himself to intrude upon it. They 
 went on until they suddenly met Major Cabell himself coming 
 down the hill, apparently from Hardbargain. 
 
 The Major was walking slowly, with bis head down, and 
 twirling around his finger a topaz necklace. As soon as he 
 perceived Messrs. Cliften and Fairfax, his forehead flushed, 
 and he hastily crammed the necklace into his vest pocket. 
 Frank thought the whole thing strange, but, but stranger 
 still was the econduct—the metamorphosis—the transfigura- 
 tion of Mr. Clifton, who, upon observing the Major, instantly 
 put a violent constraint upon himself, and became the broad- 
 faced, rosy, smiling, blue-eyed, debonnair old - gentleman, so 
 lavish in the display of his fine teeth, and hearty, cordial 
 _ words and smiles. Frank was provoked that their conversa- 
 tion was so completely arrested. 
 
 “ Ah, good morning,” said Mr. Clifton, addressing the 
 Major. ‘‘ Been to Hardbargain this morning so early? How 
 are all the folks up there? See, Archer? Why didn’t he 
 walk with you? Eh? Expected him!” 
 
 «¢] have not been to Hardbargain, sir,” replied the Major, 
 rather morosely. 
 
 ‘¢ Been out taking a morning stroll then, eh? Fine appe- 
 tite for breakfast, no doubt. And it is waiting for us, too. 
 Come, Frank, let’s turn about.” 
 
 They did so. Frank now noticed for the first time that 
 the manner of the old gentleman was conciliating, while that 
 of the Major was surly. 
 
 They soon reached the house, and the breakfast-room, 
 where the ladies were awaiting their arrival. 
 
 As they entered, the countenance of Carolyn Clifton wag 
 flushed and eager. But when they had all got in, and were 
 seated at the table, the color died out of her face, leaving 
 her pale as marble. She merely trified with her breakfast, 
 pretending to eat, but no morsel passed her lips. When 
 
 breakfast was over, and the co1apany dispersed about the 
 
128 LOST AFFECTION. 
 
 room, Uarolyn almost.reeled past her father in gcing out, and 
 muttered with pale lips—‘ Father! Not come yet?” 
 
 “Never mind! Never mind, my dear! I will ride up to 
 [Tardbargain and fetch him.” 
 
 * Not for the universe, father! if he never comes!” re 
 plied the determined girl, plucking up her spirit, and sweep- 
 ing proudly past and going into the piazza, where she sat, 
 by-the-bye, with her eyes strained up the mountain-path by 
 which he ought to come. 
 
 Frank got no opportunity of speaking alone with Zuleime. 
 Old Mr. Clifton met him, however, when he came in from 
 looking after his horse, and said, kindly patting him on the 
 ehoulder— 
 
 «Indeed, my dear boy, I don’t see the least necessity for 
 your leaving us until after dinner. The stage coach doesn’t 
 pass through L——— till eight o’clock at night, and five or 
 six hours is ample time in which to reach there !” 
 
 “ Yes, sir! I grant it, but I have to go this morning to 
 Hardbargain to take leave of Mrs. Clifton, and of my friend 
 Archer, if, indeed, the latter is not ordered on the same duty 
 as myself, which, upon Miss Clifton’s account, I am inclined 
 to fear!” 
 
 “Oh! Are you going to ride to Hardbargain? Then, 
 perhaps, you will be pleased to learn that Zuleime is going 
 there this morning, also, to assist Mrs. Clifton in putting the 
 last finishing touches to her.dress for this evening. And you 
 ean escort her !”’ said Georgia, smoothly gliding between them, 
 and laying her head and hand with child-like freedom and 
 affection upon the old man’s shoulder. 
 
 “Oh! I shall be very happy!” said Frank, “ really happy 
 —nay, overjoyed, intoxicated, with the prospect of an unin- 
 terrupted, farewell téte-d-/éte with Zuleime.” 
 
 Old Mr. Clifton looked rather disappointed, but he was 
 not of a very combative disposition—especially had he no in- 
 ~lination to contradict Georgia. Besides, he at once reflected 
 that there was really no danger. They couldn’t be married 
 in the neighborhood, because they could get no license, and 
 no clergyman dare marry them without one. And it was not 
 probable, or even possible, that Frank would elope with his 
 _daughter or the very eve of joining his regiment for a distant 
 and dangerous service. In truth, he felt it was foily te 
 
LOSI AFFECTION. 129 
 
 cherish a misgiving. And yet he Aad misgivings, nor could 
 he banish them—the utmost extent of his self-control was— 
 
 not to act upon them—not to forbid their riding together 
 While Zuleime was putting on her hat and riding habit, 
 Frauk got the ear of the old gentleman once more, and for 
 the last time. The old man had sunk into his broad- 
 bottomed flag chair in the hall, with his thick gold-headed 
 stick between his knees, and his two hands and his chin rest- 
 ing upon it, when Frank stood before him with folded arms 
 and head dropped upon his breast, and said— 
 
 «Mr. Clifton—once more, and for the last time, I ask you, 
 and [ implore you to answer me candidly. Is there any pos- 
 sibility that, under any change of circumstances, at any future 
 time, I may hope for your consent to my union with Zu- 
 leime ?” 
 
 The earnestness, deepening almost into solemnity, of the 
 young man’s manner and words, impressed Mr. Clifton very 
 deeply, but he replied—* Mr. Fairfax, it is best to speak the 
 plain, harsh, cutting truth, though that truth is the axe laid 
 to the root of all your hopes of Zuleime. No. Yet I regret 
 this, Frank! You donot know how much! But you must 
 forget her! I hope you will soon do so! I know you must!” 
 
 Frank shook his head in despairing negation. And farther 
 colloquy was arrested by the coming down of Zuleime equip- 
 ped for her ride. 
 
 “¢ Come here, my daughter! Now you must be sure to be 
 back by dinner time, do you hear ?” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir!” 
 
 “¢ Promise me.” 
 
 “‘ Of course [ do.” 
 
 “Upon your honor!” said the old man, seriously. 
 
 ‘Upon my honor, sir, I will return by dinner time! But 
 what makes you so emphatic about it, dear father 2’ 
 
 «“ A notion of mine, my child! but I have your promise !” 
 
 « Of course you have, sir!” said Zuleime, drawing on her 
 gloves. 
 
 Mr. Fairfax was taking leave of Mrs. Clifton. Presently 
 be turned to bid adieu to Mr. Clifton. 
 
 The old gentleman shook his hand warmly, wishing him 
 - all the success he desired, and affecting to laugh and jest, 
 while he exacted a like promise from Fairfax, namely, that 
 
130 LOST AFFECTION, 
 
 he should take his girl to Hardbargain, and leave her, there 
 .o return by dinner time. 
 
 Frank gave his word very cheerfully. The young couple 
 then mounted and rode away. The old man watched them 
 from the piazza in sorrowful love, murmuring— 
 
 “God bless them. I wish they could be married. Poor 
 things. If they do love each other so much, or if they thank 
 they do, which is quite as bad while it lasts—why, it is but 
 kind to let them have this last little parting comfort of a ride 
 together! And it was well, too—” chuckled the old gentle- 
 man—* to tie them up with promises, so that they can’t run 
 away, which they might else be tempted to do in their part- 
 ing hour. But they will neither of them ever break their 
 word, and J shall have her back safe by dinner time. For 
 it is utterly impossible for them to get married without a 
 license, and it is quite impracticable to get a license this side 
 of L , or to ride to L between this and noon, 
 much less to ride thither and return here in time for dinner! 
 Ah! I have them there! And yet, I am sorry for them, too 
 Poor things !” 
 
 All this time Carolyn Clifton had sat like one dead, only 
 with her eyes strained up the mountain bridal-path. 
 
 In the meantime, Frank and Zuleime pursued their ride. 
 As soon as they were out of sight and hearing of a band of 
 fi-ld laborers, employed in cutting grass, and had entered the 
 
 shady mountain path, Frank said— 
 
 _ Well, Zuleime, my dearest girl, I spoke to your father—” 
 
 —‘“ And his answer-—I almost dread to hear it—yet I 
 know what it was, too.” 
 
 Frank nodded his head, and they rode on in silence for 
 some minutes, broken at ‘last by Frank, who suddenly ex-~ 
 claimed— 
 
 « Zuleime! you bear this so well !” 
 
 “Frank, you know this is no new thing to me; I have 
 known it, and been prepared for it all along!” replied the 
 girl, with a look of resignation. 
 
 “Oh, Zuleime! is there no way to prevent it ?” 
 
 « None that I know of, Frank !” 
 
 «« Zuleime! I was in every way his equal—why, when that 
 is the case, and when I was supported by your voice, too— 
 wny was I rejec*ed 2” 
 
 
 
 
 
 se ee, 
 
LOST AFFECTION 131 
 
 The matlen shook her head. 
 
 *¢ Zuleime, when is this nideous marriage Resovty to come 
 aff —do you know?” 
 
 ‘© Whenever Major Cabell chooses to demand my hand, 
 a believe !” 
 
 “Really! Upon my word! He isa personage of tre- 
 mendous importance! Whenever HE chooses to demand your 
 hand!! Zuleime! that is passing strange! This affair — 
 seems then to rest entirely with Major Cabell!!! 
 
 ‘< Yes, it does entirely.” 
 
 «Bless his Majesty. Zuleime, what hold has that man on 
 your father?” 
 
 Zuleime shook her black ringlets mournfully, but did not 
 reply. 
 
 ‘Do you know, my dear girl, that I am impressed with 
 the idea that your father does not at heart wish to give you 
 to Major Cabell, but ratber yields to a strange power the 
 man holds over him 
 
 “ At times I have thought so, too. But then my dear 
 father at other times really seems so set upon the marriage, 
 that the thought has been driven out of my head again! I 
 do not know what to think! But what I do know is, that I 
 will never willingly do anything to give my dear father 
 
 ain !7? 
 4 ‘«‘ My dearest girl, do you know that J believe, from my 
 soul, that your marriage with Major Cabell will give your 
 father more pain than any other circumstance could ?”’ 
 
 The young girl looked up in surprise. 
 
 “Zuleime! he told me to-day, that though he had promis- 
 ed you to Major Cabell, he would rather die than see you un- 
 happy, or stand in the way of your perfect happiness !” 
 
 “My dear father! My dear, gentle father! My fond, 
 old father!” exclaimed Zuleime, with the bright tears rolling 
 on her damask cheeks, like dew on the red rose. ‘ My kind, 
 generous father! He shall never know that I am unhappy! 
 And neither shall I be unhappy when pleasing him !” 
 
 “My dear, excellent girl! listen to me! You shall not 
 be unhappy any way! Do you suppose, Zuleime, that I could 
 ride by your side so cheerfully, if I thought you were going 
 to marry that man, up whom your father no more wishes to 
 bestow you, than he wishes ta send sa toperdition? [.isten, 
 
132 LOST AFFECTION. 
 
 my daring girl! When your father told me what I have 
 repeated to you, he went on to say, that for certain family 
 reasons, it was incumbent on him to fulfill his promise, and te 
 bestow your hand upon Major Cabell, unless some insur mount 
 wbhle obstacle should interpose to arrest the union’ Zuleime! 
 a flood of light broke on me then! and I felt and knew that 
 the old man would yield his darling daughter to the myste- 
 rious power exercised over him by Major Cabell, rather than 
 bestow her with esteem and affection! Zmleimaal ! without 
 vanity, I think that he loves me better, and would prefer me 
 for a son-in-law, if he were free to cheese. I think, indeed 
 I do, that he would hail with secret joy “an insurmountable 
 obstacle,” which would prevent the marriage, and not im- 
 plicate him in any manner. I think that was what he meant 
 when he said what he did. Still, I am sonvinced that the 
 words slipped ftom him unintentionally. I am certain he 
 did not mean to give me the hint, which nevertheless, I take, 
 for he is a man of strict honor, I know, and would never 
 tamper with the spirit of a promise any more than he would 
 break the words !” 
 
 «Oh! no, he never would, indeed !” 
 
 «¢ And again, my dearest girl, when I asked him just be- 
 fore we came away, whether, at any future time, under any 
 possible contingency, I might hope to obtain his consent to 
 our union, he assured me that [ might not, and earnestly en- 
 treated me to forget you! ‘That further convinced me that 
 he had no design in giving me the hint upex which I am 
 about to act—do you hear me, dearest Zuleims ?”’ 
 
 Zuleime did not, or at least did not appear to, 
 
 “ Zuleime, my darling, my love,” said Frank, dismount- 
 ing in the path, and lifting her from her saddle, * I am about 
 to raise ‘ an insurmountable obstacle’ to your marriage with 
 the Major !” 
 
 Zuleime turned deadly pale with surprise and terror, and 
 glanced wildly around, while she fell upon his arm and seemed 
 about to faint. 
 
 “Why, Zuleime! Come, come. What is tha matter? 
 Don’t be afraid! What, afraid of me, of Frank, venr play- 
 
 mate! Why, look up in my face and see! Come lift up 
 
 your heal’ J want to talk to you! There! there Why, 
 
LOST AFFECTION. 135 
 
 what are you afraid of? I will take no step without your 
 consent, sweet Zuleime !” 
 
 The infinite tenderness of his words, tones and manner, 
 reassured the frightened girl, and she raised her face, now 
 suffused with blushes. Ile supported her with his arm 
 around her waist, while he pointed down into a narrow glen 
 So the right, and said— 
 
 There! Look there, Zuleime. Do you see that little 
 stone house—there in the bottom of the glen—there by the 
 spring—but so much like the rocks, near it, and so deep in 
 the shade, as hardly to be distinguishable! Do you see it ?” 
 
 “ Yes,”’ breathed the maiden, very low 
 
 “¢ Jo you know who lives there ?” 
 
 FRAN 0,02 
 
 “A good old man! A saintly old man! A poor Baptist 
 missionary preacher, who lives in that hut quite alone, and 
 preaches there every Sunday to an humble congregation, 
 composed of poor mountaineers and negroes. He has de- 
 voted his life to labor among the mountain people, and has 
 done wonders in reforming them! Is it possible that you, 
 living in the neighborhood, knew nothing of him ?” 
 
 “Oh, yes! I have heard a great deal about Mr. Saunders, 
 only I did not know where exactly his hut was. There are 
 so many of them, you know!” said the girl, somewhat re- 
 covered, and much interested. 
 
 “‘ My dearest Zuleime! we will go down to that hut! ‘I 
 see by the smoke, that so gracefully curls,’ that the old man 
 is at home. We will tell him the whole story, as far as we 
 know it, and get him to raise that required insurmountable 
 obstacle !” 
 
 sh! Frank!” exclaimed Zuleime, shocked, delighted, 
 terrified, overjoyed. 
 
 ‘But, my dearest Zuleime! my dearest love! I have 
 recorded an oath in Heaven, to save you from that marriage 
 with Cabell! And I will never leave you until you are my 
 wife. If you refuse Now, I will throw up my commission iu 
 the army, and live there in that hut with the old parson, 
 antil yon do consent!” 
 
 * But, my father, Frank! My dear father!” 
 
 « Dearnst girl, he will be glad!” Here Frank went over 
 the whole story again, and added—*“ And Zuleime, have you 
 
134 LOST AFFECTION, 
 
 _no love, no pity left from your father to bestow upon che 
 poor soldier who loves you so, and who is going out to the 
 Indian frontier, where he may lose his scalp, or be burned 
 alive, or eaten raw within a month by the red-skins? Will 
 you refuse his last prayer?’ etc., etc., ete. Over and over 
 again, fervently, earnestly, imaploringly, despairingly he re- 
 peated the argument and the prayer, while he held the maiden 
 “ haif willing, half afraid.” ‘She who hesitates is lost,” it 
 is said. 
 
 Zuleime hesitated a.long time, and, consequently, was tost — 
 to all eternity. What could she oppose, indeed, to what 
 seemed so right and reasonable? With a deep sigh she 
 yielded at last. There was no path that way down into the 
 glen, and the descent was deep and precipitous, and over- 
 grown with stunted cedar, pine and thorn bushes. So, 
 Romeo and Juliet began to clamber down, by foot-holds of 
 jagged rocks, and fist-holds of thorn bushes, to the great 
 risk of wounded hands and torn pants and petticoats. And 
 s0 it was in rather a disordered state of attire, as well as in 
 an excited state of mind, that they at last arrived before the 
 door of Father Lawrence’s cell, and rapped. While they 
 waited for the old man to appear, Frank, very much to the 
 surprise of Zuleime, drew from his vest pocket a license—a 
 regular bona fide liccnse, signed by the clerk of R 
 county, and sealed with the county seal. Resting his foot 
 upon the door-step, he took off his hat, turned it down on his 
 knee, laid the license upon its top, and drawing from his 
 other pocket a travelling pen and ink case, proceeded to 
 write the names of Francis Rutland Fairfax and Zuleime 
 Dovilliers Clifton in the’ blank spaces. 
 
 ‘¢ You look surprised, my dearest girl,” said he, as he re- 
 turned the pen and ink case to his pocket. ‘‘ You wonder 
 how I came by this license? I will tell you. I have it by 
 a stroke of the rarest good fortune. You know, being 
 groomsman, I was entrusted with the duty of riding to 
 J,-_——,, and procuring the marriage license for Archer and 
 your sister. Well! when I arrived at the clerk’s office, by 
 the strangest caprice of memory, I entirely forgot Miss 
 Clifton’s middle name, so I got the clerk to give me one 
 license filled out with the names of Carolyn Clifton and 
 Archer Clifton, and then knowing how extremely punctilious 
 
 
 
LOST AFFECTICN. 139 
 
 you all are here, in this county, I procured another license 
 regularly signed and sealed, but leaving blank spaces for the- 
 proper names of the parties! There, darling! that is ihe 
 mannet in which I ca:ne by it! Now, this blank one I fill 
 up with our names, which I really think look quite as pretty 
 as the others would! | As for Clifton and your sister, if they 
 want a license, they will have to put up with the first, which ] 
 will land to Archer as soon as we get to Hardbargain. Bless 
 my soul! what has become of that old man?’ he exclaimed, 
 rapping loudly, then trying the door and pushing it open. 
 The house was empty. Frank looked dismally disappointed, 
 but Zuleime plucked him by the sleeve, and whispered, hur- 
 riedly— 
 
 «¢ Here he comes—behind you!”’ 
 
 And he turned to see the old preacher coming from the 
 spring, bending under the light weight of a small pail of 
 water. Frank immediately went to him, greeted him respect- 
 fully, and took from his hand the pail, and carrying it, 
 walked by his side, till they reached the house. Lieutenant 
 Fairfax then introduced himself by name and station, and 
 presented Miss Zuleime Clifton. The old man bowed and 
 offered his hand, with a courtly grace, in strange contrast to 
 his rude garb and rough habitation. -He invited them to 
 come in and sit down. And when they had entered, and 
 Zuleime was seated, Frank took the old man aside, commu- 
 nicated the object of their call, and produced his license. 
 The old man glanced from the earnest countenance of Frank 
 to the blushing, downcast face of Zuleime, shook his bald 
 head, and looked very grave. ; 
 
 Frank drew him off to the farthest corner of the little hut, 
 made him sit down on the foot of his bed, seated himself by 
 his side, and in a fervid, earnest, eloquent manner, told him 
 their little story. 
 
 Many times the old man shook his thin, gray locks. They 
 were not good things—these secret marrias es—they never 
 bee Marriage should be open as day—with the 
 
 lessing of God—with the blessing of parents—with the 
 sympathy of friends—with the good wishes of acquaintances 
 to hallow and prosper the union. 
 
 “Qh!” said- Frank, but this was an extraordinary occa- 
 sion, the father was really at heart not opposed to this mar 
 
136 LOST AFFECTION. 
 
 riage, but circumstances compelled him to withhold his open 
 consent—he himself, (Frank,) was about to depart on a long 
 journey, aud merely wished to secure his bride against a 
 forced marriage of convenience during his absence. In short, 
 Frank recommenced the argument, and told it all over fi» 
 beginning to end. 
 
 Still the old man shook his bald head and demur-ed. 
 
 Frank began the story over again, recited the whole of it, 
 with many additions and improvements. 
 
 To no purpose—the old man was obdurate. Frank, then 
 half angrily, arose and said— 
 
 “Come Zuleime! We must go on to the frontier together, 
 and find somebody to marry us on the route, and let Mr. 
 Saunders here be responsible for all trouble that may ensue, 
 since with the license before him, he refuses to unite us.” 
 At this, Zuleime burst into tears and wept heartily. 
 
 The old preacher dropped his head upon his breast in trou- 
 bled thought for some moments, and, whether the arguments 
 of Frank had after all produced some effect, or whether he 
 feared to encounter the responsibility of sending this wild 
 young couple on their way unmarried, or whether he was 
 moved to pity by the tears of Zuleime, or whether, as is 
 more probable, all these considerations actuated him, I know 
 not; but he slowly rose to his feet, uncovered his head, and 
 lifted up his eyes in silent prayer awhile, then bade the 
 young pair stand up, for that he would marry them. 
 
 Frank clasped the hand of Zuleine, and led her forward. 
 And in less than fifteen minutes more, by the magic of a few 
 words, the youth and maiden were man and wife. And while 
 Mrs. Fairfax, with trembling white fingers, was tying her 
 hat, Mr. Fairfax would have emptied the whole contents of 
 his purse in the minister’s hands,—but, though that money 
 might have supplied the poor old preacher with many neces- 
 saries for which he really suffered, and made him very com- 
 fortable for a long time, yet he turned away his head, and 
 put it away from him, saying— 
 
 ‘No, young man, | cannot take your gold; I may have 
 erred in what I have done, but I did not do it for money.” 
 
 «“ But you always take a fee, do you not?” 
 
 ‘“Hrom others I do—not from you. It would not be 
 blessed.” 
 
LOST AFFECTION. 187 
 
 The boyish brow of Frank clouded and darkened, but it 
 cleared again mstantly as he turned towards his bride. 
 
 ‘ney were about to bid the old minister adieu, when he 
 took a hand of each, and joining them again, held them ip 
 is own, while he said— 
 
 “ Children, if this thoughtless act bring you into much 
 ‘rouble, in tle long, weary years of trial and suffering that 
 may result from it, reproach me for my share in the rash 
 deed as much as you please, but,—” he paused and looked 
 solemnly from one to the other,—* never, as you value love, 
 and fidelity, and peace,—never, as you value the favor of 
 Heaven, never reproach each other with it! So may God 
 forgive, and bless, and prosper you! Good-bye!” 
 
 The young bride and groom had bowed their heads during 
 this. benediction, and ut its close responded with a silent, 
 heartfelt amen. They then left the cabin. 
 
 If the minister of Goda grievously erred in performing this 
 - secret marriage ceremony, he was soon called to account for 
 it; the old man died that night. 
 
 As Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax left the cabin, they perceived 
 Kate Kavanagh, on her little rough-coated mountain pony, 
 coming straight down into the glen—her sure-footed little 
 animal treading with perfect security the precipitous descent 
 down which they had been obliged to clamber. Kate was 
 looking very pale and care-worn, so that her ponderous 
 abutting forehead, in its pallor, reminded Frank of a bare- 
 bleached cliff. And, indeed, he thought that Kate’s face 
 looked more like that of an anxious politician, with the af 
 fairs of a nation on his shoulders, than of a grieved girl. 
 But this was the fault of her marked features. But little 
 time or thought had Mr. Fairfax to bestow upon the moun- 
 tain-girl ; so as soon as he caught sight of her, he turned in 
 another direction, to avoid being recognized, saying— 
 
 * By all that’s fatal, my dearest love, we were near being 
 detested! And by all that’s fortunate, we have escaped | 
 Come, this way , we will take a stroll down the glen and 
 into. the forest for a little while, until this girl is clear of the 
 way.” 
 
 * Oh, but it will delay us so much, I shail not have time 
 to go to Hardbargain, and assist Aunt Clifton, and get back 
 kome to dinner, as I promised!” 
 
138 LOST AFFECTION. 
 
 “¢ My dear!” said Frank, reproachfully, “do you grudge 
 me these last few hours of your society, when we are about 
 to be separated so far and so long? Besides, you know you 
 are my own dear wife now. Will you refuse ”” 
 
 ‘No, no, I cannot! But, oh, let me return to father— 
 my dear, fond, confiding father,—as soon as I promised! 
 Let me keep the word of promise to his ear, if Ihave broken 
 it to his hope!” cried Zuleime, bursting into a passion of _ 
 tears. 
 
 Safe tears, and unobserved but by him who kissed them 
 away, for already they had entered the thicket, and were 
 veiled from the sight of Kate Kavanagh, who now dis- 
 mounted before the door of the hut, and taking from the 
 horns of the saddle a basket and a bundle, entered the poor 
 preacher’s humble habitation. We will turn from the erring 
 pair and enter with her. None but God knew how much dis- 
 interested good the poor mountain-girl did in this world. 
 Even the minister, who loved and respected her, knew little 
 beyond the good she did for him. He knew that she knit 
 new stockings and darned old ones for him—that she took 
 his scanty clothing every week, and mended, and washed, 
 and ironed it for him—and that when she brought it back, 
 she would always bring him butter, cream and cheese of her 
 own making, and a fresh loaf of rising bread of her own 
 baking, and often some little rural luxury besides, as a jar 
 of honey or a piece of venison. And that she would stay 
 and clean up his house before she left. He knew that she 
 was kis good spirit. 
 
 As Kate entered the room, the old man came and met her, 
 and took the basket and the bundle from her hands and set 
 them down, and set a chair for her, and made her sit down 
 in it, while he said— 
 
 « My dear child! my excellent child, you do too much for 
 me! You hurt yourself, Catherine, and make me too deeply 
 your debtor !” 
 
 Kate waved her hand in that quick, short way peculiar te 
 nerself, silently beseeching him to stop. 
 
 ‘“‘ But it is the truth, Catherine, my child! J shall never 
 be able to repay you!” 
 
 «Oh, sir! you have reversed the case! It is J who am 
 your dsbtor! If I were not particularly your debtor for al 
 
LOST AFFECTION. 139 
 
 the education —mental, and moral, and religious, that I have 
 ever received, up to the time of my coming to Hardbargain— 
 still I should be generally your debtor, as youth is the gene« 
 ral debtor of age—owing it all the service it can give.” 
 Then, to change the subject, the girl laid off her straw hat, 
 drew off her sheep-skin home-made mittens, and arose and un- 
 covered her basket, saying —‘‘Instead of a loaf of rising bread , 
 Mr. Saunders, I have brought you some fresh biscuits; | 
 thought they might be an agreeable change. There is alsa 
 a fresh print of butter, and a bottle of cream, and a beef’s 
 tongue, boiled—I thought the last would give you an appe- 
 tite—I think you have not had a good appetite, lately !” 
 And without more ado Catherine put the things away in the 
 cupboard, setting the bottle of cream in a bowl of water, to 
 keep cool, and wishing to herself that she had a lump of ice 
 to put on the old man’s print of butter. Next, she unrolled 
 the bundle, took the old man’s nicely washed and mended 
 clothes, and put them neatly away in the chest of drawers. 
 Then she set the empty basket aside, rolled up her sleeves, 
 stooped down upon the hearth, and began to make the fire, 
 saying—“ You know I have come to dine with you to-day, 
 Mr. Saunders!” 
 
 “T know you have come to bring me many comforts, 
 and to cook my dinner, and clean up my house, and 
 make me very comfortable, you good girl, my dear little 
 Brownie !” 
 
 Catherine moved about, in her quick and quiet way— 
 filled and put on the kettle—for the old man would always 
 have his cup of tea—and set the table, placing all the little 
 rarities she had brought upon it. When all was ready, and 
 _ they sat down, the old man found leisure to observe that 
 Kate ate nothing, and looked pale and thoughtful. 
 
 “« What is the matter, my dear Kate !—you who are always 
 Sericus, are now positively sorrowful! What is it ?” 
 
 Kate, who was truth itself whenever she spoke, chose for 
 that reason to give no answer. 
 
 The old man looked more and more disturbed, and laymg 
 down his knife and fork, said— 
 
 “‘ Nay, but Catherine, my dcar child, there is something 
 the matter! Ido not wish to intrude on your confidence, 
 brut if you have any trouble that you think I may possibly 
 
140 LOST AFFECTION. 
 
 be able to soothe—confide in me, as if I were your own 
 father, my child.” 
 
 ‘¢ Dear Mr. Saunders, don’t trouble your good heart about 
 ny cloudy face. Sure and hasn’t a poor girl the same right 
 to her smoke that a wealthy young lady has to her vapors?” 
 said Kate, smiling. 
 
 The old minister did not press his question, but resumed his 
 knife and fork with a look of mortification that worried Cath- 
 erine, so that she said— 
 
 ‘¢J will tell you, then, what troubles me. My dearest, 
 best friend and patron, Captain Clifton, has bidden me gooa- 
 bye, and departed for the frontier! That is bad—oh, yes! 
 —very bad. But thatis not the worst. He has gone away 
 very unhappy. I might as well tell you what everybody 
 will soon know :—his marriage is broken off! He has gone 
 away in anger with his promised bride. He has gone away 
 so wretched! Mr. Saunders, when I saw him last night, 
 looking so pale, and stern, and proud—and knew the haugli- 
 tiness and the anguish of his heart, I thought I could have 
 died to have restored peace and joy between him and her he 
 loved so strongly.” 
 
 ‘«« Mercif 41 Heaven !—those Cliftons! This is another in- 
 stance of their fatal subjection to passion! Do you know, 
 my dear child, what caused this quarrel ?” 
 
 ‘‘ T know nothing but this—the marriage is broken off for 
 the present! I do not know wherefore.” 
 
 «© Sone jealous suspicion of one party or the other! 
 Those. Cliftons all have Spanish blood in them, and the Span- 
 ish ¢haracter is uppermost in their nature. They are all 
 hau ‘hty, reserved, jealous, suspicious.” 
 
 ‘. Ah, but they are full of courage, magnanimity and be- 
 nevolence,” said Catherine. 
 
 «© Archer Clifton is of a very jealous and suspicious nature 
 --was his betrothed inclined to coquetry ?” 
 
 “ Oh, Ido not know, sir, but the misunderstanding did 
 not originate in any charge against Miss Clifton. It was 
 something of which Miss Clifton accused him, but of what, I 
 do not know !—he did not say. My dear Mr. Saunders, I 
 told you what troubled me, to satisfy your kind heart, and 
 allay your benevolent anxiety on my account. And now 
 please forgive me, for besceching you not to question me 
 
LOST AFFECTION. 141 
 
 ferctner upon the subject. They—the parties, I mean—are 
 far removed above my sphere of thought and action—and tha 
 investigation of their motives of action, by me, seems to in- 
 voive a certain indelicacy—I fear even impertinence of inter- 
 ference,” said Catherin:, geitty. 
 
 *¢ Yet, far above your sphere of thought and action as you 
 say they are, they are not—at least ove of them is not—- 
 above your sphere of sympathy and emotion. His sorrow 
 affects you with sorrow!” 
 
 The blood rushed te Kate’s brow, and she remained silent. 
 
 The old man and the maiden soon after arose from: the 
 table. She washed up the dishes, tidied up the house, and 
 collected the poor preacher’s soiled and broken clothes, and 
 tied them in a bundle to take away with her to wash and 
 mend. Then she tied on her hat, and took leave of him; 
 the old man calling her back, again and again, with vague, 
 prophetic meaning, to repeat over and over—“ God bless you, 
 my child! God bless you!” It was his dying benediction. 
 
 A poor mountaineer, that called early the next morning 
 to get the poor minister to the poor to come and bury his 
 wife—found the old man dead. 
 
1423 : WOMAN’S PRIDE 
 
 CHAPTER IN, 
 WOMAN’S PRIDE. 
 
 The bird when she pineth may hush her song, 
 
 Till the hour when ee heart shall again be strong; 
 But thou—canst thou turn in thy woe aside, 
 
 And weep midst thy sisters? No, not for pride. 
 
 May the fiery word from thy lip find way, 
 
 W ben the thoughts burning in thee shall spring to-day ? 
 May the grief that sits in thy weary breast,. 
 
 Look forth from thine aspect, the revel’s guest ? 
 
 No! withthe shaft in thy bosom born, 
 
 Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn! 
 
 Thou must fold thy mantle, that none may see, 
 
 And mask thee with laughter, and say thou art free! 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 Aut the forenoon, Carolyn Clifton sat in the same place and 
 in the same attitude in which we left her, affecting to read, 
 but really watching the mountain-path with heart-sickening 
 anxiety. Every distant sound of a horse’s hoofs that struck 
 upon her ear, sent an electric shock to her heart, causing her 
 to start violently, tremble, and turn deadly sick and faint, 
 with accelerated hope and fear, until its nearer approach re- 
 vealed some neighbor going on his way, or some negro com- 
 ing from the mill or the village, to her despairing sight. 
 Tver the sound of carriage wheels, as they occasionally rolled 
 by, made her heart pause in its pulsations until it passed, and 
 proved to be some family going on a visit or a shopping er 
 rand.—For still she hoped that if he did not come down the 
 mountain-path on horseback, he might come round the road 
 with his mother in her carriage. He came not. And oh, 
 
 the wedding day was almost over! Noone saw the strife of - 
 
 hope and fear, like the struggle of life and death, going on 
 silently in her bosom. Mrs. Georgia Clifton spent the whole 
 forenoon in her own apartment, professing to be engaged 
 with many elegant preparations for the evening ; but really 
 full of triumph for the success of her wicked scheming, and 
 
 aoe 
 
WOMAN’S PRIDE. 143 
 
 anxiety and wonder for the events of the evening, ana dark 
 regret also for the absence of him who, if lost to Carolyn 
 forever, was lost to herself for a time at least. With all 
 these passions and emotions striving in her bosom, she dared 
 not show herself, lest her conscious heart and conscious face 
 should betray her—for Georgia was yet young in wickedness. 
 
 The Misses Cabell were in their own chamber, putting a 
 few finishing touches to their dresses for the evening, for 
 they, with Zuleime, were to be the bridesmaids. 
 
 Zuleime herself had not yet returned, although it was near 
 noon. | | 
 Old Mr. Clifton had been out, as was his daily habit of a 
 forenoon, riding around his plantation. 
 
 He came in to-day a little earlier than usual, and finding 
 his daughter exactly where he left her, but looking still more 
 pale, haggard and anxious than in the morning, he sat down 
 by her side, put his arm tenderly around her waist, and 
 gazed lovingly into her whitened and sharpeaed countenance, 
 before he said interrogatively— 
 
 “«¢ Not come yet, Carolyn?” 
 
 << No, sir!”? answered the young lady rising and putting 
 off her father’s caressing arm, and her own humiliating des 
 pondency, with a proud and queenly air. 
 
 « Well!” said the old man, with sudden energy, * I wILt 
 certainly now ride up to Hardbargain and know the reason. 
 Danpy!—my horse, there! Bring him back!—I’ve not 
 done with him!” 
 
 “‘ Father!” said Carolyn, seizing his hand, and detaining 
 him, while she raised her head and looked and spoke in a 
 manner that reminded him more strongly than ever of her 
 arrogant mother, * Father, no, you will not go! No, no, 
 father, if you have any love for me, any respect for the 
 memory of my dead n-other, do not subject her daughter and 
 yours to such a mortifi:ation! No, father, if he never comes, 
 never go after him !” 
 
 “ You’re a fool, girl!” cried the old man, breaking away 
 from her, ‘a palpable fool!—You were a fool for quarreling 
 with him and sending him away, and now you are a greater 
 fool for persisting in the quarrel. ‘ Mortification,’ indeed! 
 Who'll be the most mortified this evening, I wonder, ¢ if he 
 never comes? What the deuce are we to say to the people 
 
L144 WOMAN’S PRIDE. 
 
 wno will cume here this evening to see you married? Tell 
 me that ?”° 
 
 Before she could say another word, a large family carriage 
 ri lled down the road, and turned and entered the lawn. 
 
 Carolyn sank back in her seat, nearly swooning with the 
 swift hope and fear that strove almost to agony as she gazed. 
 
 It looked so like Mrs. Clifton’s carriage. 
 
 It was not, however. It contained the very earliest of the 
 wedding guests, who, coming from a distance of thirty miles, 
 had set out early enough to arrive in time to secure a whole 
 afternoon’s rest and” refreshment before dressing for the 
 evening. This was customary with those coming from afar. 
 
 Old Mr. Clifton went down the steps, to receive his guests. 
 
 Carolyn arose and withdrew into the house, fortunately 
 before she had been recognized by the visitors; for it would 
 have been shockingly out of all etiquette for a bride to be 
 visible on her wedding-day before the wedding-hour. 
 
 When Mr. Clifton had ushered his guests into the drawing- 
 room, he returned to the piazza to give some directions con- 
 cerning the stabling of the horses, for where so many animals 
 were expected to be provided for, it required some extra 
 thought and care in their bestowal. While still giving his 
 orders, he saw his younger daughter riding slowly up to the 
 house. Pleased to see her return in safety, in spite of his 
 evil forebodings of the morning, and thinking besides that 
 she could give him some news of the laggard bridegroom, he 
 hastened to meet her and lift her from the saddle, with a 
 joyous— 
 
 “Well, my darling! well, my damask rose-bud! Back 
 in time, according to promise, eh ?” 
 
 But at the sight of her father, the girl’s face flushed and 
 paled so swiftly, her bosom rose and fell so rapidly, her 
 whole frame was so agitated, her manner so confused, that 
 tne old man was seized with alarm and exclaimed, hur- 
 riedly— 
 
 ‘‘ In the name of Heaven, my dearest child, what is the 
 matter ?”? 
 
 But Zuleime, incapable of reply, looked as if she would 
 sink into the ground. 
 
 Mr. Clifton’s first definite thought was that some accident 
 or catastrophe had befallen the bridegroom. 
 
WOMAN’S PRIDE. 1438 
 
 “© Good Heaven, Zuleime, what has happened? Where 13 
 
 Archer Clifton? Speak—has he come to any harm?” 
 _ Much relieved that her father’s suspicions had fallen out 
 of the true track—yet still considerably shaken, Zuleime re- 
 plied, in a faltering voice, that Captain Clifton had received 
 orders, and had departed that morning with Lieutenant 
 Fairfax for Winchester, where their regiment was quartered, 
 and that Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, desired to see Mr. 
 Clifton as soon as possible. Without another word—totally 
 ‘ansuspicious that Mrs. Fairfax stood before him—the old 
 man threw himself on horseback, and rode furiously toward 
 Hardbargain. 
 
 Mrs. Frank Fairfax, our runaway daughter, and widowed 
 bride, stole to her own little room to weep in secret, a littlo 
 over her fault, but a great deal over the absence of and the 
 danger about to befall her husband. 
 
 Dinner was served without Mr. Clifton, Miss Clifton, 
 Zuleime, and the Misses Cabell. Mrs. Georgia Clifton alone 
 entertained the newly arrived company. This did not oeca- 
 sion remark. Mr. Clifton was known to be absent, and it 
 was customary, as I said before, for the bride and her 
 attendants to be invisible. 
 
 In the meantime, Carolyn Clifton sat in her chamber—- 
 pride, love, regret, anger, hope, fear—all good and evil pas- 
 sions striving in her soul, or in turn holding the mastery over 
 it. It was drawing near the hour when she should commence 
 her bridal toilet, if indeed any bridal array was to be assumed 
 that evening. Amidst all her keen anxiety, she dreaded lest 
 some one should come in and tell her it was time to dress. 
 What should her proud heart permit her to explain to such 
 aone. She need not have feared interruption, however. 
 
 The Misses Cabell, her bridesmaids, it is true, sat together 
 in their chamber very impatiently awaiting a message from 
 the bride—very impatiently, indeed, for after her ceremonious 
 dressing. they had their own very elaborate toilet to make. 
 But they would not enter her dressing-room unsummoned, 
 or at least until they should receive from some member of the 
 family a suggestion that it was now proper to do so. And 
 no one thought or remembered to give them the hint. 
 
 Mrs. Georgia Clifton—self-convicted of being the origina- 
 tor of all the great trouble that had befallen, and the greater 
 
146 WOMAN’S PRIDE. 
 
 that was about to befall the house—kept herself as much as 
 vossible aloof. ; 
 
 And Zuleime was as-yet too deeply absorbed in the con- . 
 templation of her own recent bridehood, and the sorrow of 
 her widowhood, to think of anything else. 
 
 Meanwhile old Mr. Clifton had ridden as for life up to 
 Iardbargain, thrown himself from his horse, flung the bridle 
 upon his neck and let him go loose, while he himself rushed 
 up the stairs and into the hall, and without the ceremony of 
 a rap, burst into the quiet presence of Mrs. Clifton as she 
 sat sewing in her shady parlor. She arose calmly to receive 
 him; and the very quietness of the lady threw the excited 
 old gentleman off his guard, and out of his politeness, and 
 luto a rage. 
 
 ‘Well, madam!” he exclaimed, throwing his hat down 
 with a thump into a chair, and tramping up and down the 
 floor. ‘ Here’s a pretty state of affairs !” 
 
 ‘- Mr. Clifton, you are excited.” 
 
 ‘Yes, madam, I Am excited!” interrupted the old man— 
 ‘svery much excited, madam! Very much excited, indeed, 
 madam! Where is Archer Clifton? tell me that!” 
 
 “Mr. Clifton, sit down and compose yourself !” 
 
 ‘‘ Compose myself! Compose myself with a prospect of 
 three hundred people pouring into my house to-night, each 
 one of them agape to see a wedding, and to have to tell them 
 there will be no wedding !” 
 
 “Mr. Clifton, you can’t regret this circumstance more 
 than I do!” 
 
 “T don’t regret it at all, ma’am!_ I rejoice at it, ma’am! 
 I congratulate myself and my daughter, ma’am! But Til 
 have satisfaction, ma’am! I’ll have satisfaction, ma’am!” 
 said the old man, wiping the perspiration from his red face. 
 
 “Satisfaction for what you rejoice at, Mr. Clifton?’ in- 
 quired the lady, smiling at his unreasonable anger with aer- 
 self. | 
 
 “6 |’1]—-yes—IT’ll have satisfaction, ma’am !” 
 
 “From whom? From me? Do you intend to call me 
 out as my son’s representative? Do you wish to compel me 
 to ight a duel; or to make an apology—which ?’ inquired 
 the lady, coolly. 
 
 “Tem it, mem, P’JII—T’ll have satisfaction .”? exclaimed 
 
WOMAN’S PRIDE. 147 
 
 the old man, growing shorter and shorter in his syllables. 
 ‘ T’}]—I’ll write to the Colonel of the regiment! DVH—TIll 
 make the matter known to the Major General of the Army! 
 Pll—yes, dem-me! [ll go to Washington and tell the Presi- 
 dent! Jl have that young rascal cashiered, and broken and 
 dismissed from the service !” 
 
 “What! all three! Why, that is passing cruel! Quite 
 as bad as being killed and murdered, and mortally wounded!” 
 said the lady, smiling at his insane vehemence. 
 
 “Dem it, mem! don’t take my words up!” he exclaimed, 
 stamping up and down the floor, and then breaking out into 
 vituperative abuse of Archer Clifton, all addressed to Mrs. 
 Clifton, who, though becoming very much agitated, now pre- 
 served a dignified silence. 
 
 “‘ Mr. Clifton forgets that he is a man, and that he speaks 
 to a woman!” said a stern, but low-toned voice. 
 
 And the old gentleman turned to see Kate Kavanagh, 
 ‘severe in youthful beauty,” standing within the door; yes, 
 in beauty, for her slight figure was drawn gracefully up—her 
 bosom heaving, her fine head erected, her cheeks crimson, 
 and her eyes intensely brilliant with the just indignation that 
 moved her soul, as she walked straight up te Mrs. Clifton, 
 and said— 
 
 “‘ Dearest lady, allow me—do allow me to attend you to your 
 own room, and be your substitute here, in waiting upon Mr. 
 Clifton.” 
 
 “© No, Kate—no, my dear girl. I have to talk rationally 
 to the man as soon as he comes to his senses,”’ replied the lady. 
 _ “Who is that girl?” inquired the old gentleman, not re- 
 cognizing Kate under the new aspect—or affecting not to do 
 so. ‘ Who is that girl, Mrs. Clifton?’ he repeated, while 
 the lady gazed fondly on her protégé. 
 
 «Miss Kavanagh; my son’s ward, and my own adopted 
 daughter,” replied Mrs. Clifton, without withdrawing hor 
 fond gaze from the face of Kate, who was blushing under it. 
 
 “Miss Kavanagh, your son’s ward, and your own adopted 
 daughter! A promising relationship all around, that is—up 
 —on—-my—word—it—is !” said Mr. Clifton, very deliber- 
 ately. <‘ However,” he added, “she has brought me to re- 
 flection, for which I thank her. And Mrs. Clifton, I feel 
 eerry and mortified that I have been betrayed into some vio 
 
148 WOMAN’S PRIDE 
 
 lence of speech and manner; it is a family failing, you know. 
 Pray pardon me.” 
 
 «Mr. Clifton, please to sit down near me. My voice is 
 not strong. It may be disquietude, but I find a difficulty in 
 raising it, or in keeping up a running conversation.” 
 
 «< My dear sister, I am afraid your lungs grow weak. IL am 
 indeed! I have noticed it before. I have said the same to 
 Georgia and to Carolyn! Indeed, my dear sister Clifton, 4 
 wish you would take care of yourself. I was.a brute to throw 
 myself into a passion in your presence. I was, indeed! J 
 see it has overcome you! Kate Kavanagh, my dear, you 
 were perfectly right. I did forget myself. And you were 
 a fine girl to recall me. Give me your hand, my dear.” 
 
 Blushing deeply, as was her wont when praised, Kate gay 
 her hand, saying—half apologetically, half appealingly— 
 
 ‘‘Mrs. Clifton is not strong, sir. She should not be 
 agitated, especially so soon after her son has left her.” 
 
 ‘¢ T know she is not strong! My dear sister, I wish you’d 
 be careful of yourself! I do, indeed! You’re not strong.” 
 
 “ After fifty, we do not grow strong as we grow old,” said 
 the lady, pointing to a chair by her side, and indicating that 
 he should take it! He did so. And then Mrs. Clifton 
 turned to Kate, and said— , 
 
 « Now Catherine, my dear, I wish you to go »p into my 
 chamber and amuse yourself with a book, white I have a 
 confidential talk with Mr. Clifton.” 
 
 Kate immediately arose, courtesied, and left the room. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton turned to her brother-in-law, aud said, in 
 quiringly, “¢ You know the cause of this lovers’ quarrel ”? 
 
 ‘©Of course I do, madam! Satan fly away with them 
 both! I know all about it! It was about her— up stairs!” 
 he replied, indicating Kate Kavanagh by a crook of his thumb. 
 
 «Yes; it was about Kate. But it was very absurd '!” 
 
 «¢ Now, I don’t know that ma’am !” 
 
 ‘But it certainly was—ridiculous! Mr. Clifton! she, 
 (Catherine, knows nothing about it! Does not even dream 
 that she herself had the remotest connection with the quarrel, 
 and I do hope and trust, that she never may suspect it. What 
 I wish to say to you, is plainly this: That I know enough 
 of human nature generally, and of young people particularly, 
 and of Archer and Carolyn individually, to feel sure trat tris 
 
WOMAN’S PRIDE. 149, 
 
 very absurd and extremely inconvenient quarrel and separa- 
 tion—” 
 
 “Yes, very extremely inconvenient, indeed ! 199 emphatically 
 interrupted the old man. 
 
 * Ts only temporary—” 
 
 “«¢ Yes, ma’am, but that don’t make it the less embarrass- 
 ing—the less inconvenient!” 
 
 “‘T know it! Hear me out!” 
 
 “What the deuce, ma’am, are we to do with the people 
 who are coming to the wedding even now ?” 
 
 «¢] am about to tell you, if you will quietly listen to me.” 
 
 cWell! well Yes, ma’am! I beg ars pardon—i am 
 all attention.’ 
 
 “ Caroly rn; ' am sure, already regrets her hasty violence 
 of temper.” 
 
 «Yes! that she does! It’s easy to see that!” 
 
 «; And Archer, who is slower to anger and slower to re- 
 pentance—though deeper and stronger in both for being 
 slow—Archer, in a very few days, will bitterly repent the 
 step he has taken, more especially as being on his Western 
 march, it will be impossible to retrace it. Under these cir- 
 cumstances, this is what you must say to the assembled 
 company to-night :—You. must tell them, that last night a 
 peremptory order arrived for Captain Clifton to join his regi- 
 ment immediately ; and that the marriage is deferred for the 
 present. Let the company then enjoy themselves as at a ball. 
 And all will go off well, and without scandal. I will be 
 present myself, as the representative of our side of the house. 
 Isent for you, Mr. Clifton, to give you this advice, and to 
 suggest this plan of action in meeting the embarrassing diffi- 
 culties of this evening. I should not propose this, if I were 
 not sure that the marriage 7s only deferred—that if the par- 
 ties live, it will assuredly take place. Iam certain it will, 
 Mr. Clifton! I am willing to pledge my own truth and honor 
 on it, and become responsible for it! The plan [ propose to 
 you for meeting the guests this evening, is truest, wisest and 
 best—th:nk of it!” 
 
 “T do not think of it at all! Isee its excellence at a 
 glance. I spring to meet it! I embrace it! I hug it to my 
 heart! Oh, Mrs. Cliftor, you are our deliverer! “Oh, Mrs, 
 Clifton! you are the great-grand-daughter of Oliver Cromvet!, 
 
150 WOMAN’S PRIDE. 
 
 the general, the conqueror, the deliverer, the statesman, the 
 politician, the diplomatist, the everything at an emergency !— 
 You’ll see how gloriously Pll execute your orders! You'll 
 make me Lieutenant-General when you are Lady Protector 
 of the Commonwealth!” exclaimed the old man, starting up 
 and clapping his hat upon his head, and joking like a buy, 
 for very joy that his dificulty was smoothed. He shook hands 
 with Mrs. Clifton, begging her not to be late, as he should 
 want the encouragement of her presence in order to enable 
 him to make his speech. Then he mounted his horse, and 
 rode rapidly away down the mountain-path to Clifton. When 
 he arrived at home, he found the lawn already covered with 
 carriages, horses and servants, and the piazza, halls, and all 
 the first floor rooms, thronged with company. He passed 
 through them all, bowing right and left and hastened to his 
 daughter’s room. Mr. Clifton had some doubts about getting 
 his proud daughter to consent to the wise plan suggested by 
 his sister-in-law. But he meant to carry his consent by a 
 coup-de-main. So he pushed open her door, burst into her 
 chamber, and threw himself, puffing, blowing, and perspiring, 
 into the nearest chair, exclaiming— 
 
 “¢ He’s gone, Carolyn! He’s clear gone, confound him !” 
 - Carolyn drew nearer her father, and gazed into his face, 
 to read there the confirmation of what she scarcely could be- 
 sieve. The old man wiped his streaming face with his hand- 
 kerchief, and stuffed it again into his pocket, exclaiming— _ 
 
 “Yes! he’s gone! gone! gone! gone!” Then opening 
 wide his arms, he murmured, “ But never mind, my dear 
 ehild! you’ve got your old father left to love you, and to 
 avenge you, too, if needful! Don’t grieve! Come to my 
 bosem! Don’t grieve!” 
 
 ““<¢ Grieve,’ sir!” exclaimed the imperious girl; elevating 
 her queenly head, “we do not grieve for a traitor! We 
 pronounce sentence on him, and execute it!” 
 
 ‘True! true! my noble girl! There spoke your mother’s 
 daughter! Yet—” suddenly cried the old gentleman, as by 
 a quick recollection and revulsion of feeling, “ what a devil 
 of a kettle of fish this is, my dear! Blame the fellow, what 
 are we to do? Deuce take the man—what are we to say to 
 the people down stairs? Say, Carolyn! Woman’s wit is 
 quick' Can you think of anything ?” 
 
WOMAN’S PRIDE. 151 
 
 Carolyn stcod in proud and bitter thought for some minutes, 
 and then she smiled, with a scornful smile, and said— 
 
 “Do nothing, sir! Let all go on as was planned! Let 
 the band of music take its plaze in the saloon! Let the 
 wedding guests come, and be received! And then leave all 
 the rest to me! And now, my dear father, pray excuse me, 
 as it is time to dress.” 
 
 “To dress! Why, Carolyn, what do you mean? Are 
 you mad? Dress for what?’ asked the old gentleman, 
 anxious to know if perchance her idea in any way resembled 
 the plan adopted by himself, from Mrs. Clifton’s suggestion. 
 
 ‘¢No, sir! I am not mad. § My pulse, as yours, doth 
 temperately keep time,’ ” said the young lady, extending her 
 hand to the bell-rope, and ringing a peal that presently 
 brought her woman hurrying up stairs and int her presence. 
 
 “Darky!” said she addressing her attendant, “ go to Miss 
 Zuleime, and to the Misses Cabell, and let them know that I 
 have waited for them some time.” The old handmaid went 
 cut, and Carolyn turned to her father, and said, “My dear- 
 est father! when I am dressed I will send for you, and we 
 will have a conversation, in which I will tell you my simple 
 plan for getting through the evening. I have not quite ma- 
 tured it yet! Ah! here are the girls! Good evening for a 
 couple of hours, father !” 
 
 She opened the door for her father, who just escaped the 
 young bridesmaids, who were coming in. 
 
 He went out muttering— 
 
 “TI don’t know what she means. I suppose I can have 
 confidence inher. At least I must for the present, and then, 
 there is Mrs. Clifton’s plan.” He went into his own room 
 and errayed himself in festive garments for the occasion, and 
 then went below stairs to groan inwardly over the numerous 
 arrivals of guests, whose carriages thronged the lawn, and 
 whose servants crowded the piazza, hall and entries. Pre- 
 seytly a servant approached him, and said, respectfully, in a 
 low voice— | 
 
 <¢ Miss Clifton’s compliments, sir, and will see you in her 
 dwn room.” 
 
 The old gentleman hastened thither. He found his daugh. 
 ter ready dressed, and quite alone. Her bridesmaids had 
 gene to make their own toilets. 
 
153 WOMAN’S PRIDE. 
 
 «¢ Father !” she said, “I will not wear the willow for a re- 
 creant lover! Ihave determined that the festivities shall go 
 on tynight. I will go down and lead off the first dance my- 
 self, You, my father, may explain, as you please, that the 
 marriage is broken off, but that the music, dancing, and feast- 
 ing are not arrested for that reason.” 
 
 The old man had determined within himself what to speak, 
 but he answered— 
 
 “¢ My dear child, are you equal to it ”” 
 
 “© Equal sir? ‘Try me!” 
 
 “Very well, my dear. Come And I will say—what is 
 proper upon the occasion.’ 
 
 In the meanwhile the splendid company assembled in the 
 brilliantly lighted saloon, awaited with great impatience the 
 entree of the bridal train. 
 
 Made conspicuous in that gorgeous assembly by his black 
 gown and bands, sat the clergyman who was to perform the 
 ceremony. 
 
 Georgia—darkly, resplendently beautiful as ever, moved 
 gracefully through the crowd—full of gracious courtesy, yet 
 flushed, anxious, feverish—half fearing that the bridegroom 
 would appear at this last moment. ‘This fear was aroused 
 by the presence, and the calm, cheerful, self-possessed looks 
 of Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain. At length light steps were 
 heard in the hall, The doors of the ga aloon were thrown 
 open. And all eyes were turned to see the wedding pro- 
 cession enter. But instead of a bridal train, came old 
 Mr. Clifton, leading in his daughter Carolyn. The surprise, 
 the wonder of the company was at first silent and breathless 
 as it was profound. But soon a low whisper arose, and like 
 a low breeze in the Jeaves, passed from one to another, until 
 the room was in a general buzz. 
 
 Mr. Clifton led his daughter into the centre of the saloon, 
 and with her still hanging on his arm, turned and faced the 
 company, waiting until they should be silent before he would 
 speak. The father and daughter, as they stood there, pre- 
 sented a fine, imposing appearance. Both were arrayed witk 
 the gorgeous splendor that prevailed at that day. 
 
 The old gentleman had his snow-white hair turned back 
 off his forehead, and carried all down to the nape of his 
 neck, where it was plaited into a queue, and adorned with a 
 
WOMAN’S PRIDE. 153 
 
 Yarge white satin bow, both snowy plait aud how in pleasant 
 relief against the back of the dark crimson velvet coat—his 
 vest and small clothes were of white satin, and his long hose 
 of white silk were fastened to the small-clothes below the knee 
 with white satin bows and gold buckles—his slippers were 
 of crimson morocco, with high heels, large bows, and gold 
 buckles. His dress was rather antiquated even for that day. 
 And he stood there waiting for silence with the suave and 
 stately courtesy of the old school gentleman. 
 
 Very much like a queen looked the beautiful Carolyn, but 
 very little like a bride, either in her dignified self-possession, 
 or in her magnificent array. Her fair hair was carried up 
 above her forehead, and dressed high, in the regal style of 
 that day. Its rich waves and bands were wreathed with 
 pearls, and adorned with a plume of white ostrich feathers, 
 powdered with minute silver spangles. Her neck and arms 
 were bare, but adorned with pearls, and softly shaded with 
 the finest lace at the edge of the boddice and sleeves. Her 
 dress was of rich blue satin brocade, made with long waist, 
 sharp pointed stomacher, and flowing sleeves and flowing 
 skirt—the edges of the skirt finished with a very deep border 
 of silver embroidery ; a lighter border of the same running 
 around the sleeves; the stomacher was embroidered with sil- 
 ver and pearls. Over her skirt she wore a train of splendid 
 lace, lightly embroidered with a running vine of silver. She 
 toyed with an elegant fan of carved mother-of-pearl and 
 marabout feathers. She stood there, as I said, not at all 
 like a bride, either in her gorgeous apparel, or her self-assert- 
 ing manner. She stood there with a gay, proud air, beneath 
 which none could have discerned the deeply humiliated spirit 
 of the arrogant woman, or suspected the wounded and 
 breaking heart of the forsaken bride.—When the murmur of 
 voices which had greeted their entrance had subsided, and 
 silence was restored, Mr. Clifton bowed deeply, and—in the 
 somewhat high-flown grandiloquence of style he had once 
 seen exhibited by a manager of a city theatre, when apolo- 
 gising for the non-appearance of the evening’s star—spoke 
 as follows: ‘¢ Ladies and gentlemen, the distinction of your 
 presence here this evening, has been prayed that you might 
 give the honor of your countenance to the espousals of my 
 u phew and daughter. You have graciously accorded us the 
 
154 WOMAN’S PRIDE 
 
 dignity of your society here for that purpose.” (An cmbar 
 rassed pause, while the assembly listened in breathless curi- 
 usity and expectation, and he continued,) “ Ladies and gentle. 
 men, ‘man proposes, but God disposes. The great Arbiter 
 of destiny has ordained the issue of events otherwise than 
 as we had hoped, planned, and expected. Even last night 
 suddenly came a peremptory order from head-quarters, to 
 Captain Clifton, to jein his regiment instantly for the purpose 
 of taking the command of a detachment of cavalry, to march 
 immediately to the Indian frontier to put down an irruption 
 of the Shoshowanawas! Ladies and gentlemen !” (continued 
 the old gentleman, warming up with his subject,) “ you know 
 the stern, uncompronising ‘duty of the soldier at such a cri- 
 sis. One syllable—one single syllable comprehends his in- 
 supportable obligation— Go.” The man, the lover, the 
 bridegroom must give place to the soldier. As our greatest 
 poct, Walter Scott, has it,—the soldier at the sound of the 
 trumpet must 
 ‘“¢¢ Leave untended the herd, 
 The flock without shelter, 
 
 The dead uninterred, 
 The bride at the altar.’ 
 
 “ Ladies and gentlemen, our gallant Captain Clifton has 
 literally left his ¢ bride at thealtar.? But soldier’s love may 
 not mourn bridegroom’s loss. Nor may we deny ourselves 
 the distinction and joy of your presence for the whole night 
 —nor,”’ (the old man was unconsciously sliding from his 
 lofty magniloquence down to the plain vernacular,) “ nor 
 must I disappoint these young men and maidens of their 
 dance to-night. Ho! music there! Strike up the liveliest 
 quadrille air upon your list. Let them dance to the briskest 
 music while they are fresh. Charley Cabell, my boy, come 
 here and lead out your cousin Carolyn !” 
 
 Major Cabell advanced, and with much grace and dignity 
 led Miss Clifton to the head of the quadrille, as the nusie 
 pealed forth. 
 
 ‘“‘ Young gentlemen, select your partners!” exclaimed tho 
 old man, adding example to precept, by choosing the youngest 
 and prettiest girl in the room, and leading her to the place 
 right onposite his nephew and daughter. Soon all the sur- 
 prise and disappointment were forgotten in enjoyment. The 
 
 199 
 
WOMAN’S PRIDZ?Z 15a 
 
 evening was spent in the gayest hilarity—Carolyn Clifton, 
 the forsaken bride, apparently the gayest of the gay. So 
 gay, indeed, was Miss Clitton, that she drew upon herself the 
 severe animadversions of scveral ladies present, who affirmed 
 that her conduct was heartless in the extreme; to laugh and 
 sing and dance and jest with such thorongh abandonment to 
 pleasure, just after the departure of her lover to brave the 
 ghastly horrors of Indian warfare. Much more did they 
 approve of the pensive manners of Zuleime. Poor Zuleime 
 was all unskilled in self-control—her heart was “ exceeding 
 sorrowful,” and so she let it appear. The company separated 
 at a very late hour that night, or rather a very early hour 
 of the next morning. Those in the neighborhood departing, 
 those from a distance retiring to the chambers to take some 
 sleep before breakfast, after which they were to set out for 
 
£56 THE SISTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 Sister! since [ met thee last, 
 
 O’er thy brow a change hath past; 
 
 In the softness of thine eyes, 
 
 Deep and still a shadow lies; 
 
 From thy voice there thrills a tone, 
 Never to thy childhood known; 
 Through thy.soul a storm hath moved, 
 Gentle sister, thou hath loved. 
 
 
 
 OvrrTASKED, weary and exhausted by her long efforta 
 Carolyn Clifton sought her own chamber, and threw herself. 
 a!| splendidly arrayed as she was, upon her bed. She had 
 no fear of interruption, for it was not yet daybreak, and her 
 woman woald not be up for several hours. So she was sur- 
 prised, and not at all pleased when a gentle rap came to the 
 door. She would not answer or move to let the rapper know 
 that she was awake. She was weary, weary with acting for 
 ene night, and needed rest. But after the unknown had 
 rapped two or three times, the door was gently opened, and 
 the sweet voive of Zuleime was heard to say— 
 
 “Sister, I know you are not asleep—will you let me come 
 in?’ And without waiting for an answer, she entered, and 
 softly closed the door, and came to the bedside, saying—* I 
 heard you when you came up and threw yourself down on 
 the bed, and I knew you were not asleep—let me stay with 
 you, dear sister, won’t you 2” 
 
 “No, no, Zuleime, I wish to sleep,” said Carolyn, still 
 pressing both hands to her throbbing temples. 
 
 ‘Well, then, dear Carolyn, let me undress you, you can 
 never compose yourself in that dress ;”’ and the affectionate 
 girl began to take off her slippers and stockings, saying—* I 
 can take off all the small articles, and unlace your stomacher 
 without disturbing you, sister, and then you need not stand 
 4p more than a minute to disrobe.” 
 
THE SISTERS. 157 
 
 In indifference or abstraction, Miss Clifton permitted the 
 gentle girl to unclasp all her jewels, and loosen her dress, 
 without ever removing her hands, clasped tightly upon her 
 temples, till Zuleime, wishing to take down the elaborate 
 coiffure, gently withdrew them, and unwound the strings of 
 pearls, and unfastened the plume of feathers. When the 
 affectionate girl had laid aside all these glittering gewgaws, 
 and freed her long, fair hair, and relieved her oppressed and 
 fevered head, the proud and scornful Carolyn, subdued by 
 the gentleness of her sweet, only sister, looked in her face, 
 read there a strange sympathy, delicate as it was deep, and 
 suddenly put her arms around her neck, drew her head down 
 to her own, and kissed her fondly, murmuring— 
 
 »« Qh, Zuleime! my child, my child! if you knew—” 
 
 “1 do know, dearest Carolyn! Dearest sister, I do know 
 it all’ all! and feel it—feel it from the bottom of my heart! 
 That is the reason I came in, Carolyn! But I did not come 
 in te disturb you, even by my sympathy. I came in to put 
 you ‘o sleep. Stand up, dearest Carolyn, and drop these 
 heyy robes, and I will throw this light wrapper around you, 
 an? then you can lie down again—there ! 
 
 © Oh! sleep!—when shall I sleep again ?”’ bitterly asked 
 C>rolyn, as Zuleime laid her head tenderly back upon the 
 freshened pillow. 
 
 “Well, don’t talk, dear Carolyn, and you will see that 
 God will send sleep.”? And Zuleime cooled her brow by 
 passing over it several times a lump of ice in a napkin, and 
 Jaid down by her side, and fanned her, in that measured, 
 monotonous time, so inducive to slumber. So slowly she 
 fanned her, resisting all her attempts to enter into conversa-= 
 tion, until wearied nature yielded, and Carolyn was asleep. 
 Then, as it was morning, Zuleime hoisted the windows, to 
 admit a fresh current of air, but left the blinds closed, to 
 exclude the light. Next, she put all Carolyn’s things care- 
 fuliy away, and silently restored the room to order. Then 
 she laid a folded napkin, dipped in ice-water, over the still 
 burning brow, and cautiously left the room, to go and order 
 toa and toast to be ready for Carolyn as soon as she should 
 awake. She found the house below stairs in a great but 
 comparatively silent bustle. The servants, who had scarcely 
 retired the uight previous, were engaged in clearing away 
 
. 58 THE SISTERS, 
 
 the disorder of the saloon, parlor and dining-room, ant. in 
 laying the cloth for breakfast for the numerous visitors who 
 had remained over night. Zuleime passed on to the kitchen, 
 and gave her orders, and then silently stole up stairs again 
 to her sister’s room. 
 
 Carolyn slept long and heavily. Several hours yassed 
 before she awoke. When she opened her eyes, and fixed 
 them gratefully upon Zuleime, she raised her arms, again 
 embraced her, saying— 
 
 “You have comforted me, dear Zuleime.” 
 
 “And I will comfort you more, dear sister. I know how 
 to do it. How do you feel, Carolyn ?” 
 
 “ Better—my head clearer—my nerves steadier—but a 
 weary weight at my heart.” 
 
 ‘“¢ It shall go away, Carolyn. I know how to drive it away. 
 But first you must take something.” 
 
 And Zuleime rang the bell, and told the servant who ap- 
 peared, to bring Miss Carolyn some fresh tea and toast. 
 
 While he was gone after it, Zuleime bathed her sister’s 
 face and hands, and combed out her hair, and by the time 
 she was made comfortable, the servant re-appeared with the 
 refreshments. 
 
 After Carolyn had breakfasted lightly, (and this was the 
 first food she had Yowes for thirty-six hours,) she fell ex- 
 hausted back upon her pillow, and said— 
 
 “TI cannot appear this morning, Zuleime! Iam tired o1 
 acting a part!” 
 
 “ You need not do it, dear Carolyn! The people have 
 breakfasted, and are almost all gone—and the others are 
 going. Carolyn, dear, I saw rcher when he went away—” 
 
 Miss Clifton was still too proud to make a comment. 
 
 “ Carolyn, he looked broken-hearted, despairing—indeed 
 he did! Oh, Carolyn! I think if he could have hoped that 
 you would have made up with him, he would have let his 
 regiment go to perdition rather than not hastened to your 
 feet !” 
 
 «* Why did he not try, then ?” 
 
 “Oh, sister, you banished him, and men have some pride. 
 fle waited for your relenting, I feel sure !” 
 
 Carolyn remembered, with bitter regret, her refusal to let 
 her father go and recall him. 
 
THE SISTERS. 159 
 
 “Carolyn, write to him. The detachment under his com- 
 mand does not march from Winchester for nine days yet. 
 Write, Carolyn—there is abundant time for him to get your 
 letter and answer it before he goes. Then you will be re- 
 conciled and happy. Everything will be restored, and you 
 will comfort yourself by remembering that he would have had 
 to have gone, any way, and that he is gone reconciled !” 
 
 Miss Clifton shook her head. 
 
 “No, Zuleime! I cannot! «I should not know how to 
 write such a letter! What could I say to him?’ 
 
 “Say! J should know what to say! If you have banished 
 him, revoke your sentence of exile. If you have ascertained 
 that vou have done him injustice, tell him 30. If you ara 
 sorry that you parted in anger, let him know it. If you wish 
 to hear from him before he goes, ask him to write to you.” 
 
 “JT could not!—I could not! I never could write such a 
 letter! My heart-strings would crack in the attempt ” 
 
 “And are you so proud? And will you let him go forth 
 to that ghastly Indian war—oh, God! my flesh creeps only 
 to think of it!” said Zuleime, shuddering. « And will you 
 not retract your false accusation, and revoke your cruel sen- 
 tence of banishment, and express kind feelings and kind 
 wishes for him about-to be exposed to such horrors?” 
 
 ““T can’t! Ican’t! Icannot! My heart-strings would 
 snap with the effort! I can bear sorrow, but not humiliation! 
 I can die, but I cannot be humbled !” 
 
 “ You cannot be humbled by an act of justice, sister. That 
 letter would be only an act of justice. And, oh! it would 
 give him such happiness, and bring you such sweet peace, in 
 place of all this heart-burning. Think of it, dear Carolyn !” 
 
 While Zulcime spoke, a rap was heard at the door, and a 
 servant appeared, and said that ‘ Marster wished to see Miss 
 Zuleime in the parlor.” 
 
 “Think of it, dear Carolyn,” said Zuleime, in a cheerful 
 voice, kissing her sister’s forehead, and then hastening out 
 of the room. 
 
 Carolyn did think of it! The idea once presented, she 
 could not banish it again ;—the hope of a reconciliation once 
 raised, could not be suppressed! She could think of no- 
 thing else. ‘It was but an act of common justice—it was a 
 duty,” she repeated to herself, many times, to answer the ob 
 
[60 THE SISTERS. 
 
 jections of her pride, which argued, “ It is undignified, un- 
 womanly, to make this overture.” Then her love, her benevo- 
 lence, her fears for him, pleaded, “ It will make him so happy 
 —it will fill his heart with courage, and his arm with strength 
 for the battle! And suppose he should be killed ?—what 
 into#rable remorse will be added to your sorrow for him 
 when you reflect that he died without a relenting word from 
 you, who have been so cruelly unjust to him! That he died 
 under your own sentence of éxile! Besides, if none of these 
 things happen, can you bear these weary, weary days of 
 estrangement, absence, and suspense —weary, weary days, 
 that will slow ly, slowly drag themselves through weeks, and 
 months, and years of time ? vp? Oh, no! No,no! She cannot 
 bear that prospect! She will be just—she will do her duty, 
 and satisfy her affection at the same time. Down, pride! for 
 she will write that letter. She did write it. She did not read 
 it over again, lest scorn should rise and compel her to hurl it 
 dewn and set her heel upon it. She set her teeth almost 
 grimly in her determination to protect that gentle, loving 
 missive of sorrow and affection from an assault of her beset- 
 ving sin, as she sealed and directed it. She then slipped on 
 ner dressing-gown, and stole down the back stairs, where she 
 found a boy lounging. She ordered him to saddle a horse 
 immediately, and “take that letter to the post office. Nay, 
 she waited till she saw the boy off, and was sure that none 
 had seen him or the letter he carried. Then she returned 
 to her own room, determining that no soul—not her father— 
 not even Zuleime, should share her confidence and know her 
 eondescension. 
 
MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. I6l 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 
 
 A father suffering, and a step-dame false, 
 A foolish suitor to a wedded lady. 
 SHAKSPEARE—CYMBELINE. 
 
 ZULEIME went into the parlor and found her father alone. 
 He was sitting in an easy-chair, doing nothing, but appa- 
 rently waiting for her. 
 
 “ Come hither, Zuleime,” he said. 
 
 And when she went up to him, he drew her upon his knee, 
 and passed his left arm around her waist, while, with his 
 right hand, he smoothed her black hair. 
 
 And he gazed fondly in her face. He noticed that her 
 cheek was pale, and her countenance pensive, but hoped that 
 it was from the excitement of the night before. He could not 
 bear to think of its being regret for Frank. He feared to ask 
 her the cause of her seriousness. He disliked to recall Frank 
 in any manner to her recollection. He wished her to forget 
 hin, if possible. At least, he would do so. 
 
 _ &Zuleime,” he said, after he had stroked her hair some 
 time, “ you know, my love, that your aunt Cabell, and your 
 cousins, are goiug back to Richmond to-day.” 
 
 « Are they, sir? I did not know it,” said Zuleime, turn- 
 ing paler, with apprehension of something that might be 
 coming. 
 
 “Yes, my dear, they are. And, Zuleime—” here he 
 paused—then he went on, “ you have been thinking, I sup- 
 pose, that you should have to return with them, to enter 
 upon your school duties again, as the first of September is 
 so near.” 
 
 “TJ had not thought of it, sir! So many things happen 
 ing, put it out of my head. But Iam quite willing to go, 
 and can be ready in half an hour.” 
 
162 MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 
 
 «Thank you, my dear child. J am very glad to see you 
 g0 prompt to oblige me; but, my dear Zuleime, I have good 
 news for you.” 
 
 “ Good news, sir?” 
 
 ‘Yes, girl! the best news! the very best news! news that 
 young ladies always rejoice to hear !” 
 
 “What news, sir?” she asked, fearfully. 
 
 “Don’t whine, girl! it is not your sentence of death! It 
 is your deed of emancipation! Your ‘free papers,’ as the 
 niggers would say. You are not to return to school any 
 more! Are you not surprised? Are you not rejoiced 
 now 2?” 
 
 Zuleime was not. She was anxious, foreboding. 
 
 “ Why don’t you speak, my dear? Ain’t you glad you’re 
 not going back to school, to leather shoulder braces and back 
 boards, and square and compass rules and regulations, that 
 mean nothing, unless they mean persecution and torture! 
 Say, ain’t you glad ?” 
 
 “JT think I had rather go back to school for the present, 
 pir,” 
 
 ‘«< Nonsense, now, my dear! Ah! I see howitis! You 
 
 want to return with your dear aunt Cabell, and the dear city 
 cousins—especially cousin Charley! Eh, you monkey! You 
 grow tired of the country and your old father, as soon as 
 ever your aunt and cousins talk about returning to the city ! 
 Ah! you rogue,” said the old man, chucking her under the 
 chin, and devoutly praying that he might be right in his con- 
 jecture—for, oh! that child’s happiness! It lay nearer his 
 heart than anything else on earth or in heaven. 
 
 “‘ Dear father !” she said, embracing him, “1 do not wish 
 to leave you, indeed I do not. I prefer the country. And. 
 J had rather never leave you, or my home.” 
 
 “ Dear little rogue, now don’t tell me that! I know better 
 you know! And it is quite natural, and nobody blames you 
 The young bird must leave its nest, and the young girl her 
 home, when she becomes a wife. Your mother left her pa- 
 tents and came home here with her husband. So do not 
 think, my love, that your old father will charge you with 
 selfishness for wishing to leave him—no, not wishing to leave 
 him, but wishing to go with one who is to be your hus 
 gand ” | 
 
MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 163 
 
 Yuleime dropped her head, to conceal the deadly pallor 
 dhat crept over her face. 
 
 “Yes, dear Zulcime, you will soon return to Richmond, 
 though it will be not as a school-girl—but as a happy bride— 
 as Mrs. Major Cabell! What a sonorous name and title for 
 my little, romping Zuleime! Here, Charley Cabell! I have 
 broken the ice, now come and speak for yourself!” exclaimed 
 Mr. Clifton to Major Cabell, who was going by the door. 
 Major Cabell came in, passing the old gentleman, who had 
 seized his hat, and not trusting himself to look at his daugh- 
 ter, rushed out of the room. Zuleime remained standing 
 where he had placed her, when he put her off his knee— 
 panic struck—stupid—until Major Cabell took her hand, 
 and attempted to lead her to a seat, then snatching her hand 
 away with a shudder, she asked almost wildly— 
 
 ‘¢ Cousin Charles, when does fatker want this marriage to 
 come off ?” 
 
 «As soon as my dearest Zuleime will consent to make me 
 she happiest of men!” replied the common-place wooer, at- 
 tempting to re-capture her hand, but she retreated shudder- 
 mg, and asking, in a frantic tone and manner, in great con- 
 trast to her calm words— 
 
 «Cousin Charles, do me a favor! Do not press this mat- 
 ver for a week or so.” 
 
 “Heaven forbid that I should hurry a lady, though that 
 lady be my own little cousin and betrothed—only fix the day 
 and [ will rest content—so that it is not a far distant day,” 
 he said, re-capturing her hand, throwing his arm around her 
 waist, and drawing her towards him. 
 
 “Please, don’t! Let me go, cousin Charles!” exclaimed 
 the girl, in great distress, struggling to free herself. 
 
 «<¢ Please, don’t let me go, cousin Charles!’ I don’t in- 
 tend to, pretty cousin, until you tell me when you will give 
 yourself to me!” replied Major Cabell, kissing her all tho 
 more heartily because she strove to escape. 
 
 “You know what I meant! Let me alone! It is un- 
 manly to behave so! Don’t make me hate you!” was on 
 her quivering lips and in her flashing eyes, as by a sudden 
 effort she threw his arms off and sat down; but then she re- 
 collected her fathe~, and the cruel power Major Cabell seemea 
 
164 MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 
 
 to possess over him, and she choked down the indignaut 
 words, and said instead— 
 
 “Please, don’t hurry and worry me, cousin ‘Charles !— 
 this is so very sudden! I am sure I never dreamed you 
 wouid “ask for poor me for years to come yet. IJ am so 
 young.” 
 
 «<<¢So young!’ Ah, Zuleime, that is a piece of pretty little 
 womanish hypocrisy—a little finesse that belongs to your 
 character, and is inherited from your I'rench mother! ‘Se 
 young!’ Now, my pretty childish cousin, you know yca 
 have received an offer of marriage this very week! And 
 that, indeed, has accelerated my proposal. Fair Zuleime, a 
 man does not care to see his young betrothed bride courted 
 by another !” 
 
 “<1 know that!” replied Zuleime, in a peculiarly sad voice, 
 moving to the other end of the room. 
 
 The slightest gesture of avoidance of him by the girl, 
 seemed to act as a provocative on him, so he followed her, 
 and clasped her in his arms, and laughing, almost rudely 
 kissed her, begging her between the kisses not to set his 
 heart on fire by her charming prudery and petulance, but to 
 fix the day, like a good, s sensible girl as she was. Almost 
 frantic with rage and shame at being so freely handled, the 
 Clifton blood rushed to her brain, and for getting her father’ 8 
 interest and everything else, she dashed her hand violently 
 into his face, and before he recovered from his astonishment, 
 broke from him and escaped—her heart beating with one 
 thought—one sudden, joyous thought—that come what might, 
 she never could be either forced or persuaded into a marriage 
 with Major Cabell, because she was already a wedded wife— 
 no set of circumstances, whatever, could make it her duty, 
 or make it even possible for her to marry Major Cabell. In 
 all her sorrows, that was one blessed truth to sit down and 
 rest upon. All her duty was now due to her husband. Ang 
 with a youthful wife’s enthusiasm firing and strengthening 
 her heart, she thought she should stand as upon a rock, 
 secure against a sea of troubles. Poor child. she had yet 
 to learn that no position founded on a fault is for a momen 
 sife. Several things soon forced themselves upon her me 
 mory and grieved her heart ;—her father’s unknown but 
 sertain danger, her own promise of secrecy iv regard to her 
 
MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 165 
 
 marriage, the necessity of giving some definite answer to 
 Major Cabell, and the obligation pressing upon her to pre- 
 vent, by all and any means, the highly improper and ex- 
 tremely offensive demonstrations of passion from her suitor, 
 She determined to write to Frank, tell him all that hed 
 necurred, and ask his advice and direction; and to do this it 
 was necessary to gain time, and to give no false promise in 
 the interim. Already was Zuleime beginning to taste the 
 bitter fruits of her stolen marriage, and might have exclaimed, 
 in the perplexity of her distracted heart and brain— 
 
 Oh, what a tangled web we weave, 
 When first we venture to deceive. 
 
 While Zuleime’s heart was beating so fast with many emo- 
 tions, her father sauntered into the parlor, where he found 
 Major Cabell caressing and soothing his afflicted face. 
 
 «¢ Well, Charley, boy! How is it with you, eh? Could 
 you win a hearing from my little girl, ch? Give her time, 
 you know, eh?” said the old gentleman, affecting a lightness 
 of heart which he was very far from feeling. 
 
 To his-surprise, Major Cabell laughed heartily, still coax- 
 ing his ill-used phiz. 
 
 «¢ What’s the matter, Charley? What’s amused you, eh ?”’ 
 
 ‘Your girl! By my soul, Governor, I shall end in falling 
 seriously in love with that girl! I didn’t fancy her much at 
 first to tell you the truth! She wasentirely too good humored 
 --always laughing. And I had a fancy for marrying a shrew, 
 just for the spicy fun of taming one! The same instinct, 
 Governor, that makes me like to spring upon the back of the 
 most vicious horse I can find, and ride and lash and spur 
 and fatigue the soul out of his body, until I break his back 
 or his temper, one—eh, Governor ?” 
 
 The old man’s florid cheeks became pale with rage, and he 
 felt an impulse te kick the puppy out, but a terrible necus- 
 sity tied his tongue and hands, and Charles Cabell went on 
 laughing and talking to this effect :— 
 
 ‘«¢ Now, then, having a fancy to marry and tame a shrew— 
 
 real live, vicivus, beautiful vixen—I did not want the 
 apiciest part of the sport taken out of my hands by fathers 
 and mothers and pastors and masters. I shouldn’t have 
 thanked any of you for presenting me with a medel wife, 
 
166 MS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 
 
 already smoothed down and polished to my hand. D—n 
 your pretty pieces of perfection' Tl none of them—tflat, 
 insipid nonentities !—formed and re-formed, and modelled, 
 and re-modelled, and rubbed down and polished until they 
 all look as much alike as beads on a string! No, none of 
 your polished gems for Charles Cabell!—the bright, pure, 
 rough, sharp ore! Now, of Zuleime, I thought her far too 
 much educated—too good humored, too polite, too docile, 
 too much of the young ‘ lady,’ too little of the wild young 
 animal—and flat and insipid in consequence ; so I cared very 
 little about her. But, ha, ha, ha! I never was more mis- 
 taken in my life! She’s a prize, I tell you! <A prize of the 
 frst class! Look you! I coveted a shrew! Lve found a 
 virago! full of blood and fire! strong and vicious, I tell you! 
 ha, ha, ha! Think of her dashing her littie hand in my face 
 when I went to kiss her, and before I recovered my eyesight 
 and senses, throwing me off as if I had been a child, and 
 escaping! Ha, ha, ha' Sf under-estimated her strength !— 
 Never mind! let the little tigress look out for the next time 
 I get her in my arms ie 
 
 The old man’s bosor was filled to bursting with suppressed 
 passion, but he answered, calmly— 
 
 “Oh! she’s young-—she’s young , a spoiled child—a spoiled 
 child ; bs yatient with her—she means well—give her time— 
 be pat ‘ert wh ber.” 
 
 «Patient with her!? Why, uncle, I wouldn’t haye her 
 a}ut different from what she is! She’s charming, delight- 
 fw), piquart, spicy! ‘¢ Patient with her!’ Why, Gov’, I 
 rhall end in falling desperately in love with her! But I say, 
 nunc! make the little virago fix our marriage day, will you? 
 [ have got to go out now and have Spitfire saddled; those 
 fellows never draw the girth tight enough, or fix the bit firm 
 enough—and I have to pull her head off to stop her some- 
 times, for she is the foul fiend incarnate when she gets to 
 running. Ill make Zule ride her sometime, to see which 
 will get the better of the other. Say, Gov’, let me have my 
 answer when I get back—do you hear.”? And seizing up 
 his riding-whip and cracking it against his boots, he went | 
 out 
 
 The old man boiled over—he clenched his teeth, and 
 shock his fist—nay, shook bis whole person, as he turned 
 
MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 167 
 
 livid with rage; then his arms fell helplessly by his side— 
 he sank into.a chair- dropped his face upon his hands, and 
 groaned aloud. He felt a pair of arms encircling his nack, 
 and a sweet voice murmuring in his ear—and he raised his 
 head to see Zuleime, and to hear her ask in loving tones — 
 
 «¢ Father, what is it?’ 
 
 He put his hand tenderly around her waist, and drew her 
 gently to his knee, and said, while he gazed remorsefully 
 into her face— 
 
 ‘Tam a villain, Zuleime! A hoary-headed villain!” 
 
 Zuleime placed her hand upon his mouth to stop the dread- 
 ful words, and pressed her lips to his brow, with a look and 
 manner of the profoundest love and veneration. | 
 
 «Yes, a hardened, persevering sinner, Zuleime! For I 
 intend to persevere! I intend to give you to Charley Cabell, 
 my child,” he said, gently removing her hand, and still 
 gazing on her. Ie continued—“*T love you so much, Zu- 
 leime! I love you so much! But, dear child. He’s coming! 
 Dear child, tell me when you will marry Charley—Tuesday 
 three weeks or four weeks? Don’t let it be longer than four 
 weeks, my girl!” 
 
 “‘ Father! will you tell me why you wish me to marry 
 cousin Charles ?” 
 
 “JT cannot! I cannot! My child, I cannot. It is for 
 your good, I hope! Some day I will, perhaps. Tell me 
 now, that’s a good girl. What day will you give this little 
 hand to cousin Charley ?”’ 
 
 “‘ Father, I can’t possibly give an answer for a week yet, 
 indeed, father, I cannot!” 
 
 ‘«‘ Come, now, nonsense, my child; why can’t you? Her? 
 is Charley now! come!” 
 
 “I cannot, father !” 
 
 The old gentleman kissed, and coaxed, and almost wept; 
 a mapuer of attack so hard to be resisted, that had Zuleime 
 been really free, she would have sacrificed her own and 
 Trank’s hopes, and yielded. But Zuleime was not free, and 
 therefore was as firmly proof against persuasion, as she would 
 have been against force. Two powerful motives operated im 
 preventing her from confessing her marriage—first her pro- 
 mise to keep it secret, and then the fear of precipitating 
 aome violent scene between her father and cousin, or some 
 
 
 
168 MKS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 
 
 fata] catastrophe to the household. To end the 2onflict, and 
 to gain time to consult Frank, by writing, was what she 
 most wished now. Finally, she promised to give Major 
 Cabell his answer in a week, and to marry him—if she should 
 ever marry anybody. 
 
 With this promise, Major Cabell seemed satisfied —and 
 with his mother and sisters took leave of Clifton. Aad Zu- 
 Ieime retired to her own room, full of self-reproack tay ber 
 own deception. 
 
SUSPENSE. 162 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 SUSPENSE. 
 
 Uncertainty! 
 Fell demon of our fears!’ The human soul 
 That can sustain despatr—endures not thee.—ANon. 
 
 A wWEARY week passed away. Zuleime had written ¢o 
 Frank, and Carolyn, we already know, had despatched a 
 letter to Archer. But the week had passed away, and no 
 answer to either had come from Winchester. Had the sisters 
 confided in each other, such mutual confidence might have 
 soothed the soul-sickening anxiety of one at least. Carolyn 
 would have known that some accident must have prevented 
 Frank Fairfax from receiving or answering the momentous 
 letter of his youthful wife, and she would have felt that the 
 same cause had probably operated in the case of Archer 
 Clifton. But the sisters did not entrust their secrets to each 
 other. Zuleime was withheld by her sacred promise. Caro- 
 lyn by her pride. But the wife bore the pain of suspense far 
 better than the maiden. The wife had perfect faith in her 
 young husband, and knew that some adverse chance had 
 hindered his getting or replying to her letter. The maiden 
 knew that she had unjustly banished her lover. And she 
 had no faith in the love that endureth all things. Carolyn 
 had never suspected the depth of that calm, secure, habitual 
 affection—which had from childhood grown—until now. 
 While life and love and hope had flowed smoothly on, her 
 emotions were serene and moderate. But now that the quiet 
 stream had been stemmed by rocks and breakers, it was 
 lashed into fury and roared in whirlpools. The calm senti- 
 ment rose to turbulent, maddening passion. Her days were 
 restless, her nights sleepless, until, as the week wore away, 
 her nerves were wrought to such severity of tension, that you 
 might kn>w that at the end of uncertainty, whether that were 
 
170 SUSPENSE. 
 
 joy or sorrow, they must alike suddenly give way. Towards 
 the last of the week, she had privately besought hcr father to 
 ride to Winchester, and see the detachment off, and bring 
 her the last news of it. The request had been confidential -- 
 yet do you feel all that it had cost her haughty heart? 
 During the absence of Mr. Clifton, suspense was wrought up 
 to agony. Her days and nights were feverish, delirious, and 
 so confused into each other, that she scarcely knew the fitful, 
 disturbed visions of the night, from the wild and anxious 
 broodings of the day. The day upon which her father was 
 expected back, was the acme, the crisis of her suffering. 
 Oblivious of pride and caution, careless of exposing herself 
 to the malign sneers of Georgia, or the rude comments of the 
 servants, she sat in the piazza, watching the road by which * 
 the carriage should come—one wild, anxious, depairing hope 
 possessing her. ‘ The drowning catch at straws ””—and she, 
 in her despair, had clutched one mad possibility, and clung 
 to it, until to her weakened, confused, insane soul, it seemed 
 a probability, and then almost a certainty. It was the hope 
 that Clifton might return with her father! Oh, yes! That 
 Clifton might resign his commission and come back to Ler. 
 Oh! if indeed he loved her, 2s he had a thousand times 
 sworn, if he sorrowed over their estrangement only half as 
 much as she did, no hope of glory, no fear of disgrace would 
 keep him back. The more she brooded over this, the more 
 likely, the more certain it appeared to be. And she sat and 
 gazed up the dim forest road. 
 
 The sun sank to the edge of the horizon, and lit up all the 
 mountain tops with fire, and then went down. And when 
 she could no longer see, she still sat and strained her ear to 
 catch the distant sound of wheels. 
 
 The moon arose, and flooded all the mountain scenery with 
 silver light, and flashed upon that distant bend of the river, 
 until it seemed a silver lake, lying among the dark hills, and 
 pointed the peaks of White Cliffs, until they stood up and 
 glittered, like an enormous row of spears, against the deep 
 blue sky. 
 
 At last, at last the very distant sound of wheels came 
 faintly like a doubt to her ear, and faded away again. Then ~ 
 it came more distinctly, nearer, and a moving object ap- 
 peared upon the road. And she knew indeed it was her 
 
SUSPENSE. ng | 
 
 father’s carriage. She saw and recognized it m the moon 
 light. It turned into the lawn gate, rolled rapid)y around 
 the cirenlar drive, and swept swiftly up to the entrance, 
 where it stopped. The steps were let down, the door opened, 
 and old Mr. Clifton got out, followed by—no one. 
 
 Carolyn had bent eagerly, unconsciously forward ; now she 
 started up and caught her father’s hand, and gazed silently, 
 imploringly into his face, for the news she could not ask 
 for. 
 
 “The detachment has marched, my dear child! Marched 
 the morning of the day upon which I reached Winchester, 
 and two days before it was expected to have gone. So, you 
 see, I could not get a sight of either Frank or Archer. ‘They 
 were thirty miles on their road before I reached the city. 
 Can’t think what could have been the reason of the new 
 order, to anticipate their departure by two days. However! 
 cheer up! No use fretting, my dear! No use fretting! The 
 family have supped long ago, of course—have they kept my 
 supper hot for me? JI amas hungry as an old wolf,” said 
 the old man. 
 
 Carolyn did not hear him. Her hold relaxed upon his arm, 
 her hands flew up to her head, and she turned, as one struck 
 with sudden blindness, and tottered into the house. It was 
 so dark in the shady piazza, screened from the moonbeams 
 by interlacing cypress vines, that the old man did not see her 
 state. He hastened into the house, where another awaited 
 him with equal anxiety. 
 
 Zuleime’s private hope had been that Frank would seize 
 the opportunity of Mr. Clifton’s visit, and confess his mar- 
 riage, and invent some way of delivering her father from the 
 toils of Major Cabell. 
 
 “ What news, father?” she askea, meeting him in the hall. 
 
 “¢What news? Why, I am as hungry as a bear, my 
 pet! That’s the news! I stopped to supper at L } 
 But, my life! They like to have poisoned me with fried 
 _beefsteaks and heavy biscuits and green coffee. Couldn't 
 touch a morsel, child! And now I am starved up to a savage 
 pitch! What have you got for supper ?” 
 
 “Turtle soup and old crusted port, among other things, 
 father,” replied Zuleime, waving her own anxiety for the sake 
 of satisfying him. 
 
 
 
172 SUSPENSE. 
 
 “'T'URTLE soup! And OLD CRUSTED PORT ;” exclaimed 
 the old man, in an ecstacy of delight. ‘ Why, where on earth 
 did they come from ?”” 
 
 ‘The turtle came from a ship at Norfolk, and was sent 
 liither by Major Cabell, who added a dozen of port of his 
 own importation,” said Zuleime, dying with anxiety to hear 
 from Frank. : 
 
 « Ah-h-h-h! That was kind! He’s a fellow! He’ll make 
 a magnificent husband and son-in-law, Zuleime! JI hope you 
 know how turtle soup should be made ?”’ 
 
 ‘“‘ Father, I know it should be eaten quite /of, and it is on 
 the table by this time. Come in.” 
 
 The old man needed no pressing, but went into the dining- 
 room, and sat down at the table, with a face radiant with de- 
 light. Zuleime waited on him, although there was a servant 
 in attendance. And when he had freely partaken of turtle 
 soup, devilled crabs, a roasted fowl, etc., washed them down 
 with port wine, she brought him a cup of fragrant Mocha 
 coffee and his case of cigars. And he sipped the coffee with 
 an air of infinite leisure, and then lit a cigar and puffed slowly 
 away, as if eternity was before him. 
 
 ‘Father, what news from Winchester ?’ again asked Zu- 
 leime, though ner hopes had fallen very low. ‘ What news, 
 dear father ?” 
 
 “ What’s that to you, my pet? Will you let me digest 
 my supper in peace V” 
 
 Zuleime sat down, but looked so anxious, that her very 
 looks worried the old gentleman, and he said— 
 
 “ Don’t you know, girl, that indigestion is very dangerous 
 to a man of my time of life? It may bring on apoplexy! 
 Don’t worry me!” 
 
 Zuleime veiled her anxious gaze, but even then the pale- 
 ness of her cheeks annoyed her father, and he testily in- 
 quired— 
 
 “‘ Now, what is it to you? I can understand Carolyn’s 
 anxiety. I cannot comprehend yours at all! There, now 
 Go and send my wife to me!” 
 
 Zuleime arose to obey, but before she went. sne threw her 
 arms around his neck, and asked— 
 
 ‘‘ Dearest father, on/y tell me! Where our friends wellt 
 Slave they gone? Did they send any message ?” 
 
SUSPENSE. 178 
 
 “Only answer you three questions at a time! That is 
 reasonable! However, I can answer all in one. I have not 
 seen our friends. Their detatchment left Winchestei twelve 
 hours before [ reached there. And now [ll tell you what ~ 
 did not like to tell Carolyn, poor girl! ‘Namely, that the da 
 tachment marched two days earlier than was intended, upon 
 account of dispatches received from Fort ————, praying for. 
 speedy succor in a reinforcement. The savages have been 
 massacreing and scalping there at a most tremendous rate! 
 It is really a very dangerous service, Indian warfare! God 
 grant that our young friends may return to us safe! Why 
 don’t you go along and tell Georgia to come to me?” 
 
 Zuleime kissed her father, settled the cushion under his 
 feet, and went on her errand. That dispatched, she sought 
 her own chamber, and lay down to collect her thoughts. No 
 letter or message from her husband, and her promise of 
 secrecy in regard to her marriage, binding on her as ever. 
 And next week she must give an answer to her father for 
 » Major Cabell. She was confident that one of two things had 
 happened. Hither her letter had never reached Frank, or else 
 his answer had been lost. And by the transaction only 
 one week’s respite had she gained for her father—for next 
 week her refusal must be decided and final, and then—what 
 might not the consequence be to him? ‘These thoughts ex- 
 cited her mind, and kept her awake. And despite her de- 
 termination to sleep, and her efforts to do so, she heard every 
 passing hour strike. It was soon after one o’clock that she 
 had fallen into a fitful slumber, when she was awakened by 
 the sound of a gay, high voice, intermingling merry words 
 and joyous laughter. Indeed, there seemed to be not only 
 one, but many voices, talking and laughing in the most jocund 
 manner. And strangc—passing strange! it seemed to come 
 from her sister’s room, whivh adjoined hers! She listened 
 awhile; the words became fewer, but the laughter -grew 
 wilder! And then it struck upon her frightened senses that 
 Carolyn was a maniac, talking, laughing to herself! Spring- 
 ing from her bed, and without even waiting to slip on a gown, 
 she ran into the passage and knocked at her sister’s door, 
 and attempted to push it cpen. It was locked on the inside, 
 and all her efforts to force an entrance were vain, and all her 
 rotreaties for admission were answered by peals of uncor 
 
 11 
 
174 SUSPENSE. 
 
 scious laughter. At last she ran to her father’s door, and 
 rapped loudly, exclaiming— 
 
 “Father, father! Get up! get up! Something, I am 
 sure, has happened to Carolyn! Something dreadful! Get 
 ap! get up!” | 
 
 The old man was hard to awaken, even by the efforts of 
 Georgia, who was aroused at once, and came and opened the 
 door for Zuleime! And all this time the sound of loud talk, 
 high Janghter, and wild snatches of song, as from several ex- 
 cited people, rather than from one, issued from Carolyn’s 
 chamber. At length, by the united exertions of his wife 
 and daughter, the fatigued and drowsy old gentleman was 
 aroused and placed upon his feet, and made to 
 
 ‘“ Understand a horror in their words— 
 If not the words.”? 
 
 Be threw on his shawl gown and hastened to Carolyn’s 
 door, which was instantly forced open. 
 
 And what a sight met their eyes! 
 
 There stood Miss Clifton arrayed in her gorgeous brida 
 costume, looking gloriously beautiful, though certainly as no 
 bride ever looked before! The raging fever had given the 
 brightness and richness of the carnation rose to her com- 
 plexion, and imparted a supernatural light to her eyes, that 
 burned and flashed, and seemed to strike fire as they sprang 
 from one to the other of the intruders, with a mad, joyous, 
 defiant glance’ 
 
 The alarm of her father was unlimited, unspeakable! Ho 
 darted from the room, and almost precipitated himself down 
 the stairs in his haste to mount and dispatch a servant for 
 the family physician. And while he was gone, Georgia and 
 Zuleime, by coaxing and humoring the phantasy of the poor 
 girl, succeeded in undressing her and putting her tu bed-— 
 she still raving about her marriage, and sometimes breaking 
 out into a wild laugh, and once telling Georgia that she, 
 being a married woman, had no right or business to be offs 
 ciating as bridesmaid. : 
 
 It was near morning when the doctor came. After exame 
 ining the state of the patient, he pronounced her disease to — 
 be brain fever, brought on by over-excitement of the nervous 
 system. He wrote prescriptions, and remained with her until 
 
 a“ 
 
SUSPENSE, 175 
 
 they were administered. And then he departed witn a 
 promise to return early in the forenoon. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, was summoned, and lost nc 
 time in hastenmg to the sick room of her daughter-in-law, 
 as she chose to call Carolyn. 
 
 For many days the struggle between life and death went 
 on, and no one, not even the medical attendant, was able to 
 form an opinion as to which power would eventually conquer. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton had taken her station by the bedside of the 
 patient as permanent nurse, and she constantly refused to 
 yield her post to any other person. And it was to her vigi- 
 lant attention, quick perceptions, and intelligent treatment, 
 that all the family ascribed the recovery of the girl. For the 
 crisis came and passed, and Carolyn Clifton lived. 
 
 But no sooner was the patient pronounced out of danger, 
 and the excitement of anxiety over, than the nurse herself 
 fell ill. And Mrs. Clifton, exhausted, prostrated, entered 
 her carriage, and was driven to Hardbargain. 
 
Lio ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES 
 
 CHAPTER XIU. 
 
 ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. 
 
 The deepest sorrow that stern fate can bring 
 
 In all her catalogue of suffering, 
 
 An eating rust—the spirit’s direst pain— 
 
 To love, adore—nor be beloved again, 
 
 Or know between you lies a gulf that ever 
 
 Your forms, your hopes, your destinies must sever—Mrs. Lewis. 
 
 As soon as Mrs. Clifton reached home—leaning on the» 
 erm of her maid, she walked up stairs and entered her son’s 
 deserted room, and when her attendant had relieved her of 
 scarf and bonnet, she lay down upon his lounge, and sent 
 tlenny for Kate Kavanagh. In less than balf an hour Kate 
 entered. And the lady turned to her and said— 
 
 “‘ Catherine, my dear, I must take you into my confidence— 
 yes, and into other people’s, too, whether they approve it or 
 not. Draw Archer’s writing-desk up here to the side of the 
 lounge. I want you to write a letter to him. Catherine’s 
 brow crimsoned, and she trembled very much as she obeyed. 
 ‘My dear Catherine, I am sure you will be discreet, and 
 never speak of what I am about to entrust to you. I can 
 rely on you?” said the lady, interrogatively, raising those 
 fever-brightened dark eyes to the girl’s face. Catherine 
 nodded quickly, in her usual way, when the words would not 
 come. ‘ You see, my dear child, this most unhappy quarrel 
 hetween Carolyn and Archer, is causing a great deal of un- 
 necessary suffering to both—and Carolyn, as the frailer of 
 the two, is nearly dying under it. Her brain fever was 
 caused by it. And it was as much as Dr. Barnes and my- 
 self could do, to bring her safely through it with life and_ 
 reason. This estrangement between them must not continue, 
 or she will die. She is not so strong as she looks to be. 
 Indeed, she is rery delicate, like her mother. Archer is far 
 ou h*s Western march now, and: cannot return of course; 
 
ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. LTT 
 
 but he must write to her, and comfort her. I wish you te 
 write and tell him so. Now, then, child, you know the ob- 
 ject. Open the desk, and lay out the paper, while I try to 
 think what I want said, and how I want you to say it.” 
 Catherine’s hands quivered as she turned down the leaf of 
 the desk, and mechanically laid the paper out on the’ top. 
 “ Just date it, dear child, and then I will tell you how to be- 
 gin.’ Catherine dipped her pen in ink, and was just about 
 to put it to paper, when something there caught and held her 
 eyes, and she gazed with dilating pupils, and trembled more 
 than ever. 
 
 The paper before her was covered with a water-colored 
 sketch of Marguerite, of France, at the sicge of Damietta. 
 And th: .deal face of the royal heroine, was the real one of 
 the humble Catherine herself. And in the corner of the 
 paper were the initials A. C. He had taken Aer homely fea- 
 tures as his notion of those of the heroic Queen of St. Louis. 
 And as she gazed, her heart shuddered with a strange, wild 
 emotion of blended wonder, joy and remorse. ‘The nature 
 of the maiden was becoming vaguely intelligible to herself. 
 
 And Mrs. Clifton did not see her trance, but lay upon the 
 sofa very weary, with her hands pressed upon her temples, 
 trying to settle in what manner she should address her. son 
 upon this delicate subject.- And Catherine forgot everything 
 in the sketch before her, and the tumultuous, blissful, painful 
 emotions it excited. An abyss was suddenly thrown open 
 in the depths of her heart, whose existence was unsuspected 
 till now. Vow was she sorry that the marriage between 
 Archer Clifton and his cousin, was broken off—by mutual 
 consent? She tried very earnestly to feel sorry, for she be- 
 lieved it her duty to be so. She forced herself to remember 
 Carolyn’s illness, and Archer’s own suffering, in consequence 
 of the estrangement between them. But, oh! there lay that 
 picture before her eyes, with her own plain face idealized, 
 glorified up to a high, pure, divine beauty, such as it had 
 never, even in her highest, holiest, most inspired moods, pos- 
 sessed. And a voice from her profound heart whispered— 
 s¢ Oh, yes, and he could make me really beautiful and glories 
 ous as his ideal there—for he could make me good, and glad, 
 and great beyond whatever I could make myself—if he 
 chose!" She reproached her heart severely for its seduces 
 
178 ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. 
 
 tive whisper. She offered up a silent prayer to God to for- 
 give her, and save her soul from secret sin. She called her 
 self foolish, presumptuous, treacherous. But, oh! in spite 
 of all these, would sparkle up from the depths of her spirit, 
 sprays of gladness, as if there had suddenly sprung within 
 an everlasting fountain of joy. Yet again she blamed her- 
 self inost bitterly. She repeated that despairing complaint 
 or confession of David— The heart is deceitful above all 
 things, and desperately wicked.’ She almost realized its 
 truth. She silently cried to God to enter her heart, and ex 
 pel its secret sin. 
 
 “ Well, child! are you ready!” inquired Mrs. Clifton, 
 withdrawing her hands from her temples, and looking towards 
 the entranced girl. Kate did not hear or see, her soul and 
 senses were absorbed in the subject before her. Yet she did 
 not think or hope about the future. It was the present, the 
 present that absorbed her heart, despite of will, resistance 
 and conscience. 
 
 “Kate! are you asleep or in a trance?” asked the lady, 
 fazing at her. 
 
 The maiden started, and blushed deeply. 
 
 “Catherine! what are you thinking of?” she repeated, 
 bxing her dark eyes upon the girl, until they seemed to burn 
 Into her soul. 
 
 Kate looked guilty and bewildered, recovering herself by 
 an effort, and answered, almost at random— 
 
 “ This is not letter paper, madam, it is Bristol board.” 
 
 “Oh, well! there is writing paper in the other department 
 of the desk, my child, get it out.” 
 
 Kate examined the contents of the desk, and then re: 
 plied— 
 
 “‘ There is no letter paper here, whatever, Mrs. Clifton.” 
 
 «What are those ?”’ 
 
 “ Only card boards and sketches, madam.” 
 
 «Sketches, That is just like Archer, to keep his sketches 
 in his writing desk. His writing material will no doubt be 
 found in his portfolio. But let me see those sketches, Cathe- 
 rine; I have not seen them yet, and they will he something 
 new to me—almost like a recent letter from Archer. TI like 
 to look over his drawings; they always mean someting apart 
 from ‘her auject, as it secms to me. I often think his 
 
ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. 179 
 
 sketvhes form a running commentary, though an involuntary 
 one, on his life and thoughts! Hand them to me, my child.” 
 
 “These are only old historical subjects,” said Kate, with 
 visible reluctance to produce them. 
 
 ‘¢ Pass them over to me, my dear. If their subjects are aa 
 old as the Chinese History of the Creation, they will never- 
 theless be eloquent to me of my son’s present mood—of the 
 state of his heart, and the progress or the retrogression of his 
 wind. You cannot imagine, Catherine, the anxious curiosity 
 of a mother to catch furtive glimpses of the interior of that 
 heart she cannot always enter, and which is often hidden, 
 too, from its possessor! ‘We know not what manner of 
 spirit we are of,’ Catherine. For instance, do you know 
 your own heart or mind? In all hearts lie depths below 
 depths, never known to the owner until some earthquake of 
 sorrow, or of passion, throw them open to view! ‘There are 
 jn all minds powers beyond powers of achievement or of en- 
 durance, unsuspected by their possessor until some emergency 
 ealls them into action! But give me the drawings, Kate, 
 they will refresh me like a talk with Archer.” 
 
 Catherine lifted them, en masse, and handed them to 
 Mrs. Clifton, who took and examined each separately and 
 leisurely. 
 
 ‘¢Um-m-me,” she said, smiling gently, as she recognized 
 their subjects :—‘ Marguerite of France, at the Siege of 
 Damietta,’ ‘Joan of Arc, at Rhiems,’ ‘Margaret of Anjou, 
 at St. Albans,’ ‘ Last interview of Lord and Lady Russel,’ 
 and all these battle-axe heroines, wearing the likeness of my 
 serious, domestic Catherine! In truth, Archer has put you 
 through as many characters and costumes as though he de- 
 signed you for a tragic actress, in the heaviest line.” 
 
 Kate Kavanagh did not like that. 
 
 «¢ But two of these characters bear any affinity to you, my 
 dear. I cannot fancy any similitude between the tender and 
 fiery Marguerite —that ‘ faleon-hearted dove,’ or her haughty 
 und remorseless namesake of Anjou, and my grave, gentle 
 Catherine. But the high and holy enthusiasm irradiating 
 Joan’s face, and the noble resignation of Lady Russel’ 
 evuntenance, suit your striking features very well. But 
 ain talking like a mediocre stage critic. Captain Clifton has 
 a very high opiuion, of you, my Catherine. Pray try to 
 
180 ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. 
 
 merit ii, my dear girl!” concluded the lady, with a little 
 pardonable motherly pride. 
 
 Kate Kavanagh looked down, and fingered the pens and 
 wafers, fer she felt the lady’s eyes gazing through and through 
 her—reading her very soul. 
 
 ‘¢ By-the-way, Catherine, have you seen Captain Clifton’s 
 last work of art ?”’ 
 
 ‘¢ No, madam.” (I wonder why she calls him “ Captain 
 Clifton” to me—she never did so before, thought Kate.) 
 
 “It is a highly finished miniature of Miss Clifton, painted 
 on ivory. He had it set in a plain gold locket, and has 
 taken it away with him. I saw him hang it around his neck, 
 and lay it near his heart.” 
 
 Jatherine honestly believed that she was glad to hear this, 
 fur it seemed one more stay to keep her thoughts right. 
 
 «¢ And that, Catherine, is one reason among many others 
 I have, for knowing his indestructible love for Carolyn. And 
 that is why I feel no hesitation in having this letter written, 
 to end this foolish quarrel, and to restore peace to these two 
 unhappy young people,” said Mrs. Clifton, looking, Catherine 
 thought, very strangely at her—so strangely, that the 
 maiden felt her cheeks burn with a vague sense of humiliation. 
 
 She asked herself-—Could Mrs. Clifton have read what had 
 heen passing in her mind? Well! if so—that was another 
 band to bind her thoughts to the right. 
 
 ‘¢ Now, then, to your task, my child. You will find paper 
 in Captain Clifton’s portfolio.” She spoke gently as ever to 
 Kate, but still called her son “Captain Clifton,” as if to 
 widen the distance between them. 
 
 Kate felt troubled at this, and then took herself to task for 
 a state of mind so morbidly acute to impressions, that she_ 
 noticed everything, even that trifle. She searched and found 
 the writing materials in the portfolio, and went to work and 
 wrote, from Mrs Clifton’s dictation, a letter, full of gentle 
 rebuke, and kind, motherly counsel, to Archer Clifton. And 
 all to the end that he should write immediately, and recon- 
 cile himself to Carolyn, who was extremely ill, and whom his 
 mother felt assured, she said, that he must be most anxious 
 to propitiate. The letter was sealed and dispatched, and 
 the lady, thoroughly worn out, and Jeaning upon the arm of 
 Catherine, sought her own bed-chamber. 
 
ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. 181 
 
 The next morning, Mrs. Clifton was so weary that she 
 could only leave her bed-chamber to lie upon the sofa in the 
 shady parlor, where she could be at hand to direct the opera- 
 tions of her house servants—now engaged in cutting out and 
 making up the Fall clothing for the negroes. Catherine 
 came early to assist in this onerous task. It was in the 
 afternoon while the lady was still reclinmg on the sofa, and 
 Catherine standing at a work-table basting a linsey-woolsey 
 frock-body—when a horse was heard to gallop up into the 
 yard, a man to jump off and hasten up the steps of the piazza, 
 and the instant after, old Mr. Clifton entered the parlor, 
 looking very much flurried and alarmed. 
 
 ‘What is the matter? I hope Carolyn is no worse?’ 
 asked the lady, anxious, yet calm. 
 
 “No! Yes! A great deal better of course since the turn 
 last night! Most malignant form of the disease, and grow- 
 ing rapidly worse every hour. J tell you it is! The doctor 
 affirms it !” 
 
 Mrs. Clifton gazed at him in a sort of self-possessed per- 
 flexity. 
 
 ‘She has got the small-pox, madam.” 
 
 “¢ The small-pox !” 
 
 - & Yes, madam, the confluent smail-pox, in its worst form.’ 
 
 ‘‘You astonish me! I trust—I believe you are mis- 
 taken!” . 
 
 _ & No—TI wish to Heaven I was! No, madam! Doctor’s 
 pinion !” 
 
 “¢ Why, how on earth. Sit down, Mr. Clifton! Kate, my 
 dear, wheel that arm-chair around.” 
 
 Catherine obeyed, and the old gentleman sank among its 
 soft cushions, and took out his pocket-handkerchief and wiped 
 his face. 
 
 «¢ How on earth could she have got it ?”’ asked Mrs. Clifton. 
 
 ‘ «Ah! Lord Almighty knows! Came spontaneously, I do 
 suppose! You noticed those two pimples that appeared 
 upon her forehead after the crisis of her fever passed ?”? - 
 
 «Yes; but I thought nothing of them.” 
 
 “¢ Nor did we at the time. But at any rate, that was the 
 first appearance of the eruption—little as we guessed it at tha 
 time. You see, she naturally began to grow better when 
 this oth2r disease began to break out, [ suppose. Indeed. J 
 
182 ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES 
 
 have no doubt it was the coming of the small-pox, that ar- 
 rested the fatal termination of the brain fever. Well, you 
 see, last night after you had left her so much better, we en- 
 trusted her to the care of Zuleime, who did not seem to be 
 so much worn out with watching as the rest of us. So Zn- 
 ‘eime sat up with her; and she tells me that before midnight 
 her face was sprinkled all over with those pimples. And 
 this morning, when I first saw her—” The old man’s voice 
 broke down for a moment. ‘Oh! st was dreadful! Her 
 beautiful, fair face, neck, bosom, arms, all covered over with 
 that horrible eruption! It had all run together in one mass. 
 We sent off to hasten the arrival of the doctor, who, when 
 he came, pronounced the disease to be confluent small-pox. 
 Oh, it is horrible! horrible, even if her life be spared! Dis- 
 figured for life! What afate fora woman! I drove Zuleime 
 out of the room against her will—for she, dear, generous 
 girl, wished to stay and tend her sister. Georgia told me at 
 breakfast, that she had just got a letter from her father, who 
 was ill—and that she must have the carriage to go to Rich- 
 mond. She did not show me the letter, for she made haste 
 and started almost immediately. Everything falls out disas- 
 trously at once. Now, what am I to do? I cannot procure 
 a nurse to that disease, for love or money, in this neighbor- 
 hood. Advise me what to do. The necessity is so urgent!” 
 
 Mrs. Clifton was now sitting up, supporting her head upon 
 her hand, and essaying her strength. 
 
 ‘¢T must go back, and nurse Carolyn myself.” 
 
 “ You! Now, never suppose, my dear sister, that I have 
 been Linting for you to return and finish killing yourself for 
 us! J] would not permit it, if you wished it ever so much! 
 T'll lock and bar the dvors and windows, to keep you out, 
 first. But think and counsel me as to the best thing to be 
 done, There is no one at home but Zuleime—and even if I 
 were willing she should risk taking the dreadful disease, she 
 is so very young and irfexperienced that I should be afraid to 
 trust her sister’s safety in her hands. But I am not willing 
 that she should run any risk to herself—that’s flat. But 
 wi at’s to be done 2?” 
 
 «There is not a servant on your plantation, or on this 
 farm, fit to be trusted in such a case. I must go and take 
 taro of my daughter myself!” 
 
ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. 183 
 
 «¢ D—d if you shall, ma’am!  T’ll bar my doors and win- 
 dows against you, first, 1 tell you! Why, in your weak state, 
 it would be suicide !” 
 
 The lady maintained her purpose against Mr. Clifton’s ve- 
 khement opposition, and her calm persistence must have con» 
 quered, but Kate Kavanagh mildly interposed, by saying— 
 
 « Let me go.” 
 
 ‘© You! exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Clifton, in a breath. 
 
 “Yes; Iam nota bad nurse. I have had considerable 
 experience with sick people.” 
 
 «“ But—you’ve never had the 3mall-pox—you’re not the 
 least marked!” said Mr. Clifton. 
 
 «¢ No, str, I have never had that disease !” 
 
 *¢ And you are willing to risk taking it?” - 
 
 “¢ Yes, sir!” 
 
 «“ What! and youayoung girl! Ain’t you afraid of catch- 
 ing it, and having your face spoiled ?”” 
 
 “¢ Yes, sir, I am afraid of contracting it.” 
 
 «Why that is a plain contradiction of yourself, you say 
 you are wiiling to risk it, and afraid of catching it. I donot 
 understand you at all.”’ 
 
 ‘¢ Catherine is so simply truthful and straightforward !”* 
 said the lady, smiling; “ she means that she is perfectly con- 
 scious of the extent of the danger of contagion, but that she 
 thinks it her duty to brave it, nevertheless! Is not that it, 
 my dear? But, Catherine, much as we thank you for your 
 generous self-devotion, we must not permit you to think of 
 going. I must do that, for I have had the disease. If you 
 were to persist in your purpose, my dear girl, you would 
 almost certainly get the small-pox, and then your life, or at 
 the very least, your beauty, would be sacrificed.” 
 
 «¢ Beauty !”—If I had it and were to lose it, dear lady, 
 there is no one to care for it !” 
 
 s¢ Yes, I should care for it, my Kate,” said the lady, putting 
 her arm around the girl’s waist, and drawing her closer. 
 
 «Jn fine, my good girl, you shall not go if youare afraid! 
 That’s certain!” said Mr. Clifton. 
 
 Oh, sir, that would not interfere with the faithful dis- 
 charge of my duties as nurse. You had best let me go, and 
 go at once, sir! There isno time tobe lost, surely. Is any 
 tompctent person with Miss Clifton now, sir ?” 
 
184 ARUHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. 
 
 «No one but a colored woman, and I really must hurry 
 back. And, so if you really do fee] disposed to go, my dear 
 girl,—is she a good nurse, Mrs. Clifton 
 
 “ Hxcellent, sir! But indeed I do not like her exposing 
 herself in my stead.” [should not permit her to do it, indeed, 
 if my power seconded my will,” added the lady, sinking 
 back fatigued upon her sofa cushions. 
 
 Old Mr. Clifton was evidently inclined to accept Kate’s 
 services. Mrs. Clifton was obliged to yield,—more to the 
 weakness that overpowered her frame than to the arguments 
 set forth by Catherine. It was settled, then, that Kate 
 should go. And she quickly put on her little straw bonnet 
 and black silk scarf, and entered the gig that the old gentle 
 mau borrowed from the lady to convey the gir] to Clifton. 
 
THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. 184 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. 
 
 When through the deep waters I call thee tc go 
 The rivers of wo shall not thee overflow, 
 
 For I will be with thee thy troubles to bless, 
 And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress. 
 
 W hen through fierv trials thy pathway shall he, 
 
 My grace all-sufficient shall be thy supply; 
 
 The flame shall not hurt thee, 1 only design, 
 
 Thy dross to consume and thy gold to refine. 
 PARAPHRASE FROM Scp et Ke. 
 
 'lHE mansion-house at White Cliffs was all but deserted 
 The very house-servants, pretty mulatto girls, more afraid 
 of destroying their good looks than losing their lives, had 
 retreated to their own dens, feigning illness as an excuse to 
 keep wut of the reach of contagion. Catherine was intro- 
 duced at once into the sick room. That sick room! What 
 mind van conceive, or what pen should describe it. Only 
 those who have nursed a patient through that worst form 
 of the most loathsome pestilence, can realize its revolting 
 horrors. To see any human being looking as the once beau- 
 tiful Carelyn now looked. Her very features almost oblite- 
 rated, while fill up the pause, you who have seen the 
 horrors of that pest. It was worse-than any form of illness 
 —it was worse than death and decay. Disgust almost over- 
 mastered pity, and Catherine turned away, shuddering with 
 sickness of body and soul. Old Mr. Clifton cast one ago- 
 nized look upon the ruin, and unable to bear the sight, 
 rushed from the room. Catherine turned to her duty. The 
 wretched patient was tossing about in high fever, and tearing 
 her arms and bosom under the intolerable irritation. That 
 work of destruction must be stopped first Catherine knew. 
 Catherine caught her right hand, and it took all her strength 
 tc hold that hand, whose flesh seemed as if it would drop off, 
 
 
 
IS6 THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION 
 
 woder the pressure, while she secured it to the bedstead 
 Then she captured the other dashing, tossing hand, and con- 
 fined it in the same manner. And then she looked at the 
 state of her own palms. Oh, offensive duty! No wonder, 
 she thought, that the beautiful Georgia had fled to Richmond, 
 and the two pretty house-maids were extremely ill in their 
 attic! Had she a wish to follow their example? No—for 
 now all selfish fears were lost in deep compassion for the 
 poor, forsaken wreck of beauty, that lay there at her mercy. 
 She returned to her duty. She administered to her patient 
 an opiate, to soothe her restlessness. Took a sponge and 
 tepid water, and thoroughly cleansed the surface of the skin, 
 and anointed face, bosom and arms with a fragrant emol- 
 lient, to allay the intolerable itching. She then released her 
 hands, and laid them easily upon the counterpane. Lastly, 
 she ventilated and darkened the chamber, and took her seat 
 by the bedside, to fan her patient while she slept. And deep 
 was her satisfaction in watching that quiet, refreshing sleep. 
 It is not my intention to lead my reader through the dismal 
 days that followed in that sick room, until the secondary 
 fever,” the crisis of the disease, came and passed. Catherine 
 nursed her patient tenderly, faithfully, night and day. Ca- 
 rolyn’s life was spared, but her peerless beauty was gone 
 forever. Her luxuriant, fair hair was all lost, and her head 
 was as bald and discolored as her face—and that! 
 
 In that darkened chamber, and in the midst of physical 
 suffering and weakness, Carolyn had had no opportunity of 
 ascertaining the extent of the ravages the disease had made 
 in her beauty—if indeed she knew the nature of the former, 
 or thought about the latter. But as she convalesced, and 
 became able to sit up in bed and converse, she felt an in- 
 valid’s childish curiosity to look in the glass, and frequently 
 requested her gentle nurse to hand her one. But Catherine, 
 dreading the effect of the shock, steadily refused to comply 
 with her wishes in that respect, and perseveringly kept the 
 room darkened. And the sick girl, too weak to persist long 
 in any controversy, yielded the point. 
 
 But one day, while Catherine was at her breakfast, and 
 old Darkey supplying her place by the bedside of the patient, 
 Carolyn said in a tone that admitted of no denial, or even 
 uclay— 
 
THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. IE€7? 
 
 « Darkey, hand me that hand-glass from my dressing- 
 table.” 
 
 And the old woman impulsively, thoughtlessly obeyed 
 her, and brought it. Carolyn was propped up in bed. She 
 took the mirror, gave one interested look into 1i—plucked 
 off her little cap—gave another hurried glance—and utter- 
 ing a long, low cry of despair, sunk back insensible upon 
 her pillow. 
 
 Old Darkey flew from the chair to the patient, and from 
 the patient to the bell, in great trepidation—ringing peals 
 that brought all the household hurrying in alarm to the room. 
 Old Mr. Clifton, being nearest at hand, arrived first. And 
 when he saw and understood what had happened, he seized 
 the hand-glass, and threw it out of the window, and laid hold 
 of the heavy toilet mirror, and sent it flying after. Then he 
 drove old Darkey from the room, forbidding her, for a stupid 
 and dangerous maniac, ever to show her face there again. 
 And all this time, Catherine, who had entered so quietly that 
 no one saw or heard her, was silently trying to restore the 
 swooning girl. As Carolyn, with a deep sigh, opened her 
 eyes, Kate motioned for every one to leave the chamber. 
 And all noiselessly withdrew. Carolyn shivered and shud- 
 dered several times, as she raised her eyes appealingly, des- 
 pairingly to Catherine, who was bending tenderly over her. 
 Catherine thought it best to answer that silent appeal by 
 speaking at once to the point. 
 
 ‘‘ My dear Miss Clifton, you must not think that your face 
 will continue to look anything like it does now, for it will 
 not, indeed. [or though it is very much discolored, it is not 
 much pitted, and the discoloration will wear off in a few 
 days. And as for your hair, Miss Clifton, that will grew out 
 very soon, and be even more beautiful and luxuriant than be« 
 fore, on account of the renewal of the skin—so, dear lady, 
 take comfort and do not look in the glass again until you are 
 better.” And all this me that Catherine spoke in this 
 gentle manner, she was bathing the girl’s face and hands 
 with bay water, and her tender touch was even more soothing 
 than the sedative liquid. Catherine was almost impelled to 
 say—*‘ Have patience—bow to the will of God, and try to 
 learn the lesson He intends to teach in this.” But she felt 
 the hour had not come for speaking such words. [hat she 
 
1s8 THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION, 
 
 herself must have patience and wait for the time when she 
 might minister to her spiritual need. ; 
 
 Up to this period, Miss Clifton did not know who hernurse 
 was. She had heard her called “ My dear child,” or “ My 
 good girl,” by the physician and by her father, and they were 
 the only visitors to the room, except old Darkey, who came to 
 relieve the nurse at meal times, and who simply called her 
 “6 Miss.” And if once or twice she had heard her called 
 Catherine—still she never imagined her to be Kate Kava- | 
 nagh, but some hired attendant. And, indeed, in tke lan- 
 guor of illness she thought nothing about it. A few days 
 afier this, however, when she had grown more composed and 
 resigned, and while she lay watching Catherine’s quiet move- 
 ments through the room, she said— 
 
 “My dear, good girl—my gentle nurse—tell me your 
 vame? I do pray sometimes, and I wish to know your uame 
 that I may ask God to bless you for exposing life and health 
 end beauty for one whom mother, and sister, and servants 
 n'] deserted.” Just now, fur the first time, it flashed like 
 liohtning through Kate’s mind that all the danger of infec- 
 tion was over, and that she might now thank God for presery- 
 mz her from contagion. Yes! she had forgotten herself for 
 rome time past, but now her heart leaped for joy and grati- 
 tude, and she thanked God before she ‘replied to Miss Clif- 
 ton’s question, and said— 
 
 “My name is Catherine Kavanagh.” 
 
 «¢So!—you are Kate Kavanagh! Hoist up the blind. 
 Come to me. Let me look at you,” said Miss Clifton, rais- 
 ing on her elbow. Smiling, because unconscious of xhe 
 hidden meaning in her words, Catherine approached ané sat 
 down by her bed. And Carolyn took both her hands, and 
 
 “ Fell tothe perusing of her face, 
 As though she’d learn it off by heart.” 
 
 She pored over the broad, square forehead, lcoking strong, 
 but not beautiful, for all the bright chestnut hair was pushed 
 carelessly aside—she gazed upon those dark gray eyes under 
 their long black fringes—such deep, transparent wel of 
 darkness and light they were—she dwelt upon the beautiful 
 lips, and then her glance roved over the symmetrical form. 
 
 And she thougli she had never seen so perfect a figure. And 
 
THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. 189 
 
 she sighed and raised her eyes again to the remarkable coun- 
 tenance, with its large features, pale and cadaverous now with 
 a long season of confinement, fatigue and loss of sleep, and 
 grave with thought, and earnest with deep feeling. And she 
 could not settle it to her satisfaction whether Kate Kavanagh 
 was a sublime beauty or a fright. Upon the whole, the girl 
 interested and pained her. And she continued to hold her 
 hands with a nervous grasp, and pore over her face and form 
 as freely as though she had been only a dreadfully fascinating 
 statue—while Kate blushed under the infliction, and finally 
 drew her hands away and sat down. 
 
 But every day Miss Clifton’s confidence in, and esteem for 
 Kate Kavanagh, increased. And every day Catherine sought 
 to draw her patient’s soul to the only true source of light, 
 strength and consolation; and to sanctify this terrible afflic- 
 tion to her spirit’s good. The obligation to do this pressed 
 upon the girl’s conscience heavily, as if it were the hand of 
 God. It was in vain that she said to herself, “¢ Tam nothing 
 but a weak, errivg girl. It would be presumption in me to 
 speak. It might be received as impertinence, and do more 
 harm than good.” Still the answer arose from the depths of 
 her heart, saying—“ Speak the fitting words at the fitting 
 time, as they arise within your mind, for they are the inspira- 
 tion of God’s spirit.”” And wisely, lovingly, reverently she 
 spoke them as occasion called them forth. The right thing 
 was always said at the moment it was needed. ‘* Words 
 spoken in season are like apples of gold on plates of silver.” 
 Many a willing but bungling Christian would have failed to do 
 Carolyn any good, for Miss Clifton was a very difficult subject. 
 There is nothing so hard of impression as pride and scorn and 
 jealousy. It was the dominion of that infernal triumvirate 
 that made Lucifer an impracticable subject among the angels. 
 But Catherine was movedand guided bya higher power than 
 herself. Of herself she dared say nothing on Divine sub- 
 jects. She only spoke when strongly, irresistibly impelled 
 to do so. And her words were blessed to her patient and 
 sanctified to her own spirit. 
 
 Catherine had a powerful coadjutor in her good work, It 
 was the sorrow in Carolyn’s heart. And ah. who could sound 
 the depth of that sorrow? Loving as passionately as she 
 had loved! Sinning against that love as cruelly as she had 
 
 12 
 
190 THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. 
 
 sinned! Punished for her sin as terribly as she was pun 
 ished! And now ruined and hideous in person, and wrecked 
 and despairing in mind, to whom could she ery in her sharp 
 agony but to God ?—her Creator and Father '—Whose arm 
 was strong enough to lift her from that horrible pit but God’s 
 —but God’s? And the All-Powerful, the All-Merciful, was 
 helping her every day. 
 
 The great strength, the great vitality of her sorrow, was 
 the thought of Archer Clifton. Could she have hoped for a 
 reconciliation with him, however distant, all else might have 
 been borne. But with that death’s head of hers, such joy 
 might never be hoped—ought never to be wished. No, she 
 was as the leper, set apart from human love—at least from 
 conjugal and maternal love—forever and forever! This was 
 hard—this was well nigh intolerable ! 
 
 She would no more grace the saloon with her surpassing 
 loveliness—the pride of her family—the ornament of their, 
 house. Her heart would no more swell with exultation, when, 
 on entering the drawing-room, in the full glory of her peerless 
 beauty, she would hear a murmur of admiration pass through 
 the company. No. If she should ever enter a saloon again, 
 she would make a tremendous sensation, truly—but it would 
 be one of astonishment, pity, and perhaps disgust. And that 
 thought was dreadful, dreadful to the proud young belle! But 
 oh! it was as nothing to the feeling that her household gods 
 were broken and ruined forever—that her hopes of domestiv 
 happiness were gone forever! Jor underneath all the pride 
 and vanity and scorn of the young belle had been the woman’s 
 thought, the woman’s hope of the coming long, calm days ct 
 wife and mother joy. Yea, as surely as under the burnished 
 satin boddice had beat the heart of flesh! But all these were 
 over now; the proud, vain aspirations of the belle, and the 
 woman’s deeper, purer hopes! Both crushed by one fell blow 
 All was lost in the world! Nothing was left but Heaven! | 
 
 ‘““Tf God would take 
 A heart that earth had crushed.”’ 
 
 Many are driven by the storms of life to the Heavenly Va 
 ther’s bosom. It is for this that the tempests of sorrow are 
 sent, and the sooner that Divine sanctuary is sought, the bet- 
 rer, for hard and harder will beat the storm until its end is 
 
THE DISCIPLINE CF AFFLICTION. 191 
 
 answered. And too often all is lost, or seems lost, before 
 we consent to save ourselves. With Carolyn, all the trea- 
 sures of her youth were gone,—health and beauty, love and 
 hope. Something like this she breathed to Catherine, in a 
 weak, despairing mood,—for only in a miserably depressed 
 state of mind and body would the proud girl deign to com- 
 plain. 
 
 *‘ Dear lady, do not say so sadly that ‘all is lost—forever 
 lost.’ Dear lady, nothing is ever lost. It is impossible. 
 The Lord, in His Divine Wisdom, may withdraw His gifts, 
 but they are not lost—they have gone into His keeping.” 
 
 1] do not comprehend you! My poor good looks, such 
 as they were, are surely gone forever. Nothing can restore 
 them! And oh, Catherine! you do not know—you cannot 
 understand all the blessings, the hope, and the joy of my life 
 fled forever! You are a child—you do not understand it!” 
 
 “Perhaps I do, not, lady, and perhaps I do! Seek all 
 that you have lost in God! He has withdrawn His gifts, 
 your treasures, that He may draw you to Himself! They 
 are safe in His treasure house. If you have lost the beauty 
 of the fair roseate complexion, He can endow you witha 
 higher beauty, emanating from the soul. If you have lost 
 human love, He can satisfy your soul with the richness and 
 fullness of Divine love that never faileth! And for your 
 broken earthly hopes, He can give you the Heavenly hope 
 that never dicth.” 
 
 “Oh! but it is the lost earthly hope, personal beauty and 
 human love, that were so dear to me! So dear to me!” ex 
 claimed the poor girl, bursting into a passion of tears. 
 
 «« And He can restore even those! ‘ But seek ye first the 
 Kingdom of Heaven, and all these things shall be added to 
 
 1 Pits 
 
 “ Ah, child! Nothing but a miracle could give me back 
 dead happiness. And the days of miracles are over !” 
 
 ‘No! no! There is nothing in the Scripture to warant 
 that saying. The days of miracles are not passed. Until 
 the days of human faith and Divine Omnipotence are past—- 
 the days of miracles are not passed. Anything that seeme 
 to me right that I should have, I will pray God—that if it 
 be right, He will give it me—thaugh it should appear to my 
 ignorance utterly impossible!” Then Catherine abruptly 
 
199, THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. 
 
 stopred, fearing that she had said too much. And she 
 silently prayed fora faith that should be as far removed from 
 presumption, as from despair. 
 
 Carolyn conyalesced very slowly. It was weeks befora 
 she left her bed. And then many more weeks before she left 
 her room 
 
 It was a glorious day in Autumn, when ‘she first walked 
 out upon the lawn, supported between Catherine and her 
 father. And as soon as she set foot upon the green sward, 
 ‘some cattle that were browsing there—by some caprice to 
 which cattle are subject—started off as if seized by sudden 
 panic, and ran huddling together confusedly, and precipi- 
 tating themselves towards the outer gate. And so weak were 
 the poor invalid’s nerves, and so morbid her mind, that she 
 burst into tears, and declared that the very brutes fled from 
 before her face, as from one less human than themselves! 
 Nor could any argument of Mr. Clifton’s or of Catherine’s, 
 disabuse her mind of this absurd idea. She begged Cathe- 
 rine to take her back to her chamber. And for many weeks 
 no entreaties could induce her to leave it. 
 
 Zuleime came freely to her sister now. She had her harp 
 brought into her room. And she soothed the recluse with 
 music every day. And at last Kate Kavanagh, who had 
 gradually merged from nurse into companion, added her own - 
 rich, full-toned voice in accompaniment. The Misses Clifton 
 were both very much surprised to see this “ gift of gracious 
 nature’ thrown away upon a poor girl, with no hopes or 
 prospects but manual labor for her living. And Zuleime, 
 who could be thoughtful and benevolent in the midst of 
 anxiety and sorrow, proposed to give Catherine lessons on the 
 harp. But this was soon stopped. Both Zuleime and Cathe- 
 rine perceived that the music, far from soothing, seemed to 
 irritate the invalid. And for this reason, Carolyn had lost 
 her voice. She could never sing again. And even in speak~ 
 ing, her tones were harsh and rough. The harp was bat 
 ished, and books were brought. And while Zuleime worked, 
 and Carolyn fondled a little King Charles, that had been 
 bought for the childish invalid, Kate read aloud to the sis- 
 ters. And now it was that the world of written poetry 
 broke upon the maiden’s delighted view. Before this, she 
 had never read a line of poetry in her life, except hymns— 
 
THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. 1938 
 
 for Mrs. Clifton had judiciously suppressed all booxs of that 
 nature. But now the treasures of Milton, Goldsmith, and 
 Cowper, were opened to her ardent mind! Oh, those days 
 that followed the convalescence of Miss Clifton- those even- 
 ings after Carolyn had gone to rest, when she and Zuleime 
 would go into the summer-saloon and spend the hours in ma 
 sic or poetry, or in talk as musical, and as poetic. Those 
 evenings, spent with a refined, warm-hearted girl like Zu- 
 leime—they were unfitting her for her prospective hard life 
 of coarse labor and coarser association. She felt that it was 
 so. And she determined to leave. She only waited until 
 Mr. Clifton went to Richmond and brought back his wife. 
 And then she bade them all good-bye and returned home— 
 not to the farm-house of Hardbargain, but to her brother 
 Carl’s cabin. 
 
 She needed to commune with herself, and be still. She 
 wished to descend into the unsounded abysses of her heart, 
 and examine, though with awe, the mystery of iniquity that 
 in some unguarded hour had germinated there—this growing 
 passion for a man betrothed to another. No matter if the 
 marriage was broken off for the present. They loved each 
 other. And that was the true betrothal. As for herself, she 
 would, with the grace of God, turn out this dangerous bosom 
 guest, so divinely fair as to seem like an angel of light rather 
 than the tempting demon that it was! And to do this effectu- 
 ally, she must break every tie that held her to that fair illu- 
 sive life she had lately led. She must forsake every associa- 
 tion connected with her sin and folly. She loved Mrs. 
 Clifton—loved her first for herself alone, and then as the 
 mother of—one whose name she dared not now to breathe 
 even to herself. She enjoyed the congenial society and oc- 
 cupations at White Cliffs and at Hardbargain. And now she 
 was the most welcome visitor on the list of both families. 
 But she must forego the privilege this gave her. More than 
 all, she had enjoyed her pleasant life at Hardbargain. The 
 cheerful housekeeping cares she had shared with its mistress 
 —the conversations over the pleasant tea-table or the social 
 work-stand—the books, the newspapers, and the evening 
 music, and the society of the admirable Mrs. Clifton—these 
 formed the externals, the body of her happiness; but the 
 mterior, the soul of her joy, was that there was the home of 
 
194 THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. 
 
 Archer Clifton—the place pervaded by his spirit! redolent 
 of him! But all these must be abandoned! They might 
 have affinity for her nature, but they did not belong to her 
 ot in life. And see what they had brought her to! Even 
 to an insane passion for her benefactor! And now it: was 
 high time she had come to her senses and self-recollection. 
 She was a poor girl, of the humblest birth—born in poverty 
 and destined to poverty. She must leave off spending vven- 
 ings with refined and accomplished young ladies in elegant 
 saloons, if she wished to do her duty in that station to which 
 fxod had calied her. And she must give up the society of 
 Archer Clifton’s mother, if she wished to forget him. And 
 she must betake herself to the coarse, hard, but dutiful life 
 of her brother’s cabin. 
 
 Catherine went no more to White Cliffs or to Nardbargain. 
 And when Mrs. Clifton sent for hur to come anid spend a day, 
 she returned a gentle answer that she could not leave her 
 grandfather. 
 
THE BLACK SEAL. eSB 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE BLACK SEAL. 
 
 Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 
 
 Not once had turned to either side— 
 
 Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 
 
 Or shade the glance on which they rose; - 
 But round their orbs of darkest hue, 
 
 The circling white dilated grew— 
 
 4iid there with glassy gaze she stood, 
 
 As ice were in her curd.ea blood.—Brron. 
 
 THE evening was chilly—just chilly enough to make tne 
 sovelty of the first fire of the season a luxury. And sc Zu- 
 feime had ordered a bright little fire kindled in the parlor, 
 and the tea-table set out there. And she had changed her 
 white muslin dress for a fine crimson poplin one, and began 
 to think of the pleasant autumn evenings, when all the family 
 would gather around the hearth, with needle-work and books 
 and social chat. And, like a child, she was forgetting the 
 threatening dangers that lay before her, and those she loved 
 —her father’s trouble, Major Cabell’s expected arrival, 
 Frank’s peril in distant warfare, the difficulties of her own 
 position—all were for awhile forgotten, iu the dream of 
 cheerful fireside affection and comfort, as she moved about 
 the room, closing blinds, dropping curtains, and wheeling 
 easy-chairs up near the fire, and thinking with what a fine 
 smile of genial satisfaction her father would come in and look 
 around upon the change before he dropped himself into that 
 largest easy-chair. Mr. Clifton had ridden to the village, 
 but was expected back to tea. And there sat the tea-table, 
 a little aside, to be clear of the chair, near the fire-place, and 
 radiant with snowy damask and shining silver. 
 
 Carolyn came in, pacing softly, slowly, and turning her 
 eyes around the room with a look of languid approval, she 
 
 ank inte an arm-chair. Zuleime went to her immediately, 
 
196 THE BLACK BE 
 
 and relieved her of the large shawl she had worn through the 
 chilly passages, and closed her dressing-gown, and settled 
 the lace borderof the delicate little cap, and placed the 
 softest cushion under her feet, and then kissed her forehead, 
 but did not speak. Cuarolyn repaid her with a silent look of 
 affection. Since the departure of Catherine, Carolyn bad 
 sunk into a sort of mute despondency, in spite of all the care 
 and affection of her sister, for it was ber moral nature that 
 needed help, and the young Zuleinie could not 
 
 ‘Minister to a mind diseased ”’ 
 
 Mrs. Georgia Clifton entered, and silently glided to her 
 seat. Unconsciously, Georgia became a dark and terrible 
 picture. She sat upon a low ottoman, at the corner of tha 
 fire-place, her head supported by her hand, and all her glit- 
 tering ringlets falling like a glory down each side of her 
 darkly splendid face. And through that strong light and 
 shadow her form palpitated, her bosom heaved and fell, her 
 moist lips dropped apart, and her eyes gleamed with a set, 
 steady fire, as though some passionate trance wrapt and spell- 
 bound her soul. 
 
 Zuleime was moving about the room, and giving directions 
 to a servant, who had brought in cakes and preserves. Finalls 
 she sat down, and took out her knitting—it was a pair of 
 white lamb’s wool socks, for her father—and knitted while 
 she waited. She had not long to wait. 
 
 The door swung open silently, and Mr. Clifton entered, 
 with a newspaper in his hand, but looking so shocked and 
 troubled, that all, with one accord, raised their eyes in silent 
 inquiry. 
 
 ‘Poor Frank! poor Frank!” exclaimed the old man, as 
 if he was ready to burst into a passion of tears. 
 
 “ What!—what of Frank?’ asked a faltering, gasping 
 voice, which he could not recognize as belonging to either of 
 the three young women present—yet answered, mechani: 
 cally— 
 
 «Those bloody Redskins! Those ghastly, horrible Saya- 
 ges!” he cried, throwing himself into a chair. 
 
 «© There—there has been some fighting! Js—————_— 
 Tell me'—tell me! You know what I want to know / 
 Arche, +4?” exclaimed (Carolyn, bending forward. While 
 
THE BLACK SEAL. 197 
 
 sallow and fierce, the eyes of Georgia gleamed the terra and 
 anxiety she dared not express! 
 
 ‘s Archer is safe!” said Mr. Clifton. 
 
 And the light of a sudden joy flitted across Georgia’s dar 
 face,—and Carolyn sank back, with a look of grateful relief, 
 And no one noticed Zuleime. And no one knew that she 
 had spoken. ; 
 
 “Yes! Archer is safe! Thank God! And a thousand 
 times thank God, that Archer is safe! But Frank !—poor 
 Frank! My God what a fate! Who shall tell his mother?” 
 
 “‘ For Heaven’s sake!—what has happened to Mr. Fair- 
 fax V’ asked Georgia. 
 
 “There! ‘There! Read for yourself,” replied the old 
 man, getting up, and handing her the paper. He did not 
 mean that she should read aloud, perhaps—but he forgot— 
 he was confused with trouble. 
 
 And she took the paper, and read :—“ From THE INDIAN 
 Frontier; HORRIBLE MASSACRE NEAR FORT 
 PROTECTION.—Dispatches from our Western frontier 
 bring the most painful account of a horrible massacre of a 
 part of oar troops by the Indians, in the vicinity of Fort 
 Protection. On Monday, the 15th ultimo, a small recon- 
 noitering party left the Fort, under the command of Lieu- 
 tenant Fairfax. They had proceeded about a mile on their 
 way, when they fell into an ambuscade of Indians, and were 
 cut to pieces in the most shocking manner. The body of 
 Lieutenant Fairfax, in particular, was so horribly mutilated 
 as to be scarcely recognizable. The full particulars of the 
 massacre, given below, are copied from the ‘ National Sen- 
 tinel.’ ” | 
 
 Then followed a long account of the catastrophe, with 
 every revolting circumstance detailed with horrid distinctness. 
 The old man heard and groaned at intervals. Carolyn 
 shuddered and wept by turns. And even Georgia’s voice 
 broke down for pity and horror. But she—the wife—the 
 widow—she—the fearfully bereaved—she sat and listened to 
 all the murderous story. She heard all—all. How he had 
 been set upon by six or seven—how he had singly battled 
 with them, when all his party were lying dead around him— 
 how then he tried to escape such fearful odds—how he was 
 felled, and dragged down frow his horse—the young, 
 
 
 
198 TWEE “BLUE Ms Belts 
 
 warm beating heart was cloven through—the fair hair tora 
 from the bleeding skuli—the fingers chopped off for the sake 
 of the ring—Frank wore but one—a simple gold ring, with 
 a coral set, that she had taken from her slender fore finger, 
 and contrived to squeeze past.the joint, and get it comfortably 
 upon his little finger. And they had cut it off in their haste 
 to get it. How real that trifle made the whole horror, that 
 might else have seemed like a nightmare! She sat and 
 heard it all—all. And no motion, no tear, no cry escaped 
 her. 
 
 At last, when the reading was over, and they were re- 
 leased from the spell of horror, old Mr. Clifton thought of 
 Zulcime, and feared its effect on her. He turned to look at 
 her. At first he saw nothing amiss. 
 
 She sat so naturally, though still, with her knitting in her 
 hands, as though only stopped for an instant, and her face 
 turned in a listening attitude toward Georgia, who had ceased 
 to read. 
 
 ‘It is all over—there is no more to hear, Zuleime, my 
 darling,” said the old man. 
 
 But she did not move or speak. She seemed to look and 
 sisten intently. 
 
 “‘Zuleime,” said her father gently. 
 
 She remained perfectly still. 
 
 “ Zuleime!”’ he exclaimed, in a louder tone. She did not 
 hear. 
 
 “‘ ZULEIME!!” he cried, a third time, going towards her, 
 \o seize her shoulder. 
 
 But he started back in offright. They were all gazing at 
 her now. 
 
 ‘© My God! she is Dray!” ejaculated the father. 
 
 «She is MAD!”’ exeloimed Georgia. 
 
 They gathered aronnd her. She knew it not. She sat 
 there as if frozen into that attitude—her face white and 
 hard—her lips bloodless and stiff, and her eyes still fixed 
 towards the spot from which Georgia had been reading, but 
 beyond it—beyond it—into the far distance, as if fascinated 
 by some spectacle there of unutterable horror! 
 
 * Zuleime! what are your looking at? Speak to me, my 
 sthild !”” cried her father, in great distress. 
 
 “Ye might a¥ well have expected a statue to speak. 
 
THE BLACK SEAL. 199 
 
 Carolyn took the knitting away, which, through all this, 
 had dangled between her stiff, unconscious fingers. Georgia 
 rubbed her hands. Carolyn bathed her face. The old man 
 cried to her—all in vain! They might as well have performed 
 these offices for the dead. 
 
 They lifted her up, and laid her on a sofa—her limhs 
 hanging helplessly, like those of a dead or swooning girl, 
 But she was neither dead nor swooning. Wherever they 
 moved her, her eyes were still fixed, in that bright, burning, 
 horrible stare, upon the distance, as though the vision of the 
 ghastly spectacle that had been conjured up before her 
 imagination, followed her wherever she was turned. 
 
 They took her up stairs, undressed and put her to bed. 
 All night long she lay in the same state. 
 
 In the morning there was no change, except that the 
 muscles of the face had fallen, the cheeks sunken, the chin 
 dropped, and that concentrated, intense gaze into vacancy, 
 was more burning bright than ever. It was as though a 
 burning soul was consuming the unconscious flesh to death. 
 Or as if a body were turning to dust and ashes with the spirit 
 stil] imprisoned in it. 
 
 “‘ She is sinking, and must die, unless she can be moved 
 to tears,” said the doctor. 
 
 But what should move her to tears? Was there anything 
 on earth that she could weep for now? Her old gray father 
 had knelt, weeping, by her bedside, and torn his silver hair 
 in anguish, without causing a single eyelash to quiver over 
 that fixed, burning eye! What should make her weep * 
 Plaintive music? She could not be made to hear it! The 
 very songs that she and Frank had sung together? The 
 sound was drowned in the groans from that scene of 
 blood! 
 
 Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, had come over, but though 
 she was a woman of great skill and experience, all her efforts 
 failed to rouse the girl from that fearful trance, which seemed 
 likely to end in death. 
 
 “Send for Catherine! If any one in the world can do 
 her good now, it will be Catherine. There is, besides, a 
 Free-Masonry between girls of the same age, that makes 
 them instinctively understand each other. If a child were 
 wp a stupor, I should ce-tainly send its favorite playmate— 
 
200 THE BLACK SEAL. 
 
 another child—as the most likely being to rouse it,” said 
 Mrs. Clifton. 
 
 “Ah! My Lord!—this is worse than any stupor! I 
 wish to Heaven she would fall into a stupor,” replied the — 
 father. . 
 
 “71 know it! For her mind is not dulled, but seems 
 wrought up to the highest pitch, and intent upon some im- 
 aginary vision of horror. She must be brought out of it. 
 She must be subdued. Send for Catherine.” 
 
 Mr. Clifton went himself in the gig, to bring the kind 
 girl. 
 
 When Catherine arrived, and while she stood by the 
 side of the stricken, insensible girl, Mr. Clifton said to 
 her— 
 
 «‘ You see, my dear child Zuleime seems to have been very 
 much attached to this poor young man. And the news of 
 his horrid death was broken to her suddenly, and it has just 
 thrown her into this state! Look at her eyes! What do 
 you think they see—in imagination, I mean?” 
 
 “< They see that scene of massacre—they see the death of 
 her lover,” said Kate, looking piteously at her friend—(for 
 Zuleime was her friend)—and brooding deeply over some 
 idea. 
 
 ‘“‘The doctor says she must die if she cannot be made to 
 weep! Ob, Katey, my dear, dear girl! If you can only 
 make her weep! I will give you—I was going to say—I 
 would give you half of all I have in the world! Come, try’ 
 That’s a good girl! You girls all know each other’s little 
 fool-secrets and love nonsenses. Come, try. Do you want 
 to be left alone with her ?” 
 
 Kate shook her head in that quick way usual to her when 
 strong feeling kept her silent—but she added— 
 
 “‘ Give me her keys.” 
 
 The old man seemed surprised, but looked about and dis- 
 covered the required articles in her little work-basket, and 
 handed them to Kate. 
 
 “I only want to search and see if I cannot find some- 
 thing that was his—some little token or keepsake, you 
 know.” 
 
 The old man took his station at the foot of the bed, while 
 Kate pursued her search. She knew what she was looking 
 
THE BLACK SEAL. 21 
 
 ‘or, it was a curl of fair hair. She had caugh* a ziimpse of 
 it once—when Zuleime had opened a box in her drawer, and 
 had immediately shut it again with a deep blush. And now 
 she knew whose hair it was; and that the sight of it would 
 bring tears to those burning eye-balls, and consciousness to 
 that frenzied brain. She found it. She could have wept 
 herself as she raised it from its little hiding place. She took 
 it to the bedside—put her hand gently over those glaring 
 eyes to darken them, and break the spell if possible, and 
 then lifting her hand off again, she held up the lock of hair 
 by the end, letting it drop into a fair shining ringlet before 
 the eyes of the girl, as she said— 
 
 «« Zuleime, do you know whose hair this is ?” 
 
 The poor scathed eye-balls fixed upon it—softened— 
 melted from their searching glare—a change came over her 
 face—she extended her hand, and caught the tress as if fear- 
 ing to lose it, and pressed it with both hands to her heart. 
 Then her bosom began to heave convulsively, as with a great 
 coming agony. Catherine caught her up, for she seemed 
 about to suffocate. It was only the coming of the flood of 
 tears—yes, the flood, for she fell upon Catherine’s sustaining 
 bosom, and sobbed and wept—such a deluge of tears, that 
 the girl’s dress was dripping wet, and it grew a wonder where 
 so much came from. And Catherine’s heart was smitten, 
 and she wept, too—wept till she grew so weak she could 
 scarcely sustain lier burthen. And then old Mr. Clifton 
 came around and relieved her, taking Zuleime into his arms 
 and laying her head against his shoulder, saying- 
 
 “There, ery! Cry on its father’s neck, as much as it 
 wants to! It shall ery its fill, poor thing! poor little heart- 
 broken thing!” 
 
 And she did, abundantly !—-but pressed and kissed her 
 father’s neck the while for his tender words. This melted 
 down the old man’s heart so that he said— 
 
 “¢ They shan’t plague you! None of them shall! Charley 
 Cabell shan’t come here to trouble you! That he shan’t. 
 Come what will, you shan’t be forced to marry him! No, 
 no, my darling—my poor little heart-broken darling, you 
 shan’t! Ul! see him in perdition first! And myself, too! 
 There, don’t stop! Cry it all out on father’s neck! Don’t 
 scp Catch your breath and begin again! That’s right! 
 
202 THE BLACK SEAL. 
 
 That’s a good girl! Oh, she’ll cry a plenty this bout. Once 
 I couldn’t bear to hear women ery! It was because I did 
 not know that if the grief was not cried out, it would stay in 
 the heart and burst it! I will never try to stop a woman 
 from crying again. Cry on, my poor little thing!” And so 
 most tenderly, but half-childishly, the old man talked, and 
 petted, and cooed over her. 
 
 Catherine slipped down stairs to prepare tea and toast. 
 
 When she came back, she found Zuleime lying back upon 
 the pillow exhausted, but composed, and still pressing the 
 little lock of hair. Catherine set down the little waiter, and 
 took a bowl and napkin and washed her face with cologne 
 and water, and then brought the cup of tea. 
 
 Zuleime shook her head mournfully. 
 
 Catherine stooped and whispered. 
 
 “For your father’s sake, dear. J.ook at him.” 
 
 Zuleime raised her eyes to the old man’s grief-worn, anxious 
 face, and then extended her hand for the cup, and drank the 
 tea. 
 
 While Zuleime was resting in Catborine’s arms and drink- 
 ing the tea, a knock was heard at the door, and when Mr. 
 Clifton opened it, a servant appeared api told him that Major 
 Cabell had arrived, and wished to speak with him. 
 
 Aad the old gentleman set his teeth, and vinual ‘ely went 
 Bo We 
 
Mh. CLIFTON’S RESOLUTION. 22 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MR. CLIFTON’S RESOLUTION. 
 
 Full many a storm on this gray head has beat 
 
 And now on my high station do I stand, 
 
 Like the tired watchman in rocked tower, 
 
 W ho looketh for the honr of his release. 
 
 I’m sick of worldly broil, aud fain would be 
 
 With those who strive no more.—Joanna Batucie. 
 
 “ WELL, old two pence ha’penny, how d’ y’ do? Family 
 all well at last, eh?’ said Major Cabell, advancing to meet 
 Mr. Clifton, as he entered the parlor. 
 
 The old gentleman extended his hand gravely, and wel 
 comed his visitor to White Cliffs. Then he rung the bell anc 
 ordered refreshments, but Major Cabell declined the latter 
 and inquired after the ladies. 
 
 «6 My family are all in affliction! D—n it, Charley, you 
 know it! Curse that Indian war! My dear Carolyn scarcely 
 recovered from the effects of that loathsome pestilence, be- 
 fore here comes the news of that hidcous massacre of poor 
 Fairfax and his men, and just overwhelms my little Zu- 
 leime !” | 
 
 “ Zuleime? My dear little wife? I trust that nothing has 
 been permitted to afflict her?” 
 
 ‘The news of Fairfax’s horrible death shocked her into 
 a sort of appalled ecstacy, which lasted for twelve hours! 
 And from which she was only roused to break into such tears 
 and sobs, as [ never heard before, and hope never to hear 
 again.” 
 
 The old man wished to prepare Major Cabell, gradually, for 
 the announcement he intended to make of the marriage about 
 to be broken off. He wished to touch his heart, to excite 
 ais sympathy, to awaken his generosity. He even heped—- 
 for people will have wild hopes in extremity—that Major 
 
20a MR. CLIFTON’S RESOLUTION. 
 
 Cabell might anticipate his wish, and resign his claims. He 
 never was more mistaken in his life : 
 
 Majo. Zabell listened in grave silence to his speech, and 
 then in high displeasure, exclaimed— 
 
 ‘By my soul, sir! this is a very astonishiug and most 
 offensive thing, you tei: me! Why should Zuleime grieve 
 thus immoderately over the aeath of this young officer. Will 
 you explain that ?” 
 
 “Yes! I might say—because he was her intimate com- 
 panion in her own home all the summer—and was soon after 
 leaving it, so barbarously slaughtered. That is quite a suffi- 
 cient reason for the tender-hearted clald to grieve excessively. 
 But I will not deceive you, Major Cabell. She loved this 
 poor young man!” 
 
 «Sir! Mr. Clifton! By Heaven, sir!’ 
 
 ‘¢ Tt cannot be helped, Charley! Hearts cannot be bound 
 b; parchment and red tape! She loved this poor Frank 
 Fairfax—and her heart is broken by his sudden, dreadful 
 ioss. Her grief, poor thing, must have its way! She shail 
 rot be troubled!” . 
 
 «¢ And pray, sir,” began Major Cabell, speaking with de- 
 liberate scorn— how lung shall this faithless girl be per- 
 mitted to weep over the memory of that fellow, before she 
 is required to give her hand to one who might have claimed 
 it as his right long ago ?” 
 
 “ Charles Cabell,” said the old man, speaking slowly and 
 sadly, ‘is it possible that you cuan—that any man could wish 
 to marry a broken-hearted girl, mourning over the grave of 
 her freshly murdered lover !”’ 
 
 “Wish to marry her? Wish to marry Zuleime? Give 
 her tome! Give me Zuleime! Only give her to me, and 
 then see! She is my right! I claim her by your promise— 
 and I would take her now!” 
 
 “ But you are certainly mad! You would be miserable 
 with her !” 
 
 “Should I2 That is my affair! Only give her to me! 
 Come! let me have her to-day, or to-morrow, and I wili take 
 her home to Richmond with me,” said Major Cabell vehe 
 mently, almost fiercely. . 
 
 Old Mr. Clifton looked up at him in surprise, amounting 
 elmost to fear 
 
Mk. CLIFTON’S RESOLUTION. 205 
 
 Have I ever described Majcr Cabell to you? He was a 
 small man, with clear cut, sharpened features, and pale face, 
 surrounded by light brown hair and whiskers, with very 
 handsome dark brown eyes, but with a certain latent ferocity 
 in the eyes, and grimness about the thin, set lips. Somehow 
 or other he irresistibly reminded you of a hyena—especially 
 when he happened to laugh that thin, ungenial laugh. 
 
 The old mar looked at him in surprise, almost amounting 
 to fear, and then he said— 
 
 «¢ But she does not love you x0w! She cannot love you 
 yet! She loves Frank in his shroud better than any one left 
 alive !” 
 
 “I do not care! She must forget Frank, and love me! 
 Women can be made to feel or feign anything, by one who 
 understands them.” 
 
 *¢ But her heart is breaking, 1 tell you!” 
 
 ‘Tt must stop breaking, and nerve itself to life.” 
 
 “‘She is weeping her life away! She is a Niobe, I tell 
 you! A living fountain of tears !” 
 
 ‘¢She shall dry them and smile! Seeif I do not make 
 her do it! Pooh! it is baby love, all this! Do you think 
 a girl of her age, can feel any lasting love, or grief, or en- 
 during passion of any sort at all? Pooh, pooh! I tell you 
 if her lap-dog were killed, she would blubber and weep as 
 much over its death, as she does over this other puppy’s fate! 
 But, once for all, Mr. Clifton, I tell you I do not intend to 
 be put off, or in any way annoyed by this girl’s grief and 
 petulance. It is not well for you, her, or myself, that it 
 should be indulged. Give her to me at once, according to 
 your promise, and afterward I shall know how to deal with 
 her—far better than you seem to know.” 
 
 « And you really wish to marry her in her present state, 
 and take her home with you ?” 
 
 “Yes! What cdjection? A wedding-party is not an in . 
 dispensable accessory to the ceremony. A bridal journey 
 from here to Richmond would be a very good substitute. 
 Indeed, since the catastrophe of the last wedding-party 
 at Cliftoa, J. think the bridal journey would be in the best 
 taste.” 
 
 ‘“Wmph' And you would marry her so, and so take her 
 away ?” - 
 
 13 
 
206 MR. CLIFTON’S RESOLUTION. 
 
 “ Certainly.” 
 
 ‘“ Brute !” 
 
 sc Sir?” 
 
 «“ BrutE, I say' She would rather lie down with Fiank 
 in his bloody grave than marry you! And J would rather 
 fay my child there—ALtvE—than give her to you! There ! 
 it is said! Now, I hope you understand me 
 
 Major Cabell brought his two fierce brown eyes to bear 
 npon Mr. Old Gentleman, and gazed as if he thought him 
 bereft cf his senses. Then he spoke in a peculiarily thin, 
 smooth, distinct voice— 
 
 ‘To you mean what you say, sir ?” 
 
 “YesIdo! There!” 
 
 ‘¢ And have you duly considered this, sir ?” 
 
 ‘Yes I have! There!’ 
 
 “And you know and are prepared to meet the conse- 
 quences ?” 
 
 “Yes! Doyour worst! There!” said the old man, set- 
 ting down his foot. 
 
 Major Cabell arose and walked up and down the floor in 
 deep, perplexed thought. To say that he was surprised at 
 this sudden, unexpected rebellion and daring on the part of 
 Mr. Clifton would not be sufficient. He was just astounded, 
 and could not surmise where the strength of the old man to 
 oppose him, with his claims and his power, could come from! 
 He thought some external aid had been given! He never 
 guessed that it was the internal victory of conscience over 
 cowardice. 
 
 Old Mr. Clifton also arose and stretched himeelf, expand- 
 ing his chest, and taking a long, deep breath of intense relief 
 and satisfaction, saying—— 
 
 “ Thank Henush I feel better. Feel more like a man 
 than I have felt for ten years. Now let the worst come, I 
 can meet it !” 7 
 
 Major Cabell glanced sideways at him, and continued his 
 thoughtful pacing up and down the floor. He was possessed 
 with asort of ferocious passion for Zuleime, a passion fanned 
 to fury by opposition. He was not one to bend his pride to 
 sue. And yet he must have her! Svon, too! 
 
 Old Mr. Clifton, now feeling and looking so much better 
 amd franker, and remembering that Major Cahell was his 
 
MR. CLIFTON S RESOLUTION. 297 
 
 guest as well as his relative, went up to him and held out his 
 hand, saying, heartily— 
 
 “Charley, give me your hand! I do not know what you 
 are going to do, but I know that I am ready to meet what 
 comes! In olden times mortal foes shook hands before they 
 entered upon a deadly combat. In our times the executioner 
 and his victim exchange courtesies. And the humanity of it 
 is a touching comment upon the cruel necessities of our legal 
 and social code. Let us not be more ungracious adversaries 
 than they. Give meyourhand. You are welcome to Clifton 
 as long as you please to give us your company. Sport is 
 good now on the mountains, and you can amuse yourself as 
 you please.” 
 
 Major Cabell paused in his walk, and placed his hand in 
 the open palm of Mr. Clifton, saying— 
 
 “¢J will take you at your word, sir! 1 will remain your 
 guest for a few days. I will hope that what you have said 
 in regard to the marriage of myself and your daughter, has 
 been spoken in haste, and under the influence of anger. I 
 trust that you will review your words. To-day you speak from 
 excitement—to-morrow I hope that judgment will dictate 
 your reply. You will remember that J, too, had something 
 to complain of in the fact that my afhanced bride, or one that 
 I considered such, should have been so ill guided, or so illy 
 guided herself, as to suffer her affections to fall into this en- 
 tanglement. But we willsay no more about it now, for I sce 
 Mrs. Clifton about to enter.” 
 
 Georgia entered indeed, smiling. 
 
 Old Mr. Clifton seized the opportunity, and while Major 
 Cabell was paying his devoirs to the beauty, excused him- 
 self and left the room to goand sce how Zuleime was getting 
 on, and to reassure her if necessary. 
 
 As soon as he had left the room, Georgia drew Majer Ca- 
 bell off to a distant sofa. And they sat down and entered 
 upon a long, confidential conversation. And when it was 
 ended, they arose and separated with looks of great satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
205 TUE WIDOWED BRIDE 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE WIDOWED BRIDE. 
 
 Her look composed, and steady eye, 
 Bespoke a matchless constancy,” 
 And there she sat, so calm and pale, 
 
 ‘ That but her breathing did not fail, 
 And motion slight of eye and head, 
 And of her boxom warratited 
 That neither sense nor pulse she lacks, 
 You might have thought a form of wax, 
 Wrought to the very life was there, 
 So still she was, so pale, so fair.—Scort. 
 
 » +uW days after the incidents recorded mm the last chap- 
 tri, Mes- corgia Clifton entered Zuleime’s room. The poor 
 girt was sitting in an arm-chair near the window, idle, as was 
 never he: nabit before, with her hands lying languidly one 
 over the over, and her eyes fixed upon vacancy. 
 
 The beausy went to her with her soft, winning way, and 
 took her hau, and stole her arm over her shoulder, and said, 
 venderly— 
 
 “‘Zuleime, av love, do not sit here by this open window 
 Let me close 11, and lead you to the sofa.” 
 
 There is nowlug so quiet as despair, except death. There 
 is nothing so ducue as despair often is. The beauty knew 
 this by a satanic 1sspiration, and calculated on it. Zuleime 
 suffered herself to ve led to the sofa, which was wheeled up 
 near the fire, as she would have permitted herself to be led 
 any where else. (reorgia sat down by her side, and passed 
 her arm around her waist, and said— 
 
 “My dear, I think you love your old father-~do you 
 Qe t 2? 
 
 The poor girl raised her eyes mournfully to the lauy 
 face, as if she did not understand. 
 
 “You love your father. You would not be willing to. 
 see him ruined in fortune, and degraded w honor, would 
 you !”? 
 
IHE WIDOWED BRIDE. 29 
 
 . till Zuleime kept her eyes fixed upon the speaker, with 
 an expression of hopeless imbecility. 
 
 “¢My dear child, let me be explicit. And try to snder- 
 stand me, Tuleine. It is of vital necessity to your father 
 that you should. Will you listen to me, Zuleime ?” 
 
 « Yes,” said the mourner, mechanically, without removing 
 her gaze. 
 
 * Well, then, you know your grandmother left you thirty 
 thousand dollars? 2 Well. Your father owes debts amount- 
 ing to twenty-five thousand dollars, and is in danger of an 
 execution or a prison, every day! You would willingly give 
 him your fortune to pay his debts with, we know. But, un- 
 fortunately, you cannot du it, because you are not of age. 
 Neither can your father appropriate it, of course. But if 
 you were to marry, then your husband would be in legal! 
 possession of that property, and could dispose of it. Now, 
 Major Cabell has bought up your father’s notes to the 
 amount of eighteen thousand dollars, using all his available 
 funds, for the purpose of saving him from great distress, and 
 in the expectation of marrying you, his daughter, and ob- 
 taining your little fortune, which would replenish his coffers 
 again. Now, Zuleime, Major Cabell is himself pressed for 
 money. He would not, of course, come down upon your 
 father with an execution, but he will be compelled to sell 
 those notes again for whatever he can get for them. And 
 then of course the purchaser—some Jew or broker, would 
 have no such scruples, but would levy on all the personal 
 property of his debtor, and most likely throw him into prison, 
 where he might languish for years— where he might die! 
 Zuleime! you will not suffer this, if you can prevent it, will 
 you? Speak to me, my love! I do not believe you under- 
 stand me now! Why don’t you answer me, Zuleime ?” 
 
 «J—J don’t know. Yesldo. It was about a—about a 
 —about somebody’s going to prison. Was it the murderer? 
 Alas, that will not bring him back. Neither do I wish it. 
 Not even I, who loved him so. I would not make any body 
 suffer, for the world. Ob, no.” 
 
 The beauty looked at the pale girl in deep perplexity a 
 moment, and then said— 
 
 <‘ Zuleime, your father is suffering! Let’s see if that will 
 rouse you!” 
 
210 “HE wIDOWED BRIDE. 
 
 “ My father? Oh, no, he mustn’t. Tell him not to mind 
 it. J donot, much, now. I know he is at rest. And we 
 shall be, soon. Tell him not to mind it.” 
 
 “ Zuleime! Awake! Arouse yourself! Your father is in 
 danger, I tell you!” 
 
 “Tn danger—in danger. Tell me about it.” 
 
 «Listen to me, then! Rouse your mind! and fix it 
 upon what I am going to tell you about your father’s peril.” 
 
 And the lady took her hands. and looked into her eyes, 
 watching their expression, and bringing back her wandering 
 ideas every time they showed the “least sign of flying, and 
 rousing up her flagging mtellect every time it betrayed a 
 disposition to sink—and so repeated the whole history of the 
 difficulty over again. Dut the distracted mind of the poor 
 girl was scarcely able to follow the pains-taking narrator 
 through the facts of the case. Passing her hand once or 
 twice across lier corrugated brow, she said— 
 
 « What—what is it you say about father, and prisons, and 
 Major Cabeli? I—I am afraid my memory isn’t as good as 
 it used to be—please tell me over again.” 
 
 The beauty, with a shrug of her shoulders, reiterated the 
 story, placing it in the fewest, simplest, and most direct 
 words she could find. But the stricken girl only looked 
 sorcly distressed and perplexed, and said, plaintively-— 
 
 ‘«‘ Please forgive me, and tell me what it is that threatens 
 father !” 
 
 « An execution—that will sweep off all the furniture from 
 the house, and all the negroes from the plantation; parting 
 husbands and wives, and parents and children, and brothers 
 and sisters, among those poor, faithful creatures who love 
 you so well. And for your father’s person, a jail, where he 
 may be for years, or until he dies.” 
 
 «¢Oh, pray don’t talk to me any more, my head is so wild, 
 so wandering, 7 wants to go back to something,” said the 
 noor thing, pressing her temples, and strongly attracted te 
 her one great wo. 
 
 “¢ But your father!” 
 
 “Yes! Oh, only tell me what you want me to do!” 
 
 “To marry Major Cabell, who will then have the disposa] 
 of your fortune, and can cover those notes and save your 
 lasner.”’ 
 
THE WIDOWED BRIDE. 211 
 
 « But—oh, yes! Now I remember. Father said there 
 was no necessity!” I needn’t doit!” said the girl, pressing 
 her finger hard upon the centre of her forehead, and looking 
 keen and old with the mental effort to bring memory, atten- 
 tion and understanding to bear upon the subject. ‘Yes, 
 yes, yes, yes,—he said I should weep in peace.” 
 
 «¢ Yes, your poor old father loves you better than himself, 
 And he said that sooner than you should marry a man you 
 did not love, he would die in jail.” 
 
 “Did he? My dear good father! Oh, yes! nowI think 
 of it, it was something like that, sure enough! Only my 
 head is so queer! He must not go to jail—oh, never !”’ 
 
 “He must, unless you marry Major Cabell, and save 
 him.” 
 
 « Well, [can marry Major Cabell—it don’t matter much— 
 do you think it does? Spirits up in Heaven know nothing 
 of what is going on on earth, or they know all about it, and 
 either is better than our deceptive half-knowledge. If spirits 
 know anything, they will know our spirit. Dear Frank will 
 know—will know my spirit—nay, he does! I feel sure of 
 it at this moment. I will marry Major Cabell.” 
 
 “But, Zuleime, if your father thinks you dislike Major 
 Cabell, he will not permit you to marry him.” 
 
 «But I don’t dislike Major Cabell. I don’t dislike any 
 one. I could notnow. It seems to me that I feel sorry for 
 every one. I pity every one. Every one has so much trou- 
 ble, mamma! Mamma, I feel sorry for you. Ido not know 
 how it is, but I do feel very sorry for you. Have you any 
 trouble? You must have. Well, let God do as He pleases 
 with you, because He knows best. Besides, it is only for a 
 little while. And it will all come right. Kiss me, mamma 
 I don’t think I loved you well enough when you first came 
 here a stranger. Never mind, I will try to love you more in 
 the future.” 
 
 Georgia let the poor girl kiss her, and then arose and vine 
 an excuse to go. Zuleime was weakening all her purposes. 
 And she was obliged to escape as people fly sometimes from 
 a sermon. 
 
 «¢ Please send Kate to me, mamma,” said Zuleime. 
 
 And very soon Catherine entered 
 
 “Dear Kaiz! please come and comb and curl my hair, 
 
912 THE WIDOWED BRIDE. 
 
 and put on my crimson dress, and make me decent and pretty 
 to go down into the parlor to see Cousin Charles. It don’t 
 matter, you know, Kate. Frank knows all about it. He 
 thinks so, foo. Because he sees my heart is breaking all the 
 faster for it, and that I shall the sooner be with him. You 
 see, Kate, it is the heart-strings that hold the soul down tx 
 the body, and when they snap—there! It is off—it is gone 
 like a balloon,—when the cord is cut it ascends to Heaven 
 I feel ight like that, sometimes, as if only one little threaa 
 kept my soul down, and if it were to snap, I could go.” 
 
 Catherine looked at the mourner in deep trouble. Then 
 she began to take down her hair and comb its long sable 
 tresses out, because she knew that in itself to be a soothing 
 process. And she stood and combed and brushed it a long 
 time, and then put it up, and bathed her face and hands. 
 
 «< Now, my crimson dress,” said Zuleime, quietly. 
 
 Catherine sat down by her side, and embracing her affec- 
 tionately, said— 
 
 “Dear Zuleime, you are not quite well enough to go dewn 
 into the parlor; and, besides, Major Cabell is not here. He 
 is gone with some gentlemen upon the mountain to shoot 
 birds.” 
 
 Zuleime sat silent for a long time, enveloped by Cathe- 
 rine’s arms, and leaning upon her shoulder. At last Kate 
 whispered— 
 
 ‘«¢ Dear Zuleime, confide in me, and relieve your overbur- 
 dened bosom. A secret is so hard to keep alone in a sor- 
 rowful breast. Lay yours on my heart, Zuleime, and it shall 
 be safer there than my own life. Tell me—what tie is it 
 that binds you to Frank?’ 
 
 “¢ Hush, oh, hush !” 
 
 “Tell me, darling—you know it is not from curiosity I 
 ask—it 1s that [ wish you to relieve your heart.” 
 
 “Hush! I prompsed him not to tell.” 
 
 * Death absolves you from that promise. A painful secret 
 is very hard to keep alone. J know it, dearest, for J, too, 
 have a secret. Now will you trust me?’ 
 
 “Hush! hush! It was his last reqaest—I must comply 
 with it!” said the girl, with wild eyes. 
 
 Catherine knelt down before her, clasped her arms around 
 her, and partly to win ha confidence, and partly to draw 
 
THE WIDOWED BRID&. 213 
 
 her mind from dwelling upon the wo that was crazing her, 
 said :— 
 
 “ Zuleime, look at me. I am going to tell you my secret, 
 that which it will pain and humble my heart to tell !—that 
 which it makes my cheek burn now only to think of! Zu- 
 Jeime, I love a man who never sought, and who would despise 
 my love! And with whom it is forever and forever impossi - 
 ble that I should marry. Yet I love him so much—so mucu, 
 that my heart is ready to burst with its powerless longing to 
 do him some good! Zuleime, I would give him myself— 
 (nay, never mind my cheek burning—TI will speak in spite of 
 its protest)—or any dearest faculty or possession of mine, if 
 it only could increase his happiness. Zuleime, there is a 
 richness and fullness of joy in sacrificing one’s self for one 
 we love that passes all understanding.” 
 
 ‘‘T know there is,” breathed the mourner, looking down 
 in her face seriously. 
 
 “‘ That is the joy that I long for. And oh, believe me, I 
 would sacrifice myself or any possession or faculty I have, if 
 it would only add to his happiness or power. Jiyesight is a 
 precious treasure, is it not? If I could give mine to him, 
 and endow him with perfect vision down to deep old age, I 
 would consent to be dark forever. The power of speech is 
 a great gift—if by the loss of mine I could endow him with 
 irresistible eloquence, I would be dumb forever. He thinks, 
 Yuleime, that I have talent. And sometimes J think—but 
 I don’t know, either! Anyhow, if by yielding a/l mine I 
 could add a mite to the treasures of his intellect, I would be 
 willing to be a fool for life. In a word—if by abdicating all 
 my being, I could add to the largeness of his life, I would 
 clow with joy to do it.” 
 
 “Do not love him so! He will dieif youdo! Jknow 
 wz! Frank died!” 
 
 «¢ And yet, Zuleime, it is not that I wish to Jose my being, 
 but to add to it. I do not know why it is, but I feel— not 
 like an individual, independent existence, but like the 
 complement of that other existence—a half life—not full 
 and complete of itself, waiting to be joined to the other 
 nali.” 
 
 ‘Te will love you. He will find you out,” said Zuleime 
 And her words, and tone, and look thrilled like a prophecy 
 
914 THE WIDOWED BRIDE. 
 
 to the heart of Catherine, but she shook her head gravely, 
 and answered— 
 
 «¢ Never, Zuleime! It would bea sin even to hope it! --— 
 But, Zuleime, I have laid my secret on your heart—now wili 
 you confide in me ?”” 
 
 “Oh, Kate! I would do it. I wish to do it' But I 
 promised him!” 
 
 ‘‘ Dear Zuleime, when he required that of you, he did not 
 think what might, what has happened. You must tell me, 
 Zuleime. For if you have not some one with whom you can 
 talk freely, you—I fear for you. You cannot bear your 
 burden alone! Few human beings can! Tell me, darling ?” 
 
 ‘Oh, Kate! It was the last thing he asked me' I must 
 comply with his wish !” 
 
 «‘ Zuleime! Iam about to cast away all reserve! I am 
 about to tell you the name of him I love so madly. It is 
 Archer Clifton, your cousin—your sister’s betrothed! There! 
 I have thrown open the very sanctuary of my heart to you. 
 I have shown its secret sin and shame! Now, will you con- 
 fide in me!” 
 
 ‘Dear Kate! Dearest Kate! My own secret’s without 
 reserve, but not another’s.” 
 
 Catherine arose and took-the seat by the mourner’s side. — 
 Well would it have been for Zuleime in after life, if she 
 could now have made a confidant as well as friend of the 
 rxcellent girl. But at least Catherine’s efforts had not been 
 all in vain. The mind of the mourner was a little more 
 rational—her part in conversation not quite so distrait. 
 Presently Zuleime said— 
 
 “Tt is getting towards evening. Cousin Charles will be 
 back to supper. Curl my hair, Kate! and put on my crim- 
 son dress, I must go down and spend the evening with them 
 in the parlor! I must, Kate. It is for my dear father’s 
 sake! You do not know, Kate, else you would also advise 
 it ”? 
 
 Catherine essayed to prevent her, but finding her quite 
 determined, yielded the point, and assisted her to dress, 
 When her toilet was complete, she sat down again upon the 
 sofa, and put her hand to her head in troubled thought. 
 Then at last she spoke, saying— 
 
 “ Kate! Lam afraid. It scems to me that —that my head 
 
THE WIDOWED BRIDE. o1S 
 
 has not been quite right. And—and my speech has not 
 been quite to the point. Kate, I want you to tell me—can 
 I trust myself to talk, do you think? or had I better not try 
 this evening? They might think me crazy if I should not 
 talk straight! But I am not! I am not crazy—only— 
 Tell me how I am, and what I had better do, dear Kate ?” 
 
 “Try to attend and be interested in what is going on, 
 dearest, and talk when occasion presents itself. And do not 
 be afraid. Every one will understand it is only nervousness, 
 darling.” 
 
 “ You encourage me, Catherine,” said the poor girl, “and 
 now just give me your arm down stairs.” 
 
 Kate complied with her request. 
 
 The parlor was empty when they entered, and Zuleime 
 had an opportunity of settling herself in a large arm-chair, 
 and composing herself, before any one came in. Mr. Clifton, 
 Major Cabell, and several other gentlemen returned from the 
 thooting excursion and entered the parlor together. Mr. 
 Clifton looked surprised and pleased to see Zuleime, “ clothed 
 and in her right mind ;”? and Major Cabell seemed interested 
 and curious. Zuleime arose, and supported herself by rest- 
 ing one hand upon the arm of the chair, while she received 
 the greetings of her father’s guests. And thanks to the 
 shadowing of the black lustrous curls, and the reflection of 
 the crimson dress, none could see the wanness of her face. 
 Mrs. Clifton and Miss Clifton entered soon after, and in the 
 general conversation that ensued, poor Zuleime escaped par- 
 ticular notice. Once Major Cabell contrived, without draw- 
 ing attention upon himself, to find his way to her side, and 
 miter into conversation with her. And he was surprised, 
 perplexed, nonplussed at the gentleness and almost tender- 
 ness of her manner. Before leaving her he asked— 
 
 *s When can I have an interview with you, Zuleime ?” 
 
 ‘Whenever you please, Cousin Charles,” she answered, 
 gently. 
 
 At parting, he pressed her hand, and to his surprise, the 
 pressure was softly returned. And he left her, thinking 
 ‘‘ the sex” more of a riddle than he ever thought it before. 
 
 The next day, about noon, Major Cabell and Zuleime met 
 in the saloon, and had an interview of nearly an hcur’s 
 length. 
 
216 TITE WIDOWED BRIDE 
 
 When Zuleime left him and came out, she met her father 
 in the hall. Taking his hands in hers, she looked up in his 
 troubled face and said— 
 
 “‘ Dear father! you remember many weeks ago, you asked 
 me to fix the day when I should be married to Cousin 
 Charles ?” 
 
 “Never mind, never mind, my dear! That is all over 
 now! You shall not be troubled, my love !” 
 
 ‘Dear father, I have just told Cousin Charles that I will 
 give him my hand on Tuesday fortnight,” said Zuleime, and 
 pressing both the old man’s hands to her lips, she turned and 
 jeft him standing there in speechless astonishment, while she 
 went up stairs—and throwing herself upon her knees by her 
 bed, buried her face in the clothes, and breathed—* It won’t 
 be for long, Frank! Oh! Frank, you know it won’t be for 
 long '” 
 
THE YOUNG MOURNER. 217 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE YOUNG MOURNER. 
 
 Mine after life? What 1s mine after life? 
 My day is closed. The gloom of night comes on, 
 A hopeless darkness settles o’er my fate-—Joanna BaJuuie. 
 
 THERE is no state of mind so calm as that of hopelessness 
 And, therefore, there is none so often mistaken for resigna- 
 tion. Zuleime’s cheeks were pale and hollow, her eyes 
 heavy and sunken, and surrounded by a dark, livid circle— 
 aud she had contracted an unconscious habit of pressing her 
 hand tightly over her heart, while a look of pain corrugated 
 her brow. Yet, withal, she moved through the house very 
 quietly—without a sigh or a tear—yea, even with a smile for 
 whom she chanced to meet—a wan smile of tenderness, fel- 
 low-feeling. Tor the grief that had come to her own young 
 heart, had revealed to her the secret of a general sorrow, 
 and awakened a deep human sympathy. Yet perhaps it was 
 a morbid excess of this feeling that made her see, in every 
 one she met, a fellow-sufferer. Her father misunderstood 
 her serenity and her sweet smile. And his wife led him into 
 that misunderstanding. 
 
 «‘ Tt is a merciful provision of Heaven, that young people 
 of her tender age, can feel no lasting grief. At first, over 
 any misfortune they lament excessively. But it is very 
 soon forgotten,” said Georgia. 
 
 « Ah, yes! Charley Cabell said something like the same 
 thing, and, indeed, it seems to be true,” replied Mr. Clifton. 
 
 We are easily persuaded to believe that which we wish to 
 eredit. And so the old gentleman believed in the correctness 
 of lis wife’s judgment, and in the reality of his daughter’s 
 peace, 
 
 Major Cabell was baffled and perplexed. ‘Jealousy is as 
 erucl as the grave,” and so, also, is that Lase passion which 
 
218 THE YOUNG MOURNER. 
 
 often goes by the holy name of Love. It had been ander 
 the influence of both of these that Charles Cabell had sworn 
 to punish Zuleime severely for what he called her faithless- 
 ness. Lut for the present, at least, he was completely frus- 
 trated. There was nothing w complain of in her conduct to 
 him. She was very kind and genvie—not witb tne gentleness 
 of meekness end humility, but with that of a compassionate 
 toleration--such as an angel might feel in looking down 
 upon a determined sinner—seeing his moral insanity, and 
 foreseeing his consequent wretchedness. Major Cabell had 
 frequently heard of mourners who could not bear to hear the 
 names of their beloved, lamented dead, spoken before them. 
 And he thought to torture her bosom by frequently revert- 
 ing to “that horrible massacre,” and “poor Frank.” But 
 he could not add one pang to those she had already endured 
 Her sorrow was too deep to be probed—to be touched by a 
 superficial hand like his. She could bear to listen and reply 
 when he talked of her massacred love. For like a stationary 
 panorama of the past and the present, his life and death were 
 ever before her mind. She could converse, without new 
 emotion, of him over whose fate, in its deepest, darkest hor- 
 rors, she was ever brooding. If any mourners cannot brook 
 to hear the name of the lost mentioned in their presence, it 
 is because they are already blessed with long seasons of for- 
 getfulness, and shrink from the pain of remembrance. She 
 had no such pang of sudden recollection to dread. His me- 
 mory— her sorrow—was ever present with her. 
 
 Catherine watchea her with deep and painful interest. 
 She sought an opportunity, and once more had a serious con- 
 versation with her. 
 
 *‘Zuleime, don’t marry under present circumstances. If, 
 as you say, your father is in the power of Major Cabell, it is 
 bad. But if you marry him to deliver your father, it will be 
 worse, and will not eventuate in any good. And two wrongs 
 never make a right, Zuleime. Do no wrong, dearest, but 
 trust in God for deliverance,” said Catherine, earnestly. 
 
 “It seems to me that I am doing right. It will jlease 
 Cousin Charles, and save father. And as for myself—it 
 can’t matter much, you know,” replied the despairing girl. 
 And to this view of the case she adhered, with all the tenacity 
 of a morbid resolution. 
 
THE YOUNG MOURNER. 219 
 
 A few days after this Catherine returned to her brother’s 
 cabin, wondering what new misfortune would—azgainst her 
 fixed determination—throw her back among the Cliftons. 
 
 Major Cabell had written to Richmond for his mother and 
 sisters to come down and be present at his marriage. And 
 one day, near the last of the week, the carriage of Mrs. 
 Cabell rolled up to the door. Knowing nothing whatsoever 
 of Zuleime’s attachment to the young soldier, and consequent 
 deep gricf at his fate, they were very much shocked to see 
 her looking so ill, but quietly ascribed it to fatigue and anx- 
 iety in nursing Carolyn. And Mrs. Cabell was emphatic in — 
 demonstrations of motherly kindness, which the gentle girl 
 acknowledged with grateful smiles, and by such attentions as 
 she had the powcr to bestow. The city ladies had made a 
 short stage that day, and were but little wearied, so that 
 after a little slumber, and the refreshment of the bath, and 
 of tea, they felt well enough to spend the evemmg in the 
 parlor. 
 
 The family were all around the evening fire, when Mrs, 
 Cabell and her daughters entered. 
 
 Major Cabell-—who was as usual sitting by Zuleime, with 
 his arm over the back of her chair in a property-holding sort 
 of manner—arose, and handing his mother to a seat, received 
 from her hand a roll of papers. 
 
 “<Tt is some new music, my son, for the dear girls. There 
 are some beautiful songs of Moore’s just published. Carolya, 
 love, I have thirsted to hear your sweet voice again. Will 
 you sing ?” 
 
 Miss Clifton’s eyes filled with tears, and she turned away 
 her head. 
 
 Zuleime stole to her aunt’s side, and while seeming to 2x- 
 amine the music, whispered— 
 
 “ Dear Aunt Cabell, Carolyn has entirely lost her voice!” 
 
 The lady was very much shocked to hear it, and grieved at 
 her own unfortunate proposition, but durst not trust herself 
 to reply, lest Carolyn should hear and understand the sub- 
 ject of their conversation. 
 
 Major Cabell, who was turning over the music, suddenly 
 had his gaze fixed -by one particular piece. His eyes lighted 
 ev with a peculiar satisfaction, and turning to Zuleime, he 
 
  gaid- 
 
920 THE YOUNG MOURNER. 
 
 “¢ My own. you can read music at sight. Can you nat?” 
 
 “Yes,” replied the girl. 
 
 «* And you can sing and play at sight—can you not ?”” 
 
 “ Yes, if it is not too difficult.” 
 
 “Ts this difficult ?” he asked, holding a page out to her. 
 
 ‘«‘ No, that is very simple,” said Zuleime, looking entirsiy 
 at the music—not at the words. 
 
 ‘“‘It is a ballad of Thomas Moore’s. I wish you to sing it 
 for us. Will you?” 
 
 “ Certainly.” 
 
 “¢ Come, then,” he'said, and took her hand, and led her 
 to the piano. He seated her, and laid the song before her, 
 sayirg to himself, «If she can sing that through without emo< 
 tion—ay, or with emotion—if she can get through it at all-~ 
 she can do, or suffer anything! She is a heroine.” 
 
 Zuleime was reading over the words, preparatory to sing- — 
 ing them. 
 
 “And he was watching her intently. But she read through 
 the song, turning the leaves calmly, her pale cheek never 
 changing its hue. Then she restored the first page to its 
 place before her, and began to play the prelude. ‘The ladies 
 and old Mr. Clifton drew near, and gathered around her. 
 Then her voice arose, soft, clear and plaintive, but unfalter- 
 ing as her cheek remained unchanging—though her father 
 trembled for her as the words of the song fell on his ear. 
 That song was “The Broken Heart,” by Thomas Moore. 
 Zv}oime sang— 
 
 She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps. 
 And lovers around her are sighing, 
 
 But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, 
 For her heart in his grave is lyi ing. 
 
 She sings the wild songs of ber dear native plains, 
 Every note which he loved awaking : 
 
 Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, 
 How the heart of the minstrel is breaking. 
 
 Her voice faltered—she paused. 
 
 “¢ Come’! no miserable, maudlin, mawkish self-pity, I he- 
 -rech you!” whispered Major Cabell, stooping to her ear, 
 
 Whether Mr. Clifton heard the acael whisper, or whether 
 ne only saw her slight agitation, is uncertaim—but he drew 
 near anc stood by her side. She recovered, and continued-~ 
 
THS YOUNG MOURNER. 22.1 
 
 He had lived for his love, for his country he died, 
 They were all that to life- — 
 
 She paused again—-again essayed to sing—her voice qua 
 vering, sunk into silence like the rudely-swept strings of the 
 harpsichord—the grayness of death crept over her counte- 
 nance, and she fell back into the arms of her father, who 
 angrily exclaimed— , 
 
 Charles! you are a brute! a demon! to ask her to sing 
 that song. Zuleime! Zuleime, my darling! speak to me!” 
 
 He sat down on the sofa, holding her in his arms. The 
 ladies drew around with fans, with cold water, with hartshorn. 
 But she recovered very soon, and sat up—and declined going 
 up stairs to bed—and thanked them all for their care, gently 
 begging them not to take so much trouble on her ac- 
 count. 
 
 “This is all very strange, madam,” said Mrs. Cabell, aside 
 to Mrs. Clifton. 
 
 ‘¢ Zuleime is so nervous and sensitive ever since Carolyn’s 
 illness, that the news of that massacre, and the death of her 
 old playmate and companion, has quite overwhelmed her. I 
 suppose this music awoke her sensibilities,” said Georgia, 
 composedly. 
 
 If Mrs. Cabell had any suspicion of the trvth, she was too 
 well bred to express it then and there. And the matter ended 
 for the moment. 
 
 But after this evening, Zuleime ws never the same. Her 
 fortitude seemed entirely to have giver. away. Her calmness 
 was utterly broken up. A strange, wild terror and incerti- 
 tude had come upon her. 
 
 The next day, Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, came over to 
 call on the visitors. Nevetleless, in the course of the call, 
 Major Cabell found the opportunity he sought, of taking Zue 
 leime to task for what he called her miserable weakness. 
 
 “You are unfaithfr]—false at heart—you- cherish the 
 image of this young mer secretly, while you pretend to be 
 true tome! Pah! Well! why don’t you answer me? Have 
 you anything to sa-7?” 
 
 “ Cousin Charles, does not the grave sanctify any affec- 
 tion? Is it a vtime to remember a dead friend ” 
 
 “Tt is wiv rable, druling weakness! a maudlin, mawkish, 
 s4rrlig priirg piece o° unfaithfulness to duty—and leads 
 
 1? 
 
 “ae 
 
2 THE YOUNK MOURNER. 
 
 nw 
 Ni 
 
 you into the exhibition of such scenes as that of ae night 
 Such whining, whimpering, contemptible se/f-mty! I protest 
 you are the most false-hearted and selfish wezaan I ever met 
 with in my life. It is your own griefs and regrets and re- 
 verses, that occupy you all the time. And now! instead of 
 listening to me, and replying—you are falling away inte 
 thought again! Come! answer me, now! Was it not self- 
 pity, that caused you to faint during the singing of that @ 
 propos song—which, by the way, I gave you as an ordeal! 
 Come! say! Wasn’t it self-pity ?” 
 
 “6 No, nor was it the song. If I pitied myself, should I 
 not pity you as much? Itis not sucha happy fate, Cousin 
 Uharles, to marry a grief-stricken girl like me, I know.” 
 
 “No! If I calculate upon your continued indulgence of 
 that grief, which I do not! Vo! Trust me on the part of 
 my wife, there must and shall be no such exhibitions of feel- 
 ing as that of last night.” 
 
 “JT do not know why you wish to marry me!” she broke 
 forth, with strange wildness. ‘* You-do not love me! Per- 
 haps you hate me, and marriage will give you the same power 
 to work out your hate as it would to act out your love! Yes! 
 I do suppose that is really the key to the riddle !” 
 
 ‘«‘ Perhaps it is,” he answered, sarcastically. 
 
 «One thing I beg of you,” she said; ‘ while we stay here 
 —in my father’s presence—try to use me kindly—to spare 
 his feelings—he is an old man. Reserve your vengeance 
 until Iam your wife, until we get to Richmond, when you 
 will have full power, and ample time and space to work your 
 will.” 
 
 While she spoke so wildly, she pressed and rubbed her 
 hand spasmodically against her heart. And her pale brow 
 was corrugated, and her intense black eyes strained and sharp- 
 ened as by mental and physical pain. She gasped for breath, 
 and began again. 
 
 “J do not know—I am sure—I cannot tell—whether, 
 
 after all, we will ever mar—” 
 
 What she was about to say was cut short by the entrance 
 of Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, who came in, with her shawl 
 
 and bonnet on, to take leave of Zuleime and Major Cabell, 
 and invite them to join the rest of the family in coming te 
 dine and spend the evening at Hardbargain the next day 
 
THE YOUNG MOURNER. 223 
 
 Major Cabell accepted the invitation for himself and Zuleime, 
 and the lady took her departure. 
 
 The next day was Saturday. The family set out on their 
 visit at an early hour of the day, as is the social custom of 
 country neighbors. Old Mr. Clifton, his wife, and his eldest 
 daughter, rode in his carry-all. Mrs. Cabell and her three 
 daughters went in that lady’s carriage. Zuleime rode on 
 hurseback, attended by Major Cabell. 
 
 It was a glorious Indian summer day, when the splendor 
 of the autumnal sunlight would be too dazzling, but for the 
 soft, warm mist spread veil-like over it. At another time, 
 Zuleime, true worshiper of nature, might have drawn deep 
 draughts of pleasure from the beauty of the scene. But 
 now the gorgeous magnificence of the forests, in their many 
 colered foliage—the misty mountain steeps softening the glory 
 —the fine transparent neutral tint of the heavens leading 
 the eye and mind up through infinite heights of ether—the 
 glowing clouds reposing along the horizon—all were lost upon 
 her. ) 
 
 An hour’s ride by the carriage road brought the party te 
 Hardbargain. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton received them with her usual quiet cordiality 
 There was something very composing in that calm, kind, self. 
 possessed woman’s manner. There was something very se- 
 dative also in the air of her home. In her company and in 
 her house the restless became quiet, the anxious easy, the 
 desponding cheerful, even the despairing mourners over some 
 great heart-wreck, grew languidly aware of how much good 
 was left them in the comforts of daily domestic life, and the 
 amenities of social intercourse. 
 
 She was strikingly like ber son. One was inclined to won- 
 der how they—so nearly identical in features and complexion 
 —-should differ so widely in many points of character and 
 sentiment, and had to remember that all in which he did not 
 resemble her was inherited from the Cliftons. Kate felt the 
 likeness keenly.. And when the lady turned those quiet, 
 brilliant eyes upon her, her heart thrilled to the glance with 
 strange pain and pleasure. And when once or twice-—fcr 
 the lady was never very demonstrative in her affection—she 
 had quietly drawn the maiden to her bosom— it was such a 
 heart-feeding comfort, that Kate felt there would be no pos- 
 
934 THE YOUNG MOURNER. 
 
 sibility of forgetting Archer Clifton, while thrown into daily 
 intercourse with his mother. Once when Mrs. Clifton had 
 looked tenderly into her eyes, and drawn and pressed her 
 closely against her breast, the girl, lost for an instant, had 
 thrown her arms around the lady, and buried her face in her 
 bosom. And for some time after that, terrified at her own 
 impulse, she had been as shy of the mother, as she could have, 
 been of the son. Kate had kept away from Hardbargain for 
 many weeks, but to-day, when the party from White Cliffs had 
 arrived, Mrs. Clifton sent for her, with the message that her 
 friend Zuleime had come. That was no sufficient Jure to the 
 resolute girl, however, who had once for all determined that 
 nothing but the absolute necessities of others should draw 
 her again into the dangerous association of the Cliftons. She 
 returned thanks to the lady, declining the visit. Mrs. Clif- 
 ton was disappointed in missing the society of her young fa- 
 vorite for that day. Yet the time passed very pleasantly 
 notwithstanding. There is scarcely any such thing as a stiff 
 dinner party in the country. And such a thing was impos- 
 sible at Hardbargain. The ladies had all brought their 
 “ parlor’ work’’—fine netting, knotting, knitting, or sewing— 
 and they worked and conversed ina quiet, pleasant way, 
 while the gentlemen mingled in their conversation, or talked 
 with each other upon the two reigning subjects of country 
 discussion—agriculture and politics—or sauntered out upon 
 the lawn to enjoy the fine autumnal weather until dinner. 
 After which, the ladies in the cozy parlor lounged a little 
 more lazily, and grew a great deal more kindly in their inter- | 
 change of thought and sentiment, and the gentlemen enjoyed 
 a promenade on the piazza, and the stolen luxury of their 
 cigars. 
 
 After an early tea the party took leave. They returned 
 in the same manner in which they had come. Zuleime on 
 horseback, escorted by Major Cabell ; the others in carriages, 
 Even the soothing influence of Mrs. Clifton’s home and 
 society had almost failed to quiet the miserable girl. Her 
 manner, all day long, had been erratic in the extreme—now 
 depressed into gloom—sunken nearly to the depth of stu- 
 Sea tema full of ‘starts and flows” as the crime- 
 
 urthened Macbeth. As she rode home, in perfect silence, 
 -he evil eye of her companion watched her stealthily. Mer 
 
THA YOUNG MOURNER. 225 
 
 cheek was pale and hoilow, and her eye sunken and heavy. 
 Let sometimes her eyes would lighten as with sudden terror, 
 like those of a startled hare, and her cheek would flush and 
 lade. The road was broad, yet shadowy, from the meeting 
 of the branches of the huge trees overhead. And so soon 
 as the sun went down if became too dusky to permit him to 
 see the flickering and sinking of the fire in her eye and cheek, 
 but he watched her closely, nevertheless. Suddenly he saw 
 her sway to and fro in the saddle, like a reed blown by the 
 wind. ‘Then, ere he could spring to her aid, the reins dropped 
 from her hands, and she fell from the horse, her foot catch- 
 ing in the stirrup. The well-trained palfrey stopped, and 
 stood without so much as lifting a hoof. With a deep curse, 
 Major Cabell threw himself from his steed, and raised her, 
 disengaging her foot from the stirrup. He sat down on a 
 hank, with her on his knees, and took off her hat, and began 
 to feel her head, neck and arms, for injuries. It seemed im- 
 possible to tell whether, or how she was hurt. The carriages 
 were some yards behind, and concealed by a turn of the road. 
 He dipped his hand in a run, at the foot of the bank, and 
 sprinkled her face ; and before the carriages arrived, she had 
 opened her eyes, and sat up. She said that she was not hurt— 
 that it was only a fainting spell, such as she had had at -the 
 piano. But her voice was very weak, and her frame trem- 
 bling, and her general manner frightened, She placed her 
 hand against Major Cabell’s chest, , partly to assist herself in 
 rising, partly to push him away, and stood alone upon her 
 feet, until her father’s carriage drew up. ‘Then she said she 
 was tired, and wished to get in. 
 
 Old Mr. Clifton sent a glance of impotent rage at Major 
 Cabell, as he lifted his child in—placing her in the vacant 
 fourth seat—the other three being occupied by his wife, eldest 
 daught.r, and himself. 
 
 Zuleine sat next to her sister, and opposite Georgia; and 
 tle last mentioned lady studied her vis-a-vis, with as much 
 interest, and with far more curiosity and comprehension, than 
 Major Cabell had exercised. 
 
 The girl sat perfectly still, and quite lost to all around 
 her. But Georgia saw that it was the fearful stillness of 
 svil-restrained frenzy. 
 
 They reached home at last. Georgia was handed out first 
 
996 THE YOUNG MOURNER. 
 
 she waited for Zuleime, who followed. She wished to draw 
 the girl’s arm within her own. But Zuleime, turning on her 
 a dilated, strained, fiery gaze, fled past her into the house. 
 And then the lady saw, with a shudder, that it was indecd 
 the fires of incipient madness that kindled the lambent flame 
 in the girl’s eyes! 
 
 When they were all assembled in the parlor, around the 
 evening fire, with books, and music, and light needle-work— 
 
 «Where is Zuleime ®” asked her father. 
 
 “She has retired to her room, very much fatigued,” re- 
 plied his wife, and the subject dropped. 
 
 The next morning, when the family gathered around the 
 breakfast- table, the youngest daughter was still missing. 
 
 “Where is Zuleime* Why doesn’t Zuleime come? Caro- 
 lyn, have you seen your sister this morning? How is she?” 
 asked old Mr. Clifton. | 
 
 Carolyn replied that she had not seen her since the pre- 
 eeding evering. 
 
 «“ Send some one, then, to her chamber, to see how she is, 
 and whether she will join us at breakfast, or have anything 
 sent up to her room. Or—stay! Carolyn, don’t send—go 
 yourself, my love, to your sister, it will be only kind.” 
 
 Carolyn left the table, and went up stairs, and after an 
 absence of fifteen or twenty minutes, returned, and announced, 
 with a pale cheek, that Zuleitme’s chamber had not been oc- 
 cupied during the night—that she herself was no where to be 
 found in the house—and that no one of the servants had seen 
 her since the evening before! 
 
 A dreadful suspicion instantly seized upon all who remem- 
 bered her wild and moody looks and manners of the preceding 
 few days; and they simultaneously arose from the table, and 
 with looks of alarm, dispersed in various directions, in quest 
 of the missing girl. 
 
 The house, kitchen, dut-buildings, negro quarters, garden, 
 vineyard, orchard, the plantation and the woods were succes 
 sively and vainly searched. 
 
 Messengers were dispatched to Hardbargain and to the 
 neighboring plantations, with inquiries that proved fruitless. 
 
 Old Mr. Clifton ran up and down the house and grounds 
 like one distracted. 
 
 At last, near night, traces were discovered of the lost one. 
 
TEE YOUNG MOURNER. 227 
 
 Upon the edge of the stream, where the banks were soft and 
 deep, small foot-prints were seen—and half-way down the 
 bank her little slipper was found, with its toe deep in tho 
 mud, and the heel sticking up, as if lost there in the down- 
 ward run of its owner—and from the branch of a sapling 
 near, a shrea vf her crimson dress fluttered, as if caught and 
 torn off in the same swift descent. 
 
 Old-Mr. Clifton walked down there, to see the spot; but 
 ire was carried back. 
 
 And before the next sun arose, Mrs. Georgia Clifton had 
 her heart’s first desire. 
 
 She was a widow 
 
223 CONFESBION. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 CONFESSION. 
 
 I was so young—1 loved him so—I had 
 No mother—God foryot me—and | fe.l! 
 BrowninG—B ot ON THE ’SCUTCHEON 
 
 A RETROSPECT of several hours is necessary here. You 
 will remember that during the drive home from Hardbargain, 
 Mrs. Georgia Clifton had watched Zuleime with much in- 
 terest and curiosity, and with more perspicuity. When the 
 unfortunate girl had sprung from the carriage, and fled up 
 the steps into the house, Mrs. Clifton had followed her. In- 
 stead of going up into her chamber, she had passed directly 
 through the hall, and gone out at the back-door—Georgis 
 having kept near her. ‘I'here was the kitchen garden at the 
 back of the house, and then the vineyard, and then the 
 orchard—through all these she suceessive!y passed, with the 
 same wild, hurried gait, and entered the forest beyond, and 
 descended into the deep glen, through which the mountain- 
 stream roared. It was very difficult to follow the reckless 
 steps of the fugitive down this rough declivity, and while 
 cautiously descending, with the aid of projecting fragments 
 of rock and smaller branches of trees and bushes, Georgia 
 lost sight of the girl. When she reached the bottom of the 
 gorge, through wlfich the torrent raged and raved, Zulcime 
 was no where to be seen. 
 
 The night was very dark, and though a few large, brilliant 
 stars were to be seen directly over head, yet low from the 
 horizon, heavy, black masses of clouds were slowly rolling 
 up. And the wind moaned and died away at intervals— 
 prophetic of the winter’s storm. The single, large stars 
 overhead were reflected in the stream—not clearly and 
 ealinly, but plunging and leaping with the wild water. The 
 banks each side Jay shrouded in gloom and mystery, rocks 
 
CONFESSION. 229 
 
 and trees indistinctly blended together in dark and sombre 
 hues. ‘The everlasting mountains stood around, vast, vague, 
 and awful. The seven white peaks gleamed up in the back 
 ground, like the ghostly genii of the scene. <A shiver of 
 superstitioug fear shook the frame of Georgia, and she had 
 turned to retrace her steps home, when a sound between a 
 moan and a suffocating sob arrested her purpose. She crept 
 towards the spot whence the sound proceeded, and there, 
 half hidden in the deep gloom of overhanging willows, she 
 dimly disoerned the figure of the unhappy girl, bending over 
 the stream, and gazing intently upon the water, where the 
 reflection of the stars leaped and plunged with the waves. 
 As if communing with herself, she murmured—“ There is 
 fae there! There is peace there!” Then her form bent 
 ower, her gaze grew more earnest and intense, as though 
 body, soul and spirit were irresistibly fascinated, drawn 
 down by the glamour of the water! And—“ There is peace, 
 deep peace there,” she muttered! How stormy must have 
 been the soul that saw deep peace in the raging torrent! 
 Her eyes shone in the dusk with a bright, phosphoric light, 
 and still pouring their splendcr upon the dark, wild water, 
 she murmured—* Peace! deep peace.” Suddenly up flew 
 her arms, and she sprang forward. 
 
 The ready hand of Georgia caught her shoulder and pulled 
 her back, exclaiming— 
 
 “Mad girl! What are you about to do?” 
 
 Zuleime sprang around with her eyes all wide and ablaze, 
 like one suddenly waking up from a terrible dream, and not 
 yet quite brought to consciousness. Georgia drew her away 
 from the dangerous proximity of the torrent. Zuleime threw 
 her hands to her head with sudden recollection and intensity 
 of consciousness, and sunk down at the feet of the lady, 
 clasping her knees, and exclaimmg— 
 
 ‘¢Qh! you don® know what you’ve done! Why did you 
 }iuck me back! There was peace there! The only peace 
 left for me!” 
 
 ‘¢ You are frantic, miserable girl! What is the meaning 
 of this madness?’ asked Georgia, in a stern, curt tone. 
 Convulsive sobs, shaking as with a tempest the form of the 
 girl, alone answered her. 
 
 “ VYhat will your father—what will your intended his 
 
230 CONFESSION. 
 
 band think of this? Say! Speak! What do you suppose 
 Major Cabeil—”’ . 
 
 “Oh! do not speak of him!” gasped the girl. 
 
 “¢ Will you tell me what you mean by this conduct?” 
 sneered Georgia. 
 
 «© Mamma—” commenced Zuleime but her voice brcke 
 down. 
 
 “Zuleime! come get up and come home !” 
 
 “Oh, no, no, no! Not home! NVever home again!” 
 
 “Once more, what am I to think of this frantic be- 
 haviour. 
 
 «¢ Mamma !”’ 
 
 ‘“‘ Don’t call me mamma, if you please! It may not be 
 Pee or politic, to acknowledge that tender relationship. 
 
 ut explain yourself, lest I bring you to those who will de- 
 mand the explanation with less forbearance !” 
 
 “Mercy! merey! I will tell you anything! everything! 
 Only do not kill my father with the story !” 
 
 << Speak, then !” 
 
 “ Lady—” 
 
 “Well !” 
 
 But some feeling stronger than fear, gripped her tears 
 and stopped her speech. 
 
 “ Zuleime! How long will you try my patience ?’ 
 
 “ Madam—” 
 
 Another hesitation. 
 
 «What, then ?” 
 
 ““T have been—a wife! I am—a widow! I am fated 
 to be—” 
 
 “‘ Well,” asked Georgia, in a deep-drawn [reath between 
 her teeth, “‘ you are fated to be—” 
 
 “<A mother !” breathed the girl, in a dying voice, cover- 
 ing her face with both hands, and sinking lower on the 
 ground. 
 
 There was a long, deep pause, filled up with the roar of 
 the torrent and th2 moan of the rising wind. Suddenly 
 up sprang Zuleime, with fire in her eyes, and made a dash 
 towards the water. The swift arm of Georgia caught and 
 dragged her back. No word was spoken yct. The impulse 
 of frenzy passed off, and Zuleime sunk into her old 
 vosture, 
 
CONFESSION. 231 
 
 “ Get up,” at last said Georgia, half-shaking, half-putting 
 the girl upon her feet. ‘‘ Get up and come with me.” 
 
 And she drew her to a fragment cf rock, at a safer lise 
 tance, pushed her down on the seat, and dropped herself by 
 her side. 
 
 «¢ Now, tell me of this,’? she commanded, in a hard, curt 
 tone. ‘ You were married 2?” 
 
 “‘ Yes, yes!” 
 
 <¢ Who was your husband ?” 
 
 “Ah, you know! You must know! He who died in 
 yonder field of blood, under the tomahawk of the Shosho- 
 nowa—lI am very wretched !” 
 
 “Stay !—is this true—about the marriage, I mean ¥” 
 
 “True as God’s Word!” 
 
 “Certainly the marriage was not legal without your 
 father’s consent, and would have been annulled by him. But 
 now he will permit his consent to be supposed. Let’s see! 
 the widow of an army officer entitled to his half-pay, per- 
 haps; I do not know—perhaps to a pension, too, as he died 
 in the field of battle. Zuleime, upon the whole, I think that 
 you were rash to attempt suicide. Your position and pros- 
 pects are not so bad. If Major Cabell is anxious to possess 
 you, now that he supposes you to be a maudlin, love-sick 
 girl, grieving yourself to death over the grave of your lover, 
 he will be quite as willing to marry you a year hence, when 
 he knows you to be the widow of Captain Fairfax—for that, 
 I understand, was his rank when he fell. Come, girl, live! 
 Acknowledge your marriage, like a truthful woman! Bring 
 your child into God’s world like a Christian woman! And 
 after a sufficient time has elapsed, marry Major Cabell, like 
 a sensible woman! For I do assure you, that the gallant 
 Major is sufficiently enamored of your young beauty to wait 
 that length of time, if compelled to do so.” 
 
 “© Ah, yes! J think he is enamored of me as the Shosho- 
 nowa was of poor Frank’s hair!”’ bitterly said the girl. 
 
 _ “This marriage must be announced at once! Who per 
 formed the ceremony ?” 
 
 «Old Mr. Saunders, the Baptist preacher.” 
 
 “ What! He who was found dead in-his bed. 
 
 «¢ Yes, yes, it was he!” 
 
 “Tity for your sake that he is dead! But, you doubtless 
 
932 CONFESSION. 
 
 had some confidant, some witness—Kate Kavanagh, perhaps, 
 or some one else? Say! speak! There was some witness 
 to your marriage, who can be produced to prove it?” 
 
 “No! There was none! It was so sudden!” 
 
 “ None !—no proof of your marriage? Yet stup—stay !— 
 there is a chance yet, I believe; I do not know. You were 
 married with a license, of course ? 
 
 “Yes, yes!” 
 
 ‘©The county clerk who issued it will prebably remenber 
 the occurrence. That will be something in vour favor, 
 though, alas! only imperfect, circumstantial evidence ; for 
 the mere taking out of a license is no conclusive proof of a 
 marriage.” 
 
 “Ah, great or small, as proof it is of ne avail. The 
 license was procured b/ank, for Carolyn and Archer, because 
 he had forgotten her full name, and it was afterwards filled 
 out with our nanies.” 
 
 “No matter. You were married with it' And now I 
 remember a saving thing! The clergyman who married you 
 of course affixed his certificate of marriage to the license, and 
 gave it to you. Where is it? All depends new upon that. 
 Where is it ?” 
 
 “JT donot know! Inever sawit! If the parson gay 
 one, probably Frank took charge of it!” 
 
 Again a pause fell between them, and the uoises of the 
 wind and waters arose in gloomy concert. A¥* last Georgia 
 spoke— 
 
 “‘ Miserable girl! And so you have no procf whatever of 
 this asserted marriage ?” 
 
 “None! none! But oh, what does that matter, after all 2 
 God knows that we loved, and were married, a He knows 
 that we will soon be reunited!” 
 
 “ Wretched girl! who will credit the story ?” 
 
 “No one in the world, perhaps! But, ah! what odds? 
 Could the proving of my marriage bring Aim back to life, or 
 give my father happiness ?” 
 
 “Most wretched girl! You seem quite lost to the shame 
 you have brought upon yourself! the dishonor you have 
 brought upon your family !” 
 
 “ Ah, goon! You cannot say anything to me so bitter ag 
 w~ heart is saying all the time!” 
 
CONFESSION. 233 
 
 “ Your father! Your old, gray-haired father! to bring 
 him to shame in his old age! Can he survive the knowledge 
 of your fall ?” 
 
 “T know he cannot! I know it! Oh, oh!” 
 
 “Carolyn, too! To destroy all her prospects in life. 
 Who will ever wed the sister of a supposed—” 
 
 “¢ Ah, spare me that! Why did you pluck me back! the 
 river would have covered all!” 
 
 ‘* Because I did not know or dream your folly! Zulcime, 
 your father, who could bear your death, could never survive 
 your disgrace !” 
 
 “ Oh, God, I feel it!” 
 
 he Zuleime——you must die!” 
 
 A pause, when but for the roar of the torrent, and the 
 howl of the wind, their very hearts might have been heard 
 rlowly beating. 
 
 “ Zuleime, you must not live to bring shame upon us! 
 You must die !”* 
 
 *“*Ah! Why did you hinder me when it would not have 
 been a crime ?” 
 
 «< What mean you 2?” 
 
 “YT was mad then! I knew not what I did! God would 
 not have charged me with my death! Iam sane now !—sane, 
 though most wretched !”’ 
 
 “ Zuleime, you must die!—not in reality, but in appear- 
 ance. It must be believed that you are dead—-dead by your 
 own act, as you intended. And I will provide for your 
 escape and your future support. 
 
 “ Alas! lady, what is it you advise me to do? Deceive 
 my poor father, so cruelly, and never, never undeceive him 
 again? And never, never see him again ?” 
 
 «Lost girl! if I had not saved you an hour ago, would 
 you have been aiive to ask the question ?” 
 
 “Ah, no’ But, oh, my father! Who will comfort 
 him 2” 
 
 ‘Who would have comforted him had you effected your 
 purpose this hour? What would comfort him for your degra- 
 dation? Foolish girl, that will console him for your supposed 
 death, which never could zonsole him for your fall—time. 
 Besides, if you are supposed to be dead, it will not only save | 
 as all from shame, but your father will be your heir, and 
 
234 CONFESSION. 
 
 ean appropriate that thirty thousand dollars to the payment 
 of his debts. Zuleime, it seems to me you owe us all this 
 sacrifice.” 
 
 «JT am very weak and miserable. I—lI scarcely know 
 right from wrong! Do what you please with me, only con- 
 sole my father!” 
 
 «And at any rate, girl, this plan is far better than the selfs 
 destruction you meditated awhile ago. By this plan you will 
 be able to save your child.” 
 
 “ Ah! to what end? To be as miserable as its mother ?” 
 
 “ Zuleime! time presses. ‘To-night you must journey to 
 L , and take the stage thence to Richmond. I have 
 a negro here on whose secrecy I can depend; he shall take 
 two horses from the stable and convey you to L in 
 time to meet the Richmond stage. I will give you a letter 
 that you must deliver to its address as sodn as you reach the 
 city. Get up now and come with me,” said Georgia, taking 
 her hand to assist her in rising. 
 
 The unhappy girl mechanically yielded herself to the 
 guidance of “ the dark ladie,” and they ascended the glen. 
 
 Retracing their steps through forest, field, orchard, vine- 
 yard and garden, they reached the house, and entered by the 
 back door. The hall was deserted ; the family being at that 
 hour gathered around their parlor fire, and the servants being 
 at supper. 
 
 “ Zuleime, go quietly up into your chamber and get ready, 
 while I go down and find the man I spoke of,” said Georgia, 
 
 Zuleime mechanically obeyed The next hour, 
 while her father and sister and friends were enjoying their 
 happy evening reunion in the warm, bright parlor, the 
 wretched Zuleine, through the dark night, and the howling 
 wind, commenced her journcy. Of what followed the dis- 
 covery of her loss, you are already possessed. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
4 DOMESTIC SCENE, 284 
 
 CHAPTHR XX. 
 A DOMESTIC SCENE 
 
 A light, commodious caamber, 
 Looking ont to the hills, where the shine 
 Of the great sun may enter.—Mary HowI1rTt. 
 
 NEARLY twelve months have passed since the death of Mr. 
 Nifton. It is October, the most glorious month in the year, 
 when the gorgeous beauty of nature more than satisfies— 
 when it enraptures the soul. 
 
 I shall introduce you into a chamber, whose three large 
 windows look out upon the scene of glorious magnificence, 
 only to be found when mountains, vales and forests wear 
 their gorgeous autumn livery. It is a very large apartment, 
 so long and lofty, that the great four-post bedstead, standing 
 with its head against the upper end, is not in the way. At 
 the lower end of the room, there is an old-fashined fire-place, 
 where an oak fire is burning. The floor is covered with an 
 ingrain carpet, of warm, rich hues. The bedstead, lounge 
 and cushioned chairs are clothed with dark, bright chintz. 
 The windows are curtained with orange-colored damask, 
 which give a mellow, autumnal tone to the atmosphere of the 
 room. The curtains are festooned back, to admit the sun- 
 shine, and the glorious view without. 
 
 The lounge is drawn up to the left of the fire-place, and 
 Carolyn Clifton, i in deep mourning, reclines upon it. She is 
 very much changed since we saw her last. There is scarcely 
 a trace of her disease left—only a few pits scattered thinly 
 over the lower part of the chin and throat. But she is very, 
 very fragile, and her thin, white face is almost spectral, in 
 
225 A ‘DOMESTIC SUENE. 
 
 contrast with her black dress. Her fair hair has grown ont 
 richer, sunnier in hue than before. It is just long enough te 
 turn, in natural, smooth ringlets, that reach to her throat. 
 And she wears it so. And those bright curls soften and 
 shade the pearly whiteness of her cheek. The expression of 
 her countenance has changed also. It wears a subdued, 
 almost patient air of suffering. She is beautiful, although 
 now that the roundness and bloom of her cheek are gone, 
 she does not think so. She is beautiful, as she lies there 
 contemplating, with remcerseful tenderness, a miniature that 
 she has drawn from her bosom. | 
 
 In the cushion chair, on the right of the fire-place, sits 
 Catherine Kavanagh. She has also changed within the year. 
 Her form is fuller, rounder, more womanly. Her grave, 
 almost stern features, have softened into gentleness. Her 
 voice is softer and deeper. Its tones indeed are very beauti- 
 ful, and modulated with every shade of feeling. She wears 
 her hair in the same old style, parted over the forehead, rip- 
 pling down in dark, bright wavelets around her cheeks, and 
 earried behind, and woven with the back hair into a large 
 plait, and then rolled round and round into a succession of 
 rings—a rich, dark, burnished mass of hair— 
 
 “Golden where the sunlight played, 
 But where the tendrils sought the shade, 
 Dark, but very beautiful.” 
 
 tier dress of dark brown stuff, with the little white: throat- 
 ruffle, and the black silk apron, is not very becoming to her. 
 But she thinks too little of her personal appearance, to care 
 for any quality in her clothing beyond neatness and comfort. 
 She is knitting very leisurely, stopping occasionally to mea- 
 sure the stocking she is engaged upon with the finished one 
 which lies upon her lap. Kate is silent and thoughtful. All 
 her life, up to this date, has been passed in the ministry to 
 sorrow—yes, to all sorts of sorrow—to the suffering arising 
 from vice—to the despair caused by evil passions—to com- 
 mon illness—to pestilence forsaken of all but her—to death! 
 Yes! But little turned of sixteen years of age, and to al] 
 these forms of human misery had she been—not a minister 
 
 jag angel, but a ministering child and woman—that ministry 
 of sorrow had filled up al her years, from early childhood, 
 to this hour. Now her days were passed in soothing and 
 ekeering the solitude and depression of her invalid com 
 
A DOMESTIC SCENE. 237 
 
 panion. And Kate was grave and thoughtful, because sha 
 was tempted to think that life was made up of nothing else 
 but trouble. Her hope in happiness beyond her experience 
 was faint. Her faith was dim. Andnowonder. Itseemed 
 time she saw some one else’s happiness, if not her own. It 
 was hard to pour the words of faith, hope and cheerfulness 
 tmto the ear of another, when the fountain in her own heart 
 was failing. It was only a temporary darkening and failing 
 of the spirit. A silent, earnest prayer, and all was clear 
 and strong again. The room was provocative of thought, if 
 not of pensiveness. It was so still and warm and mellow, 
 between the fire and the golden sunshine coming softened 
 through the curtains. And both girls were silent, while 
 Kate leisurely plied her knitting-needles, and Carolyn con- 
 templated the miniature. At last Miss Clifton spoke— 
 
 ‘¢ Catherine, look upon that face. Study it. Should you 
 believe, now, that the owner of that beautiful face could be 
 unrelenting, unforgiving ?”” And she passed the miniature 
 to her companion. Kate received it—glanced at it. It was 
 a faithful likeness of Archer Clifton. And those features, 
 so long unseen, and now suddenly revealed, thrilled with such 
 electric power to the heart of the girl, that after the first 
 recognizing glance, she instantly returned it. And though 
 her heart had paused in its pulsations, and now threbbed 
 thick and fast, she answered, calmly— 
 
 ‘¢ He is not unrelenting or unforgiving, Miss Clifton.” 
 
 “Oh! he is! heis! It has been fifteen months since we 
 parted in anger, and no word or sign from him yet. Oh! 
 Kate, what do you think of it ?” 
 
 ‘<1 think he truly loves you, Miss Carolyn.” 
 
 “ Oh! he did—he did, but I scorned and insulted him, and 
 it is past, past !” 
 
 «‘ There is no past tense to real love, lady.” 
 
 “¢ Ah, Catherine, you speak of what you have had no exe 
 perience in. My scorn killed his love.” 
 
 “ Real love is immortal, lady, it cannot be killed.” 
 
 « Ah, child, you speak without knowledge.” 
 
 «“ Without experimental knowledge, Miss Clifton. Andall 
 vhe highest truths we have are obtained without experimen- 
 tal knowledge. ‘I know that true affection is undying, by the 
 same light that without the Bible shows me that God exista 
 —that He made all souls, and that all souls are immortal. 
 It isone of the ‘self-evident’ truths. Ah, Miss Clifton, true 
 
 14 
 
238 A DOMESTIC SCENE. 
 
 affectivn car, no more be killed by scorn, than an angel tould 
 
 be overcome by a demon, than Heaven could be conquered by » 
 hell. In the contest between true affection and scorn, it is 
 
 affection must. conquer—scorn must yield. It must be so, 
 lady. The heavens are pledged to it. The sovereignty cf 
 
 the right is involved in it. And when, in such a contest, af 
 
 fection fails, it is because it never was true. No, lady, true 
 affection is never conquered. It is scorn that is-conquered. 
 It is scorn that has yielded now. You do not scorn him now, 
 lady.” 
 
 “© No—I would I could!” 
 
 ‘‘ Then, ia the death of your own scorn see the immortal- 
 ity of his love. He will come back to you. He will come 
 back the first free moment that he has.” 
 
 ‘‘Ah, Catherine! In all this fifteen months he has not 
 written to me.” 
 
 “ You do not know that, Miss Carolyn. J believe that he 
 has written to you, and that the letter has been lost. You 
 know how irregular and uncertain the mail is from that 
 distant frontier.” 
 
 “Catherine! I have been thinking of writing to him 
 What is your opinion? What would you advise me te 
 do?’ | 
 
 ‘« Not for the world, lady! For, trust me, for every step 
 of advance a woman makes, a man of high honor and fine 
 sensibilities retreats.” 
 
 Miss Clifton’s brow flushed, and she made a gesture of im- 
 patience, as she exclaimed— 
 
 “Then why, why knowing that, does he not write ?” 
 
 «< Because, perhaps, his first letters miscarried, and he 
 stopped under the supposition that you would not answer him. 
 And then, lady, under all these circumstances, the stiff pen 
 and the cold paper cannot convey all the burning words he 
 would have to pour out at your feet. He will come!” 
 
 “©¢He will come.? Ah! in that very phrase is a knell 
 deeper than all the rest! He will come! And what a 
 spectre he will see in me! He cannot continue to love ine! 
 Impossible! Impossible! He can never love such a faded 
 and scarred ruin as I am.” 
 
 «¢ Dear Miss Clifton, I have told you so often that you ara 
 not aruin! Your face is very lovely, indeed it is! Fair and 
 delicate and pensive, and far more attractive to all good 
 hearts than ever it was in its high bloom.” 
 
A DOMESTIC SCENE. Fs 239 
 
 “Ah, but faded—faded—faded!” mournfully replied 
 Carolyn. 
 
 “¢ Aud then, dear lady, true affection is of the soul. I 
 tas been said that love is blind. It is not so. Love has 
 Nivine eyes, ind creates the beauty that it looks upon. He 
 will love you the more for the calamity and sorrows that have 
 fallen upon you. He wiil see a deeper beauty in your pen- 
 sive face, and his love will make it real.” " 
 
 “Oh! impossible, I tell you! Impossible! The sight of 
 me would shock him. He would turn away.” 
 
 “ Lady, do you love your cousin?” 
 
 “© Love him? . Ah, God!” 
 
 “ Dear lady, if he had returned from the frontier with the 
 loss of an arm, a leg, or an eye—-or with the hideous scar of 
 a sword cut across cheek and brow, could you have turned 
 from him revolted ?” 
 
 “Oh, no, no.no! Oh! Heaven, no! I should have 
 done all I could to convince him that he was_ beautiful 
 to me still—that I loved him the deeper for his misfor- 
 tunes !” 
 
 «Then, dear lady, judge his noble heart by your own.’ 
 
 “ Ah, but you said yourself, just now, when ee me 
 not to write, that men feel so differently from women - p39 
 
 “ Yes, but not in tenderness—not in constancy !” 
 
 “There is the boy coming from the post office, Catherine ! 
 It is strange—it is strange—but though I have been disap- 
 pointed a hundred times, I still hope, and the coming of every 
 mail makes my heart pause! Go, dear Catherine, and see 
 what there is.” 
 
 Kate rolled up her knitting, and dropped it into a littl 
 straw basket, and went below. 
 
 “ Only one letter, an’ the Pos’-Master say how it war for 
 Miss Carolyn,” said the boy below stairs. 
 
 A letter for her at last! Carolyn’s heart stopped almost 
 to death, until Kate ran back up the stairs, entered the room, 
 and placed the letter in her hands. 
 
 ‘Tt is from Richmond,” she said, in a Se tone, 
 as she opened it. 
 
 “From my Aunt Cabell,” she added, and »egan ‘to read 
 it while Kate resumed her ‘knitting. 
 
 “T hope your friends are all well,” said Catherine. 
 
 “¢ Yes—” replied Miss Clifton ; and then a smile of amuse- 
 men‘ flitted over her face—and still running her eye down 
 
940 A DOMESTIC SCENE. 
 
 the letter, she continued—‘* My Aunt Cabell writes me that 
 my excellent step-dame, Mrs. Georgia Clifton, is now the 
 reigning belle of Richmond—the most beautiful woman, the 
 most charming musician, the most fascinating waltzer, and 
 the most elegant equestrain in the city! She passes for a 
 wealthy (!) young widow—and her credit is unlimited, and 
 her debts and her extravagance, of course, unbounded. She 
 occupies a whole suit of rooms in the most expensive hotel in 
 the city, and entertains around her, both day and night, a 
 host of adoring worshipers. She has cut her father—worthy 
 man—-dead! She is going to bring down a party of ladies 
 and gentlemen to spend Christmas at her country-seat, (!) 
 White Cliffs. Now what do you think of that, Catherine ? 
 Pray Heaven she may marry soon, and not wear our name 
 “sng enough to scandalize it! Mrs. Cabell goes on to say, 
 that Mrs. Georgia cannot Jong play that game—that Archer 
 Clifton must soon return, and take possession of his property, 
 when it will be arrested. Alas! she does not know that 
 Captain Clifton is as much under the dominion of that dan- 
 gerous woman as it is possible to be. He will probably be 
 proud to leave Mrs. Clifton in possession here as long as she 
 finds it convenient or agreeable to stay. Now, what do you 
 think of all this, Catherine ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Dear lady, I know that you feel very unpleasantly, that 
 all those gay city strangers should be coming down here at 
 Christmas, to turn the quiet house into a hall of orgies 
 But Ido not see how you can prevent it. You can elude it, 
 though! You can go to Hardbargain, you know, and remain 
 until Mrs. Georgia and her guests have departed again. I 
 would do that.” 
 
 ““ No, dear Catherine, there will be no necessity for that, 
 either' My Aunt Cabell has anticipated my embarrassment, 
 and proposed a plan. My aunt and all her family are com- 
 ing down here to spend the months of October and Novem- 
 ber, while their city mansion is undergoing repairs-—paint- 
 ing, papering, and so on. And she proposes that I shali 
 return with her at the first of December, and pass the Win- 
 ter in Richmond.” 
 
 ‘* And will you go ?” 
 
 “T do not know. But, Kate, dear, you have coniforted 
 ine so much, and aunt’s account of Mrs. Georgia’s city airs 
 aas diverted me so much, that I think I have spirits for a 
 ride Go order the horses, and tell Dandy to be ready ta 
 
A DOMESTIC SCENE. O41 
 
 attend us. We will go up to Hardbargain and take tea with 
 Aunt Clifton, and amuse ber with this letter!” 
 
 Mrs. Cabell and her daughters, attended by Major Cabell, 
 arrived in due time, and were received with great pleasure 
 by their orphaned relative. And Catherine, now that she 
 was no longer necessary to the cheerfulness of Miss Clifton, 
 took leave and returned to her brother’s cot. Life in the 
 mansion, and life in the hut, like day and night, about equally 
 divided the girl’s experience—a stran ge lot, to be ever ue 
 nating between luxury and refinement, and poverty and 
 coarseness. And though it was a wonderfully strengthening 
 discipline, Kate found the contrast so painful as to wish 
 that life would change—in some way. 
 
 A month passed away—during which she heard nothing 
 whatever from White Cliffs. She was therefore in total 
 ignorance of what was going on there, until one cold morn- 
 ing that had succeeded a snow-stormy night, while she was 
 shoveling away the snow in front of the cottage door, Dandy 
 rode up and delivered her a note from Miss Clifton. The 
 note ran thus: 
 
 “ DraR CATHERINE,— 
 
 “Tam going to leave for Richmond with Aunt Clifton to- 
 morrow morning. Come over, dear girl, and let me take 
 leave of you before I start. Come, my good, wise Catherine, 
 for I want to consult you about a certain matter. 
 
 “Your friend CAROLYN.” 
 
 Kate saddled her pony and set out, attended by Dandy. 
 As soon as she arrived at White Cliffs, she was invited im- 
 mediately up into Miss Clifton’s room. She found the young 
 lady surrounded with trunks and bandboxes, and busy with 
 her maids, packing. Carolyn dismissed her attendants, beg- 
 ged Kate to be seated, and sat down by her. After a few 
 mutual inquiries about health and so on, and a little intro- 
 ductory conversation, and some considerable hesitatioa, M’ss 
 Clifton said— 
 
 ‘¢ Catherine! I think—I hope that I have succeeded at 
 last in emancipating myself from the degrading slavery of 
 that old love spell' At last the dread sense of bereavement 
 and deselation is deadened. . + «. « « ¢ If 1 were 
 
\% 
 
 942 A DOMESTIC SCENE. 
 
 to see him again, however, I do not know how it might 
 be. . . . . Perhaps, though, I shall nover see him 
 again. . . . . Kate! I have had a proposal for mar- 
 riage. . . « My cousin Major Cabell’) (300 ge 
 was at least generous in him, all things considered . . . 
 Family feeling, I suppose. . . . . . Kate, I think of 
 accepting him! . . . . . We owe something to ow 
 position in society. . . . . + My Aunt Cabell has been 
 talking to me about it for a month past.” 
 
 Miss Clifton made this communication in a hesitating, 
 disjointed manner ; while Catherine looked and listened in 
 grief and astonishment, feeling regret amounting almost to 
 remorse, that she liad left her friend, enfeebled in mind and 
 body, so long under the influence of a strong-willed 
 thoroughly worldly-minded woman. And she understood 
 the instinet that had impelled the wavering girl to send for 
 her to steady her. And then athwart these, her purest emo- 
 tions, swept a dark, burning impulse, like a breath of hell. 
 It was the whisper of the devil, and it said to her,—“Agree 
 with her—agree with her! Let her marry anotber if she 
 wishes, and thus remove the greatest impediment that sepa- 
 rates you from the love, the hope of Archer Clifton.” 
 Catherine stood for a moment horrified by the darkness of 
 the temptation. But then summoning the whole strength 
 of her soul, she inwardly exclaimed, ‘“‘ Get thee behind me, 
 Satan!” And the devil fled from her. 
 
 “You do not answer me, Catherine. My dear girl, I have 
 so much confidence in your rectitude of mind! Advise 
 me!” 
 
 «Dear Miss Clifton, never, as you value your whole life’s 
 peace and rectitude—never, for any purpose whatever—un 
 der any temptation whatever—consent to marry a man you 
 do not love; never, as you hope for earthly content— as you 
 trust in God—never put an insurmountable object between 
 yourself and one you love! How criminal to become a wife, 
 while you love another living maa! How terrible to find 
 gut, when it is too Jate, that he loves you still! Perhaps 
 froim year to year to long for the—! Lady, I have no words 
 strong enough to express to you all that I feel and fear on 
 this subject! Grave faults sometimes follow little errors! 
 I would fain gain your promise not to entertain any gentle- 
 man’s suit until you have met again with Captam Clifton 
 You cannot have long to wait. He must return to settle up 
 
A DOMESTIC SCENE. 943 
 
 this estate. And legal business, if nothing else, must bring 
 you together !” 
 
 “Alas! alas! no! the affairs of this property will be set- 
 tled by his attorney. Kate, I am very miserable!” 
 
 “Dear lady, I know it! Do not, when tempted by hope- 
 lessness, do that which you may regret all your life! That 
 which may shut out the possibility of happiness forever’ I 
 wish I could go to Richmond with you.’ 
 
 ‘¢Ch, I wish you could! I think that you could save me 
 from danger, Kate.” 
 
 “] think you want an honest friend near you, Miss Clif- 
 ton! But, one thing you can do—you can resolve not to 
 form any matrimonial engagement until you have again met 
 with Captain Clifton. And you can bind your resolution by 
 a promise. Promise me, dear lady, by the interest [ take in 
 you, to hold yourself free from entanglements, until you see 
 your cousin !” 
 
 “iXate !—yes, I solemnly promise you, by all I hold sa- 
 ered, that I will do as you advise in this matter! And, 
 Kate, enfeebled as I am, or may become, in mind or body, I 
 
 eannot break my pledged word! Good girl! You have 
 
 saved me again! Oh, Kate! Kate! do you think J don’t 
 know the full extent of your disinterestedness? Oh, Kate! 
 noble girl! God reward you !” 
 
 Catherine began to tremble so violently, that Miss Clirton 
 threw her arms around her, and pressed her to her bosom, 
 whispering, 
 
 ‘Never fear, dear girl! sweet girl! I will not breathe 
 another word! I would as soon sacrilegiously snatch the 
 veil from the sanctuary, as breathe another word about it!’ 
 
 
 
 When Catherine reached home in the afternoon, she found 
 a message waiting her, from Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain. 
 She went up immediately to the farm-house, and found that 
 lady looking very happy. 
 
 «“< Matherine, my dear, sitdown. I have good news. [have 
 just received a letter from Archer. | He will be in Richmond 
 in four days from this! But his duties are such that he will 
 not b: able to leave Richmond for some weeks. He begs 
 me tv meet him there! He has been promoted, Kate! He: 
 is now Major Clifton, and has been appointed aid-de-camp te 
 the Governor !” 
 
944 A DOMESTIC SCENR. 
 
 “I am rejoiced to hear it, madam,” replied Kate, calmly, 
 though her heart stood still with the suddenness of this 
 news. ‘You will send over and inform Miss Clifton, will 
 you not, madam ?”” 
 
 “No, I think not, Catherine. Why excite and disturb 
 her on the eve of a journey? Besides, Catherine, I have 
 many misgivings! ‘This long persistence in silence—his 
 never mentioning her name in any of his few letters to me‘ 
 his never replying to the letter I wrete upon the subject !— 
 all this is foreboding! I must not meddle farther in this 
 affair until I have seen my son, and can judge his state of 
 mind in regard to it! . . . . ... But, Catherine, 
 my dear, I sent for you for this: I am going to Richmond 
 on Tuesday, for the purpose of spending some weeks near my 
 son. I need a female companion, and I have your grandfa 
 ther’s and your brother’s consent for you to accompany me ; 
 that is, if you are willing. Will you go with me, Kate?” 
 
 ‘“‘T shall be very glad to do so, indeed, Mrs. Clifton !” said 
 the young girl. 
 
 “Then return home at once, Kate, and prepare for the 
 journey. You will have a great deal to do, to make things 
 comfortable for your grandfather and brother during your 
 absence, and to get yourself ready for your city visit. 
 
IN THE CITY. 245 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 IN THE CITY. 
 
 In a proud city and rich— 
 A city fair and old, 
 Filled with the world’s most costl: things, 
 Of precious stones and gold; 
 Of ike fine wool, and spiceries, 
 And all that’s bought and sold.—Mary Howitt. 
 
 Qn Lor arrival at Richmond, Mrs. Clifton engaged for her- 
 self and Catherine two rooms—a chamber with two beds, 
 and a neat adjoining parlor—in a quiet, retired boarding- 
 house. 
 
 Miss Clifton was the guest of Mrs. Cabell, in the most 
 fashionable quarter of the city. Captain Clifton had not yet 
 arrived, but was daily expected. Richmond was in the com- 
 mencement of the fashionable season, and was already quite 
 full of gay company. Every evening witnessed some one or 
 two grand balls, or great private parties. The theatres and 
 the concert rooms were in full operation. But no faint echo 
 of all these various forms of revelry came to the sequestered 
 neighborhood that Mrs. Clifton had. chosen for her retreat. 
 No news of the fashionable world reached her, except con- 
 stant bulletins of Mrs. Georgia Clifton’s progress through 
 society. She was one of those city celebritics whose sayings 
 and doings are the exciting topic of all classes. Where she 
 went, and what she wore, and when she rode out. Whom 
 she cut directly, whom she smiled upon, whom she slighted, 
 and whom she received, were the most interesting subjects 
 of discussion. The Belle of the Rappahannock, the Dark 
 Ladye, the Gipsy Beauty, were some of the many names she 
 had won. All these matters were freely and lightly com- 
 mented upon in Mrs. Clifton’s presence, by gentlemen board- 
 ers, who knew nothing whatever of that lady’s connexion 
 with the reigning toast of Richmond. Mrs. Clifton rested 
 two days before calling upon Mrs. Cabell and her family 
 Misa (‘lifton expressed almost as much surprise as pleasure 
 
246 IN THE CITY. 
 
 at the sight of her aunt, but forebore to question her motive 
 in coming so suddenly to the city. Perhaps Carolyn had 
 beard a rumor of Major Clifton’s preferment and expected 
 arrival, and for that reason was silent. Mrs. Clifton never 
 nanied the subject during her informal call. At taking leave 
 she Icft her address, and informed her niece that Kate 
 Kavanagh was in town with her. Carolyn expressed niuch 
 pleasure at hearing this, and promised to call very soon. 
 The very next day Mrs. Cabell came in her carriage, and in- 
 vited and urged Mrs. Clifton and her protégé to return with 
 her, and make her house their home during their sojourn in 
 Richmond. After some hesitation and reflection, Mrs. Clif- 
 ton, accepted the invitation, and promised to go over the next 
 day. The next morning, therefore, Mrs. Cabell sent her 
 carriage to convey Mrs. “Clifton and Catherine. They were 
 received by Mrs. Cabell with great politeness and empresse- 
 ment, and conducted by that lady herself into two large and 
 luxuriously furnished chambers, conneeted with each other, 
 where they found a neat, pretty mulatto girl, ready to wait 
 upon them—for Mrs. Cabell, with all ber hard wordliness, 
 was truly kind and hospitable. 
 
 The evening of the succeeding day was the appointed time 
 for the Governor’s first reception. Mrs. Cabell and her 
 family were going, of course. And Mrs. Clifton resolved te 
 go—not for her own sake, but for that of Catherine, whom 
 she had determined should see all that was to be seen during 
 her stay in the metropolis. A somewhat haughty surprise 
 elevated the handsome black eyebrows of Mrs. Cabell, when 
 she found that Mrs. Clifton intended to take her demoiselle 
 du compagnie, but she was far too well bred to express it in 
 any other manner. And as for Mrs. Clifton, she always did 
 whatever she thought proper to do, in the coolest, calmest, 
 most matter-of-course manner, without the slightest regard 
 to other people’s weaknesses and follies. You know, besides, 
 that she was a thorough republican. And Mrs. Cabell re- 
 smembered that the public reception at the gubernatorial 
 mansion was a sort of omnitum gatherum, where all who be- 
 haved themselves might come—from the oldest Major-Gene- 
 ral of the army to the shoemaker who made his boots. And 
 again, no one in Richmond knew who the girl really was. 
 All these things haa Mrs. Cabell to recall to mind before she 
 could reconcile herself to the idea of Kate’s being of the 
 party 
 
IN THE CITY. QAT 
 
 When the night and the hour arrived, several gentlemen, 
 beaux of the Misses Cabell, came to escort the ladies. Major 
 Cabell attended his cousin Carolyn and one of his sisters. 
 Judge Cabell took charge of his wife and eldest daughter. 
 Mrs. Clifton had hoped that her son would have reached the 
 city in time to have escorted herself and Catherine. When 
 they were all assembled in the parlor, Major Cabell brought 
 a gentleman up to Mrs. Clifton, whom he presented as Colo- 
 nel Conyers, of the army, leaving to Mrs. Clifton the respon- 
 sibility of presenting the aristocrat to the plebelan Kate. Mrs. 
 Clifton did it at once, in the most natural way in the world. 
 And the galiant Colonel, after a few compliments, hoped to 
 have the honor of waiting upon Mrs. Clifton and her * lovely 
 charge’ to the Mansion House. Mrs. Clifton gratefully 
 accepted his services—and soon after, they entered the car- 
 riage, and were driven off. This party reached their desti- 
 nation a full half hour before Mrs. Cabell and family, and 
 other ultra fashionables, who fancied that it was vulgar to go 
 early, and imagined that their ton depended upon late hours 
 and other observances. Mrs. Clifton was very plainly dressed, 
 in a black satin with a lace scarf—Catherine very simply, in 
 a white crape, with a scarlet geranium twined in her black 
 hair. A moment in the cloak-room sufficed to re-arrange 
 their simple toilet. They were then conducted into the 
 saloon. This apartment was fitted up in a somewhat differ- 
 ent style to those of the present day. It was illuminated by 
 three large hanging chandeliers, holding innumerable wax 
 candles; and warmed by two enormous coal fires, one at 
 each extremity. It was already well filled with a miscella- 
 neous company. After their presentation to the Governor, 
 Colonel Conyers inquired whether they chose to join the 
 promenade or to take seats. Mrs. Clifton preferred the lat- 
 ter, and their polite escort conducted them to a side sofa, 
 from which they could note the entrance of fresh guests, and 
 watch the great circle of promenaders going round and round 
 in one long elliptic, three or four persons deep, in the most 
 stupid, treadmill monotony conceivable. Very much inter- 
 ested and amused was our simple country girl, in taking ob 
 servations of the various characters passing in review before 
 them. Here would be a dowager of sixty, in rouge, ring- 
 lets, bare arms and a gossamer dress; here a girl of seven-- 
 teen, in a black, stiff brocade and heavy head-dress. Tere 
 comes a stately, broad-cly-sted, senatoriai-looking man—hbe 
 
 
 
2413 IN TIE CITY. 
 
 looks the incumbent of some high, official place—he zs the 
 master: t>ilor, of street. Here comes a red-headed, 
 red-faced, sharp-featured little man, very quick and impa- 
 tient in his motions, and very high in his voice—he looks 
 like an auctioneer or a constable—he is the great General 
 , of the United States Army. Here isa small, dowdy 
 woman, all fuss and flowers, like a barn-house actress—she 
 is the wife of the late Governor This is a queenly 
 woman! tall, stately, dignified, with a fine, royal counte- 
 nance. Pooh! Don’t ask who she is—she is the “ leading 
 lady ” at the city theatre—plays in all the heavy tragedies, 
 but is not even a star. There, apart, watching and reflect- 
 ing upon the scene, stands a grave-looking individual, in a 
 closely-fitting black suit, and closely-cropped black hair, and 
 set, sallow, saturnine face, looking like an undertaker at a 
 funeral—doubtless some famous preacher—though so miser- 
 able a messenger of the glad tidings cannot be imagined 
 Preacher, indeed! Why, he isH —, the low comedian, 
 and he wears his hair cropped that way by reason of the 
 many different sorts of wigs he has to wear in his different 
 impersonations. To-night, he happens to be off the boards, 
 and enjoys the recreation of sadness and gravity. Ah! here 
 is a dcbonnair gentleman! all life! a laugh and jest, or a 
 smile and a bow for every one. Is he a French dancing- 
 master? No—he is the Rev. Mr. , the most popular 
 preacher of the day. Yet these were not all. There was a 
 small proportion of really well-dressed and dignified women. 
 and stately, honorable men. 
 
 “‘How do you like the scene, Catherine?’ asked Mrs 
 Clifton. 
 
 Kate laughed—then replied— 
 
 ‘J am somewhat disappointed, but very much more di- 
 verted! It seems to me so strange that people should look, 
 dress and behave so very inappropriately! and that they 
 could possibly be so very ill-dressed and dowdy at such a 
 great expense. I expected something very recherché and 
 elegant in the saloon of the Governor’s mansion. But * mot- 
 ley is the only wear!’ ” 
 
 The officer laughed, gayly, and then observed— 
 
 “Why? Why did you look for something, or rather, for 
 everything recherché and elegant in this crowd? Because 
 you see in the newspaper reports of such gatherings, such 
 phrases as ‘the beautiful Mis A Y—by-the-way, there 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
IN THE CITY. 249 
 
 slic is—-+the young iady with the red hair, milk-white com- 
 plexion and little eyes; or ‘the elegant Mrs. B———— ”’ ‘ the 
 graceful Mrs. C———_? ete., etc., etc., with revised and 
 improved accounts of their costume, appearance, manners, 
 etc.? Miss Kavanagh, when you have stayed in the city 
 longer, you will know that when a newspaper reporter and 
 letter writer speaks of that dowdy, but wealthy little woman, 
 in the flimsy, scarlet dress, as ‘the beautiful, elegant, and 
 accomplished Mrs. G———-,’ and tells of ‘the immense 
 (imaginary) sensation’ she made—Ae, the reporter, is morally 
 certain of an invitation to her private parties.” 
 
 Kate did not like his sarcastic tone, but before she could 
 make any sort of reply, her attention was called to a rising 
 excitement in the room. Every gentleman, from the fid- 
 getty little Major General, down to the grave and dignified 
 low comedian ; and every lady, from the ex-Governor’s fussy 
 widow, to the stately and self-possessed stock actress, were 
 on the gui vive. Kate, while listening and watching for the 
 cause of the excitement, caught a few phrases that helped to 
 enlighten her—they were of this sort :—‘* A wonder! a perfect 
 wonder! A miracle of dark beauty.” ‘The wealthiest woman 
 in the state, but that is nothing to her marvelous beauty.” 
 s Did you see her as ‘Egypt, at the fancy ball?” ‘ Her 
 portrait, in oil, by , stands in Stationers’ Hall. It has 
 attracted crowds.” ‘ No—I have seen the engraving from 
 it in ‘ Beauty’s Annual’ for this year. But I lave also seen 
 it on the tops of cigar boxes—too bad!” ‘ Hush! here she 
 comes !” 
 
 Catherine turned her eyes in the direction towards which 
 all others were gazing. It was Georgia—dark, bright, and 
 more beautiful and bewitching than ever. Her dress was of 
 lustrous black crape-de-lise, sprinkled over with gold spangles, 
 that gleamed in and out through the dark, transparent dra- 
 pery, suggesting clear, starlight night. A crowd entered 
 with the star-bright Ciree—a crowd attended her during all 
 her progress through the room. 
 
 We must leave Georgia to her alluring wiles, and Cathe- 
 rine to her observations, and seek Mrs. Cabell and her party. 
 They are in the dressing-room, and about to nid it. Only 
 Mrs. Cabell turns again and again to survey her form in the 
 mirror, and re-adjust the flow of her purple satin dress, or the 
 wave of her white ostrich plumes. When all is done, she 
 turns for the last time to Carolyn, to rebuke her for not add- 
 
 
 
250 IN THE OITY. 
 
 ing a singie ornament to her mourning dress of black velvet, 
 which is relieved only by the falls of fine Brussels lace on 
 the neck and arms, and the sunny ringlets falling all around 
 her head as low as the throat. Carolyn looks very fragile, 
 but interesting and lovely, though she does not know it 
 
 Major Cabell gave his right arm to his mother, and his left 
 to his cousin, and so, as it was now the acme of the fashion- 
 able hour, they entered the saloon, and made their slow pro- 
 gress up to the upper end, where the Governor and staff 
 stood, to receive all comers—Mrs. Cabell bowing and smiling 
 to such acquaintances as she chose to recognize in passing, 
 until at length they stopped. A feeling of false shame, a 
 morbid notion that all eyes were upon her, and scrutinized 
 the few pits hidden under the golden curls on her temples, 
 had caused Carolyn to cast her eyes down, and keep them 
 down, during the whole progress through the room—and 
 though her acute ears heard such murmurs as these—-** How 
 fair she is,” ‘ But how fragile, as if a zephyr would blow her 
 away ”’—she never fancied they were breathed of her, and. 
 never surmised the admiration she elicited. ‘‘ Governor 
 T , Miss Clifton, of Clifton,” were the words that ad 
 
 monished Carolyn she was standing before the great man, 
 and must look up and curtsy. She curtsied before she 
 looked up, and when she raised her eyes, she saw only Archer 
 Clifton before her, who bowed when he met her glance! The 
 Governor and many others were there, but how could she see 
 any one but Archer Clifton! But, oh! the perversity of 
 human nature! As soon as she met his eyes, all the pride 
 and scorn of her proudest, most scornful days, returned upon 
 her with a vengeance—all the more fiercely, ferociously, that 
 she believed herself a fright, and found Archer Clifton hand- 
 somer, more dignified, higher in favor with God and man than 
 ever! Major Cabell was about to pass on instantly with his 
 ladies, to give place to the next arrivals. Returning Archer 
 Clifton’s bow with a haughty bend, she threw up her head 
 und swept on with the most superb air of arrogance imagina- 
 Sle. They joined the promenaders—Carolyn all the more 
 unhappy for her show of hauteur—the heart beneath that 
 erected head and expanded chest almost breaking with cha- 
 grin. Captain, now Major Clifton, stood at the right hand 
 ot the Governor, with his eyes roving calmly over the mis- 
 vellaneous assembly, until they chanced to rest upon the 
 staiely form of his wother when they lighted up with sure 
 
 
 
IN THE CITY. ae | 
 
 prise and pleasure, and excusing himself from his official 
 attendance, he bowed and withdrew, to hasten to the distant 
 sofa, where she sat alone. Catherine, on the arm of Uolonel 
 Sonyers, was lost in the slowly revolving crowd of promena- 
 lers. He reached Mrs. Clifton’s side, and— 
 
 “My dearest mother!” 
 
 ‘« My dear Archer!” were the greetings exchanged ke- 
 eween them with the clasped hands. 
 
 ‘¢ How delighted I am to see you, yet how tantalizing to 
 meet you in this public assembly, after so long an absence!” 
 
 «¢ When did you reach the city, Archer ?” 
 
 ‘Within the last half-hour! Having important dispatches 
 tor the Governor, I came at once hither.”’ 
 
 “T did not see you enter.” 
 
 “<I came in by the private entrance, and joined his excel- 
 ‘ency’s circle directly. But, my dearest mother! I scarcely 
 noped you would be in town—how long have you been here ?”? 
 
 * About four days, Archer.” 
 
 Suddenly both became grave and thoughtful—they were 
 decupied with the same thoughts—of the calamities that had 
 pefallen mutual friends since their last parting. They were 
 silent—tbvey did not like to sadden this first meeting by re- 
 ferrirg: tv the inournful subject. And before either knew of 
 her approach, Mrs. Georgia had glided swiftly and silently 
 up to them. Now, Mrs. Georgia had passed and repassed 
 Mrs. Cliftun a score of times that evening, without once no- 
 ticing her. But now that Archer Clifton sat by his mother’s 
 side, the Circe appeared before them, dark, resplendent, 
 alluring as ever. She was leaning upon the arm of the 
 Hieutenant-Governor. . Archer Clifton sprang up imme- 
 diately, and greeted her with surprise and pleasure. Dismiss< 
 mg her escort with a charming smile and wave of the hand 
 sie sank gracefully, languishingly into the seat by the side 
 of Mrs. Clifton, and glided into her own fascinating style of 
 eonversation. After a few minutes, Archer Clifton seemed 
 quite lost to everything else, in the charm of the syren’s 
 society, until a certain, sweet, enticing restlessness on the 
 part of the beauty, suggested to him the propriety of inviting 
 her to promenade. She arose with a bewildering smile, that 
 quite drove his mother out of his head, and slipped her arm 
 through his. They joined the promenaders. In the mean- 
 time, Kate Kavanagh, on the arm of Colonel Conyers, was 
 woving around in the same circle, highly amused in making 
 
952 ™N THE CITY. 
 
 observations, and scarcely appreciating the sincere admiration 
 of her escort, that was apparent to every one else, especially 
 to the correspondent of the Fiddle-de-dee, who, in his next 
 letter, in giving an account of the reception, made an item of 
 the manifest admiration of the gallant and distinguished 
 Colonel C , for the beautiful and accomplished Miss 
 K————. Catherine at length thought that her kind pa- 
 troness might be lonely, and expressed a wish to rejoin her. 
 In turning to retrace their steps, they met face to face with 
 Archer Clifton and his companion. Major Clifton recognized 
 the poor mountain girl in that saloon, with a look of super- 
 cilious surprise, and Mrs. Georgia looked calmly through her 
 body without seeing her at all. With a slight bow, Major 
 Clifton passed on with his companion. And as for Kate, her 
 heart had a habit of standing perfectly still in an emergency, 
 and now it had stopped so suddenly, and stood still so long, 
 that she was on the verge of fainting. 
 
 “You are not well. You are wearied. You have re- 
 mained on your feet too long. Let me take you to a seat, 
 Miss Kavanagh,” said the Colonel. With a gasp and a 
 shiver, Kate recovered and rejoined Mrs. Clifton. And she per- 
 mitted herself to fall into no more weakness that night. But 
 Kate had unconsciously betrayed her secret to the officer. 
 And by the interference of her good angel, this knowledge 
 thus obtained, enabled Colonel Conyers to do Kate a service 
 of vital importance in after years. 
 
 ‘Archer is come,” said Mrs. Clifton, as Catherine took 
 her seat. 
 
 “JT know it. I met him,” replied Catherine, and both 
 fell mto silence, for at that instant Major Clifton and the 
 beautiful Georgia passed them. And from that time, and so 
 long as they sat there, again and again in the slow revolving 
 of the great circle of promenaders, the pair passed and re- 
 passed them—Georgia smiling, cooing, murmuring, in her 
 low, alluring music—and Archer Clifton, bending over her 
 with his brilliant gray eyes, feeding on her lovely face, 
 seeming to sink deeper and deeper into the bathos of her 
 charms, while Carolyn turned sick with jealousy, and Cathe- 
 rine faint with dread, and the correspondent of the Fiddle- 
 de-dee made a note of the distinguished favor with which the 
 most beautiful Mrs. C -, the reigning belle of Richmond, 
 received the devoirs of her distant relative, the celehrated 
 Major G-—-—. Fear nothing, Carolyn, or Catherine, 
 
 
 
 
 
IN THE CITY. 253 
 
 Archer Clifton is not in love with his uncle’s widow —taat 
 very relationship would repel the idea, if nothing else. But 
 he is net indifferent to the honor of monopolizing the reign- 
 ing queen of the ton. 
 
 «“ Aunt Cabell,” said Carolyn, “I cannot sit up longer. J] 
 must go home.” 
 
 And Mrs. Cabell consented to gratify her wish. In fact 
 it was growing late, and the ultra-fashionables, the last to 
 come, and the first to leave, were beginning to disappear. 
 Mrs. Georgia unwillingly discovered this fact, but she thought 
 that at least she could adroitly secure the services of her 
 companion as an escort home, and detain him to any hour in 
 the little paradise of her own boudoir. She therefore ex- 
 pressed herself ennuied, and entreated Major Clifton to con- 
 duct her to the cloak-room. He attended her thither. And 
 there he met again his Cousin Carolyn. She looked so fair, 
 so wan, so fragile, that he could not for a moment take his 
 eyes from her. He hastily adjusted the mantle over the 
 shoulders of Georgia, handed her her muff and hood, and 
 excusing himself for a moment, hurried back to his mother’s 
 side. 
 
 ‘¢ You have company home, madam, have you not?” 
 
 “Certainly, Archer. I should not be here without 
 such a provision—here comes Colonel Conyers now to at- 
 tend us.” 
 
 “Good-night, then! I will see you early to-morrow! 
 Good-night, Kate!” He was off. 
 
 Mrs. Cabell and Carolyn, leaning on Major Cabell’s arms, 
 reached their carriage door. The Major dropped his cousin’s 
 arm a moment to assist his mother in, and to settle her in 
 her seat. And during that moment Carolyn felt an arm 
 passed around her waist, and a voice whisper— 
 
 «¢Carolyn—my beloved cousin! my bride! am I fore 
 given ?” 
 
 She burst into tears and dropped her proud head on his 
 besom, exclaiming— 
 
 Oh, Archer! am J forgiven ?” 
 
 He placed her in the carriage, and springing in past Major 
 Cabell, took the seat by her side, leaving the Major to 
 follow as he could, and forgetting the very existence of Mrs. 
 Georgia. 
 
 Kate was close to them—she saw and heard it all. Nod- 
 ding her head slowly several times, she murmured— 
 
 16 
 
954 IN THE CITY. 
 
 “Thank God. Thank God! Oh, Merciful Father, Lelp 
 ine to say that sincerely. Thank God!” 
 
 Three weeks after this they were married. The ceremony 
 was performed in the ancient church of St. John’s on Rich- 
 mond Hill—one of the oldest places of worship on the whole 
 eontinent. Mrs. Cabell would willingly have made this event 
 the occasion of a great deal of ostentatious display ; but the 
 recent afflictions in the family, and the fragility of the bride, 
 rendered other arrangements necessary. Therefore, imme- 
 diately after the ceremony, which came off at an early hour 
 of the morning, the newly-married couple, taking advantage 
 of the very fine weather, departed for Norfolk, with the in- 
 tention of sailing thence to Havana, where, by the advice 
 of an eminent physician, for the re-establishment of the bride’s 
 health, they purposed to spend the winter. 
 
 Mrs. Georgia Clifton, with all the other members of the 
 family connection, had, of course, been present at the mar- 
 riage. And no one was so lavish of smiles, tears, caresses, 
 and congratulations, as the dark-eyed syren. But when all 
 was over, and the bridal pair had departed, refusing the in- 
 vitation of Mrs. Cabell to go home and dine with a party of 
 friends, she hurried to her lodgings, pushed open the door 
 of her luxurious boudoir, fastened it on the inside, and threw 
 herself down, rolling over, tearing at the carpet, and gnash- 
 ing her teeth in an agony of disappointment, jealousy and 
 impotent rage. . 
 
 But not long did the Circe of Richmond yield herself up 
 to anguish and despair. Christmas was approaching, when 
 she was expected to entertain a select number of her wor- 
 shipers at White Cliffs. It was expedient that she should 
 go down a few days in advance of the party, to make ready 
 for their reception. Therefore, about five days after the 
 marriage, she left the city. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton remained a week longer in town, to give 
 Catherine an opportunity of attending a course of lectures 
 on Moral Philosophy. And their escort every evening was 
 Colenel Conyers. 
 
LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 255 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 
 
 Why, let the stricken deer go weep, 
 The hart ungailed plav, 
 
 For some must watch while some may sleep, 
 So runs the world away.—SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Ir was always Mrs. Clifton’s rule to spend Christmas at 
 home —so, she arranged to leave’ Richmond on the twenty- 
 shird. It was three o’clock on the dark, cold, winter morn- 
 ing, that the stage called for them. Our travelers were 
 muffled up to the ears in hoods, cloaks, shawls and furs, and 
 when they entered the coach, they seemed to fill up all the 
 back. It was so dark that they could see nothing, and the 
 stage seemed to be vacant of other passengers than them- 
 selves; until Mrs. Clifton, settling her own outer garments, 
 spoke, cautioning Catherine to fold her cloak carefully about 
 her. ‘Then another voice spoke, from the opposite seat, ex- 
 claiming, in « tone of Burp EtG and pleasure— 
 
 $6 Why, i is it possible! Mrs. Clifton and Miss Kavanagh ?” 
 
 “ Yes, Colonel Conyers, and I am as much pleased as sur- 
 prised to find you here! How comes it that we are fellow 
 travelers?’ said the lady, placing her own im his offered 
 hand. . 
 
 ¢ And how do you do, Miss Kavanagh ?—really, I am so 
 overjoyed to find you here! Why, you must know, niy dear 
 Mrs. Clifton, that Ihave been due at White Cliffs as several 
 days. I am, in fact, the laggard of a party—but in truth 
 I could not tear myself from Richmond, while you and Miss 
 Kavanagh remained. But last night, after taking leave of 
 you, as I supposed, for some length of time,—under great 
 depression of spirits, Miss Kavanagh,—I sent and had a place 
 taken in this stage. for L— , which I understand to he 
 the nearest stage station to White Cliffs. Why, how little 
 did I suspect that we were to travel by the same soach’ 
 
 
 
955 LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 
 
 Truly, ‘ life is full of paper walls.’ A word dropped by either 
 of us, last nignt, would have revealed the fact to the other ! 
 But how delighted I am, Miss Kavanagh! And may I hope, 
 Mrs. Chifton, that our journey lies for some distance together?” 
 
 « For the whole distaaice, I am happy to say. The plan- 
 tation of White Cliffs and the farm of Hardbargain join. 
 Our journey terminates at L— ——.” 
 
 “ Really! Why this is excellent! So, instead of being 
 separated, we shall travel all the way together, and then con- 
 tinue to be neighbors for some weeks! Miss Kavanagh, I 
 am overjoyed.” 
 
 There was not much traveling at that season of the year, 
 so our party of three had the coach to themselves, and Colonel 
 Conyers devoted himself with great assiduity to the comfort 
 of the ladies. 
 
 At the end of the second day, just as the level beams of 
 tae setting sun wee gilding all the village windows, the stage 
 rolled into L 
 
 There, before the ‘little tavern door, waited Mrs. Clifton’s 
 old-fashioned carriage. 
 
 « Did you notify the family of White Cliffs of your ins 
 tended arrival here to-day ?”’ asked Mrs. Clifton, of Colonel 
 Conyers. 
 
 “No, madam! My journey was resolved upon so sud 
 denly—out of ‘ my grief and my impatience’ at the supposed 
 loss of your own and Miss Kavanagh’s society—that I had 
 no time to write.” 
 
 ‘Ah! that is the reason why their carriage is not waiting 
 for you. Colonel Conyers, if you will take a seat with us to 
 AHardbargain, and rest for a few hours or a few days as you 
 please, we shall be very glad, and we shall furnish you with 
 a conveyance to White Cliffs whenever you wish to go.” 
 
 Colonel Conyers expressed himself but too happy to accept 
 Mrs. Clifton’s invitation, and they all entered the old-fash- 
 iuned carriage, and set out for Hardbargain. The farm was 
 nine miles distant, and the road the very roughest, even of 
 mountain turnpikes. Colonel Conyers ventured to wonder 
 how any carriage could stand it, and surmised that R 
 County must be blessed with the best wheelwrights in the 
 world—to which Mrs. Clifton replied that they Aad the very 
 best to be met with anywhere. 
 
 It was ten o’clock at night when they reached Hardbar 
 gain, but they found the hail lighted up, fires blazing in the 
 
 
 
 
 
LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. DEI 
 
 parlor, and the dining-room, and a substantial supper waiting 
 for the order of the mistress. The farm-house looked cheer- 
 ful, hospitable, and inviting; and Colonel Conyers rubbed 
 his hands in delight. He remained over night. The next 
 day was Christmas, and nothing but the binding engagement 
 to render an account of himself to the beautiful Georgia at 
 least by Christmas, could have forced him to White Cliffs that 
 day. He accepted Mrs. Clifton’s cordial invitation to come 
 over often while he remained in the neighborbood. In fact, 
 Mrs. Clifton had seen that Colonel Conyers was very much 
 pleased with Catherine, and she feit desirous that he shoula 
 have an opportunity of winning the affections of her favorite. 
 Colonel Conyers took the largest advantage of Mrs. Cliften’s 
 hospitality, and not even the charms of the syren of White 
 Cliffs, could wile him away from his daily evening ride over 
 to Hardbargain. And so, after a few weeks—as there is no 
 accounting for tastes, and as the most extraordinary things 
 sometimes really do happen—it turned out that Colonel Con- 
 yers actually did lay his heart, hand and fortune at the feet 
 of the humble girl whom his own subordinate officer, Captain 
 Clifton, had despised, and, farthermore, that he was rejected 
 by her! Yes! gratefully, kindly, but firmly and finally re- 
 jected! And full of disappointment, humiliation and sor- 
 row, the gallant Colonel abruptly concluded his visit, and 
 returned to town. 
 
 “Oh, Catherine, my dear, if you could but have Jiked 
 him well enough to have married him. He is an honest, 
 kind-hearted man,” said Mrs. Clifton, with a sigh of regret. 
 
 “Yes, he is a good man. Heaven bless him with a good 
 wife,” auswered Kate. 
 
 Neither of these unworldly women once reverted to the 
 advantages of rank resigned with the rejected lover. 
 
 And soon Catherine had other thoughts and occupations 
 than those connected witb courtship and marriage. The 
 situation of her grandfather demanded all her care. For 
 many months before this, the long and persevering efforts of 
 the patient girl had been blessed with success, and the old 
 man had abandoned the use of intoxicating spirits. But 
 within the last few weeks the total disuse of the stimulant to 
 which he was morbidly accustomed, had began tu produce 
 the most dangerous effects upon his aged and infirm frame. 
 Ile grew weaker and still weaker, until at length he was 
 confined to his bed And so he slowly sank and failed, as 
 
$58 LIFE’S VARIOUS PIITASES. 
 
 weeks—weary weeks—dragged on tc months. And through 
 all this dreary time, day and night, Catherine faithfully 
 nursed him. Many a night she sat the only wateher by his 
 bedside, hourly expecting his death; and many a morning 
 he revived again, so deep a hold had life upon that old, worn 
 body. Scarcely for necessary food or rest would Catherine 
 leave him, always watching, waiting on and cheering him, 
 sometimes—whenever he desired it—reading the Bible te 
 him, singing or praying with him. In vain Mrs. Clifton 
 noticing the care-worn, toil-worn, emaciated countenance 
 of the girl, besought her to take care of her own health. 
 Vatherine cared for nothing on earth so much as the aged 
 man daily fading away from her sight. And so passed the 
 winter. And so opened the spring. And then his old 
 disease, if it could be called a disease, took a most alarming 
 turn. After a paroxysm more violent than ever had come 
 on him before, he fell into a state of greater prostration. 
 And the physician hastily summoned, declared that another 
 such attack would be fatal, and that only the use of brandy 
 could ward the fit off, and save his life. Carl Wetzel replied 
 that he felt if he should taste the intoxicating liquid again, 
 the fatal appetite for aleohcl would return upon him with 
 tenfold violence for the temporary abstinence, and that it 
 would totally subject him to its dominion. The doctor 
 called him a fool and a fanatic, without self-control or self- 
 reliance, and left him to his fate. When the physician had 
 left the hut, the old man called his grand-daughter to his 
 bedside. 
 
 «< Kate, you heard what the doctor said ?” 
 
 Kate nodded—her heart was too full for speech. 
 
 “My dear child—my dear, good Kate!—he says that 
 unless J drink brandy I shall die. But, Kate, if I taste 
 brandy again, I feel I shall live a drunkard! Kate, I 
 Know you are wise and good beyond your years. Kate, I 
 have full faith in you! My child, I will do as you decide 
 for me. Darling, shall I drink or die ?” 
 
 Kate sank upon her knees by his bedside, took both his 
 venerable hands and kissed and pressed them to her bosom, 
 bowed her face over them, and wept in silence. At last, 
 raising her head, she gazed earnestly, reverently, lovingly in 
 the old man’s face, and answered— 
 
 ‘‘ Dearest grandfather, do not ask me, a poor, weak, erring 
 gtl! Dearest grandfather, ask God '” 
 
 
 
LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 259 
 
 The old man feebly raised his hand, and placed it on her 
 bead and blessed her, adding— 
 
 “1 thank Thee, oh, Father! that out of the mouths of 
 babes and sucklings Thou hast perfected praise !”’ 
 
 Tne next morning, when the doctor came, he found the 
 old man sinking fast, yet clinging as human nature will cling, 
 to the wish for—the hope of—life. 
 
 ‘¢ Doctor, is there no other way of saving me thun that 
 you spoke of ?” 
 
 “¢ None, whatever, my good friend; unless you consent to 
 save yourself by taking alcohol, you must die.” 
 
 “Then I will die*!” replied Carl Wetzel. 
 
 And within a week from this time the old man died and 
 was buried. 
 
 After the funeral was over, Mrs. Clifton invited and urged 
 Catherine to come and take up her permanent residence at 
 [lardbargain. There were now no reasons why Catherine 
 should not, and many why she should, accept this very advan- 
 tageous offer. 
 
 Her brother Carl was about to bring home a wife, after 
 which he would no longer need Catherine’s services. And 
 now that the spring had fully opened, Mrs. Clifton’s health, 
 as usual at that season, failed, and she really needed the 
 companionship and care of our unprofessed Sister of Charity. 
 And, therefore, Catherine accepted her proposal, and came 
 to take possession of the room, Mrs. Clifton had fitted up 
 for her adjoining her own chamber. It had once been Archer 
 Clifton’s room. That was of no consequence to Catherine 
 now, however. You need not now be told again that the 
 girl was a true Christian. She had great faith—she believed 
 in miracles, asserting that the days of miracles had not passed 
 —-could not pass until the days of God’s Omnipotence and 
 man’s faith should be passed. When the passion of her 
 heart was about to become the sin of her soul, she prayed. to 
 God to remove the last vestige of that erring, ill-fated love- 
 and it was removed-—gone! She could think of him, speak 
 of him, without an altered pulse. She knew that he and his 
 wife were soon expected at White Cliffs, and she felt that she 
 would meet them again without any other emotion than 
 pleasure. On the day of her removal to Hardbargain, Mra 
 Clifton said to her — 
 
 ee ee ee 
 
 
 
 * A Fact. 
 
260 LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 
 
 “‘ Catherine! I see by the Richmond Standard, that Archer 
 has resigned his post in the army.” 
 
 “It is not possible, madam !” 
 
 “Yes, indeed.. I was very much astonished to sce it.” 
 
 «¢ What in the world could have been his motive ?”’ 
 
 “JT cannot even fori an idea. No motive was assigned iz 
 the paper.” 
 
 ‘‘ And did he never mention his intention to you in any 
 of his letters ?” 
 
 «Never, Kate. But indeed, I have not heard from him 
 for six weeks. I cannot tell the reason why he does not 
 write. Perhaps his letters have been lost—the foreign maiis 
 are so irregular. 
 
 “Was he at Havana when you heard from him last, 
 madam ?”’ 
 
 “ Yes, Catherine—but then he spoke of a speedy return 
 home. They should have been here long before this time, 
 or at least, he should have written to account for their delay 
 I send Henny regularly to the post-office—I have sent her 
 to day. I hope I may get a letter, though the chances seem 
 to diminish.” 
 
 Even while they spoke, the girl came in with a letter in 
 her hand. Mrs. Clifton took it and looked at it, saying— 
 
 “ At last! It is from Havana, Catherine, from Archer.” 
 
 She opened it, and as she read it, her face became very 
 grave. And having finished, she fell into thought, and 
 said— 
 
 “It is as I feared.” 
 
 “ ] trust there is no bad news, madam?” said Catherine. 
 
 “You shall hear, Kate,” replied the lady, taking up the 
 letter and reading as follows ; 
 
 «“ Havana, May 1, 18—. 
 “ My Dear Mapam— 
 
 «‘T have to entreat your forgiveness fora silence of four or 
 five weeks. I know that you will pardon the seeming neg-- 
 lect when you are advised of the cause. Every moment of 
 my time for the last month has been taken up in attendanca 
 upon the sick couch of my dearest Carolyn. Since the open 
 ing of the spring, her health, for the last year so fragile, has 
 searfully failed. I have had the best medical advice to be 
 found on the island, but her illness has baffled their utmost 
 skill. They have recommended me to take her to the South 
 
LIFE’S VARIQUS PHASES. Qi 4 
 
 of France. In order to do this, I have been obliged to re- 
 sign my commission in the army. You have doubtless scen 
 my resignation announced in the papers. I suppose the un- 
 settled business of the White Cliffs estate must also suffer 
 by a absence at this time. But what is that—what is any- 
 thing ! all things! in comparison to the health of my beloved 
 Carolyn! I write in great haste, on the very eve of sailing, 
 for we go on board the Swallow, bound from this port to 
 Marseilles, to-day. 
 ‘With undving respect and affection, 
 “ARCHER CLIFTON.” 
 
 «That is very distressing! Alas! then is life made up 
 vf nothing but vain desires and blighted hopes—of sorrow 
 and sickness and death ?” 
 
 «1 knew it would be so, Catherine—that was a secret rea- 
 son I had for not meddling this last time in bringing about a 
 reconciliation between Carolyn and Archer. I have known 
 for two years past that she was following her mother. All 
 those Gowers die early of consumption ” 
 
 ‘¢ But, madam, let us hope better things. This sea voyage 
 und residence in the South of France, may restore her.” 
 
 «¢ Never, Catherine. And it was even cruel in ghe doctors 
 to send her there, to die in a foreign land, among strangers. 
 They had better have sent her home to the scenes of her 
 childhood and youth, where we could have cheered and 
 nursea her. Catherine, I feel very sad.” 
 
 The tears were rolling down Kate’s face. The fountain 
 of consolation in her heart was almost dry—and again she 
 had to lift her heart to the Divine source of all strengtn and 
 light for new faith and hope. Little else but suffering and 
 sorrow had the girl seen since she came into the world—and 
 no part had she filled in life but that of servant, nurse, Up 
 comforter. 
 
 The summer passed with Mrs. Clifton and Catherine in 
 almost uninterrupted retirement. They heard, at long inter- 
 vals, from Major Clifton and his bride, and then the news was 
 various and unsatisfactory. Sometimes Carolyn was better, 
 and there would be a talk of speedy return, and, perhaps, 
 the very next letter, after a long interval, would speak of a 
 season of prostration by extreme illness. And about the 
 middle of tne autumn, Mrs. Clifton received a letter fron: 
 her s~n announcing their intention of wintering in Lishan. 
 
9%9 LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 
 
 The irregular arrivals of these bulletins were the most in- 
 teresting, and nearly the only interesting events of the sum- 
 mer and autumn, if we except a descent upon White Clifis 
 by Mrs. Georgia and her friends. The syren, after her re- 
 turn froexa a summer tour to the fashionable watering places, 
 determined to fill up the dull interim before the 2cmmence- 
 ment of the season in town, by a visit to her ‘seat in 
 R ,”’ as she persisted in calling White Cliffs. <Ac- 
 cordingly, she made up a party of idle ladies and sporting 
 gentlemen, and came down to spend September. 
 
 olone] Conyers was among the guests. He renewed his 
 visits to Hardbargain, and his suit to Catherine—received a 
 second rejection, and hurried off to town, under the sting of 
 mortification as before. At the first of October, the “ city riff 
 raff,” as the old family servants of Clifton irreverently and 
 indignantly called the moneyed aristocrats, returned to Rich- 
 mond, whither they were shortly followed by their beautiful 
 hostess, to prepare for her winter campaign. From this 
 time to the middle of December, no event marked the even 
 tenor of the life at Hardbargain. The inmates had not 
 lately heard from Major Clifton. It was near Christmas 
 In her anxiety to hear from Lisbon, Mrs. Clifton was in the 
 habit of sending to L twice a week, when the mai 
 came in, and sitting up till a very ite hour, waiting for the 
 return of the messenger. 
 
 One evening after supper, Mrs. U.*fton and Catherine sa 
 vach side their work-stand, before the fire, awaiting the ar 
 rival or the boy who had been dispatched to the post-office 
 iso often had the lady thus sat and waiied, and been disap 
 pointea, that hope waxed very faint. ‘his time, however 
 she was destined to have -her heart gladdened by the ful 
 Yruition v1 hope. About nine o’clock the messenger returned 
 and entered the parlor with a packet of letters and papers 
 ‘he boy’s race was lighted up with sympathetic joy, and he 
 exclaimed, as he handed the bundle— 
 
 ‘JT almos’ rid myself to death, mistess, I was so glad I 
 had de letters to bring yer.” 
 
 ‘‘You have made great haste indeed, Neddy. Go tell 
 YTenny to give you your supper,” said the lady. 
 
 “Good boy.” said Kate, pressing his little sooty hand as 
 he passed her and went out. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton was reading a letter from Archer. It was 
 written ina glad, buoyant spir't and contained the best pox 
 
 
 
 
 
LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 963 
 
 sible news. Against all hope, Carolyn’s health since her 
 arrival at Lisbon had steadily improved, and it was now so 
 far re-established, .that they were already looking forward to 
 their voyage at the earliest opening of spring. Carolyn had 
 gained flesh and color as well as health, and strength and 
 cheerfulness, and was looking far better than she had looked 
 since his first meeting her again at Richmond. Mrs. Clifton 
 repeated all this to Catherine, adding— 
 
 ‘“‘ It is true, Kate, that none of her family who have per- 
 ished by her disease ever tried a change of climate, and 
 although in most cases such a change hurries the patient to 
 the grave, yet, in some instances, it seems to work wonders 
 in the way of cure ; and who knows, if Carolyn is so greatly 
 benefited, that she may not get over this danger, and if not 
 positively cured, yet live to a good old age, and die at last 
 of something else, as I have heard of consumptives doing.” 
 
 “Pm so glad!”? Catherine sat with her face suffused with 
 the flush, and her eyes filled with the tears of sympathizing 
 joy and thanksgiving. After reading and re-reading the 
 letter, and dwelling on it, and talking of it, Mrs. Clifton 
 finally unfolded the paper, the Richmond Standard, and 
 running her eyes over its columns, suddenly exclaimed— 
 
 «‘ Catherine, ‘When joys come they come not as single 
 spies but in battalions’—here is excellent news of an old 
 friend—listen—only two or three lines among the ‘ items’ of 
 a newspaper column, yet of what great moment to many— 
 hear.” And the lady read :—* At the conclusion of the 
 recent treaty of peace between this government and the 
 Shoshonowa Nation, aiong the prisoners held to ransom was 
 . the gallant Captain Fairfax, supposed to have fallen under 
 their tomahawks, at the massacre near Fort Protection. 
 This brave but unfortunate officer is now understood to be 
 on his way to the seat of government.” 
 
 Catherine was positively speechless with joy; only her 
 clasped hands and fervent countenance revealed what she 
 felt. In the great, though calm surprise and rejoicings over 
 the event, these friends forgot its singularity, until after a 
 long while Catherine exclaimed— 
 
 “ Poor Zuleime! Oh, how could such a fatal misrepre- 
 sentation have been made of the case? It was reported that 
 he was cloven down from his saddle, and then butchered !”’ 
 
 “Tt was not a willful misrepresentation. It was a misap- 
 prehension The few who escaped to tell the tale of the 
 
264 LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 
 
 massacre, no doubt had seen him struck down; and don’t 
 you see in the terror and confusion, they imagined the rest—- 
 knowing perfectly well that scalping and rifling the bodies 
 are the almost invariable custom of the savages? And then 
 remember, Catherine, the body taken for the corpse of Cap- 
 tain Fairfax, was so rifled and mutilated, as to be unrecog- 
 nizable, except upon circumstantial evidence.” 
 
 “‘So indeed it was said to be! I would the mistake had 
 never been made though! It killed Zuleime!” 
 
 ‘¢ Catherine, my child, I have no idea that ZuJeime was 
 really drowned.” 
 
 «© Madam !” 
 
 ‘“¢ Do you not know, Catherine, that any body drowned in that 
 part of the river where the supposed signs of her suicide were 
 found, must have come to light. Don’t you know that the 
 current is very rapid there, and that a ledge of rocks crosses 
 the river a few yards below it, upon which her body must 
 have been thrown, if she had been in the river atall? And, 
 Catherine, if I have never breathed this thought before, it was 
 upon account of poor Carolyn. I knew that in her weak, de- 
 pressed state of mind and body, she could better bear the 
 belief of Zuleime’s death, than the frightful uncertainty of 
 her fate. You are discreet, Kate; you will not breathe 
 this to Carolyn, or to any one, lest it should reach her ear.” 
 
 «Never! And do you know, dear Mrs. Clifton, I have 
 sometimes had the thought that Zuleime might yet be living— 
 and I dared not indulge the hope secretly—iuch less breathe 
 it aloud.” 
 
 “And what was your reason for such a supposition, 
 Catherine ?” 
 
 “Why my thought was not so well founded—so logical as 
 yours. I knew nothing about the peculiarities of the river. 
 My thought was only a vague hope, and it agitated me so 
 mach as to interfere with my practical duties. I had to 
 banish it.” 
 
 ‘You are so sensitive, so sympathetic, my dear girl 
 Well, Kate, no more exciting talk to-night. We will return 
 thanks to God fcr these glad tidings, and then retire to 
 
 rest.” 
 
ZULEIME. 2A5 
 
 CHAPTER XXIil. 
 
 ZULEIME. 
 
 Among a jumbled heap of murky buildings.—Kzars. 
 
 ZULEIME had been placed by Georgia under the care of a 
 poor woman, the wife of a carver and gilder, who had occa- 
 sionally worked for her father. And as long as the funds 
 of the belle had held out, the trifling expenses of such poor 
 board and lodging had been regularly paid. But when the 
 syren was reduced to support her own extravagance entirely 
 by credit, founded upon the false reputation of wealth—her 
 small remittances to her protégé, or rather her victim, ceased. 
 Zuleime was afraid to seek her, afraid to write to her—there 
 was nothing she feared more than discovery, and the 
 recognition of her hand-writing on the superscription of a 
 letter might have led to that. It was long after the death 
 of her father before she heard of it—nor then did she hear 
 any of the particulars of time, place or circumstance. The 
 fact came to her knowledge irregularly, through the report 
 of the transcendant charms and conquests of his beautiful 
 young widow. A long and dangerous iliness was the result 
 of this sudden news. It was some weeks after her recovery 
 before the poor people of the house, who had long despaired 
 of getting anything for her board, could find it in their kind 
 hearts to ask her to seek another home. And even then they 
 sent a sigh after the desolate young widow—the child who 
 went forth carrying in her arms another child. And how 
 she lived during the interval between that and the period at 
 which I shall again introduce her to you, I cannot tell. 
 Sometimes a little fine needle-work came to her hands ; some- 
 times a spell of want, reaching almost to starvation; then a 
 little assistance from neighbors ; and a little going in debt to 
 shopkeepers. And then she always lodged with the poor. 
 And the poor seldom persecute the poor; remember that 
 the need family who first sheltered her, had been for months 
 
256 ZULEIME. 
 
 at the sole expense of her food, lodging, and long illness- 
 and yet they had never reproached or persecuted her for un- 
 paid debts—though they scarcely refrained from reproaching 
 themselves for sending her away. 
 
 In a quiet, back street, mostly inhabited by very humble 
 people, in the middle of the square, and fronting immediately 
 upon the battered pavement, stood an old two-story brick 
 house, occupied by a poor cabinet-maker and old furniture 
 dealer. The lower front room was used as the ware-room, 
 and crowded and piled up with every description of miseras 
 bly dilapidated houschold furniture, apparently good for 
 nothing else under the sun but kindling wood, and scarcely 
 worth splitting up for that. Old worm-eaten, carved ma- 
 hogany bureaus and bedsteads; tables without legs or leaves; 
 chairs without backs; cradles without bottoms or rockers ; 
 clocks wanting faces; beaufets wanting doors; sofas minus 
 arms ; smoky pictures without frames; and tarnished frames 
 without pictures ; worm-eaten cabinets, and mildewed look- 
 ing-glasses ; broken pots, pans and kettles; and mismatched 
 erockery-ware i in any quantity. 
 
 Reader, I do not wish to give you an inventory of an old 
 furniture-shop, but merely some idea of the inextricable con- 
 fusion in which this heterogeneous mass of worn-out, broken, 
 worm-eaten, mildewed, fly-stained, dust-clothed, cobweb- 
 veiled items, were piled up from floor to ceiling. 1t would make 
 your heart and head ache with wondering what sort of a liy- 
 ing could be picked out from so much dirt, disorder and 
 deeay—and who on earth could be the patrons of the establish- 
 ment. You would unconsciously gather close about you 
 your most worthless dress in passing through the shop, and 
 look up in involuntary dread of a broken head or limbs, by 
 the fall of some of those dilapidated, ill-balanced, old chairs 
 and tables. 
 
 The family of the chair-maker consisted of himself, his 
 wife, and two daughters. They were Germans, with the 
 usual talent of that race for money-getting and money-keep- 
 ing. And the man made at least a hundred per cent. on 
 every old, rickety, worm-eaten bureau or table that, mended 
 and varnished, left his shop. They added to their income, 
 hy letting the rooms of their house, and occasionally by 
 taking a profitable boarder. 
 
 It was in the early part of the same autumn which found 
 ber sister Carclyn in Lisbon—and Mrs Clifton and Cathe 
 
ZULEIME. | 263 
 
 rine alone at Hardbargain, that Zuleime beeame a tenant of 
 the German cabinet-maker. She occupied the back room, 
 on the second floor; the two daughters of the family using 
 the front room as a sleeping apartment. She had the use of 
 the street passage door, and so reached her room without 
 passing through the shop or any part of the house oceu- 
 pied by the family or their boarders. The refinement in 
 which she had been born and bred, was not lost amid ber 
 bitter poverty. It constrained her to seek privacy of life at 
 least. She supported herself and child, just now, by doiig 
 fine needle-work for some ladies on a transient visit to the 
 eity. But the work was precarious, and the supply might 
 be cut off at any moment. Her expenses were small, how- 
 ever, and her economy wonderful. Her neat, but poorly 
 furnished room, cost her but ten shillings a month; a bushe 
 of meal and a pint of salt, five shillings; milk for the child, 
 two shillings; fuel, eight shillings; washing, three shillings ; 
 eandle-light, two shillings; and the attendance of .a boy to 
 bring water and cut wood, three shillings—making the sum 
 total of her monthly expenses only one pound, fourteen shil- 
 lings, or little more than six dollars. Her only food was 
 mush or corn-cakes prepared from the meal. She could not 
 have kept up very long under this regimen ; deed, although 
 _she knew it not, she was slowly dying of a disease as com- 
 mon as lingering, and as universally ignored as that of a 
 broken heart—namely, innutrition or slow starvation. Her 
 German hostess, kind-hearted, notwithstanding her money 
 zrasping propensities, often sent her a bowl of “ noodle soup,” 
 with a little plate of “sour-krout,” and a tumbler of 
 schnapps, or some such combination of German luxuries. 
 But Zaleime, who managed to exist upon coarse food, could 
 not endure gross food, and she would turn away from 
 such, scarcely able to conceal the sickness the very odor so 
 unpetizing to a Dutch stomach, excited in hers. Still her 
 refusal of the viands was couched in words so gentle and 
 prateful, as never to offend her landlady. Some of my 
 readers may wonder wh‘; Zuleime did not do her washing, 
 water-drawing, etc., with her own hands, and take the money 
 paid for having those things done, and buy better food} 
 Because, for one reason, she had not the requisite physical 
 strength or skill—and besides, perhaps. she shrank from the 
 exposure necessarily incurred in these labors. She had not in 
 these two years, forgotten the delicacy and refinement in which - 
 
S68 ZULEIME. 
 
 she had been nurtured. On the contrary, everything in her 
 appearance and manners, betrayed the gentle-woman. She 
 had but one dress in the world—all the others had been cut 
 ap to make clothes for her little girl. Her sole gown was 
 black bombazine, which she had worn daily for nearly two 
 years—yet so good was its original quality, and so well had 
 it been preserved, that it was now neither rusty nor thread- 
 bare. It was shaken out and hung up every night, and well 
 brushed and spunged every week. This dress, with the 
 little inside ’kerchief of linen, was always neat and lady-like. 
 Zuleime’s fine needle-work gave out—as she knew it would— 
 and she found herself without employment, or funds. It was 
 then that Bertha and Wilhelmina Erhmientraut, the daugh- 
 ters of her Jandlord, told her of a German clothier on Main 
 street, who had advertised for a number of needle-women to 
 make vests. Zuleime confessed her total ignorance of that 
 branch of needle work. But the kind German girls promised 
 that if she would procure the work, they would give her 
 some instructions how it should be done. Zuleime gratefully 
 accepted their offer, and prepared to set out on her long 
 walk by donning the little black bonnet and shawl, as neat 
 and as well preserved as her dress had been. She could not 
 father tax the kindness of her landlord’s family by leaving 
 her child in their care, she had been obliged to put the little 
 one to sleep, and lock it up in her room, only leaving her 
 key with her landlady—* in case anything should happen” 
 while she was gone. It was a long, weary tramp to Main 
 street, where the clothier’s store was situated. When she 
 entered the show-shop and made her business known, she was 
 directed into a back room, where a man, behind a long table, 
 was engaged in cutting out garments—and many bundles of 
 sut out but unmade clothes, tied around with skeins of thread, 
 lay piled up at one end. Zulcime walked up té this table. 
 The foreman, as he appeared to be, laid down his shears and 
 touked up, saying deferentially— 
 
 ‘What did you wish to look at, madam? Mr. Schneider, 
 attend this lady.” 
 
 «You are inerror. I do not wish to look at your wares, 
 You advertised work to give out; can I have some ?” 
 
 The tailor looked at her again. He saw, from her gentle 
 manners and appearance, that she was a lady, guessed from 
 her dress that she was a widow, and knew by her errand that 
 she was self-dependert, unprotected ;. so there existed no 
 
ZULEIME. 25% 
 
 enrthly reason why a coarse-minded, craven-hearted man, 
 whu spent his whole days in smirking, cringing, deprecating 
 and deferring to others, should not retresh his soul by a little 
 impurtinence and insolence to so safe a subject as a poor 
 
 lady 
 
 ‘¢Ind you ever make vests?’ he asked, in a short, curt, 
 fnsolewt manner. 
 
 “oN, ” answered Zuleime, “ but I sew very neatly—-un- 
 usually aeatly, my patrons say—and as you cut and baste 
 the wosk, very little instruction would enable me to make 
 them ve.y nicely.” 
 
 “JT shan’t trust you! [have had quite enough in my tine 
 of giving out work to people who know nothing about the 
 business.” 
 
 It was tot the words so much as the insulting manner cf 
 the man, chat shocked the gentle-hearted woman, and she 
 turned and left the shop, ready to sink, not so much under 
 disappoint.nent, though she knew not where to turn for work 
 or money er food—but under the deeply humiliating sense 
 of the rudcuess and vulgarity to which she was forced to ex- 
 pose herselr in this bitter struggle through the world. She 
 walked slowly, thoughtfully, sadly away from the shop, till 
 the sudden chought of her child’s awakening, electrified her, 
 and she hu.:ried on until she reached home. She obtained 
 her key fron: the landlady, in the basement, and entered the 
 passage. It was then that she heard a very sweet, gentle 
 voice, apparently near her room door, saying— 
 
 “ Don’t cry, baby! poor baby, don’t ery! mother will come 
 by-and-by! Dear pretty baby, don’t ery! Tl bring you 
 all my playthings, and a little dog, when I can get in.” 
 
 And then, in the pause of the child’s wails and broken 
 talk, and baby plaints, she ran up stairs at once, and there, 
 kneeling before her door, and talking through the key-hole, 
 was a sweet little dark haired girl of about five years old, 
 and dressed in deep mourning. Ler hat of the finest Leg- 
 lorn straw, the richness of the black ribbon that bound it— 
 the fineness of the black bombazine frock and the linen cam- 
 briv tucker, the delicate shoes and stockings—-the gentle, re- 
 fine manner, all bespoke a child of a different rank from 
 those seen in that neighborhood, and especially in that house. 
 The child got up and stood aside when she saw the lady come 
 with the key to unlock the door. When Zuleime had en- 
 tere? her room, and lifted the babe to her lap, she called the 
 
 L3 | 
 
270 ZULEIME. 
 
 little girl up to her side. She was a lovely child indeed, 
 with fair skin and delicate features—jet-black hair, eye- 
 brows and eye-lashes, and large, mournful, dark gray eyes. 
 
 “You are a dear little girl. What is your name? asked 
 Zul ime, pulling her around her waist caressingly. 
 
 « [da ; see what a nice new black dress ve got. They 
 gave it to me when father died. Mother wears one, too. 
 You’ve got a black dress on, too! Is your father dead ?” 
 
 “ Yes, darling,” said Zuleime, with her eyes suffused. 
 
 ‘Don’t cry, please! . Mother cries so much. JI do wish 
 she wouldn’t! Is the baby’s father dead, too?” 
 
 “ Yes—yes, love—the baby’s father is dead, too !” 
 
 “© Well—please don’t cry so! Mother says we have all 
 got a father in Heaven! O/! please don’t cry so! It gives 
 me such a—such an ache m the breast to see anybody cry 
 so,” said the child, and her mournful, but most beautiful eyes 
 assunied a pleading, painful, almost querulous look. 
 
 “Who zs your mother, swect Ida?’ asked Zuleime, to 
 chuuge the subject of her own and her little companion’s 
 thoughts. 
 
 “Mrs. Knight, you know, the leading lady. Did they 
 put the baby’s father in a long red box, and send him away ?” 
 
 ‘¢ Yes, yes, Ida. Where does your mother live ?”’ 
 
 s¢ She lives here, in the back room, down stairs. We came 
 to-day. She is going to play to-night, and then Ill be by 
 myself. Did they hold the baby up to kiss her father like 
 they did me? And did he put his hand on her head and 
 call her his fawn-eyed darling? That was when he was or 
 the bed. And afterwards he went to sleep. And they said 
 he was dead. Was that the way with the baby’s father ?”’ 
 
 ‘<T don’t want to talk about it, dear Ida. Tell me of your 
 mother. What does she play on—the organ ?” 
 
 ‘“‘No! I don’t know. Yes 1 do, too!—the stage. Look 
 at my nice new hat. It used to have a wreath of red roses 
 round it. But when father died, mother took it off and put 
 this black ribbon there. ‘Mother wears roses on her head, 
 though. At night, { mean. AJIl day long she wears black, 
 and looks so pale and weeps. But at night, she puts beauu- 
 ful flowers in her hair, and sometimes gold and fine feathers— 
 and she has such swect long curls and rosy cheeks—and such 
 beautiful dresses. And father used to wear beautiful clothes 
 at night, red and gold, and feathers. I do want to see father 
 so wucl. IL wish they’d bring him back. Do you think it 
 
 
 
ZULEIME. | 271 
 
 will be long before I see him?’ asked the child, as the large 
 tears rolled down her cheeks. 
 
 « Perhaps not, my love. Is your mother an actress, then ” 
 
 «Yes, that is what she is. Don’t cry, now! It gives me 
 a pain in my bosom. Please don’t cry; if you don’t, J won’t,”’ 
 said the child, wiping her eyes. Then suddenly she exclaimed, 
 ¢Oh! I forcot, I promised to bring the baby my playthings 
 und iny curly dog ;? and so saying , the child ran away ap 
 ecampered down stairs. 
 
 Zuleime lcoked in vain for her return, and finally con- 
 cluded that her mother had detained her. But if the child 
 did not come, somebody else did. Wilhelmina entered, and 
 kindly inqtired after her lodger’s success in seeking work 
 When she learned her failure, she begged Zuleime not to be 
 troubled, for that there was work in the house for her if she 
 would take it. That the new boarder, Mrs. Knight, the lead 
 ing lady of the Richmond Theatre, wanted assistance in 
 making up some dresses, that were to be ready in a few days. 
 That sbe, Wilhelmina, had recommended their lodger, and 
 if the young lady pleased, she would conduct her down and 
 introduce her to Mrs. Knight. Zuleime thanked the kind 
 hearted girl, and prepared to accompany her—sensible amid 
 all her other emotions of a rustic’s curiosity to see a really 
 living actress, for she had never in her life seen one off the 
 boards. She followed Wilhelmina down the stairs into the 
 passage. _ Near the foot of the stairs was a door leading into 
 the first floor back room. At this door Wilhelmina rapped 
 It was opened by Ida, who, as soon as she saw Zuleime, ex- 
 — elaimed— 
 
 Oh! it’s you! Comein. Mother! here is the baby’s 
 mother !” 
 
 “It is I, Mrs. Knight, with the person I spoke of. Mas 
 we come in?” inquired Wilhelmina. 
 
 “ Assuredly. Do so,” replied the sweetest, deepest voice 
 Znleime thought she had ever heard. And they entered the 
 room. Wilhelmina introduced Mrs. Fairfax, and withdrew. 
 The apartment in which Zuleime found herself, was the best 
 furnished room in the house—decidedly—having a good warm, 
 hued carpet on the floor, crimson stuff curtains at the only 
 back window, a grate with a coal fire, a four-post bedstead, 
 with tester, net valance and a white counterpane, a 
 bureau with tall dressing-glass, and wash-stand, with china 
 tulet serwee. But it was in a state of confusion only less 
 
212 ZULEIME. 
 
 than that of the adjoining shop. Trunks, boxes, and band 
 boxes of all sizes, forms and colors, some corded and piled 
 up one above the other, and some open and boiling up and 
 over with all sorts of finery and tinsel, satins, silks and vel- 
 vets, feathers, flowers and fustian, which also trailed upon 
 the carpet, and strewed the chairs. An oil painting, in a 
 large heavy gilt frame, leaned with its face against the wall. 
 On the bed, a black mantle and bonnet, with a widow’s veil, 
 lay side by side with a gorgeous scarlet velvet train, embroi- 
 dered with gold, an imitation ermine robe, a crown of gilt 
 aud paste, a plume of feathers, and great bunches of sham 
 pearls. On a low trunk, in the midst of this sad chaos of 
 poverty and glitter, mumimery and mourning, sat one who 
 lmediately drew and fixed Zuleime’s attention. A tall, 
 noble looking woman, of perhaps thirty years of age, clothed 
 in deep mourning, with her heavy black hair banded around 
 her forehead and temples, and shading a countenance dark 
 and cavernous, with its large hollow eyes and hollow cheeks, 
 but majestic with power, earnestness and truth, and beautiful 
 with tlose grand, mournful eyes, whose mesmeric spell was 
 felt by Zuleime, on whom they were now brought to bear. 
 
 “ Take a seat, Mrs. Fairfax. You find me here in great 
 sonfusion, becanse I have but just arrived, and have had to 
 aupack and look over all these trunks, to select and prepare 
 no less than four costumes for the evening,” said the same 
 rich, full, deep tones, as their owner cleared a chair of 
 spangled robes and plumes, and offered it to her visitor. 
 
 «‘ Mother is going to wear this dress this evening—isn’t it 
 pretty ?’ said Ida, climbing upon the foot of the bed. 
 
 Zuleime turned her eyes with childish interest towards the 
 tobes ; and Mrs. Knight, observing her look of curiosity, 
 said - 
 
 « They firm a portion of the Queen Katherine costume. 
 They are going to bring out Henry VIIL, this evening.” 
 
 Zuicine glanced from the costume to the haggard, but 
 voble-looking woman, and thought that she might represent 
 the unhappy Queen very well, as far as personal appearance 
 would go, but instead of expressing this opinion, she said— 
 
 “The young German girl told me that you wanted some 
 assistance in needle-work. I shall be glad to help you.” 
 
 ‘The dark, mournful eyes rose slowly, and grew still, ook. 
 ing at the young widow, in whom they now began to recog- 
 nize that most piteous of all beings—-a reduced lady. 
 
ZULEIME. OTe 
 
 “ Sit down—prvy sit down,” she said, to Zuleime, who still 
 emained standing. 
 
 Zuleime took the vacant chair. 
 
 “ Would you object, Mrs. Fairfax, to sitting with me while 
 you sew? There are alterations to be maae in these four 
 wueen Katherine dresses, in which you would require my 
 advice.” 
 
 Zuleime hesitated, and then answered— 
 
 ‘‘ | should not like to leave my little child alone, madam.’ 
 
 “‘ Let me !—let me !—let me go up and stay with the baby!” 
 eagerly interrupted ida, jumping down from the bed, and 
 running up and seizing the hand of Ler mother. 
 
 The dark eyes sank fondly on the little one, and the rich 
 voice—richer now with maternal love, replied— 
 
 “‘ Certainly you may go, if the lady will permit you to de 
 50.” 
 
 Zuleime hesitated again, then said— 
 
 ‘Thank you. I shall be very glad. Let me go up first, 
 and make the fire safe.” And she left the room, followed by 
 Ida, who ran back first, to throw her arms around her mo- 
 ther’s neck, and kiss her “¢ good-bye.” 
 
 When Zuleime reached her room, she placed the blower 
 before the grate, for safety—hid away all implements with 
 which the children might harm themselves, and leaving the 
 little ones at play upon the rag carget, returned below stairs, 
 and went to work. Her new occupation was indeed of an 
 odd and miscellaneous description—ripping off gold lace, 
 and sewing in its place imitation sable; trimming buskins, 
 and lastly, making up an ancient coiffure, all under the direc- 
 tion of the shadowy-faced woman, who, all this time, sat upon 
 the trunk, with a tattered play-book on her knee, studying 
 her part. 
 
 Zuleime spoke of Ida—her beauty, her charming manner. 
 
 “Ts she? Do you find her so? I thought that might be 
 only my partiality. Poor little one! She isa great comfort 
 and a great sorrow to PEs) if you can understand such a 
 paradox.” 
 
 “ Yes, I can understand it,” said Zuleime. 
 
 «| have to leave her all the forenoon, for the purpose of 
 attending the rehearsals, and then, before ‘t is time for her to 
 go to bed, I have to leave her, alone, and go to the theatre, aud 
 be absent till a late hour of the night. And then the fear 
 af fire. or of acc‘dent, while I am gone from her, wears me 
 
2741 ZULEIME. 
 
 out. Worse than that, all day and night, while away from 
 her, is the dread of her getting in the street, and into evil 
 coripany.” And the eyes of the woman assumed an anxious, 
 haggard, querulous look, as she dropped them upon her book. 
 
 ‘Give your little girl into my care. [am never absent 
 from home except early in the morning—as to-day—and at 
 that hour you are here.” 
 
 The dark eyes flew up and fastened themselves upon the 
 face of Zuleime, and the deep voice inquired— 
 
 “ Would you really take charge of her for me? Oh, it 
 is too much for you, and too good in you. I don’t under- 
 stand it.” 
 
 “Indeed I shall be very glad to do so. The presence of 
 a lovely child is a great pleasure tome. Leave Ida with me 
 this evening while you are gone, and I will put her to bed 
 when the time comes.” 
 
 ‘¢ For this evening I will gratefully accept your kindness, 
 but you may find her more inconvenient than you anticipate,” - 
 said Mrs. Knight. And then she dropped her eyes again 
 upon her book, and Zuleime went on silently with her sewing. 
 About sunset the work was nearly completed, and the cos- 
 tume, with the exception of the coiffure, upon which Zuleime 
 was still engaged, was packed in band-boxes, to be conveyed 
 to the theatre. Then Mrs. Knight rang a little hand bell, 
 and when it was answered by the eutrance of Bertha Erh- 
 mientraut, she said,—‘ Please send ine a lad to carry these 
 boxes for me, and ask your mother to make mea very strong 
 cup of coffee.” 
 
 Bertha disappeared, and Mrs. Knight put on her bonnet 
 and shawl. And soon a ragged boy appeared at the door, 
 who agreed to carry the boxes for a sixpence. Mrs. Knight 
 loaded and dispatched him at the same moment that Bertha 
 ze-appeared with a huge cup of strong coffee, which she took 
 and drank off, standing. hen, as she handed back the empty 
 cup to the German girl, and received from Zuleime the 
 finished coiffure pinned up in a paper, she said— 
 
 «“ That cup of coffee will give me strength to go through 
 my heavy part to-night, but will leave me at its close more 
 exlausted than ever; thus I discount future health and life 
 for present bread ” And so she went off, her eyes gleaming 
 under the excitement of a stimulant narcotic, as fatal, if not 
 as disreputable, as opium or alcohol. Zuleime went up to 
 ner own room, and prepared the frugal supper for herself and 
 
ZULEIME. 975 
 
 the two children, that were still playing on the carpet. She 
 got a donble portion of milk from the German people, on ac- 
 connt of hier little guest, Ida declaring that she liked milk 
 with corn cake crumbled in it better than anything, it was so 
 sweet. And then when the babe was undressed and put to 
 bed, the little girl’s eyes waxed heavy and dim, and Zuleime 
 took her down stairs into her mother’s room, and disrobed 
 and washed and prepared her for bed. And when the child 
 was apont to kiss her friend and spring into bed, Zuleime 
 said — 
 
 “Stor, Ida. Don’t you say your prayers 
 
 “No, ma’am.” 
 
 “ Bur don’t you wish to ?” 
 
 “Ob yes, ma’am,” said the child, and running back, she 
 kneeled down at Zuleime’s knees, and placed her little hands 
 together and looked up for instruction. 
 
 Zuleime thought the shortest, simplest infant’s prayer she 
 knew of was the best, because readily understood and easily 
 remembered. And so she took the little one’s folded hands 
 between her own, and bade her repeat after her— 
 
 Q> 
 
 “ Now [ lay me down to sleep, 
 
 I pray the Lord my soul to keep. 
 If 1 should die before 1] wake, 
 
 I pray the Lord my scul to take.” 
 
 “That is a sweet little verse. What ts my soul?’ asked 
 the child. 
 
 Zuleime hesitated, puzzled for an answer; then she said 
 for want of a better— 
 “It is what you think with, and wonder with, and what 
 you are sorry or glad with, and what will live forever.” 
 
 “T love you withit then. Good-night, good, pretty lady.” 
 
 “ Good-night, sweet child.” And Zuleime laid her in the 
 bed, and kissed her fair eyelids down to slumber. 
 
 Vout. H. . 
 
276 THE CATASTROPIIE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE CATASTROPHE. 
 To die mid flame and smoke !—Har.eck 
 
 HEAVEN knows that it is now difficult enough for a poor 
 woman to make a living. But in the days when Zuleime 
 lived and suffered, it was even more so. It was especially 
 hard in Virginia, where, owing to the prevalence of the law 
 of entail, the rich were very rich, and the poor very poor. 
 Where, besides, ladies took pride in their domestic and in- 
 dustrious habits, the favorite and most inveterate of which 
 was that of doing their own sewing, forgetful of the poor 
 widow and orphan, who might be suffering for the want of 
 the work. It was for such reasons that Zuleime found little 
 or ro employment—at most of the houses where she applied 
 sbe was told that—‘* We never give out needle-work,” -or 
 that, «The ladies of the house do all the family sewing.” 
 All very well, in moderation. Industry is a praiseworthy 
 habji, when it does not compromise justice and merey—wnen 
 it dees not hinder us to “live and let live.” Let us be 
 dit‘yent in our several callings; put for Heaven’s sake, if 
 we ean possibly afford it, let us never refuse to give work to 
 those who need, or who ask it c*ms. They may be suffering 
 for it, they may be starving for it, they may be dying for it, 
 as Zuleime was. They may be driven to vice, to crime, for 
 the want of it, as Zuleime was not, thank Heaven. Reader, 
 this portion of my story at least is no fiction. Nor was 
 Zuleime’s case’ then a solitary one. Nor would it be such 
 now. There are many poor women, in every city, who have 
 not work enough to earn their necessary food and fuel. And 
 this is one of the causes :—There are hundreds of ladies, of 
 the iniddle classes of society, who work themselves nearly to 
 death, and really shorten their lives, by sewing for their 
 large families, in order to save money to lay out in dress for 
 themselves and children, mcre genteel than needful; or in 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 277 
 
 furniture, which they do not live very long to enjoy. And 
 all this time there are hundreds of poor women around them 
 suffering for a part of this very work with which they are 
 killing themselves. Yes, hundreds who die annually of in-< 
 nutrition—a slow, cruelly slow starvation, prolonged from 
 month to month, or from year to year, according to thcir 
 relative strength of constitution. I know it. For I have 
 lived among them, and seen for myself, and not another. The 
 doctors call the want, of which they die, consumption—I 
 think it is rather non-consumption. Zuleime sank deeper 
 and deeper into penury. As autumn advanced into winter, 
 and as her necessities increased, her ability to supply them 
 decreased. Her poverty began to betray itself sadly in her 
 eat appearance. Her face was thin and wan, with great, 
 
 right, hungry lookmg eyes—her hands wasted to semi- 
 transparency. Her only gown, her black bombazine, was 
 rusty and threadbare, and embossed with darns—her shoes 
 were so bad as to look scarcely decent. And amid all her 
 other troubles, there was room for humiliated feelings upon 
 even this account. The present was wretched—the future 
 hopeless. She had heard of people perishing from cold and 
 hunger, and to such an end she thought her life seemed 
 tending. Yet miserable as was the condition of Zuleime, 
 there were many then, are many now, in much worse situa- 
 tions. She at least was starving in a tolerably clean room, 
 in privacy and in peace. Far happier than some who perish 
 in the midst of vice and filth and squalor. Yes, reader, 
 there are such things; they do exist in my neighborhood, 
 and yours, and it is just as well that they should sometimes 
 be remembered. Zuleime was dying of want. And did the 
 people of the house know nothing of this? Yes, they knew 
 something of it, and her German landlord trembled for his 
 rent, his wife wished that they had never seen the poor thing, 
 and the two girls pitied her very deeply. And Mrs. Knight 
 saw it all, and suffered in sympathy, and gave the poor, 
 dying girl, all the work she had to give, and paid her for 
 doing it as liberally as she could afford. But Mrs. Knight 
 was not able, from her scanty salary, to keep up her expen- 
 sive, professional wardrobe, and support two families besides. 
 The greater part of the money Zuleime made, by sewing for 
 the poor actress, was paid for rent, to keep the roof over her 
 head that bitter weather, and t) supply the daily two-penca 
 worth of milk foi the child. If » few pence were left ovor, 
 
278 THE CATASTROPHE. - 
 
 they were spent in cheap pilot bread, sparingly eaten by here 
 self. Jor wecks together she had no fire, no fuel, but would 
 tmanage to keep her child warm by seating her in the middle 
 of the bed, well wrapped up. By the side of the head of the 
 bedstead, and looking to the south, was the only back win- 
 dow of her room. When she had work, she would sit by 
 this window and sew, while her child sat wrapped up in the 
 bed. When she had no work, she would still sit there and 
 rock her child upon her bosom, singing to her all the while. 
 Unearthly and spiritual was the wan, moonlight face, with 
 its large, luminous eyes—unearthly and spiritual was the 
 voice in which she sang her child to rest, as she sat by the 
 south window. She found room in her burdened heart to 
 love that sunny window, with its glimpses of a river land- 
 scape, with waterfalls and hills and forests, and nearer, lying 
 between her and the water, the pleasure-grounds around a 
 fair mansion of white freestone, that fronted on the river. 
 That fine place took in nearly a whole square, and was sepa- 
 rated from this poor house and lot, first, by a broad, back 
 alley, then a tall brick wall, with capacious stables and 
 coach-houses, then the garden, with terraces and conserva- 
 tory, and so up to the venetian back piazza of the mansion. 
 Every day, and all day long through the glowing autumn 
 weather, she had sat and feasted her eyes and mind upon 
 these pleasure-grounds, with their gorgeous flowers and mag- 
 nificent trees, and the palace-home in the midst, a picture of 
 veauty and glory, telling besides of plenty, elegance, refine- 
 ment, leisure, artistic taste, intellectual pursuits, family 
 union, domestic happiness. Many a time, when going out te 
 look for work, she had walked quite around the square te 
 get in front of the mansion, and satisfy her soul with the 
 architectural] beauty and elegance of the edifice, as it stood 
 elevated by a flight of terraces far above the street, and 
 commanding for many miles the mighty course of the river. 
 Often in the autumn weather, had she walked under this 
 southern wall, and even in the midst of her deep distresses, 
 looked up in childish longing at the splendid autumnal flowers, 
 trailing luxuriantly over the iron railing. Why did this 
 place interest her so? Not because it was a palace-home, in 
 such strong contrast to her own poor dwelling—not because 
 she passed it almost every day—not because its magnificent 
 grounds were ever before her sight from her own poor room. 
 Ah, n+: But because there was a rural] character, and a 
 
THE CATASTROPHE, 2Ty 
 
 fine, old, ancestral look about the place, that reminded her 
 of ber dear, lost home. Everything connected with the sre- 
 mises interested her, even that capacious family carriage, 
 with its round bodied, gray coach horses, and its fat coach- 
 man, which appeared every afternoon at a certain hour to 
 take the family out to drive. She did not care to inquire 
 who lived there. One day, when walking in front of the 
 house on tae other street, she had scen a lady in deep mourn- 
 ing come out and get in the carriage. She had time to see 
 that the lady appeared bowed in grief, but possessed so sweet 
 and benevolent a face, that she was encouraged to call and 
 ask for work. So the next day she entered the beautiful 
 grounds, and ascended the stone steps that led flight by flight 
 up the rising terraces until she reached the Grecian portico 
 and rang the bell. The door was opened by a man servacit, 
 to whom she communicated her business. He called a wait- 
 ing-woman, who came, and after hearing what the visitor 
 wanted, explained civilly enough that all their needle-work 
 was done by a young person, who lived companion to her 
 mistress, who was too infirm to see strangers. Zuleime 
 never tried there again. But the sweet, sorrowful face of 
 the lady haunted her, and she gazed from her poor window 
 npon the magnificent pleasure-grounds with more of interest 
 than ever. 
 
 Truly the world is “full of paper walls.” How little Zu- 
 leime surmised that the mourner in the palace sorrowed over 
 the very same bereavement that had laid her own life waste— 
 that the fair-haired, tender-eyed lady, whose grief-worn coun- 
 tenance haunted her so, was the mother of her lost Frank ; 
 that the proud mansion house, in the midst of its pleasure- 
 grounds, was the rightful inheritance of the poor babe that 
 rested on her wasted bosom. 
 
 How little did the childless and desolate recluse of the 
 palace guess that her lost son’s widow sat pining, starving 
 so near her! The world is full of paper walls, but fate 
 makes them firmer, stronger, more indestructible than ada- 
 mant. 
 
 Upon that very same December night that found Mrs 
 Clifton and Catherine rejoicing over the good news they had 
 heard from their friends, upon that very night Zuleime sat 
 shivering in her room, without fire, food or light. She had 
 given her child its cup of milk, and thanked Heaven that 
 she had it to give, though she herself went hungry. And 
 
280 THE CATASTROPHE, 
 
 she had wrapped the babe in her shawl, and sat by the wine 
 dow, singing and rocking her to sleep. The room was in- 
 tensely cold, she was chilled to the heart, her feet were numb, 
 and almost lifeless. ‘The only warmth in her body seemed 
 to be the bosom at which the child was pressed. The snow 
 was falling fast without, but even through its flakes she saw 
 the lighted windows of the mansion-house glowing through 
 the crimson curtains, and streaming redly across the snow- 
 clad ground. And she sat and thought of the comforts 
 within that parlor. While she sat there thinking, there came 
 a gentle knock at her door. 
 
 “ Who is there?’ inquired Zuleime. 
 
 ‘Tt is I, Mrs. Fairfax,” replied the voice of the actress. 
 
 “ Come in, Mrs. Knight.” 
 
 The actress entered, saying, with a little pardonable tact— 
 
 “ Oh, you are putting your child to sleep in the dark. It 
 is singular some little ones never will go to sleep where there 
 is a light burning. Js she asleep ?” 
 
 “Yes,” replied Zuleime. 
 
 “Then please put her in bed, my dear, and come down 
 stairs with me. I have something to talk to you about.” 
 
 Zuleime laid her little girl in bed, and tottering with weak- 
 ness, from her long fast and the cold, accompanied the actress 
 down stairs. 
 
 Mrs. Knight opened her own room, and revealed a warm 
 coal-fire burning in the grate, and a little supper-table set 
 out, with coffee, French rolls, nice butter, and stewed oysters. 
 She set the cushioned rocking-chair for Zuleime, between 
 the fire and the table, and pushed her gently into the seat, 
 saying— 
 
 “<T have holyday to-night, and for a week from to-night, 
 because the opera troupe are here. And so I thought ] 
 would just celebrate its commencemert by a supper and a 
 ball for two!” And she placed before her visitor a plate of 
 oysters and a cup of coffee. When the little supper was 
 fairly commenced, Mrs. Knight said, ‘I did not send for you, 
 only to take coffee with me—TI wished to speak to you on a 
 matter of business. I have been wishing some time to do so, 
 but scarcely knew how to do it without wounding or offends 
 ing you.”’ She paused. 
 
 «Ah! are you so considerate? Yet you need not fear- + 
 1 know you could not think of anything to say which would— 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 2°81 
 
 # At least, I only mean your good, and if I err, you will 
 orgive me.” 
 
 “Gentle friend! I am used to al] the hardness and vul- 
 garity against which a woman has to break her heart and 
 apirit, in struggling through the rough world. Now think 
 of that. And think whether I can be hurt by anything you 
 kind heart impels you to say. No, I shall be very grata 
 it cs 
 
 “ Well, this is it, then, my dear. I have not been able to 
 avoid seeing your fruitless efforts to maintain yourself and 
 child, for the last three months. I fear you have scarcely 
 made five shillings a week.” 
 
 «¢] have not made that for the last month.” 
 
 «¢ And there seems to be no chance of doing better—with 
 your needle, I mean.” 
 
 «¢ Ah, no, no,” 
 
 «And your situation is getting worse every day. Poor 
 child! your very shoes are almost gone—there—forgive me— 
 I have spoken rudely.” 
 
 “¢ No, no—you have spoken the truth in love. Any truth 
 ean be told in the spirit of love.” 
 
 “And you are wasting away—you will be thrown upon 
 your sick bed—then what will become of your child ?” 
 
 « Alas, God knows! If we both could die —” 
 
 “Yes, if you both could. Death is uo evil at all.” As 
 the actress said this, her hollow, shadowy face grew dark, 
 and her large, luminous eyes glanced aside, and fell upon the 
 door—fixed in an intense, suffering, alinost querulous gaze— 
 as if of one enduring pain. “It must come abruptly at last,” 
 she said, looking up, suddenly. ‘* My dear, have you any 
 insurmountable prejudices against a theatrical life for your- 
 self?” 
 
 Startled by the abruptness of the proposition, Zuleime raised 
 her eyes to the beautiful, dark, irritated countenance before 
 her, without replying. 
 
 «“ You don’t understand me. Well, then, to put it plainer, 
 if nothing better at all could be found for you, would you 
 absolutely refuse to go upon the stage ?”’ 
 
 Zuleime had understood her very well, and if she still 
 hesitated, it was from a reluctance to wcund the spirit of the 
 actress. 
 
 “ Do you, then, consider the histrionic profession disreputa- 
 
282 THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 ble?” asked Mrs. Knight, with the same suffering, querulous, 
 alinost cross expression of the eyes. 
 
 «© No,” said Zuleime, very gently, I do not. Not the 
 profession that Mrs. Siddons ennobled. I think-it truly 
 
 “¢The youngest of the sister arts, 
 W bere all their beauties blend.’ ” 
 
 “Well, then, my question—Would you object to going on 
 the stage yourself ?”” 
 
 “Tam not fit for it,” replied Zuleime, evasively. 
 
 “1 do not know that. I need not tell you that you are 
 young and pretty, and singularly graceful—nor that you have 
 a very fine voice for singing—these form a very good founda- 
 tion. And in elocution, my dear, I would myself become 
 your instructress. What say you?” 
 
 “That you are kinder to me than any one has ever been 
 since I left home; and that I am very, very grateful,” Zu- 
 leime said, very gently. 
 
 “But that you despise the calling too thoroughly to follow 
 it, even for bread,” said the actress, bitterly. 
 
 “¢ No, no—I did not say or mean that, indeed—but I, you 
 see, have neither the taste, talent, nor courage requisite !” 
 
 “Why not?” 
 
 «<] was brought up in the privacy of domestic life; in the 
 deep seclusion of the country. I have never been used to 
 society, much less to publicity, and I am sure, that no matter 
 Low well I might be instructed in my part, when I should 
 come before an audience, I should forget all about it, and 
 half die of shame.” 
 
 “ Ah, I suppose you have no vocation for it. An actress 
 forgets her own identity in that of the character she repre- 
 sents, and that enables her to go through things she could 
 not otherwise endure. But, my dear, I do not see anything 
 else you can do: and as for the ‘stage fright,’ as it is called 
 among us, you would soon get that off.” 
 
 Zuleime shook her head. 
 
 “‘ My dear, you do not yet know the plan I have for you. 
 I never thought—no one would ever think of a sudden grand 
 debut for you. Nothing but great genius, strong vocation, 
 and perfect self-possession on the part of the debutante, 
 would justify such a thing. No—the art must be acquired, 
 as Other arts are—slowly. This is the plan I had for you, 
 and it entia'y preelndes the possibility of a stage fright, 
 
THE CATASTROPHR. 283 
 
 since you are gradually imured to it. Do you understand we, 
 now ?” | 
 
 “ No, I do not:” 
 
 * Well, then, for instance—and to come to the point! The 
 opera season is about to commence, and the manager wishes 
 to engage about half-a-dozen young girls as chorus singers. 
 Will you be one? The lowest salary they ever give a chorus 
 singer is six dollars a week—that is four times as much as 
 you ever earned by the tedious needle. Will you consent ? 
 
 Still Zuleime was silent. . 
 
 ‘«s After the opera season is over, I make no doukt that 
 your youth, beauty and grace, and your very fine voice, will 
 secre you a permanent engagement at an advanced salary. 
 Will you go with me to the manager to-morrow ?” 
 
 “No,” said Zuleime, “ I should not dare to go upon the 
 stage. I could not face an audience.” 
 
 “¢ And you need not face them! You would be in 4 groug 
 of young girls, and no one would notice you, except casually 
 as a part of the scenery. The attention of the audience is 
 taken up with the principal performers. Besides, no onv will 
 know who you are. Your name need not appear upon the 
 bills. I will take every care of your feelings, if, indeed, you 
 ean be sensible of them when hunger and cold are felt.” 
 
 “1 do not like the life,” said Zuleime. ‘I had almost ag 
 willingly starve.” 
 
 The actress arose and rung the bell. 
 
 “Oh! it is nothing to me, Mrs. Fairfax. Do as you please. 
 { have no earthly interest to serve in persuading you to this 
 step,” she said, with the old, cross, querulous look on her 
 haggard face, and in her beautiful dark, gray eyes. 
 
 Bertha came in and cleared away the table. 
 
 Mrs. Knight walked up and down the room in a hasty 
 irritated manner. 
 
 ‘¢T wish 1 was at work again! I am sick of my.holyday 
 already! Since I cannot afford to abandon this hateful art, 
 I wish I were always delving at it, and there came no pause 
 for self-recollection. I wish I were perpetually Queen 
 Katherine, Mrs. Haller, Isabella, Imogene, Lady Macbeth, 
 Bianca Fazio, and the others, going incessantly through the 
 circle like the earth through the signs of the zodiac. I wish 
 ] were always somebody else, anybody else than poor Ida 
 Kuight.” And she threw herself into a chair, glancing at 
 Zuleime with a strained, appealing, accusing look. But the 
 
 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 wan fuce of the dying girl, with its hectie flush, smoi2 the 
 rock in her heart, and she moved to her side and took her 
 hand and said, gently, though with the same tone and look 
 of querulous suffering, ‘ It 7s a wretched life! I feel it so-— 
 only it is not so bad as starving, and seeing your child starve. 
 My dear, it 2s something to me whether I persuade you to do 
 this thing or not. I cannot bear to see you suffer so. Your 
 necessities weigh upon my heart in addition to my own. And 
 really,’ she added, with the same frowning, irritated look, 
 “really, I have such a burden of my own, that I grow res- 
 tive under a feather of anybody else’s.” 
 
 ‘* Then do not take my sorrows on your shoulders, dear 
 lady ; I can bear them myself, or die under their weight un- 
 complainingly. Do not take my troubles to heart!” said 
 Zuleime, gently. 
 
 The actress looked up with a sharp, rebuking glance, say- 
 ing— 
 
 “ As if I could help it! You are not sincere when you 
 ask me to do so! No, the only way I can get your griefs off 
 my heart is to get them off your own. I must get you into 
 living circumstances. I must persuade you to go on the stage 
 with me. It is not a pleasant profession for a jady, I grant 
 you—neither is freezing or starving, ard getting into debt 
 and being dunned and rebuffed, pleasant—but—” she added, 
 with a look of almost fierce self*assertion and self-defence— 
 “neither is it actuaily sinfu/, that I know of. It necessarily 
 transgresses no command of God with which I am acquainted. 
 One need uot be a heathen because she is an actress. Mrs. 
 Siddons was a member in full communion with the Chureh 
 of England. The stage has its dangers, I grant you, but you 
 may safely pass through them, if you please. J have done so! 
 I was not born or brought up to that life, my dear; I was the 
 daughter of an English | country curate—then a nursery go- 
 verness—then a trav eling companion to an earl’s daughter 
 — tnen I accidentally met with my husband, and we married 
 from mutual affection. He was a tragedian—thati is the way 
 in which I becan.e an actress. Now I follow the histrionie 
 Be as the only means of living left open to me. I 
 
 ave seen the dangers—nay, I have fe/é them. But nightly 
 —-no matter how utterly wearied out with toil I may have 
 been, I have uttered two lines of sincere prayer, that God 
 would keep me from falling into deeper sin. And He has 
 kept ~ue' Does that surprise you? (tod is the God of the 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 985 
 
 \»<dlican as well as of the Pharisee. Who dares excommunt- 
 cate me? What child of the Universal Father shall dare to 
 say that another is excluded from Eis love and care and pro- 
 tection? Verily, the day of Judgment will be a day of 
 startling revelations. And many that are first shall be last, 
 and the last shall be first.” And then the actress fell into 
 silence, and her fine countenance lost that look of captious 
 self-defence, and settled into meditative earnestness. 
 
 Zuleime arose to go. Mrs. Knight took her hand, and 
 said, gently— 
 
 ‘«- My dear, think over what I have proposed to you. If 
 you decide to accept my proposition, I will take every pos- 
 siblu care of you. You shall be as my own daughter. I 
 will shield you from all dangers. I will instruct you 
 in your art. And I will give you the freedom of my ward- 
 robe. Good-night. Will you kiss me?” 
 
 And she drew Zuleime to her bosom. The poor girl 
 pressed her lips to those of the actress, and slipping through 
 the door, passed up in the dark and cold to her cwn 
 room. 
 
 Ida went to bed, but the poor, generous, irritable woman 
 could not sleep for sympathy, for anxiety, and for the sound 
 of Zuleime’s racking cough. ‘She will never be able to 
 sing much, I am really afraid. But she shall be paid well 
 for dressing, and for making her beautiful face and form a 
 part of the pageantry—that I am determined upon, if I have 
 any influence with the management,” thought Ida, as she 
 sank to sleep. 
 
 Rusty and threadbare clothing, broken shoes, cold, hun 
 ger, and a suffering child, are forcible arguments, and 
 they seconded the persuasions of Ida with tremendous 
 power. 
 
 Zuleime yielded, and was carried down the current of fate 
 as easily, with as little resistance as the sapling beaten down 
 by the rain, uprooted by the wind, and carried: off by the 
 flood, is whirled down the stream. 
 
 Tt was the fatal night of the 26th of Decembar, 1811, 
 the night of the burning of the Richmond Theatre, a night 
 ever to be remembered in the annals of that city, and ever 
 to be mourned in the hearts of her citizens. That evening 
 more than six hundred lovers of pleasure were gayly pre- 
 paring for the theatre; not dreaming, alas’ that they also 
 vere doomed ‘o take fearful part in an awful tragedy--a 
 
 18 
 
9°55 THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 tragedy unprecedented in the history of the stage. Before 
 eight o’clock, more than six hundred persons, from }]leasant 
 city homes all around, assembled in the fated building; be- 
 fore twelve o’clock, more than one hundred had perished 
 horribly in the flames! and the scarcely surviving five hun- 
 dred, many wounded, maimed, or burned, all despairingly 
 mourning the awful fate of nearest relatives and friends, re- 
 turned or were borne back to their desolate homes ! 
 
 That afternoon, unprophetic of doom as any of the others, 
 Zuleime and her friend were preparing to go on the stage. 
 Zuleime had no part to perform—she was as yet only an 
 attache—and was to appear but in one scene, as one of a group 
 of villagers. She was engaged in fixing up a peasant dress, 
 consisting of a straw hat, black spencer, short gray skirt, 
 and striped stockings. Mrs. Knight was, as usual, doing two 
 things at once—arranging her costume and studying her part. 
 But the eyes of Ida often wandered towards Zuleime, as she 
 neard that hacking, racking cough, and she noticed sith pain 
 the waning face. Yes! within a few days even, the thin 
 face had become perceptibly thinner, and the flushed cheek 
 burned with a darker crimson. ‘‘ And she will wake a sorry 
 looking peasant,” thought Ida; “a very sorry peasant, with 
 that delicate, spiritual, almost eerial face and form of hers. 
 How absurdly inappropriate are most of the affairs we get 
 up! Truly, our art is in the rear of all others. Now, this 
 evening, all go on as villagers—vuigar and refined—all 
 reduced to one level. Those coarse, brawny Miss Butchers, 
 and this fragile, delicate Zuleime, all peasants—very well 
 for the Miss Butchers, but for Zuleiue! To-morrow evening 
 all go on as faries; excellent well for this erial Zuleime, but 
 for the Miss Butchers! Well, our notions are fanciful as 
 arbitrary—and there may be peasants who have delicate, 
 white, semi-transparent fingers, and there may be faries with 
 large, flat feet, and great red hands, for aught we know.” 
 While Mrs. Knight silently cogitated, and covered her white 
 satin shoes anew, and studied her part, Zuleime worked on 
 also in silence, but too despairing, too exhausted, even 
 to think of the wayward fate which had brought her to this 
 pass. 
 
 At about sunset their preparations were completed. Ida, 
 as usual, rang for her cup of coffee and her errand boy, and 
 sacked up and sent away the costume for the evening. Then 
 ehe put her own little girl and Zuleime’s child to sicep to 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 287 
 
 gether in her bed, and got Bertha to promise to look in, in 
 the course of the evening, and see that all was safe. And 
 then poor Ida carefully wrapped Zuleime up in her own man- 
 tilla, and wound her own furs around her neck, saying, in 
 answer to all expostulation— 
 
 ‘Never mind me, my dear! Tve got no cough. Hag: 
 gard as I look, I’m whit-leather.! You must take care of 
 your poor little self.” 
 
 And then they left the house, walking briskly through 
 the biting air, and crunching the crusted snow under their 
 quick footsteps. Though but little after sunset, owing to 
 the heavy clouds, it was almost dark when they hurried 
 along the streets. There was the usual number of foot-pas- 
 sengers abroad, and once, as the slight figure of a man in a 
 military cloak swiftly hurried past, Mrs. Knight felt her arm 
 suddenly grasped with spasmodic force by her companion, 
 and turning around, she saw the face of Zuleime deadly 
 
 ale. 
 
 “Why, what is the matter, my dear child ?” 
 
 “ Nothing, nothing!” said Zuleime; ‘let us hurry on.” 
 
 “But you are trembling like an- aspen leaf! You have 
 walked too far—you are not strong enough for this evening’s 
 work; let me take you home again.” 
 
 “No, no, no, no! Iet’s go on!” 
 
 “Why, Zuleime—” 
 
 «Oh, it is nothing—nothing when you hear it! I—I felt 
 the presence of one long dead! It was weak nerves, or fancy, 
 or perhaps the prescience of one on the confines of the unseen 
 world. Jet us hasten on.’ 
 
 They hurried along. In fe meantime, he who had passed 
 them, the slight man in the military cloak, walked on down 
 the square, suddenly stopped, muttered to himself, “ Absurd! 
 impossible !”? then went on again, again stopped, as by an 
 irresistible impulse, turned and rapidly retraced his steps, 
 after the two ladies in black, overtook them, was close be- 
 hind them, but not placing any confidence in what he termed 
 his own wild thoughts, he dared not accost or peep under the 
 honnets of two reserved and closely veiled women. But he 
 kept them in sight until he saw them enter the side door of 
 the theatre. Then he asked a door-keeper— 
 
 <¢ Who are those 2” 
 
 «¢Twe of the ladies attached to the theatre,” replied the 
 mar 
 
£83 THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 «Foo. that I was!” exclaimed Frank Fairfax, as he 
 turned away. 
 
 Captain Fairfax had reached Richmond that day at noon- 
 too late, by half a day, for the stage to L————, whither he 
 would have gone, if possible, on the wings of the wind. His 
 mother, warned by the newspapers, had been daily expecting 
 lis arrival, and was prepared to receive him when he pre- 
 sented himself. He had spent the whole afternoon with her 
 at Fairview House, and in the evening had walked out to 
 book his place in the next day’s stage for L —. It was 
 when hurrying along on that errand, that he passed so near 
 his wife, electrifying her with his unknown presence, and 
 being himself drawn to follow, and to hover near her all the 
 evening. For when he had turned from the theatre, and 
 hurried on and reached the stage office and secured his place, 
 finding out that the coach did not start till three o’clock the 
 next morning, he said to himself— 
 
 ‘‘ How on earth shall I contrive to forget some of these 
 miserable hours that must intervene before I can fly to my 
 wife? My mother’s ill-health obliges her to retire early to 
 bed. If I go back to Fairview House, I shall have the whole 
 mansion to myself. I will even go to the theatre, and see 
 if I can find ont among the women there the particular 
 one whose air and gait reminded me so strongly of my Zu- 
 leime.” 
 
 And so to the theatre he went. It was quite early, and 
 he was fortunate in securing a seat in the centre of the first 
 row of boxes, immediately in front of the stage. In the mean- 
 time, Zuleime had been conducted by Mrs. Knight into the 
 theatre, and introduced into the common dressing-room of 
 the stock actresses. This was a large room, with a broad 
 shelf or dresser running around three sides of the walls, and 
 about four feet from the floor. This served as bureaus, 
 dressing-tables, and wash-stands for nine women, each of the 
 three sides being occupied by three, who equally divided the » 
 shelf, each one having her hand-boxes under the shelf, and 
 her looking-glass on top of it, leaning against the wall, 
 and her wash-basin, jars of rouge, boxes of powder, pots of 
 pomatum, ete., standing around it. On introducing her 
 companion into this apartment, Mrs. Knight said— 
 
 «¢ All women belonging to the theatre use this as a come 
 mon dressing-room, except the ballet girls, who have one to 
 
 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 285 
 
 themselves, and the stars, who have separate and well fur- 
 nished rooms.” 
 
 About half a dozen women were present now, each before 
 her own glass, with her own tallow candle, making her 
 toilet. 
 
 “ Who’s that, Knight, that you’ve got there?” asked s 
 coarse-featured, black-eyed girl, who always played the 
 hoyden, or the wit, and fondly believed herself a proficient 
 in the Rosalind and Beatrice line. I say, Knight! is that 
 the young ‘lady? ” she repeated, turning around with a 
 little wad of raw cotton, dipped in carmine, between her 
 finger and thumb, and exhibiting a face in process of being 
 rejuvenated—namely, with one young and blooming cheek, 
 and one prematurely old and sallow. 
 
 “Yes, this is the young lady, Barry,” said Mrs. Knight, 
 very gravely, as she led her protégé off to her >wn corner of 
 the common dresser. 
 
 ‘¢] think she might have sent her down with the ballet 
 girls, as she is really one of them,” grumbled a large, im- 
 portant looking female, arranging a huge turban and curls 
 upon her head, at the farther end of the room. Two new 
 ideas besides that of the common dressing-room and the dress- 
 ing shelf in general, Zuleime had got—namely, first, that there 
 really was some very lofty notions of rank and exclusiveness 
 even among the members of the stock company of a second 
 rate theatre—secondly, that they really, after all, did not 
 differ much in that or any other respect from people she had 
 met in very high society, except, indeed, that they nad the 
 odious habit of calling each other “ Knight’ or * Barry,” 
 as men do, without a prefix of any sort. 
 
 Mrs, Knight dressed herself for her part, as she was to 
 appear in the early scene in the play, and then gave the use 
 of her toilet nook to Zuleime. But the cold walk through 
 the evening air, and the standing in the chilly dressing-room. 
 had so increased her cough, that Mrs. Knight went out and 
 sent a call-boy for opium, and administered a dose. It was 
 
 der the influence of that stupefier that Zuleime, leaning 
 on th: arm of Mrs. Knight, entered that terra-incognita, the 
 green-room. It was a ‘long room, papered, curtained, car- 
 peted, furnished with sofas and easy-chairs, and warmed by 
 a fine coal fire—upon the whole it differed in no other ree 
 spect than its motley crowd, from a large family parlor. 
 Mra. Knight conducted her to a corner of the sofa nearest 
 
290 THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 the fire, and leaving her sitting there, obeyed the call-boy’s 
 summons, and went upon the stage. Composed into a dreamy 
 state by the opium, Zuleime sat there while the strange 
 scene, with its fantastical crowd, passed before her like the 
 phantasmagoria of a midnight dream. And all this time 
 Frank sat in the centre box of the front row, not seeing the 
 play enacting before him—not thinking of it, only seeing the 
 turnpike road to L——-—. Only thinking of the dearest 
 girl in the world, whom he should meet at the end of his 
 journey. Paper walls again ! 
 
 Zuleime remained in the corner of the sofa near the fire 
 in the green-room, not thinking at all, not even dreaming, 
 only conscious in a vague dreamy way, that a strange vision, 
 changing and. changing like figures in the kaleidoscope, was 
 passing before her. She was scarcely aroused by Mrs. 
 Knight’s gentle voice, saying in her ear— 
 
 “Come, my dear, it is time for you to go on now. Come, 
 lon’t be afraid, Bless you, you are nobody, you know. No 
 one will look at you. You will be only one of a group that 
 forms a sort of back-ground to the scene. Come, I will go 
 with you to the side entrance, where the others stand.” 
 
 Zuleime obeyed mechanically, and was led, between vari- 
 sus walls of canvas, to a side entrance, at which were 
 grouped a number of persons in villagers’ costume. 
 
 “‘ There, just go on with the crowd, and stand there , that 
 is all you have to do,” whispered Mrs. Knight, as she left 
 her. . 
 
 And at the same moment the group moved on, carrying 
 the somnolent Zuleime with them, and she found herseif in a 
 dazzling glare of light, and heard the deafening rant of a 
 stentorian lunged actor near her, and grew painfully con- 
 scious of the many hundred eyes upon the scene, upon her- 
 self, perhaps—and dared not raise her eyes an instant from 
 the floor, upon which, with a deeply burning cheek, they 
 were fixed. But suddenly an attraction—a fatality—I know 
 not what—but something stronger than her fear, stronger 
 than her will, drew her glance up to. the centre box of the 
 front row, and her eyes met Frank’s eyes. Yes, there he 
 sat, gazing at her, astonished, fixed, spell-bound as by a 
 night-mare, without the power of moving or waking. she! 
 she tuo, gazed for a moment. She was not astonished at 
 seeing him there, any more than she would have been aston- 
 whed at ds eam*»g of secing him anywhere. It was all like 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 291 
 
 & wild dream, everything! It seemed not unnatural that he 
 should form a part of it.- Only to her weakened and half 
 stupefied brain, the last, nearest event was the most distinct 
 —and so, strangely, she did not think of his death or life, 
 but only of the reproach she had brought upon Aim, her 
 prond Frank, in appearing there! and covering her face with 
 both hands, she sank to her knees upon the floor. 
 
 It was lucky the drop-curtain fell just then. It was lucky 
 the audience took that by-scene for a part of the play. But 
 to Zuleime it was still like a fever-dream, from which she 
 tried to wake. Like a dream the drop-curtain had rolled 
 down. But not like a dream was the rough seizure of her 
 arm by a girl who set her upon her feet, and said, in a not 
 unfriendly tone— 
 
 «What did you do that for? That warn’t a part of your 
 
 art.” , 
 ; «< |.—[—have,” beyan Zuleime, passing her hand back and 
 forth across her forehead, “I have been taking opium to stop 
 my cough. J—never was used to it, and I think it has he- 
 wildered me a little ; don’t you think so?” 
 
 “T think something has! Wake up, and try to listen to 
 what is goingon. Mr. is going to sing now. Come 
 off.” 
 
 As the gir: led her away between the walls of canvas, 
 one of th se msignificant incidents occurred, upon which 
 nevertheless tne fate of hundreds sometimes hang. Away 
 among the back scenes through which they passed to reach 
 the green-room, there was a chandelier hanging flaring in the 
 draught. A boy seeemed busy with it. 
 
 “‘ Hoist it up higher, sir, why don’t you?’ exclaimed one 
 of the plavers, who happened to come up. 
 
 “If J do, it will set fire to the scenes,” replied the boy. 
 
 “¢ Coufound your insolence, do you think I would give you 
 the order, if there were the least danger! Do as you are 
 directed, sir.” 
 
 The boy obeyed ; and the scenery instantly took fire. The 
 shandelier was hastily drawn down; the alarm was given in 
 ilie rear of the stage, and a scene shifter directed to cut the 
 cords by which the combustible material was suspended. But 
 the man became pauic-struck and fled. 
 
 The performers and their assistants in vain sought to teus 
 town the scenery. The canvas was covered with a resinowa 
 composition, aru the draught of wind was strong ;-and Zu 
 
 
 
393 THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 leime and her companion were swiftly encircled by walls of 
 blazing canvas. The strong girl, terror-strick2n, left her 
 weak companion and fled. And the poor invalid, forgotten 
 by all in the terror and confusion, sank down oy erpowered, 
 suffocated by the heat and smoke. All this had happened 
 m less than three minutes from the raising of the chandelier 
 And at this-time one of the performers was playing neat 
 the orchestra, and the greater part of the stage, with its ap- 
 palling danger, was fatally concealed from the audience by 
 the curtain. The flames spread with the rapidity of light- 
 ning; and the first notice the audience had of their danger, 
 was the fire falling from the ceiling upon the head of the 
 performer Even then many supposed it to be a part of the 
 play, and were for a short time restrained from flight by a 
 cry from the stage that there was no danger. But soon the 
 fire flashed in every part of the house with a rapidity hor- 
 rible and appalling. Then terror seized upon the hearts of 
 all, and the audience broke up in confusion. Those in the 
 pit escaped by the pit entrance, and were every one saved, 
 Those in the boxes, who, had they known it, might at firs: 
 have escaped by way of the pit, all turned and hurried to- 
 wards the only door of egress into the lobby. This doot 
 was unfortunately hung to open on the inside. And this 
 circumstance was fatally overlooked by the frenzied crowd. 
 who pressed and pressed against the door, trying to push ik 
 open, but really keeping it fast closed. The fire advances 
 upon them, filling the house with suffocating smoke, and with 
 flame that seized the clothing of those behind, goading them 
 horribly to still more frantic pressure upon those before 
 The most frightful uproar ensued ; women shricking, pray- 
 ing—men groaning, expostulating ; all crowding one upok 
 another, or rather hundreds upon hundreds, and all pressing 
 vowards the door that would not yield. The pit was now 2 
 lake of fire, darting out huge tongues of flame that woune 
 themselves around the forms of the hindmost, who fel: 
 shriveled into the blaze. Then arose cries of horror, an< 
 guish and despair—children crying for lost parents, and pa- 
 rents calling in agony upon the names of missing children— 
 for in the fierce pushing and struggling for life, parties got 
 separated and families divided—children forced from the 
 parents, women from their protectors, and the weaker un- 
 consciously thrown down and trampled to death by the strong. 
 Many, half roasted, dropped into the burning pit; many 
 
fHE CATASTROPHE. 293 
 
 with their garments in flames, maddened by pain and terror, 
 threw thersselves headlong from the windows, and met an- 
 other death. Many even chanced to save their lives in that 
 way at the cost of broken limbs. And at last the doof 
 yielded ; and as many as possible escaped that way; but to 
 what a life, alas! darkened forever by the memory of dearest 
 relatives and friends who perished in the,fire. The whole 
 building was now in flames. In less than an hour all was 
 over. Naught remained but a heap of smoking ruins ; and 
 around them the agonized crowd of those who lived and 
 raved—-and around these again, an awe-sruck, mournirg 
 sity. 
 
994 “IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 a 
 ‘SIN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 
 
 She sleeps: her breathings are not heara 
 In palace chambers far apart, 
 The fragrant tresses are not stirred 
 That lie upon her charmed heart. 
 She sleeps: on either side upswells 
 The downy pillow lightly prest ; 
 She sleeps, nor dreams, but only dwells 
 A perfect form in perfect rest. —TENNYSON 
 
 Tuk spell that bound Captain Fairfax, when he recognized 
 his wife upon the stage, was broken by the fall of the drop 
 curtain. He instantly left the boxes and hastened around 
 behind the scenes. After many bafiled inquiries, and many 
 misdirections, he prosecuted his search alone, and at length 
 found her prostrate form. The wind had blown the smoke 
 and flame in another direction, and she lay there uninjured, 
 though insensible, and in extremity of danger. He raised 
 her, threw his cloak around her, ran with her into the fresh 
 air, called a hackney coach, placed her in it, jumped in and 
 took his seat by her side, drew her insensible form within his 
 arms, upon his bosom, and directed the coachman to drive 
 rapidly to Fairview House. As they passed swiftly through 
 che streets, the cry of “ Fire! fire! fire!” rung through the 
 air, but he scarcely heard it. The rushing of crowds of 
 people in the opposite direction to that in which they were 
 driving, frequently impeded the progress of the carriage, but 
 he scarcely knew it. All his senses, all his thoughts, all his 
 emotions were absorbed in the gentle form that lay swooning 
 pn his bosom. And “Oh! how thin she is! how thin, good 
 Ileaven!”? he groaned many times, as he held his arm around 
 the fragile waist, or felt the emaciated arm and hand, or 
 pressed his cheek against the wan face. ‘ How thin she is, 
 good Heaven, how thin! Is this illness? Llness unto death, 
 perhaps! Drive fast, coachman! Fast!” He longed to lay 
 ber at rest upon her bed, that he might perchance silence his 
 anxiety And- “Taster, coachman' Faster '’’ he continued 
 
“IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 295 
 
 to ery, whenever the thickening crowd arrested the progress 
 of the carriage. 
 
 At length they reached Fairview House. He lifted her 
 out and_bore her into the hall. His mother had retired to 
 rest long since; but he rang the bell violently, and said, to 
 the astonished servants, who came at the summons— 
 
 “6 (Fo instantly and prepare a room for my wife. I have 
 but just saved her from the burning theatre!”’ The wonder- 
 struck maids hurried toobcy. Stop! Don’t disturb your 
 mistress, on your lives,” he said, and with this warning, dis- 
 missed them. To one of the men present, he exclaimed, 
 * Run instantly to Doctor Cummings, and ask him to hurry 
 bither.” 
 
 The man disappeared to obey. And during the issuing of 
 these orders, Frank Fairfax was sitting on the sofa, sustain- 
 ing the fainting form of his wife with one arm, while with 
 the other hand he unlaced the velvet bodice. Presently one 
 of the maids returned and announced that the room was 
 ready. And Frank raised and carried his precious burden 
 up stairs, into a pleasant front chamber, and laid her on a 
 bed. Then, with the assistance of one of the women, he got 
 off the stage dress, and supplied its place with one of his 
 mother’s white wrappers, brought for the purpose by one of 
 the maids. 
 
 He had scarcely done this, when the chamber door opeued, 
 and old Mrs. Fairfax entered, roused up by the noise in and 
 outside the house. She came in, wrapped in a flannel dress- 
 ing-gown, and saying, anxiously— 
 
 “¢ My dear Frank! they tell me that the Richmond The- 
 atre is on fire. I amso grateful that you are not there. Ah 
 what is this? Who is that?” she asked, perceiving the forin 
 
 £ Zuleime upon the bed, and advancing towards it. ‘Some 
 sufferer you have saved from the fire, my dear Frank? God 
 bless your brave, kind heart, my dear boy. But you should 
 not have brought her in here—or you should not be here 
 yourself. Retire, and leave the lady to the care of myself 
 and my women,” concluded the lady, gravely. 
 
 ‘‘ My dearest mother, yes! She isa sufferer I have saved from 
 the fire! a most beloved sufferer! my wife! my wife! Dear- 
 est mother, I cannot leave her! Ihave a right to stay here.” 
 
 Itere followed a wild, hasty disclosure of his iniprudent 
 marriage, kept secret ur to that moment. And then amid 
 \he grief and sur-rise of Mrs. Fairfax, he aiso learned the 
 
296 “STN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 
 
 © 
 fact of Mr. Clifton’s death, and of Zuleime’s disappearance 
 and suspected suicide. In bitter self-reproach, Frank had 
 made his confession—in deepest sorrow, he heard his mother’s 
 revelations. 
 
 ‘¢ How much she must have suffered! Good Heaven! how 
 much she must have suffered! he exclaimed. Then almost 
 madly he cried, *¢ Mother! look at her! Look at her! Oh, 
 tell me, do you think she can live ?” 
 
 Mrs. Fairfax had been all this time chafing her temples 
 with cologne, while the two maids rubbed her hands and feet. 
 But up to this instant she had given no signs of recovery, 
 or of consciousness. And the old lady shook her head 
 mournfully, and plunged Frank into deeper despair. They 
 persevered in their efforts for half an hour longer, and then 
 she sighed and opened her eyes. Her husband was bending 
 over her. She met his eyes, and smiled faintly in recogni- 
 tion, without astonishment, and without joy—indeed she was 
 too feeble for either—and murmuring, ‘ Dearest Frank,” 
 she sank away again, fainting, they supposed, until her low 
 breathing revealed that she slept the sleep of utter prostra- 
 tion. And how changed was now that countenance. The 
 look of weariness, care and sorrow had vanished, and the 
 sweet, wan face wore the easy, confiding air of infancy ; and 
 even in sleep, she must have felt the shelter of protecting love 
 around her, for often with closed eyes she smiled, as in de- 
 lighted visions! . All night they watched beside her bed while 
 she slept. Inthe morning the doctor arrived. He had been 
 absent all night, by the couch of one who had been severely 
 burned at the theatre, and that accounted for his failure to 
 come before morning ; now, however, he stood beside the 
 patient with grave and thoughtful brow. 
 
 “ Doctor, for Heaven’s sake give me some hope of her 
 ‘Yell me something about her, at least! Is she ill ?”’ 
 
 «¢ She is very ill,” replied the physician. 
 
 “TI cannot believe it! I will not believe it! See how 
 sweetly she sleeps! how comfortably! how free from suffer- 
 ing !” 
 
 “‘ Yes—but, my dear Captain Fairfax, there would be more 
 hope if there were more suffering—however, the case may be 
 much more favorable than it appears to me now; I cannot 
 fully judge of it until she wakes.” 
 
 «¢ Allow me to arouse her, then! Nay, I wish to do it 
 T have not spoker to her yet! Let me wake her now” 
 
“IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 297 
 
 « By no means! It might prove fatal. Indeed, you must 
 be very careful. Her life hangs by a thread. Sleep will do 
 her more good now than anything else. When she awakes 
 
 naturally, you may send for me at once.” And so saying, 
 the doctor took leave, without even writing a prescription. 
 
 Soon after he left the house she vopened her eyes again, 
 
 and seeing Frank, smiled faintly, and murmured— 
 
 ' 6 My own—my dearest—dearest husband.” And in an 
 instant her senses seemed swallowed up again in sleep, which 
 lasted half an hour, at the end of which she awoke again, and 
 looked around in uneasiness, and breathed, half aloud,— 
 © My child—my baby——my little Fan—” and then sank away 
 again, as if she were too feeble to retain her hold on con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 ‘¢What is she talking about, dear mother?” inquired 
 Frank, in the extremity of anxiety, when he heard her words. 
 
 Mrs. Fairfax shook her head, and said she did not know. 
 But the woman who waited in the chamber came forward, 
 and said that if her mistress would excuse her interfering, 
 she would tell them what the young lady meant. 
 
 «¢ Speak on, then, at once, in the name of the Lord!” ex- 
 claimed Frank, impatiently. 
 
 Mrs. Fairfax endorsed his order. And then the woman 
 informed her mistress that she had known the sick young lady 
 all the winter by sight—that she had been there at the house 
 to ask for sewing—that she took in sewing for a living—that 
 she lodged at the cabinet-maker’ s, over the way—and that. 
 she had a little girl almost two years old, who was no doubt 
 at the cabinet-maker’s now, which she supposed was what had 
 made the mother look around, and inquire so anxiously. 
 
 The woman’s story was scarcely over before Captain Fair- 
 fax seized his hat, and hurried from the room. As soon as 
 he was gone, Mrs. Fairfax called the woman up before her, 
 and said— 
 
 “ Nelly, you heard your master tell me of his marriage 
 with this young lady ?” 
 
 “Yes, madam.” 
 
 “IT need nct tell you that it is my will that there be no 
 kitchen gossip about this matter: This young lady—once 
 Miss Zuleime Clifton, is now, and has been for nearly three 
 years past, Mrs. Francis Fairfax, the wife of my son, and is 
 also your own young mistress. You understand ?” 
 
 ¢ Yes, madam.” 
 
298 SrN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 
 
 “Then let there be no idle conversation about this mar- 
 riage, if you would avoid my severest displeasure.” 
 
 Farther colloquy was arrested by the hurried entrance of 
 Captain Fairfax, bringing his little wee girl in his arms. Mrs 
 Fairfax immediately arose to take her from him, but the 
 child’s quick eyes had recognized her mother lying on the 
 ped, and she began to clap her hands and call— 
 
 “ Mamma! mamma !” 
 
 Frank held her closely, and tried to still her joyful, eager 
 cries, but the magical sound of her child’s voice had already 
 awakened the sleeper, and she opened her eyes, and seeing 
 the babe in its father’s arms, smiled a feeble smile of content, 
 and fel] away again into oblivion. 
 
 Mrs. Fairfax had the doctor summoned again, and told him 
 that if he wished to see her daughter-in-law awake, he must 
 remain at her bedside, for that she only awoke to relapse 
 instantly into slumber. 
 
 The physician then took his seat by the bedside of his 
 patient, and requested all except a maid-servant to leave the - 
 chamber. 
 
 Mrs. Fairfax and Frank went out, taking the little girl with 
 them, and leaving the doctor with the invalid. 
 
 After the lapse of an hour, the physician came out and 
 went down stairs. Captain “airfax was waiting for him in 
 the hall, and drew him into the parlor, anxiously requesting 
 to know his-opinion. Perhaps he was really sanguine, and 
 hoped the doctor’s verdict might set his fears at rest. At 
 any rate he insisted upon knowing the precise state of the 
 case. The doctor gravely motioned him to sit down, and then 
 took a seat himself. He said that his patient was not sinking 
 so much under any local disease as under a general atrophy, 
 for which, considering the circumstances, he could not possibly 
 account—for, if he had met precisely such a ease in the very 
 lowest walks of life, he should at once have declared that the 
 patient had been brought to this state by the want of proper 
 and sufficient food—that, in short, she was dying of a slow 
 starvation. A deep groan broke from the lips of Francis 
 Fairfax, and he started up, covered his face with his hands, — 
 and walked the floor in rapid strides. Suddenly he stopped 
 before the physician, with a countenance convulsed with grief 
 and remorse, with all pride and hesitation gone, and exclaim- 
 ed, in thrilling tones— 
 
 «“ Tctor! sunpose her case—my wife’s case had been as 
 
“TN PALACE CHAMBERS.” BON 
 
 you would have surmised, finding it any where else ?—sup- 
 pose that for months past she has been starving.—Great God ' 
 —starving !—Now that the cause of this utter failure of the 
 vital powers is removed—now that she has every thing that 
 wealth, that the most devoted affection can give her, may she 
 uot recruit and Jive? Oh! tell me?” 
 
 The physician answered sternly- - 
 
 “1 do not know, sir! This tampering with the laws of 
 life—this pursuing it to the very edge of death is not safe. 
 Is she inclined to take food at all ?”’ 
 
 ‘© No—only a little gruel, and that mechanically, without 
 appetite.” 
 
 “¢ Hxactly—a few days fasting makes one ravenous, but a 
 Jong, partial starvation so exhausts the victim, that he loses 
 all inclination for food, as well as all power to assimilate it.” 
 The doctor spoke severely. 
 
 “Sir! I forgive your sternness and your evident suspi- 
 cions, perhaps they are partially just. If they were other- 
 wise, God knows I am so stricken that I have scarcely man- 
 hood enough left to resent them—but oh! tell me—do not 
 evade the question. Can she be restored ? and how ?” 
 
 “Captain Fairfax, I told you that she was sinking, not so 
 much under any local disorder as under general atrophy— 
 and yet she fas a local disease superinduced by this same 
 slow starvation. Upon examination by the stethoscope, I 
 find tubercles forming upon the left lung. There is also 
 morbid action of the heart. You know how it is with phthisis' 
 With proper care, and under favorable circumstances, the 
 patient may live for years, perhaps for many years, and die 
 at length in old age of something else.” 
 
 “Oh, no care, no pains—nothing that money—nuthing 
 that love ean do, shall be wanting! There is hope ?”’ 
 
 «<1 dare not say there is much hope in this instance. This 
 atrophy is a very unfavorable thing—all our hope is in being 
 able to save the digestive functions. I have left a preserip- 
 tion, with written directions, above stairs.”” - The doctor 
 took his hat, and saying that he would see the invalid again 
 in the afternoon, departed. 
 
 « All alike! all alike! They sway from right to left. 
 raising one’s hopes, and then rousing their fears! He lies! 
 he lies!’ It is not so! she is in no danger! Great God 
 she must not die! she shall not!” So unjustly, wildly, sin- 
 fully Frank Fairfax talk2d. walking distractedly up and 
 
AD “SIN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 
 
 down the floor, convulsed by grief, remorse and fear fo 
 her he loved so strongly, and felt he had wronged so greatly. 
 He dared not seek her bedside now in his excited state—-he 
 sushed into his library, locked the door, and gave himself up 
 to all the power of remorse. 
 
 In the afternoon he sought the sick room again. And the 
 deep, sweet peace that pervaded the apartment fell like a 
 soothing spell upon his excited nerves. The front windows 
 were open, for the day was very fine, and the fresh air and the 
 sunshine came in together, with the cheerful view of the 
 expanse of water, and the wooded hills across James River. 
 The coolness of the air was sufficiently tempered by a glow- 
 ing coal fire in the grate. Zuleime lay raised up with pillows 
 on the bed, and upon the counterpane by her sat her little 
 girl. The face of the youthful mether seemed as soft, as 
 feeble, and as free of care and sorrow as that of the infant 
 herself. On seeing Frank enter, she smiled a gentle, pleased, 
 childish smile, and feebly moved her hand towards him. He 
 went to her, at first successfully repressing all his strong 
 emotions, and kissed her very gently, but then sank upon 
 his knees, and dropping his face upon her hand, burst into 
 tears, and wept passionately. Her other hand wandered 
 playfully through his curls, and she said, gently— 
 
 “ Don’t weep, Frank, please don’t—indeed I am happy- 
 it is so nice to be here—don’t weep. 
 
 But when men weep and sob, it is no passing shower, like 
 the easily shed tears of women, but a great gust, shaking all 
 the nature. So it was a long time before Frank mastered 
 his emotion. When he recovered his composure, and arose 
 and sat by her side and looked at her, he found that the 
 hectic fever burned crimson on her cheeks, and that her 
 brilliant eyes wandered about deliriously. And he knew 
 that he had harmed her again. And soon she began to talk 
 at random, babbling childishly, delightfully, about White 
 Cliffs, and the forest walks, and the garden. And she ad- 
 dressed her father and sister, as if they were present. An4 
 very lovingly she spoke to Catherine ; or, coming nearer to 
 the present moment, talked with Ida about her feminine 
 shrinking from appearing upon the stage. Frank listenad in 
 the deepest trouble, and in the wandering of her mind he 
 learned much that had transpired at White Cliffs, a great deal 
 that had occurred since her flight thence, and ail that he 
 ought to have known. 
 
“TN PALACK CHAMBERS.” sia} 8 
 
 When the physician arrived in the evening, he instituted 
 strict inquiries, and discovered the cause of her high fever. 
 Then he rebuked the indiscretion of her friends, and leaving 
 fresh prescriptions, with peremptory orders that the deepest 
 quiet should be preserved, departed. Her fever unabated 
 raged all night. In the morning it went off. 
 
 Captain Fairfax would not permit himself to enter her 
 room again until he had obtained the power of perfect self- 
 control. At about eleven o’clock he went in. The crimson 
 curtains of the windows were drawn aside, and the room was 
 light and cheerful. The white muslin drapery of the bedstead 
 was festooned, and revealed the fair invalid reclining there, 
 wan, placid, child-like as ever. She welcomed her husband 
 with the same soft, faint smile.- And he went and sat by her 
 side, and crushing down all strong emotions, took her hand, 
 and spoke to her calmly and pleasantly, inquiring how she 
 felt. 
 
 “So well—it is so nice to be here,” she answered simply. 
 And she lay there looking at him contentedly, smiling softly, 
 answering vaguely when he spoke to her; but never asking 
 any question ; or making any comment; or volunteering any 
 epeech whatever. This pained him more than all—for he 
 knew that mind as well as body was sinking —lapsing away 
 into a sort of dreamy, happy fatuity. And all attempts to 
 rouse her from that state only threw her into fever, and 
 often into delirium. 
 
 One day, with a view to interest without exiting her, he 
 inquired— 
 
 << Dearest, is there any one you would like to see 
 
 6c Wes Ida” she said. 
 
 “And who is Ida, love?” asked Frank, very cautiously 
 and gently, for he felt as if he were running the risk of 
 hurting her again. 
 
 Tda! La! don’t you know? She was so yood to me,” 
 she replied, with a pitying smile. 
 
 Captain Fairfax left the room, and at a venture went over 
 to inquire at the cabinet-maker’s. And he soon returned, 
 accompanied by Mrs. Knight. Zuleime received her visitcr 
 without any emotion whatever ; smiling gently, and holding 
 out her hand, and afterwards lying and silently and pleasantly 
 watching her as she sat by the bed. And when she arose to 
 taka leave, she put up her lips for a kiss. Poor Ida pressed 
 
 19 . 
 
802 “YN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 
 
 those lips very gently, and then quietly left the room: but 
 as soon as she had passed the door, burst into tear.. 
 
 Kvery day Zuleime’s mind flowed away. Every day sho 
 became more infantile in weakness and simplicity. One day 
 she made known a wish—the only one she had ever volun- 
 tarily expressed. It was affecting from its utter childishness, 
 
 ‘‘Dear Frank, you and your mother are rich. I want 
 you to bring Ida and her child home to live here, so that she 
 may not have to go on the stage any more.” She reverted 
 to this subject so frequently, repeating this, the only wish 
 she had ever expressed, so often and earnestly, that her hus- 
 band felt strongly inclined to gratify her desire, strange as 
 it really was. He consulted his mother, and they concluded 
 that it might be done, in a. measure. Then they told her 
 that it should be as she wished; that Ida and her child should 
 come and live with them, if she would. Captain Fairfax 
 went again to the cabinet-maker’s, saw the poor actress, and 
 told her that his wife needed a female companion to sit with 
 her a portion of the day, and that she would hear of no one 
 for the post but her old friend, Mrs. Knight, if Mrs. Knight 
 would come and name her own salary. And when he had 
 let slip that last word, he turned away his face with his fcre- 
 head burning under the astonished, indignant gaze of those 
 proud, dark ¢ eyes of Ida’s, as she said— 
 
 “‘ Captain Fairfax, I receive a ‘ salary’ in the regular liae 
 of my profession, when I am engaged iu it; as Captam 
 Fairfax also receives pay for his military services—but as he 
 would spurn all offers of pecuniary rewuneration for atten- 
 tions to a wounded comrade, so should I decline all compen- 
 sation for attentions to a sick neighbor; and I am most 
 surprised that you should have made such a propose] to me.” 
 
 So was Captain Fairfax himself really surprised that he 
 should have been betrayed into such an error, as to forget 
 that the very profession of the poor tragic actress really fos- 
 tered a morbid pride. Her phrases might have been a little 
 stilted after the manner of the stage, but the sentiments were 
 really true and high, and worthy of all consideration. So Cap- 
 tain Fairfax apologized, as he best could, and arose to take 
 his leave. Then she said— 
 
 “Do not quite misunderstand me. Iam very anxious to 
 do all in my power to serve Mrs. Fairfax, for I love her 
 dearly! I am willing to devote all my time. night and day, 
 to her serv'ce, for the affection I bear her. And I can doit 
 
“SIN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 803 
 
 now; for since the burning of the theatre I have been diss 
 engaged.” 
 
 Captain Fairfax replied by expressing his grateful ac- 
 knowledgments of her kindness, and begging her to come 
 over frequently to see his wife. Then he took leave indeed 
 and returned home, with the determination to ask his mother 
 to go and invite Mrs. Knight to conse and spend a few weeks 
 with her friend at Fairview House. Old Mrs. Fairfax had 
 quite a struggle with her Virginian pride and prejudices, be- 
 fore she could make up her mind to ask an actress to become 
 her guest, but benevolence conquered, and as whatever she 
 once resolved upon doing she did graciously and gracefully, 
 she called upon Mrs. Knight, and gave her the invitation ia 
 a manner that insured its acceptance. Ida, with her little 
 girl, came over the next day. And the old lady felt fully 
 rewarded for her self-conquest, when she saw the smile of 
 childish delight with which the gentle patient greeted her 
 poor friend. 
 
 «See, Ida, murmured Zuleime, as her visitor seated her- 
 self at the bedside, ‘* see, Ida, we are both now in the niece 
 house we used to look at so longingly from our poor, back 
 windows.” She paused from weakness, and then said, ‘I 
 used to call it my Heaven, you know! Ah, I did not know 
 it was really my Heaven. I did not know Frank had ever 
 lived here—how strange!” She paused again, but this time 
 from thought, as well as from exhaustion, and then she took 
 breath and said again, ‘¢ I never could make it out clearly 
 and it makes my head ache to try. But see, dear Ida. Look 
 at the crimson window-curtains—don’t you know they are 
 the very same crimson curtains that used to throw the warm, 
 red glow across the snow, when we used to sit at the back 
 window and watch them, and almost envy the people that 
 lived here 2” 
 
 “Yes, I know, but do not talk too much, darling.” 
 
 “T won’t—but it is so strange. There, look through the 
 windows, you ean see our little, narrow, pinched, back win- 
 dows, with their check curtains, as plainly from here, as we 
 used to see these from there. We did not think we should 
 ever get here to live, did we ?—how strange !” 
 
 Her talk, rambling as it was, revealed one hopeful fact- 
 that her mind was at length waking up. Frank saw it with 
 joy. Dvyy by day, from this time, her intellect seemed te 
 
304 “IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 
 
 clear and strengthen. Frank spoke of this to the doctor, 
 who heard him with great gravity, and without comment. 
 
 As winter advanced towards spring, her mind “ brightened 
 more and more towards the perfect day.” She had gleaned, 
 partly from scraps of speech carelessly dropped, and partly 
 by inquiry, the history of Frank’s captivity among the Shos- 
 honowas, that first originated the report of his death—and 
 she was very gradually brought to understand the true posi- 
 tion of affairs—so gradually through so many weeks, that 
 the knowledge may be said rather to have slowly grown upon 
 her. But as her mind cleared and strengthened, her heart 
 became saddened and depressed. She understood too much 
 now for her happiness. She no longer lay and watched her 
 husband with a delighted smile as he sat beside her bed— 
 no, but rather with a look of earnest, mournful love. Well 
 she might. Frank was sad enough—he thought his heart 
 was breaking. 
 
 One day, while lying propped up by pillows, she heard the 
 aame of Mrs. Georgia Clifton mentioned. 
 
 “Ts she in the city ?” inquired she. 
 
 “ Yes, love,” replied her husband. 
 
 “Send for her to come and see me—lI must see her.” 
 
 Captain Fairfax arose and left the room imniediately, and 
 instead of sending a servant, went himself to bring Mrs. 
 Georgia. For so great was his desire to gratify promptly 
 every wish of his loved one’s heart, that he seldom trusted 
 the execution of them to any but himself, lest they should 
 fail or be delayed. It was well in this instance, at least, 
 that he went in person. A servant could not have effected 
 the purpose. The conscience-stricken Georgia would not 
 have ventured to come. Even when unannounced, by rea- 
 son of his haste, Captain Fairfax entered her parlor, the 
 beauty turned deadly pale, under the fear of detected guilt. 
 But when she saw his calm, kind manner, and heard him en- 
 treat, as a favor, that she would put on her bonnet imme- 
 diately, and return with him to see his wife, who wag 
 extrenicly ill at Fairview, the sorceress was re-assurcd, and 
 with her usual bewitching grace consented to accompany 
 him. ? 
 
 When they arrived at Fairview House, and were shown 
 up into the sick chamber, the patient smiled and held out her 
 vands. Georgia hastened towards her, and seized both handg 
 sovering them with kisses, and making a show of great emo 
 
“IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 305 
 
 tiun. Zuleime raised her feeble voice, and begged all to go 
 out of the room, and leave her alone with her visitor. And 
 when every one had departed, and the door was closed, she 
 said— 
 
 «Sit down, please, here by my bedside.” Mrs. Georgia 
 took the nurse’s arm-chair. ‘ Dear Georgia,’ she said, 
 gently taking both her hands, and looking kindly in her faee, 
 ‘‘T sent for you, because I thought you must be so unhappy 
 about what you have unintentionally caused me to suffer. 
 And I wished to tell you not to remember it in bitterness 
 any more. Oh! I grieve so much at the memory of what I 
 have made my dear father suffer, that I can feel for others 
 who are tortured by remorse, and I would not, for the whole 
 world, that any one should mourn for what they have caused 
 me to suffer. So, dear Georgia, I acquit you of all blame, 
 from the bottom of my heart, indeed I do—anid I pray that 
 God may make you happier than J have ever been. And I 
 will never, never drop a hint, by which any one shall sus- 
 pect—I mean I will never Jet fall a word to any one, that 
 shall injure you, Georgia. I would not die and bequeath 
 you so bitter a legacy as an enemy. Though I knew you 
 would not come and ask me, I sent for you tou assure you of 
 this, Georgia, and to reconcile myself with you, that we might 
 be friends before I die. And now, God bless you! Kiss me, 
 and say good-bye, for my fever is rising.” 
 
 And she held up her lips. Georgia was weeping. 
 
 “ Zuleime, my dear child, why don’t you call ne mamma, 
 as heretofore ?”’ she asked. 
 
 “Oh, don’t you know long ago you told me not to do it. 
 But I will, if you wish it, now. Kiss me, dear mamma. 
 There, now, go and be at peace.” ) 
 
 Georgia hurried from the room. They never met again. 
 
 Zuleime revived slightly when the spring opened. She 
 had heard that her sister Carolyn had nearly recovered her 
 health, and was just about to set out on her voyage home. 
 And two sceret wishes the poor girl indulged: once more to 
 visit White Cliffs, and to live to see her only sister again. 
 But she kept them to herself in the fear of giving Frank 
 trouble, for she knew that he would try to move Heaven and 
 earth to please her, and deeply grieve if he should fail. She 
 concealed her wants, but they were discovered by him wuu 
 watched day and night to anticipate her wishes. And Cap- 
 tain Fairfax called upon the family physician, and consulted 
 
306 “rN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 
 
 him upon the possibility of taking Zuleime to White Cliffs, 
 as soon ag the spring weather should be permanently settled. 
 The physician’s opinion was highly favorable to- his wishes. 
 He said that she might be removed by easy stages to the 
 country, and that if proper care and attention were bestowed, 
 the journey and the chanye of air would probably be found 
 very beneficial to her health. Captain Fairfax hastened 
 home to cheer his wife with the news. And she was glad- 
 dened by it. She caught both his hands and kissed them, 
 and held them to her face, and looking at him fondly, said— 
 
 “ Dear Frank! dearest Frank! you try to perform mira- 
 eles for me!” 
 
 The same night, Captain Fairfax wrote to Mrs. Clifton, of 
 Hardbargain, to go over to White Cliffs and prepare to re- 
 ceive the invalid. And from that day Zuleime revived, and 
 by the first of June was so much better, as to be able to be 
 placed in the comfortable family carriage, in which, some- 
 times reclining upon downy cushions, sometimes resting upon 
 the bosom of her husband, and supported by his arms, she 
 traveled by easy stages to White Cliffs. They reached the 
 end of their journey upon the afternoon of the third day. 
 Mrs. Clifton and Catherine were there to receive them. Zu- 
 leime was lifted out of the carriage, very much exhausted. 
 Yet, as she was gently carried through the yard, her eyes 
 roved gladly over all the dear familiar secene—over moun- 
 tains, fields and forests, clothed now in the luxuriant foliage 
 of June—and all her countenance lighted up with joy, and 
 she exclaimed many times in tones of profound gratitude— 
 
 “Thank God! oh, thank God!” 
 
 She was carried up stairs, and put to bed at once. And 
 Catherine was stationed to watch her slumbers, while Mrs. 
 Clifton remained below to attend to the comfort of the tired 
 travelers. But Zuleime frequently awoke with a joyful start 
 and recollection ; and once she put her hand in that of Kate, 
 and said— 
 
 “ Dear Kate! blessed Kate! I am so glad to see you 
 again! And so very glad to be home again! Sweet Sister 
 of Mercy! will you stay and nurse me also? I think you 
 vuuld almost cure me! Sweet, unprofessed nun, will you 
 stay and nurse me, +00 ?” ) 
 
 “ Yes, dear Zuleime, I will stay as long as you want me. 
 But shut those tired eyes, love, and go to sleep.” 
 
 “ Yes, seal each eyelid down with a kiss, dear Kate, and 
 
“IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 307 
 
 then they will stay closed. And hold my hand as I go te 
 sleep—lI feel so safe when some one I love holds my hand 
 while I siumber. I feel as if they could keep me in life while 
 T slept, for you must know, dear Kate, that my heart has a 
 morbid action, and some of these days I shall fall asleep 
 lightly as now, but never awake again.” 
 
 “ Dear Zuleime, you must not indulge such fancies.” 
 
 «They are not fancies, they are realities. I do not de- 
 ecive myself and trifle with you, Kate. Do not you deceive 
 nie or trifle with me, either. There are secrets of life and 
 death known only to the dying. Such a secret is mine. I 
 know that I shall lightly drop asleep some day, and never 
 wake again—that is the reason I wish some one [I love to kiss 
 my eyelids down, and to hold my hand while I slumber.” 
 The words, the manner of the dying girl carried deep con- 
 viction to the heart of Catherine, and— 
 
 «Qh! Zuleime,” she said, “lean upon the failing arm 
 of flesh if you will, but, oh, seek! seek the support of 
 that Almighty arm that can sustain you in life and in death! 
 Seek that !” 
 
 «T will—I wish to do it, or rather you, the handmaid of 
 the Lord, shall bear me up in your faithful hands, and lay 
 me within that Arm of Strength. I wished this long ago, 
 but, oh, my dear husband and his good mother! they thought 
 only of restoring me to health, and I could think of nothing 
 but of trying to live for them, until very lately, when it was 
 revealed to me that I should surely die. I have never yet 
 told Frank anything about this. I feared it would distress 
 him too much; but the lone knowledge troubled me. I 
 needed to tell some one of it, some dear one with whom I 
 could converse confidentially, and who should be wise enough 
 to counsel me, patient enough to bear with me, courageous 
 enough to face the result, and who, besides, would not be too 
 greatly distressed, as my hear husband would. And so, 
 sweet Kate, I have told you. Will you now stay with me 
 and nurse me 2” 
 
 «Yes, dear Zuleime, as long as you wish me to do so; but 
 now, darling, if I am to be your nurse, you must mind what 
 I have to say to you, and go to sleep.” Catherine bent over 
 ner, and kissed her eyelids down upon the weary eyes, and 
 held her hand until she fell asleep. At night, Captain Fair- 
 fax relieved her watch. 
 
 The next morning when Catherine entered the room she 
 
308 “rw PALACE CHAMBERS.” 
 
 sat duwn by the side of the bed, and told her that she haa 
 good news to tell, that they had received a ietter from Major 
 Clifton, that Carolyn’s health was improving, and that they 
 had emba-ked, or had purposed to embark upon the first of 
 May, and expected to reach home as soon as the middle of - 
 June. Zuleime clasped her hands in fervent thanksgiving 
 while she listened, and when her friend ceased to speak, sha 
 exclaimed— . 
 
 ‘In two weeks she will be here—oh! that I may live io 
 see it!” 
 
 Kate bade her be of good cheer and hope; and when 
 Catherine told any one to hope, her words and looks and 
 manner all inspired the feeling. Zuleime was so recovered 
 and enlivened as to be able to be lifted from her bed and 
 placed in the easy-chair by the open window, that looked out 
 upon the mountain scenery, all glorious in the light of sum- 
 mer morning. Old Mrs. Fairfax, and Mrs. Clifton of Hard- 
 biurgain, came in to pay her a visit, bringing her little gir] 
 with them. As for Captain Fairfax, he seldom left her side. 
 All congratulated the invalid upon her improved health and 
 spirits, and hoped and foretold great results from her resi- 
 dence in the country, and projected many pleasant drives, 
 when she should be a little rested from the fatigue of her 
 journey. Then they talked of Major Clifton and Carolyn’s 
 expected arrival, and laid out extensive plans of amusement 
 to be put in execution when they should come, by which time 
 Zuleime also would be considerably restored. Thus cheer- 
 fully, hopefully they talked. And the dying one listened 
 sweetly ; but when she found herself alone again with Kate, 
 she said— 
 
 “‘T let them talk, Catherine, for if they really have any 
 hopes of my recovery, I do not wish to destroy those hopes 
 by telling what I know, and if they only talk so to cheer me, 
 why even then I do not like to make them sad by not seem- 
 ing to believe them. And yet, and yet, perhaps I ought to 
 tell Frank; perhaps I will!” 
 
 Catherine devoted herself to the service of the invalid, 
 laboring zealously for her spiritual as for her bodily good. 
 Indeed, the girl glided into the performance of such duties as 
 naturally as if she felt herself especially called to the work, 
 born for the work. The selfish wish for her own comfort and 
 pleasure had never been very strong in the heart of Cathe~ 
 tine; and w'thin the last two years it seemed to have exe 
 
“IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 309 
 
 pired. She lived only for the good of others. She had grown 
 to believe that there was no individual happiness for herself, 
 except in the service of others. Young hope had died out in 
 her heart, she was resigned. She adopted the submissive 
 words of Mary and her Son, and said, within her heart, in 
 deepest sincerity: — 
 
 ‘“‘ Behold, the bandmaid of the Lord.” ‘ Not my will, but 
 Thine, oh God.” 
 
 Zuleime was lifted from the bed to the easy-chair every 
 morning, and calmly and profoundly the invalid enjoyed those 
 glorious summer mornings. But she was failing very fast. 
 She grew very anxious for the coming of her sister ; but, un- 
 willing to disturb any one by her anxiety, she confided it 
 only to Kate. They had not heard from Major Clifton since 
 the letter announcing his expected embarkation. They justly 
 supposed him to be on his voyage home, accompanied by 
 Carolyn, and were now daily looking for a letter announcing 
 their landing, and their speedy arrival home. The middle of 
 June passed, and no letter had come. The first of July ar- 
 rived, but brought no news of the voyagers. 
 
 “Oh, if they had come when they promised, they might 
 have seen me before I died—but I cannot hold out much 
 longer, Kate. I feel as if the longing to meet Carolyn again 
 had kept me up as by the excitement of expectation, but, 
 Kate, I feel very weary, very much inclined to droop, yet 
 know if I should give way I should drop mto the arms of 
 Death. I wish they would come. I want to see Carolyn. I 
 want to see her happiness with my own eyes. And then it 
 is not for myself—for if I die before she comes, Carolyn will 
 take it very much to heart to know that her poor little sister 
 had been found and had died—so inopportunely, just before 
 she had got home. I wish they would come.” 
 
 The second week in July arrived—with three days of cloud, 
 and rain, and gloom. Zuleime could not leave her bed for 
 her favorite seat at the window, but Catherine served her 
 with more love and zeal than ever. The family had as yet 
 ~eceived no news of the travelers, and though: they daily 
 grew more anxious, there was no foreboding in their anxicty. 
 Sea-voyages at that day were of such uncertain length. All 
 was no doubt well. 
 
 But on the evening of the second rainy day, while Captain 
 Fairfax and Catherine sat with Zuleime, and all the other 
 members of the family were assembled in the summer saloon, 
 
310 “IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 
 
 the door of the latter was quietly opened, and Major Cliftun 
 stood before the astonished circle. His mother advanced to 
 meet and welcome him. Then she noticed—and they all no- 
 ticed, that he was clothed in deep mourning. That told the 
 tale! They welcomed him with affectionate sympachy, but 
 no one asked a question. Nor did he as yet volunteer a word 
 of his sorrow’s history. It was only the next day that his 
 mother learned from him how deceptive was the seeming con- 
 valescence of his wife—how from the day of their embarka- 
 tion her strength declined—how for weeks their hearts fluc- 
 tuated between hope and fear, as with the changes of her 
 flattering disease she seemed better or worse—how when all 
 thought of life was gone, but one earthly hope possessed her 
 soul—to die at home ;—of the waning of that last hope—of 
 the death at sea—and, finally, of the lone grave in the ocean 
 isle, where slept the mortal remains of the haughtiest beauty 
 that eyer trod the halls of a palace. 
 
 They would willingly have concealed the fact of her sis- 
 ter’s decease from the dying girl—no one ventured to ‘tell 
 her of the event—they fondly believed that she remained in 
 ignorance of it. But she knew it all from what she saw and . 
 heard. She knew that Major Clifton had returned alone, and 
 she surmised the rest from the sad and tearful faces of all 
 around her. Yes, she knew it all, as well as any could have 
 made her know it, and in the tender thoughtfulness of her 
 soul, she would not distress any by asking them questions 
 relating to the last moment. But from this hour she sank 
 rapidly. She could no longer be lifted from her bed without 
 fainting. In deep trouble, Captain Fairfax summoned the 
 old family physician. When he came, and saw the patient, 
 his opinion was decidedly formed, and truthfully given—he 
 said that the Richmond physician had evidently abandoned * 
 the case as hopeless, when he sent her home to die—that her 
 life had probably been prolonged by her residence in the 
 country—but that nothing could have saved her—and that 
 she had now not many days to live. Captain Fairfax was 
 almost mad with griet—and all the self-possession and self- 
 control that he had learned in the long attendance upon her 
 sick bed well nigh deserted him. It was many hours before 
 he was sufficiently composed to take his usual place by her 
 bedside, and then his agonized countenance betrayed the ex- 
 tent of his.suffering. Catherine was sitting by her when he 
 sutured. Zuleime xa’wd her dying eves, and looking at him, 
 
“TN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 311 
 
 tenderly beckoned him to approach. Then she motioned 
 Catherin> to leave her. When they were alone-—she laid her 
 hand within his own, and looking at him with unutterable 
 love, said— 
 
 “¢ Dear Frank—dearest Frank—I see that you know it all 
 at last. Dearest Frank, I have known it a long time. Now 
 let us talk freely and confidentially about it—let there be no 
 more of that painful mist between us as when you thought only 
 of my restoration to health, and I knew I was sinking fast 
 into the grave.” She paused a moment, and then said—* I 
 want so much to comfort you. I have something to say to 
 you.” 
 
 His fingers closed upon her hand convulsively. He choked 
 down his strong, rising emotion, and said— 
 
 “Do not try to talk, love, the effort will exhaust your 
 strength.” 
 
 «¢ No—no, it will not. I am not so weak as I was when 
 you came in. Dearest Frank, when you sit by me, and hold 
 my hand, new life seems to run up my feeble veins, and [ 
 feel stronger. Let me talk, love. Ah! do not look so sad' 
 It is better as it is, love. It is better I should go. I have 
 spoiled my own life, and should spoil yours if I should live. 
 Ah, it is a dreadful thing to occasion the death of any one! 
 it is an awful thing to cause the death of a father. I caused 
 the death of the most loving father that ever lived. And. 
 dearest Frank! though in the struggle, in the bitterness of 
 poverty, in the pangs of hunger and of cold, and in the pain 
 and debility of illness, the feeling of compunction has been 
 diverted, yet—had health returned with prosperity—remorse 
 would then have darkened all my life; and in ruining my 
 happiness, would have marred yours. Yes! I have spoiled 
 my own life. It is well that I should not live to spoil yours, 
 dearest Frank! I talk not of expiation now. Nothing that 
 I could do or suffer, would alter the irrevocable past. We 
 have all one Redeemer—Jesus Christ the Righteous. So I 
 talk not of expiating the past; though perhaps if any heart 
 is hardened against me, my early death may soften it. But 
 let me speak of the future—your future, dearest Frank, and 
 let me say it is better for all your coming years that I should 
 die.” 
 
 “¢ Oh, do not say sv, Zuleime—you break my heart.” 
 
 « Dear Frank, you will grieve for me, I know you will, 
 but be comforted. You are so young yet. This sorrow will 
 
312 “IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 
 
 pass like a morning cloud, and leave all your life a Jong 
 bright day.” She paused abruptly—a gray shadow swept 
 darkly over her face and vanished. He did not see it, his 
 face was buried if his hands. Then she asked to have her 
 child brought to her. Frank went out, but soon returned to 
 say that little Fan had been put to bed; and to ask her if 
 the child should be waked up. ‘ No, do not wake the poer, 
 little thing,’’? she said, and then added, “I am very, very 
 sleepy, Frank; dearest Frank, kiss my eyelids down to 
 slumber like you always do, and hold my hand till I fall 
 asleep. Kiss my lips, too, this time; kiss them last of all— 
 —there—good-night, love.” Her voice sank away ina low, 
 inaudible murmur, like a dying sound on the Eolian harp. 
 
 Her husband sat and held her hand, never moving, scarcely 
 breathing, lest he should disturb her long, deep sleep. He 
 sat there more than an hour. The room grew dark with the 
 shades of evening; and when at length Catherine entered 
 with the night lamp, he raised his hand with a sign of silence 
 and caution, murmuring— 
 
 ‘She has fallen asleep.”” Catherine approached quietly, 
 shading the lamp with her hand, and looked upon the sleeper. 
 ‘Hush, be very cautious—do not disturb her,” whispered 
 Frank. 
 
 The sweet and solemn voice of Catherine gently arose, say- 
 mg, “ Come away, Captain Fairfax. Nothing will ever disturb 
 ber more. She has fallen asleep in Jesus.” 
 
GEORGIA. 313 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 GEORGIA. 
 
 The serpent now began to change; 
 Her elfin blood in madness ran.—Keats 
 
 Two months have passed since the death of the sisters 
 To the consternation of the Aaut ton of the city, the beautiful 
 Mrs. Clifton has left Richmond, and come down to mourn 
 with those that mourn at White Cliffs. With an air at once 
 of earnest conviction and graceful weariness, she says that it 
 is * All vanity and vexation of spirit,’ meaning fashionable 
 society, spring traveling, and sight secing ; summers at wa- 
 tering-places among the mountains, or by the sea-side ; win- 
 ters in town, with plays, concerts, balls, dressing, visiting and 
 waltzing ; autumn partics in the country-houses, with eques- 
 trian expeditions, sailing excursions, and forest rides and 
 drives, and even the moonlight serenades, and “ the slight 
 flirtation by the light of the chandelier.” Mrs. Georgia 
 speaks the truth. ‘ Vanity” all this undoubtedly is in Aer. 
 But entres nous, the 6‘ vexation of spirit”? appertains to cer- 
 tain ‘* small” accounts, ranging from fifty to fifteen hundred 
 dollars, and sent in by landlords, merchants, jewelers, mil- 
 liners, etc., people so wanting in delicate perception, as not 
 to see that the honor of the belle’s custom was quite payment 
 enough in itself for their goods, and so utterly destitute of 
 classic lore, and the faculty of distinguishing persons, as 
 actually to draw out on apiece of paper a list of items oppo- 
 site to a row of figures, with a sum total at the bottom, and 
 send it to a Circe, as if she were a tradesman, and could un- 
 derstand it! Charming Georgia did not even try to compre- 
 nend such mysterious hieroglyphics. She knew, bewitching 
 creature! that “where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be 
 wise.” Therefore, to escape duns, to recruit health and 
 spirits, and, of all things, to console Major Clifton, she has 
 yome down to White Cliffs. The beautiful Georgia presented 
 
314 GEORGIA. 
 
 herself to the mourning master of White Cliffsin a very de 
 precating spirit—she said that she felt her arrival there at 
 such a moment to be almost an intrusion, but that he would 
 excuse it, as she had exhausted money and credit, and had no 
 other home. 
 
 «‘ You know,” she added, as the tears suffused her large, 
 dark eyes, ‘I am like the unjust steward of the parable, ‘I 
 cannot work—to beg I am ashamed.’ ” 
 
 “Except instead of being unjust, you suffer from the in- 
 justice of others,” said Archer Clifton, very gently. He 
 said that he considered the entail, which cut off the widow 
 from any share in the landed estate of her deceased husband, 
 very unjust and cruel. He knew that his uncle had deeply 
 regretted it, and would have left all his personal property to 
 her, had it not been swallowed up by debt. He said that he 
 himself deplored the circumstance, and if it were legally in 
 his power, he would divide the land with her, but that he 
 only held it in entail, and as entire as it came to him it must 
 be held for his heirs. He added, that he considered it his 
 duty to compensate his uncle’s widow for the injustice of the 
 law to her, and that the case being so, she would find thirty 
 thousand dollars placed to her account in the Bank of Rich- 
 mond. Mrs. Georgia was overcome with emotion at this 
 Sembee’ on the part of Major Glifton. She put her hand- 
 
 erchief to her eyes, and arose hurriedly, with every mark 
 of extreme agitation, exclaiming— 
 
 ““ No, no—this is too much! too good! only lend me the 
 shelter of this roof—once my home—until I look about me 
 and consider what to do.” 
 
 He took her hand, with every demonstration of the ten- 
 derest affection and respect, and pressed it to his lips, and 
 begged her to consider herself as heretofore, mistress of the 
 establishment for as long as she wished—for her whole life, 
 if she pleased—and himself only as her sometime guest— 
 adding, that it was impossible he should ever bring another 
 .ady there. She withdrew her handkerchief from her eyes, 
 and glancing at him with a countenance eloquent with grati- 
 tude, respect, and affection, exclaimed— 
 
 “J take a large portion of your personal property, and | 
 turn you from your home! Oh! no, no, no, theu thrice 
 noble and generous man, no! Not one dollar of that money 
 will 1 touch, so help me Heaven! And not one hour will I 
 atay un‘er this voof, if the master of the house is to be only 
 
GEORGIA. 315 
 
 my ‘sometime guest !? No! J—I—l1 -uust go back to the 
 city, and give lessons in drawing and painting, as befits the 
 artist’s daughter.” 
 
 “And as does not befit my uncle’s widow, lady!” said 
 Archer Clifton, again taking her hand. ‘I have considered 
 myself in some sort your guardian and protector—if you will 
 admit the claim. Now, listen to me calmly, and act reason- 
 ably, for we of White Cliffs are not accustomed to be opposed 
 by the ladies of our family. Hear me, then: This money, 
 which I have placed to your account, is rightfully yours. I 
 will explain. It was the fortune of my dearest Carolyn—” 
 here his voice faltered, he paused a moment, during whick 
 Georgia pressed his hand, and looked in his face with an ex- 
 pression of unspeakable sympathy—then he resumed, calmly, 
 «¢ Had she died unmarried, and during her father’s lifetime, 
 this money would have reverted to him, and he would doubt- 
 less have left it to you. I only give you that which, but for 
 me, might have reached you more directly. And now let 
 that subject rest forever.” 
 
 “ Ah, but best and most generous of friends, I drive you 
 from your home by staying here! I cannot stay! I must 
 depart !” 
 
 “You must not, Mrs. Clifton—this is your proper home, 
 as it is also mine. You do not drive me hence—why should 
 -you? Could I possibly remain, your company would be the 
 dearest solace I could have. No! it is memory that drives 
 me hence, sweet friend! I must—I must forget myself in 
 distant lands! Forgive me for talking thus—-to be quite 
 plain, as soon as the intricate affairs of this estate are disen- 
 tangled, and wound up, I design to set out for two or three 
 years of travel; yet I shall not be able to get off for several 
 weeks.” 
 
 Here the conversation ended for the present. Thinking 
 that for the first few days, at least, Mrs. Georgia would need 
 a female companion, he got in his chaise, and went cver to 
 Hardbargain for Catherine. 
 
 “Kate is not here,” said Mrs. Clifton, in answer to his 
 iuquiries—* do you not know that she has been for three 
 weeks at her brother’s cabin, nursing his wife through her 
 confinement ?”” 
 
 Major Clifton threw his hat upon the table, and dropped 
 himself into a chair, with an air of extreme vexation, say- 
 ng— 
 
316 GEORGIA. 
 
 “It really seems to me that that girl is nurse and ser 
 vant-in-general to the neighborhood! Her brother might 
 easily have found some old woman to nurse his wife. I won- 
 der you permit her to be made such a slave of by everybody, 
 mother.” 
 
 <¢ Tt does her no harm, Archer.” 
 
 ‘‘Twelve months singe you introduced Catherine into the 
 best society in Richmond.” 
 
 “The richest, you mean-—not the best, by a great deal.” 
 
 ‘¢ And now you suffer her to throw herself into the most 
 vulgar and common! Dear madam, is this right ?” 
 
 ““¢ What God hath cleansed, call not thou common, or 
 unclean ’—yes! it is right! Catherine, a girl of the very hum- 
 blest birth, with natural talent and acquired accomplishments 
 that fit her for any circle—should mix with all. And, 
 Archer, what do you mean by ‘vulgar? If ignoble minds, 
 corrupt hearts, and mean actions constitute vulgarity—then 
 I for one have met more vulgar people in so-called high-life 
 than ever I saw in low-life !” 
 
 ‘¢ My dear mother, you are a Republican—let us waive 
 this discussion, for I dislike to differ from you, and tell me 
 where I shall find Catherine, for she positively must return 
 with me to White Cliffs, to bear Mrs. Georgia compauy, 
 until some other companion can be procured for her.” 
 
 ‘“‘ Catherine is at her brother’s cabin, as I told you.” 
 
 « The same cabin he occupied before I left home (” 
 
 “ Certainly.” 
 
 Major Clifton entered the gig, and turned the horse’s head . 
 towards the dell in which the overseer’s cabin stood. When 
 he drew up before the door, Carl came out to welcome hin, 
 and invite him to alight. 
 
 “‘ No, thank you, send Catherine hither,” he said— 
 
 Carl looked very much as though he did not intend to 
 obey this haughty behest—but Catherine had already heard 
 the demand, and appeared at the door. 
 
 “‘ How-do-you-do, Kate? Mrs. Georgia Clifton is at my 
 Louse, and I wish you to return with me to attend upon her. 
 Come, get your bonnet, at once, Catherine, for I am rather 
 hurried.” 
 
 «We cannot spare Catherine, sir,” said Carl, in a tone of 
 displeasure. 
 
 “¢T did not address myself to you, my good fellow,” said 
 Major (‘liftor, looking over his head, and throngh the door 
 
GEORGIA. 317 
 
 of the cabin, watcling Catherine, as she tied on her 
 bonnet. 
 
 When Kate 3ame out, he handed her into the gig, and 
 nodding carelessly to the flushed, indignant Carl, drove off. 
 When they had driven a little way— 
 
 “‘ Catherine,” he said, “is that man your full brother ?”” 
 
 “Yes, sir.” 
 
 ‘<'The same father and mother ?” 
 
 << Yes, sir.” 
 
 “ Humph! You are not at all alike in feature. Are you 
 very much attached to this brother, Catherine ?” 
 
 <¢ Yes, sir.”’ 
 
 “Humph.” He did not speak again until they had 
 reached White Cliffs, when he handed her out, and said— 
 “Catherine, Mrs. Georgia is greatly fatigued ; I wish you to 
 attend to her comforts, this evening—do you bear ?” 
 
 “ Yes, sir,” veplied Kate. 
 
 The next day Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, came over to 
 eall on Georgia. And afterwards, at the earnest solicitaticn 
 of her son, she paid them a visit of a week. Major Clifton 
 busied himself with the settlement of the estate. Although 
 the great debts of the late Mr. Clifton could not be recovered 
 of him, he determined to pay them all. A great many of 
 then he discharged at once, by cash; and in payment of 
 others, he gave notes, bearing interest. The calling in of these 
 numerous debts, and the arrangement of the terms of pay- 
 ment, and other matters, occupied him nearly two months, 
 so that it was the last of autumn before he was ready to set 
 cut on his journey. 
 
 He had taken leave of his mother the evening previous te 
 the day upon which he was to leave home. The next morn 
 ing, in parting from Mrs. Georgia and Catherine, he took 
 leave of the lady, in a tender and respectful manner, raising 
 her hand to his lips—but he drew Kate to his bosom, and 
 pushing back the rippling waves of chestnut hair, that con- 
 cealed or shaded two-thirds of her massive forehead, he said, 
 gravely and sweetly— | 
 
 “¢ What are yon going to do with all this brain while I am 
 gone, Kate? How much longer will it lie fallew! Well' 
 Never mind!” He kissed her freely and fondly as a near 
 relative might, and bowing once more to Mrs. Georgia, has- 
 tened away. He paused upon the threshold of the door, 
 hewever, seemed to hesitate, then suddenly came back, seized 
 
 20 
 
318 GEORGIA, 
 
 the hand of Kate, and drew her out upon the porch. “Ca 
 therine,” he said, “ do you remember a promise you made me 
 once—not to marry without my consent ?” 
 
 «Yes, sir, | remember it.” 
 
 “I hold you to that promise, Kate. I must speak plainly 
 ‘o you at the risk or the certainty of wounding your feelings; 
 yours is a singular position, Catherine—a ‘girl of humble 
 birth, quite penniless, yet with education and accomplish-= 
 tents that fit her to grace a higher cirele. It is not likely, 
 Catherine, that any gentleman in this part of the country 
 will ever become a suitor for your hand, and no ove who is 
 not a gentleman should be permitted to do so!—-Therefore, 
 Catherine, I wish you to promise me not to listen to any pro- 
 posals without my consent,” 
 
 ‘<] promised you long ago, sir. I will keep that promise 
 until you release me from it!” 
 
 “That isa good girl! Now, then, once more good-bye,” 
 and again he folded her to his bosom, and then, indeed, he 
 was gone. 
 
 Catherine turned with the intention of seeking her own 
 room, but was instantly confronted by Mrs. Georgia Clifton, 
 who stood before her with pallid cheek, set teeth, and gleam- 
 ing eyes. She caught the wrist of the girl, and keeping a 
 strong, vice-like grasp upon it, dragged her almost with vio- 
 lence into the parlor before the window, and casting herself 
 into a chair, pulled Catherine up before her, and fixed thuse 
 wild, dilated, star-like eyes upon her face. It fell blushing 
 under the gaze. 
 
 “¢ You love that man,” she said, drawing her breath hardly, 
 like one in a passing pain. 
 
 The blush deepened upon Catherine’s cheek, but she did 
 not reply in words. F 
 
 “Speak! Answer me! You love that man?’ she re- 
 peated, clutching the wrist of the girl so tightly as to cause 
 her to wince. 
 
 “‘ Madam, I am grateful to Major Clifton—he is my benes 
 fuctor—he cares for me, and I am grateful to him.” 
 
 “He is an arrogant man—he reminded you of your low 
 birth.” 
 
 “1 know he did, madam, and perhaps I ought to have 
 vindicated our common human nature, and told hin. as I 
 tell you now, that there is no such thing in God s universe 
 as low birth, that every child comes into His world with 
 
GEORGIA. 319 
 
 equal vlaim upon His people; perhaps it was my duty te 
 have told him this, only Iam always a coward before Major 
 Clifton, and never can say the right thing at the right time 
 to him, as I can to others.” 
 
 “You love him! That is the reason! And you are a 
 fool if you do not know it, or a hypocrite if, knowing it, you 
 deny it. But he despises your love! He said to you, him- 
 self, that no gentleman would be likely to be a suitor for 
 your hand!” 
 
 “T know he did, lady. His care for me makes him say 
 rough, blunt things sometimes. I can bear them from him.” 
 
 “You love him! Deny it, if you dare! But you are an 
 idiot ! an idiot! if you do not take Ais hint to conquer that 
 passion! He said it was not likely that any gentleman 
 would ever become a suitor for your hand! he is a gentle- 
 man—therefore he can never stoop to you! You do not 
 answer me! Do you, perchance, deceive yourself with the 
 idea that he ever will 2” 
 
 ‘¢ Lady—no, I do not deceive myself with the idea that 
 he will ever ‘stoop’ to marry me. The woman that Major 
 Clifton shall marry, if he ever marries, will be quite worthy 
 of him, and that will preclude the idea of his ‘stooping’ te 
 her.” 
 
 «And that woman will not be you, presumptuous girl 
 Do you dare to hope it will? Speak! Answer me!” 
 
 «¢ Lady !” said Catherine, in a tone of grave and dignified 
 rebuke, “ considering the recent bereavement of Major Clif 
 ton, the discussion into which you have drawn me is indeli- 
 cate, to use no harsher term!” 
 
 «“¢Recent!? It is of five months’ standing! You evade 
 my question! You evade all my questions! I asked you 
 if you loved him! Answer me!” 
 
 «‘ Lady! long ago my heart became too unruly for my own 
 managemett, and I gave it, with all its desires and affections, 
 tc God. I love nothing out of Him!” 
 
 «¢ And do you expect Archer Clifton will ever marry you? 
 Answer that !” 
 
 “‘ Madam, I expect nothing.” 
 
 “Do you hope it, then ?”” 
 
 “Lady, I hope nothing.” 
 
 “ You prevaricate, girl! Do you wish it then?” 
 
 ‘Madam, I only wish that God may appoint all times, 
 seasons and evests in my life—making me humble, gencrous 
 
320 GEORGIA. 
 
 and grateful in prosperity, if it comes; and strong, cous 
 rageous and patient in adversity, if, as is most likely, that 
 comes !” 
 
 «“ Humph—would it make you happy to be the wife of 
 Archer Clifton ?” 
 
 “Mrs. Clifton, you have no right to ask me that ques 
 tien |” 
 
 “ Yet I do ask you, and I insist upon a reply '” 
 
 “© And I decline giving it.” 
 
 ‘“T am answered! You love Archer Clifton! You feed 
 your heart upon the secret hope of one day being his wife! 
 And xvw listen to me, girl!”? she exclaimed, every vestige 
 of prudence and self-restraint swept away by her rising pas- 
 sion, “ J, too, day and night, feed my soul upon one des- 
 perate hope—that I live for, would die for, or go to perdition 
 for! I, too, love Clifton. JI loved him the first hour I ever 
 saw him. I have loved him ever since, only more madly for 
 every obstacle, danger, duty that stood between, dividing us! 
 [ have schemed, dared, sinned for him! Twice he has been 
 snatched from me by fate, twice restored to my hopes! Oh! 
 [ know my own strong will had much to do with that restora- 
 tion! He is given to my hopes again! Think you, now, 
 that you can win him from me? Vo, idiot! If there be 
 any power in my own soul, on earth, in Heaven, or in hell to 
 help me, I will find it out, and enlist it to give me this one 
 desire of my heart, this man’s love! Since first I ever be- 
 held his face, I have dreamed, hoped, toiled, /ived for nothing 
 else! I have suffered for him! Oh! angels and devils! how I 
 have suffered for him! In the days when he came wooing 
 Carolyn, wooing her before the face of me, bound with indisso- 
 luble chains !—me, loving him as she had no power or con- 
 ception of loving anything! Many times I was almost mad with 
 despair !—knowing, too, if he would only love me I should be 
 nearly mad with joy! Ihave sacrificed great prospects for 
 him. Yes! littleas you think me capable of it! This sume 
 mer I might have made a splendid alliance in Richmord—a 
 traveling nobleman—an English nobleman, girl! a baron with 
 an annual rental of thirty thousand pounds ste-"ing—with 
 seats in the three kingdoms, and a palace in Portman Square. 
 I rejected him, when I knew that Clifton was free! In the 
 faint hope of winning Clifton, I would not bind myself. All 
 that I have ever done of good or of evil has had him for its 
 _ end and obiect! I was the belle, queen, idol of Richmond 
 
GEORGIA. 321 
 
 If I schemed and toiled for a position, and gioried in my 
 success, it was that he might hear of it, and his pride might 
 be enlisted for me! You saw me one winter at the governor’s 
 recepiion! You saw how I was worshiped there! But he 
 was present—and free, and I did not care what the thou- 
 sands thought of me, I only cared what that unit might 
 think!” Her voice sank into tenderness, and she paused, 
 and dropped her brow into both open hands. But soon raise 
 ing her head again, she said, * Look at me well! Ay, 
 look! What sort of a rival do you take me to be? If you 
 cannot guess, I will tell you! I am not superstitious or 
 scrupulous, as you are! Iam one, who, for my soul’s great 
 passion, will do, or dare, or suffer anything! I ask no leave 
 of earth or Heaven for what I do! I do what I will, or can. 
 and take the consequences; earth or Heaven can but punish, 
 and I can risk or bear it !—for there is no pain or loss in tho 
 universe that I weigh with the loss of my love! And not 
 for the fear of eternal perdition—not for the hope of ever- 
 lasting salvation, will I forego the joy of my mortal love! 
 Now, hear me, girl!” She rose upon her feet, bending over 
 Catherine, with her hand clutched upon the maiden’s shoul- 
 der with a vice-like grip, and, gazing into her eyes with con- 
 tracted, gleaming pupils, she said,—while her voice dropped 
 into the low, deep, stern tone of intense and concentrated 
 passion, in which every word, syilable, letter was articulated 
 with a distinct, metallic ring :—*‘ Now, hear me! If yeu 
 dare te come between me and my love—by the living Lord 
 that sent my burning soul upon this dull earth, and who can 
 hurl it hence to a burning perdition—I will find a way to 
 kill you! Do you hear me?’ 
 
 Catherine grew pale beneath the tiger eye and clutch of 
 the fearful woman, but she answered — 
 
 “ Madam, I have heard you utter wild and wicked words. 
 I will endeavor to forget them.” 
 
 ‘Remember them! You are warned !” 
 
 And releasing her hold, the dark lady passed from the 
 room. 
 
 Catherine remained sitting where she had left her, appalled 
 by the exhibition of demoniac passion she had witnessed. 
 One pain and one fear possessed her above all others—deep 
 regret that this most wicked woman had evidently already 
 attained such an ascendancy over the mind of Clifton, and 
 dread lest, ‘a despite of all the sin, she would gain ber ob 
 
S22 GEORGIA. 
 
 iect—his hand! But Catherine carried all her doubts and 
 fears to her Heavenly I'ather. And svon to her clear, strong 
 mind it became evident, that howev2r wicked and unscrupu- 
 lous, potent and dangerous the Circe might be on ordinary 
 occasions, she possessed too little self-government, was under 
 the influence of too strong and impetuous passions, to suc~ 
 ceed in maintaining any long course of duplicity, such ag 
 would be necessary to the accomplishment of her purpose. 
 And Kate became calm. She wished to leave the house. 
 She could ill bear to live under the same roof with this wo- 
 man, and meet her at least three times a day, at meals, if no 
 oftener But she had promised Major Clifton to remain with 
 Mrs. Georgia until she should have other company, and she 
 must keep her promise. It was, besides, doubly sacred, be 
 ing made to him, and the pain it brought her was enduraL. 
 —borne for him. 
 
 Mrs. Georgia sought the garden, the open air, anywher 
 where she could breathe freely. When the storm in her 
 bosom had subsided, and reason was again in the ascendant, 
 she could have torn her hair and beat her breast, yea, and 
 rent her garments with excess of chagrin, to think that she 
 had so betrayed herself to Catherine. She did not fully be- 
 lieve that Catherine would repeat this scene where it could 
 injure her, or anywhere, in fact. Still, she thought it safer 
 to guard against such a contingency, and while she herself 
 still possessed the unshaken confidence and respect ef Major 
 Clifton, to impugn the conduct «nd character of Catherine, 
 and thus forestall and invalidate any testimony she might 
 hereafter give. She felt that she must proceed very cau- 
 tiously. A plan of correspondence had been arranged with 
 Major Clifton, previous to his departure. She soon began to 
 receive long letters from him, filled with interesting descrip- 
 tious of the countries through which he passed, the people 
 whom he met, and philosophical comments upon both. And 
 to these she replied in other letters, full of appreciation, ad- 
 miration, gratitude, and breathing, besides, the highest, pu- 
 rest, most disinterested sentiments and opinions upon all the 
 subjects of their correspondence. Into these letters, she 
 gradually introduced the name of Catherine—carelessly, at 
 first, as if she thought little about her, one way or the other, 
 —as thus: “ Catherine is with me still—she desires to be 
 remembered ;”” then, in a second letter, by a slight line of 
 praise, as though the girl was rather winning upon her, as-- 
 
GEORGIA. 823 
 
 Catherine is well. By the way, what a remarkably clever 
 girl she is;” then, in another, with warmer panegyric, as 
 though she really very much improved upon longer acquaint- 
 ance, thus: ‘ How can I ever thank you sufficiently for 
 placing Catherine with me?’ Next came high encomiums upon 
 . Catherine’s talents, in this wise: “Catherine has left me, 
 and is with your mother, as no doubt the latter has written 
 you. Apropos! Whata mind that girl has! Did you ever 
 observe 2”? And then, in a subsequent epistle, came an ex- 
 pression of wonder at the “ diplomatic” character of Kate’s 
 intellect, and an opinion that the writer really believod her 
 thrown away in private life. And next, a cooler mention of 
 the maiden, with the hint of a fear that she was gaining the 
 mastery over Mrs. Clifton’s strong mind. Finally, after 
 some months, she wrote thus, as if speaking frankly from a 
 sense of duty, and at the cost of great pain: “I fear that I 
 have been greatly deceived in my estimate of Catherine’s 
 good principles. How shall I introduce what I am about to 
 say to you? But you had best come home and see for your- 
 self. For I know that your mother is in the power of as 
 dangerous an intriguante as I ever heard of; and mind—she 
 will influence Mrs. Clifton to disinherit her own sun, and be- 
 queath Aer the farm at Hardbargain. That ‘ Maria Teresa’ 
 brow of hers meant something, after all. But you do not 
 know with what pain I write this, Archer! [cannot pursue 
 the subject—only regard for you, and fidelity to your -in- 
 terests, would have drawn me to its discussion. I[ advise 
 you to come home and look after your own welfare '” 
 
 What influence this had upon Major Clifton, will be seen 
 in the sequel. 
 
 And while Georgia was exercising her power abroad, sho 
 was busy at home also Having heardor guessed at Colonel 
 Conyer’s *‘ foolish” attachment to Catherine, she wrote and 
 invited him to make up a party of his own friends, and come 
 down and spend Christmas with her. And the gallant offi- 
 cer, delighted with this quintessence and perfection of confi- 
 dence and hospitality—this carte blanche to be filled up at 
 his own pleasure, wrote and most gratefully accepted the in- 
 vitation for himseif and “ friends.” 
 
b24 CATILERINE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL. 
 
 CATHERINE. 
 Now has descended a serener }.our —KeEatTs. 
 
 CoLoneL Conyers exercised tact and discretion in ayail 
 ing himself of the privilege granted him by Georgia. In 
 consideration of the recent affliction of the family, he made 
 up a very quiet and appropriate party—namely, the lady’s 
 father, the artist, a pale young clergyman who was suffering 
 for country air, and the wife and sister of the latter. 
 
 After his arrival at White Cliffs, Mrs. Georgia gave him 
 every opportunity of renewing his acquaintance with Cath- 
 erine, and every encouragement to persist in his suit. Girls, 
 she said, were often whimsical, and Catherine was especially 
 shy, but disposed to think highly of her suitor, and well 
 worth the trouble of perseverance. Colonel Conyers there- 
 upon grew importunate, and Catherine became distressed at 
 his persistance, and announced her intention of returning to 
 Hardbargain. When her lover heard this, his grief seemed 
 unbounded—he had so long counted on success, so long been 
 deceived by Mrs. Georgia’s assurances, and by Catherine’s 
 gentleness of denial, that now when his hopes were quite 
 overthrown, he became passionate and vehement in his de- 
 monstrations of sorrow. His trouble affected Catherine very 
 deeply. She went and sat down by him, and laid her han 
 upon his shoulder, and said, in her gentle sympathetic 
 tones— : 
 
 “Do not grieve so; indeed I am not worth so much love 
 or so much regret—indeed I am not—I am a poor girl, very 
 ignorant of society, very full of weakness and error.” 
 
 “© Oh, Catherine! Catherine! that is nothing to the pur 
 pose! You are what you are, and I adore you! Do not 
 maake me wretched .” 
 
 “ Heaven knows I do not wish to! Iam your friend-- 
 
CATHERINE. $25 
 
 wmdeed Tam. I would do anything in the world to give you 
 peace, indeed 1: would—except—” 
 
 ““ Hxcept love me, proud girl!” 
 
 “¢Proud? No, I am not proud. Why should I be! 
 Do not mock me! Indeed I feel that you have conferred 
 che greatest honor upon me in your preference. An offer of 
 ais hand is the highest mark of respect and confidence a man 
 ean give a woman; the world would think it higher still, 
 coming from one of your rank to one of mine. I myself 
 should in any case be proud of your regard, only- ” 
 
 “Well? «Only? ” 
 
 ‘Only I feel so grieved to see you look so sorrowfully ; 
 but—” 
 
 «¢ Well, my dear girl, well! but what ?” 
 
 She paused, a slight blush suffused her cheek—she ga- 
 thered courage and went on to say— 
 
 “JT do not know why I should not speak anything that 
 may be upon my heart, at whatever cost to my natural feel- 
 ings, if the hearing of it will do good to any human being. 
 Yes! I will speak, for your sake. I do not fear to speak, for 
 I have perfect confidence in you. Listen then, Colonel 
 Conyers, dear friend. You are not the only one who has 
 missed earthly happiness. I think it must be written in the 
 book of fate, that we. may not have those whom we love too 
 deeply—in other words, that we may not have idols. It seems 
 to me, that notwithstanding all other troubles, it would make 
 us too happy, in an existence designed chiefly for trial and 
 probation.” 
 
 «‘ That is a sad, strange, despairing sentiment, for one so 
 young !” 
 
 “No, not despairng—for if we may not have joy, there 
 remain the peace and cheerfulness found in duty. And if 
 we may not have the love of the heart’s idol, there remain 
 the affection of relatives, the esteem of friends, the love of 
 God, and the hope of Heaven.” 
 
 “Catherine, you have loved. Tell me about it my 
 child.” 
 
 “‘ J intended to tell you about it. It is the best proof of 
 entire confidence and esteem that I can give you. It will 
 show you how highly I value you, and it will assure you also, 
 of the utter impossibility of getting a heart that is not mine 
 to give—if it were worth giving.” 
 
 She paused in great embarrassment, her cheeks were sul- 
 
 ® 
 
326 CATHERINE. 
 
 fused with blushes, yet she scemed resolved to proceed. As 
 ife to assist ber, he said— 
 
 “This being whom you deify with your love, my child! 
 what a splendid, what a magnificent nature he must have! 
 what transcendant personal attractions! what an intellect 
 what a heart! Is it not so? tell me!” 
 
 “ Ah! no; you are mistaken; these things excite admisa- 
 tion and wonder, they do not of themselves win affection. - 
 Oh, no! he of whom you speak, is not so handsome as you 
 ure; he has no more mind than you have, and not so much. 
 neart—even J admit that.” 
 
 ‘And yet you love him, and can love him.” 
 
 “Hven so—do you wonder at it? Have not you passed 
 by women—handsome, graceful, accomplished—to fix upon 
 a plain country girl like me?” 
 
 “Oh, but not women with your candor, purity and strength 
 of mind. Oh, Kate! what depths of truth and innocence 
 you have revealed in the very confession you have made me! 
 Who else but yourself dared make such a revelation ?” 
 
 Catherine looked up at the speaker in doubt. 
 
 “Go on, dear girl. Tell me that this man adores you, 
 and I will never, while I live, trouble you with myself 
 again.” 
 
 «“ Ah, no! it was nothing like that which I set out to tell — 
 you. Ah, no! I only wished to let you know—that your 
 case of disappointed affection is not solitary—that I too have 
 missed life’s crowning joy—the love of one I love. He does 
 not even notice me now. I never permit myself to dream 
 that he will ever love me. Yet I would like to live with him, 
 to serve him-—myself unknown, unnoticed, if I might only 
 be near him. I envy the waiting-maids and men, and even 
 the dogs, who are full-feasted every day, with the presence 
 for which my heart starves. I would like to give my life to 
 his service, but I'am unnecessary to his smallest need. Well' 
 I cannot do him any good; but I serve one who is dear to 
 him, and so I stay the hunger of my heart. Please do not 
 think ill of me for telling you all this. It would grieve me 
 to have you think any evil of me. I esteem you, and want 
 your esteem. I have done some viclence to my instincts in 
 telling you this. Do not think ill of me for doing so. I 
 only do it that you may know you are not the only one in 
 ais world who is not happy.” 
 
 “Think WW of you, Catherine! Do anything but adore 
 
 
 
 
 
CATHERINE. SOT 
 
 ai mourn your loss forever—if lose you I must— on, 
 Teaven !” 
 
 “‘ This life is a tragedy—for always that which is dearest. 
 is lost in it, and it ends in death. The closing scene is the 
 corpse, the shroud, the coffin—and the curtain drops upon 
 the grave—all beyond is hidden—except to the eye of faith. 
 My experience of life has been all darkness, clouds and storm 
 —and the transient gleams of gladness or of hope have been 
 —not like the sunshine, but like the lightning. Yet through 
 nll the grief, and gloom, and the tempting doubt, the § still, 
 small voice’ of God’s spirit has spoken to my soul, and com- 
 forted me.” 
 
 “Oh, Catherine, my child! that I could make your life all 
 sunshine—that you would let me try—I do believe I could 
 make you happy.” 
 
 Catherine shook her head, slowly, with a sad smile, say- 
 ing— 
 
 ? Weall believe that! Weall think that in ws only is vested 
 the power of making those we love happy. It is because we 
 know that we are willing, anxicus to do more for them than 
 any other person would! Itisafond error. Our efforts— 
 our greatest sacrifices are often needless, as we ourselves are 
 nothing to our gods of flesh.” 
 
 « Am I nothing—nothing to you, then ?” 
 
 «You are my dear and honored friend.” 
 
 “Oh, Catherine, I could make your life happy! Nay, 
 but do not look incredulous—I know I could. My love is 
 not selfish, like that of most other men. It is perfectly dis- 
 interested. It only asks to serve you. It only desires to see 
 you at ease. Dear Kate, you have told me all on your heart 
 —you might lay that heart, with all its burden of unrequited 
 affection, upon my bosom, and I would comfort, and cherish, 
 and sustain it, until I should win its love all to myself.” 
 
 Again, and more mournfully, the girl shook her head- - 
 
 «Do not pursue this subject, Colonel Conyers. Dear 
 friond, by dwelling upon our wild wishes, they grow to seem 
 ?» 5es, and probabilities, and certainties. In my youth—” 
 
 «In ‘your youth’? How many years ago was that, Cathe- 
 ‘ine ?”? 
 
 “Strange' —but at eighteen, I really feel no longer 
 young.”’ 
 
 “Yet it is not winter, but a wintry spring, that chills 
 your young life. That isnot uncommon. Spring—the spring 
 
323 — CATHERINE. 
 
 of hope, tne spring of joy, the spring of life will open indeed 
 by-and-by, and be all the warmer and brighter for its late 
 ness—and my Catherine shall feel younger—but for increases 
 wisdom—-at twenty-five, then she does now at eighteen—thai 
 lot is for her—whosesoever treasure she may be. But what 
 was she going to say happened in her long passed youth ?” 
 
 Catherine smiled, and said— 
 
 «« Well, then—when life was newer and fresher, believing 
 —as [ do now—all the promises of the Bible—and saying—- 
 as I do now—that the days of miracles are not passed, and 
 never will be so, until the days of God’s ommipotence and 
 man’s faith is passed, I used to say that I would pray for 
 what I wanted, though the granting of my prayer should 
 seem to involve an impossibility. But now, later in life, I 
 have learned a better lesson still, from the example of my 
 Master. He might have saved Himself by a miracle, but He 
 chose rather to endure the cross and the shame, for the work- 
 ing out of His Father’s will and purpose. God has a pur- 
 pose and a will in every—the humblest life. And now, for 
 all other vain and childish petitions, I substitute the words 
 of the Saviour—* Not My will—but Thine, be done.’ ” 
 
 “Catherine, you must be happy, even in this world. You 
 are so good. You must be made happy in the end.” 
 
 «Ah, I should be sorry to set up the plea of goodness— 
 when I see so many people so much better than | am, suffer 
 so deeply. It is too often represented that goodness is re- 
 warded in this world—but, oh! how can any one remember 
 the life and death of a thousand martyrs, and the crucifixion 
 of the Saviour, and not feel that it is not so—and not feel 
 that the reverse is often so!” 
 
 “Oh, Catherine, that is a very gloomy doctrine, id I will 
 _ not believ it! There is a hopeful text of Scripture that 
 comes into my mind—‘ Godliness is profitable in all things, 
 having the promise of the life that now is, and that which is 
 to come.’ It is the clouds of your wintry spring that make 
 everything look so gloomy to you!” 
 
 “It is nota gloomy doctrine! Oh, no! not gloomy, by 
 all the hope and illumining of the glorious Resurrection and 
 Ascension.” 
 
WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 829 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 WINTER EVENINGS AT THE ARM. 
 
 Oh, Winter, ruler of tie inverted year, 
 
 I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest, 
 
 And dreaded as thou art. 
 
 I crown thee king of intimate delights, 
 
 Fire-side enjoyments, homestead happiness, 
 
 And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
 
 Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours 
 
 Of long, uninterrupted evening, know.—Cowprr. 
 
 CATHERINE returned to Hardbargain on Christmas Eve. 
 [t was a clear, cold, crisp afternoon, and the level sun threw 
 a glistening, yellow lustre, like powdered gold dust, over the 
 erusted surface of the snow-clad earth And as Kate’s little, 
 rough-coated pony stepped freely out over the ground, life 
 and hope and joy tided back to her heart, giving bloom to 
 her cheeks, light to her eyes, and elasticity to all her mo- 
 tions. She was very glad indeed to find herself on her way 
 to the farm, and about to exchanze the feverish, exciting 
 atmosphere of White Cliffs, and the disturbing proximity of 
 Georgia, for the long, calm days, and long, calm evenings 
 with Mrs. Clifton, at the farm-house. She reached her des- 
 tination at dusk. Mrs. Clifton met the girl with a smile of 
 pleasure, and welcomed her with a kiss of affection. Then 
 she conducted her into the parlor, where she made her sit 
 down by the fire, while she removed her bonnet and shawl. 
 Next she summoned Henny, and gave orders that tea should 
 be served immediately, and a fire kindled in Miss Catherine’s 
 room, as the young lady was fatigued, and would wish to 
 retire early. There was in the manner of the lady upon 
 this evening, and from this evening, a maternal tenderness 
 and solicitude, very soothing and delightful to Catherine. 
 This was so epparent to the domestics, that they began to 
 deport themselves towards the maiden’ with the deference 
 due to the daughter of the house. 
 
 And how calmly and cheerfully the winter days passed 
 
330 WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 
 
 There was the carly rising, and the early breakfast, in the 
 warm, bright, back parlor, where the morning sun shone in. 
 There was the leisurely talk over the meal, about the occu- 
 pations, which were also the amusements of the day. After 
 breakfast, came the ride around the farm, in the course of 
 which every field and barn and granary was inspected, and 
 every negro quarter visited. And during these rides, Mrs 
 Clifton gave Catherine much information relating to agricul 
 tural matters. 
 
 “For, my dear,” she said, some day you may be a 
 planter’s wife, and have all these things to look after, while 
 your husband is in the public service, absent with his regi- 
 ment, or at the legislature.” To which Catherine ventured 
 no reply. And then came dinner, and the short afternoon 
 nap, and tea, and the long, serene evening by the fireside, 
 employed in needle-work, enlivened by rational, cheerful 
 conversation, and occasionally varied by music or reading, 
 and finally ended by family prayer and bed. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton and Catherine never, never wearied of 
 each other. They had many occupations for hands and 
 heads—they were both strong, original thinkers, and above 
 all, were both deeply interested in the same being—the 
 absentee. 
 
 And now Catherine enjoyed a very dear, but dangerous 
 delight, in the perusal of Major Clifton’s letters of travel. 
 These letters arrived about two in a month. And, ah! the 
 evenings, when they came, were festivals indeed to the re-. 
 eluse lady and the maiden. Often when one was brought in, 
 Mrs. Clifton reclining, through weakness, upon the sofa, 
 shading her eyes with her hand, would say, * Break the seal 
 aud read it to me, dear Catherine.” And Kate would do 
 so—drawing delicious draughts of perilous pleasure from the 
 poetic and artistic spirit that pervaded every sentiment, nar- 
 rative and description in the epistle. And on these ‘long, 
 quiet winter evenings, very often the conversation turned 
 upon the absent son—the dear topic always introduced by 
 his mother. It seemed as if Mrs. Clifton wished to make 
 Catherine thoroughly acquainted with his character and dis 
 position—with his faults and weaknesses, as well as with his 
 virtues and powers. 
 
 «‘ My son has his serious imperfections, like other men, of 
 course—though your eyes contradict me, Catherine; if I, 
 his partial mother, see them, they exist, you may depend 
 
WINYER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 881 
 
 Archer is no demigod, my dear, m the estimation of anv 
 one, but—-weil, no matter—don’t blush so—I am his mother, 
 and I love him, t 0», and think highly of him, of course, but 
 I a knowledge he ig no angel, Kate, and I should be sorry 
 you should take him tor one—disappointment would come 
 of it, my dear. He is proud, jealous, and suspicious as a 
 Spaniard, and while under the influence of these feelings, he 
 is reserved and sullen as an Indian—yet these faults of cha- 
 racter have been so transfigured in my dear Kate’s affection, 
 that they have actually seemed virtues—the pride, jealousy 
 and suspicion have seemed high sense of honor and intellectual 
 acumen—and the reserve and sullenness—dignity! Is it not 
 so, my dear ?” 
 
 Kate’s eyes lighted, and her cheeks flushed highly, but 
 not with bashfulness—with an emotion that was swelling at 
 her heart—and carried away from self-consciousness by en- 
 thusiasm, she answered— 
 
 “©Oh, madam! I know what I would say to you, if I only 
 knew how to say it. Heaven sends divine thoughts and 
 feelings into my heart and brain sometimes, but they cannot 
 pass thence into words—they are choked up perhaps by sin 
 or imperfection. Such a feeling I have now—heavenly light, 
 if [ could only refract it—’’? She paused an instant, uncon- 
 scious that the lady was looking intently upon her. Then 
 she spoke again, slowly, in a kind of calm fervor— Real 
 affection—I do not mean passion or imagination—but real 
 love does never invest its object with unreal virtues !— 
 never !—all faults are the excess or the deficiency of some 
 virtue—well, real love sees its object not perhaps as he is at 
 his worst—not even perhaps so evil as he is even at his best, 
 but as he may become !—as he surely will become, if that 
 real affection continues faithful to its trust. Ah! how 
 strong that conviction is im my heart—how weak upon my 
 lips!” 
 
 i. I understand you, Catherine, and may your true affection 
 be the divine alchemy that shall transmute all Archer Clif- 
 ton’s faults into virtues.” At this personal reply, Catherine's 
 eyes fell and her cheeks burned with sudden self-recollection, 
 and for weeks after this she could not recall the conversation 
 without deep blushes. 
 
 More and more freely as the weeks passed by did Mrs. 
 Clifton talk to Kate of her son and his peculiarities, and the 
 best way to meet them. 
 
392 WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 
 
 ‘You know, my dear Catherine, the apostle, in order to 
 win ;roselytes, made himself all things to all men. Archer 
 is proud, and my dear girl must raise herself a little out o* 
 that humility of manner which is very distasteful to the 
 haughty, except when exhibited towards themselves, when 
 t naturally becomes very acceptable.” This style of con- 
 versation, addressed to her for weeks and months, was at 
 once very pleasing and very painful to Kate. It was sweet, 
 it was dear beyond measure, to be considered in this near 
 relation to her beloved, to be addressed daily and hourly as 
 if she possessed the power of rendering his future life better 
 and happier, and so addressed by his own mother, too, but it 
 was also humiliating to be supposed to presume on the future 
 esteem and effection of one who had never addressed the lan- 
 guage of love to her. Often she thought of begging Mrs. 
 Clifton to desist from this style of conversation; but a cer- 
 tain bashfulness, a deep respect for the lady, a distrust of 
 herself and of her own experience, and the childish thought 
 that Major Clifton might have entrusted to his mother an in- 
 tention that he never confided to herself its object, and the 
 delight of living in this blessed illusion, and the fear of 
 breaking the charm, kept her silent for a long time, during 
 which Mrs. Clifton gradually fell into the manner of con- 
 sidering her and speaking to her as her son’s future wife. 
 All at once one day it suddenly struck Kate that Mrs. Clifs 
 ton might be the victim of a mistake, and under the impres- 
 sion that some understanding or engagement existed between 
 herself and Major Clifton, and that her own silence and 
 seeming acquiesence had served to confirm this error. And 
 this very natural and rational thought fell upon the girl like 
 a thunderbolt, utterly blasting and destroying all her beau- 
 tiful hopes, and covering her face with the blushes of deep 
 humiliation. She felt that she must undeceive Mrs. Clifton 
 immediately. So when they sat together at the werk-table. 
 befure the evening fire, and the lady spoke of her sen, say- 
 ing, among other things— 
 
 «‘'The most unhappy trait in his character is his tendency 
 to suspicion, my love. Be straight-forward with him, Cathe- 
 rine, never have a secret from him, not even one touching a 
 little pleasant surprise, be perfectly fraux and open-hearted 
 with him, and, alas! even that course may not always save 
 you from suffering by his besetting 3in, and when it does not, 
 Catherine, there is nothing left for you but patience and 
 
WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 833 
 
 trust. You see, on Archer’s behalf, I expect a great deal 
 of you, my love, Jike all mothers-in-law, I suppose.” 
 
 Catherine’s face was bent over her work; ashamed of her 
 supposed mistake, ashamed of the weakness that now choked 
 her voice, she remained silent for some time. At length, 
 gathering a false impression from her long continued silence, 
 Mrs. Clifton said— 
 
 “‘ Do I hope too much from you, Kate, my love ?” 
 
 With an effort, Catherine controlled her emotion, looked 
 up and replied, steadily— 
 
 ‘¢ No, no, dear Mrs. Clifton, you do not demand too much 
 of me. As far as my will and my power, as far as the grace 
 of God aids me, I will serve Major Clifton with the affection 
 and fidelity of a sister and a servant, but I have not the 
 smallest reason to suppose that he will ever admit me to a 
 friendship sufficiently intimate to make it possible for me to 
 affect his character and conduct in any way, even if I should 
 presume to wish it.” 
 
 My dear Kate, Archer’s wife will be his friend, com- 
 panion and counsellor—he never would be happy with a mere 
 housekeeper or parlor ornament, however beautifully accom- 
 plished and amiable—it is therefore he will prize my dear 
 Catherine’s clear, strong mind and proud heart—-she will be 
 adinitted to his closest thoughts and his noblest counsels, do 
 not doubt it.” 
 
 “¢Oh, madam, you do not comprehend me yet, I see. How 
 deeply rooted your mistake must be, dear lady! Oh, how 
 shall [ tell you? Indeed you are in error if you suppose— 
 if you suppose that—” Kate stopped short and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton encircled her waist with her arm, and 
 said— 
 
 “Come, Kate, stop all this blushing and weeping. Let 
 us be confidential, you and I, as mother and daughter should 
 be, for you are as my own daughter, Kate, and am I not a 
 tether to you?” 
 
 Oh, yes! yes! dear lady!” said Catherine, taking her 
 nand, and pressing it to her bosom, and covering it with 
 kigses.  « Oh, yes, you are indeed like a mother to me, if I 
 were ouly worthy to be your daughter! and I love and honor 
 you more than ever a mother was loved and honored 1 in this 
 vorld before, I do believe !” 
 
 “Then let there be no reserve between us, dear Kate. 
 
 21 
 
334 WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 
 
 Let us be open with each other, as parent and child, whose 
 loves, and hopes, and wishes are the same. have been 
 plain with you al] along, only gradually unfolding your 
 future, not to alarm your shyness—and to win your cunfi- 
 dence. I have longed for this confidence—this perfect open- 
 ness between us—that we might talk with more intelligence, 
 and with more comfort—-and I have courted it by my own 
 frankness; but in return for all my candor, Catherine has 
 shown me only reserve and blushes. Will she be more con- 
 filing now 2” 
 
 “ Alas, dearest lady, what can I say to you, but that you 
 are greatly mistaken—sadly mistaken-—oh, yes, deed, sadly 
 mistaken,” replied Kate, almost weeping again. 
 
 “] am not mistaken in supposing that Catherine loves my 
 son. Iam not mistaken in knowing that the fact gives me 
 more happiness than anything else in the world. Yet Iwould 
 like to hear Kate admit it.” 
 
 “ Well, dearest lady—yes !—down, pride !—if it will give 
 you any pleasure to hear it, I must not withhold the confes- 
 sion—yes, I do love your son—so much—so much—that it 
 will make me an old maid !” 
 
 Mrs. Clifton laughed, a little, low, jolly langh. (The lady 
 very seldom laughed, and when she did, it had a strange, ex- 
 ceedingly pleasant effect upon the hearer—it was a very 
 agreeable surprise, revealing, as it were under that grave, 
 stern surface, traces of a mine of wit, humor, fun and mis- 
 chief, that must have existed, and frequently sparkled forth, 
 ere the sorrow and the seriousness of life smothered and ex- 
 tinguished it.) She laughed her little, low, jolly laugh, and 
 replied— 
 
 «“ That were a strange effect of love, Catherine ; but trust 
 me, it will not be so with Archer’s consent.” 
 
 “ Dear Mrs. Clifton, forgive me for saying again, that you 
 are very much mistaken—never, never in his life, has Major 
 Clifton bestowed upon me one word, or look, that might be 
 misconstrued by the vainest woman into a preference !” 
 
 “ Well, Kate! I know that! I know that he has never 
 addressed you on the subject. But 1 know that he will do 
 so. For he loves you, Catherine, and has loved you from the 
 first hour he ever saw you—even from the—the night he sat 
 and studied you in your brother’s cabin. And it is just as 
 certain that you will be his wife, as that you both will live to 
 marry. So, dearest, let there be no more reserve between 
 
WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 835 
 
 us—-consider this marriage sure, as it really is—(so far as any 
 future event is sure)—and let me talk freely, for my time ana 
 opportunity is short.” 
 
 Catherine raised her eyes to the sallow—almost cadaverous 
 face of the lady, and a conviction of the truth and reality 
 of what she predicted, forced itself upon her, with a sharp 
 pang. 
 
 “Now, dear Catherine, I did not ask you for that troubled 
 look! Will your heart ache because a dry leaf drops in the 
 autumn, rather than hangs shivering on the tree through half 
 the winter? But, dear child, I allude to this coming event, 
 not to cast its ‘shadow’ over you, but to explain why I wish 
 now to use these days in making you as conversant with the 
 idiosyncracies of your future companion, as only years of 
 married life could do, and to prevent years, perhaps, of mis- 
 understanding and sorrow. There is something dreadful in 
 the discovery of unsuspected faults, after marriage—and 
 something very, very mournful in the disappointment of the 
 trusting affection, and in the saddened efforts of the heart 
 to adjust itself to the cireumstances—efforts that in one case 
 out of ten, perhaps, succeed. But if the worst is known be- 
 fore marriage, the man or the woman may consider wel] 
 whether they have the strength of heart to conquer their own 
 faults, and bear with those of their companion. That you 
 would do all this for your husband, Kate, I am convinced. 
 I only talk now to smooth your path of duty.” The lady 
 here released Catherine from the embrace in which she had 
 held her through this conversation, and desired her to ring 
 for the servants to come in to prayers. 
 
 Catherine, as had been her custom for several weeks past—- 
 upon account of Mrs. Clifton’s weakness—conducted the 
 evening devotions. 
 
 When prayers were over, and the servants dismissed, 
 Catherine attended Mrs. Clifton to her chamber, and assis.ved 
 her with affectionate care until she had retired to bed. Then, 
 after receiving the lady’s parting kiss, she hastened into Ler 
 own chamber, threw herself upon tle bed, and gave way to 
 a long-pent burst of sorrow. Within the last three years 
 Catherine had seen much sickness, death, and bereavement 
 —one after another of her associates or relations had faded 
 and fallen, and she had mourned their loss ; and her life had 
 taken a sombre hue, and sunken into a depressed tone. But 
 that this belaed friend, this kind benefactress, this dear, 
 
3036 WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 
 
 dear companion—this more than mother, sister, a/l to her 
 heart—should pass away from the earth and be seen no more’ 
 Oh! it brought a sense of desolation that threw a shadow and 
 a chill over all the future—over even the bright hopes shining 
 in the distance. And then the identity of the love she bore 
 mother and son together forced itself upon her heart. And 
 she felt that a union with the son could not give her perfect 
 content, unless the mother were there to share her love and 
 service, and to participate in their happiness. Without that 
 mother’s presence, their plan of life would be unfinished— 
 their circle of love incomplete. And oh! came the sharp, 
 agonizing question, how could she ever bear to lose the light, 
 and warmth, and strength, imparted daily, hourly, from that 
 dear face—that face which had never looked on her but in 
 affection—that face, the very image of Clifton’s own, except 
 that it was sweeter, holier, and never, never harsh—hcw 
 could she ever bear to lose her sweet resting place on that 
 more than maternal bosom—that bosom on which she coulé 
 ever lay her aching head, or aching heart, in perfect peace 
 and confidence, sure of being understood, sure of being sym- 
 pathized with? Oh! life would be darkened indeed when 
 she should pass away. ‘The sense of sorrow was so sharp, so 
 agonizing, that the girl could have thrown herself upon the 
 floor—could have wrestled with Heaven, in wild prayer, that 
 this life might be saved, and this sharp anguish spared her. 
 But Catherine was habitually self-restrained, and she bore 
 this mental anguish as she would have endured severe physi- 
 cal pain—in silence, in patience, until her soul was subdued 
 to the meekness of resignation. And then prayer brought 
 comfort. 
 
 And she met the lady in the morning with a cheerful coun 
 tenance. And they spent the day as usual. 
 
 So passed the winter and the spring. Though Mrs. Clif- 
 ton failed visibly from day to day, she still continued her 
 rides around the farm, and her general supervision of the 
 household and of agricultural affairs, and her instructions t» 
 Qatherine. Her people, who well knew the nearly hopeless 
 state of her health, foretold that their mistress would keep 
 up and out to the very last—and finally die in her chair. 
 Indeed, while flesh and blood wasted away, her nervous en- 
 ergy seemed unimpaired, and her cheerfulness was undimin- 
 ished. She talked of her approaching departure as caluly 
 and “leasantly as she would have talked of going to Rich- 
 
WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 3837 
 
 mond. Never obtruding the subject, however, unless neces- 
 sity demanded its introduction. 
 
 The serenity and cheerfulness of the lady affected Cathe- 
 erine very beneficially—* familiarizing” to her feelings the 
 future, immortal life. Catherine endeavored to persuade her 
 to have a physician. 
 
 “Why, so I would, Kate, if I had any specific disease; bnt 
 when all the frame is wearing out together very slowly and 
 quietly, why call ina doctor to disturb the harmony of natu- 
 ral decay, and painfully build up one portion of the sinking 
 frame at the expense of another? Why not fade and fall 
 easily, as all else in benign nature does ?” 
 
 Catherine next suggested writing for Major Clifton to 
 hasten home. 
 
 ‘¢ Why, my child? Why, because Iam going the common 
 road, should others be hurried.and worried? Everything in 
 blessed nature and Divine Revelation teaches us a sweeter 
 lesson. No—Archer set out for a twelve months’ tour ; let 
 him complete it. He will return this autumn. Quite time 
 enough, Catherine. I shill live till then, and longer. I can 
 calculate the progress of my body’s failing, and the duration 
 of my life, with almost mathematical precision. I shall live 
 to mcet Archer, and to see you married, Catherine—and te 
 leave you willing to survive me and be happy without me. 
 And why not, dear? for shall I not be happier still ?” 
 
 And so, in sweet mutual confidence, in cheerful resigna- 
 tion, and in patient hore, the summer passed, ane s«¢ump 
 arrived in its glory. 
 
THE RETURN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX, 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 Come home !—there is a sorrowing breath 
 In music since ye went, 
 
 And fragrant flower scents wander by 
 With mournful memories bient. 
 
 The tones of every household voice 
 Are grown more sad and deep— 
 
 And longing for thee wakes a wish 
 To turn aside and weep. 
 
 Oh, ve beloved! come home !—the hore 
 Of many a greeting tone, 
 The time of hearth-light and of song 
 Returns and ye are gone! 
 And darkly, heavily it falls 
 On the forsaken room, 
 Burdening the heart with tenderne 
 That deepens into gloom.—Mars #57 aN8, 
 
 NotwiTHsTANDINnG all her hab‘ta-, calmness and cheerful 
 patience, Mrs. Clifton began to grorr uneasy at her son’s pro- 
 tracted stay. He had been abse.t », yearand a month. And 
 even pow, instead of setting ont ca his return, he only wrote 
 of cowsg home soon. At cre time he was at Vienna, at 
 anoth-s at Berlin, then at .e fiague, progressing, indeed, 
 but very, very slowly turer is England and Liverpool, from 
 which port he intended sn eabark. Every letter that came 
 from haa at this period, ves opened and read with visible un- 
 easiness by his mother. «At length the glad tidings came, a 
 letter from the mid-os a1, brought by a swift sailing packet. 
 boat that had epoker. me vessel in which he had embarked. 
 He was hasteaisz heme, and might now be expected at any 
 hour. The uewaz coutained in his letter excited the invalid so 
 much upon th: evening of its reception, that she passed a 
 sleepless n‘ght, ».d rose the next morning weaker than she 
 nad ever been 2 fore; so weak, indeed, that she was obliged, 
 in coming duywn stairs, to lean on the arms of Catherine and 
 her maid fcc support. And when she reached the parlor, 
 
THE RETURN. 839 
 
 she was compelled to recline in an easy-chair, propped up by 
 pillows, and with her feet supported by a foot-cushion. But 
 her cheerfulness was undiminished. She gave many direc. 
 tions as to the adjustment and adornment of the room, and 
 the preparation of certain dainties. Lastly she called Cathe- 
 rine to her side, and took her hand. Catherine did not ap= 
 pear to the best advantage, with her plain, dark gingham 
 dress, and her chestnut hair divided simply above her fore- 
 head , Tippling in tiny wavelets around her broad temples, and 
 gathered into a twist behind. This plainness of style did not 
 become her strongly marked features. And the lady saw it, 
 for she gazed thoughtfully upon the girl awhile, and then 
 - lifting her hand, disengaged a portion of her tresses from the 
 comb, and let them fall, turning into natural ringlets down 
 her cheeks, saying— 
 
 <¢ There, Catherine, when hair curls naturally and volun- 
 tarily, it is certain that the face it belongs to requires it so, 
 and that it should be permitted to follow its nature, for na- 
 ture does all things well. Why don’t you always wear your 
 nair so? It is so much prettier.” 
 
 “< Because, dear lady, I never thought it of any importance 
 now my hair was fixed, so that it looked neat. But I will 
 wear it this way, if it pleases you.” 
 
 ‘It does. Your face is not a classic one, dear Kate, and 
 none but a classic face can bear that attic symplicity of style. 
 Your countenance is a very noble one, Kate, but its very 
 nobility is hard and stern, without the softening shadow of 
 these ringlets nature has bestowed upon you. There now, 
 look in the mirror, my little Oliver Cromwell, your face is 
 much more womanly than before.” 
 
 Catherine found it so. The soft, bright, drooping curls 
 shaded and rounded her large, square forehead into beautiful 
 proportion to her other features, and softened the expression 
 of the whole. No girl but is pleased to see herself improved 
 in beauty, and it was with a bright blush, half of pleasure, 
 half of modesty, that the maiden returned to the lady’s side. 
 
 “ Now, dear Kate, you must leave off that dingy gingham, 
 and wear white wrappers in the morning. It is early in the 
 season, and you can wear white a month longer yet, and by 
 the end of that time, I suppose, the world will expect you .o 
 wear black. You have no white wrappers though, my dear ?” 
 
 «¢ No, madam, I never-had one.” 
 
 * Well, you have two white cambric dresses, without orna- 
 
340 THE RETURN. 
 
 ment, they will do for morning dresses. Do me the kindness 
 to wear them. Nay, now, Catherine, my dear, no hesitatiun, 
 I will have it so. Go at once and put on one of them.” 
 
 KKate complied, and in a short time returned to the parlor 
 —by this change in the style of her toilet, almost trans- 
 figured, yet without the loss of her noble characteristics, 
 One thought troubled the maiden, the question —What 
 would Clifton think of this? How would he take it? Would 
 he suspect that she had dressed for his eyes? If lh did his 
 suspicions would be well-founded. And the consciotsness of 
 this truth, suffused with blushes the cheeks of the i Ingenuous 
 girl, and heightened all her beauty. 
 
 There was no certainty of Major Clifton’s advent that day 
 —he might come any day, but nevertheless they hoped for 
 and expected his arrival. By a change in the hours, the 
 stage now reached L———— at noon. ‘And Mrs. Clifton had 
 ordered dinner in the full expectation of having her son’s 
 2zompany at that meal. «Nor were their hopes destined to 
 disappointment. <A little after one o’clock, the carriage that 
 had been sent to L———— to meet the stage, returned and 
 drove up to the door. And Archer Clifton alighted from it, 
 and hastened joyfully into the house. Mrs. C lifton arose to_ 
 meet him, but, overpowered by agitation and weakness, she 
 sank back into her seat. Her son was befure her in an 
 instant, and had clasped her in his arms, and pressed her to 
 his breast, and kissed her fondly many times, and sat her 
 back in her chair to feast his eyes upon her beloved face and 
 form, before he noticed how cadaveérous, how death-like, she 
 looked ; then a startled expression of surprise and alarm 
 sprung into his countenance, and he turned upon Kate, to” 
 whom he had not yet spoken, a glance of mingled inquiry, 
 anger and reproach. 
 
 _ You find me in poor health, Archer; but not worse, my 
 son, than what might have been expected.” 
 
 ‘“¢ My dearest mother,” he began, but his voice choked, and 
 to conceal the emotion he could not entizely suppress, he 
 turned to Catherine and gave her a brother’s greeting in si- 
 lence, but at the same time darting into her eyes a look of 
 stern rebuke from his own, which seemed to say, ‘ You, at 
 least, should have written and informed me of this.?? And 
 the suspicions excited by Mrs. Georgia rose darkly in his 
 mind, but were repressed again instantly. 
 
 “ Dearest Archer, I am not usually so ill as I seem tes 
 
THE RETURN. 341 
 
 day. I have never been confined to my bed, or even my 
 chair yet. Only to-day and yesterday, the joy of looking for 
 you has prevented my taking the usual quantity of sleen. I 
 shall be much better to-morrow. Sit down by me and rest, 
 und when you are rested, your room is quite ready for you, 
 if you wish to change your dress before dinner. Catherine, 
 my love, will you go and direct them to serve dinner ?” 
 
 Catherine left the room and gave the necessary commands 
 Then she ordered a boy to take Major Clifton’s baggage up 
 into his chamber, and went up stairs to show him where to 
 put it. In the meantime, Major Clifton, in lookmg upon his 
 mother’s wasted form, had lost all self-ecommand, and saying 
 hastily that he thought he would change his traveling dress 
 at once, hurried out of the room to give vent to a passionate 
 sorrow, no longer to be restrained. He ran up stairs, but 
 paused upon the first landing. Catherine, in leaving his room, 
 ' found him leaning upon the balustrades, with his face buried 
 in his hands, weeping convulsively. ‘To women, there is 
 something really appalling in a man’s tears—we look upon 
 them with more than pity—with awe—with something like 
 the feeling with which Mary and Martha must have witnessed 
 the Saviour’s tears—with deep reverence be it said. Cathe- 
 rine would have crept by and slipped down stairs quietly, for 
 she had a feeling of self-reproach for having even seen that 
 strong outburst of sorrow; but he stood up and seized her 
 hand, and drew her towards him, exclaiming— 
 
 «Stop, Catherine! You have seen my weakness! Now, 
 tell me why you did not write to me of this? Cruel and selfish 
 girl! were you so intent upon your own projects, that you 
 could not find time to indite a line to let me know that my 
 mother was dying?” | 
 
 Another burst of weeping prevented his hearing Catherine’s 
 gentle explanation, that Mrs. Clifton would not permit her 
 to write. And Kate was not anxious to exculpate h>rself 
 from an unjust charge; indeed, after once giving her little, 
 meek explanation, she never thought of it again—she only 
 thought of his agony of regret, and only wished to soothe it. 
 IIe still held her wrist, unconsciously straining it in the 
 strength of his emotion, until it pained her severely. But 
 she did not care for that, she did not even feel it; she only 
 cared to sce him weep so convulsively, and losing all self- 
 onnsciousness, and with it al) reserve, she threw her arm 
 
842 THE RETURN. 
 
 around him, and dropping her head against him most tenderly, 
 most lovingly, she said— 
 
 “Oh, do not grieve so! do not! see how calm and cheer- 
 ful she is! Try to emulate her calmness '” 
 
 “J loved her, Kate! I loved her more than ever son loved 
 mother before! She was the worth of life to me! I loved 
 her more than ever I loved human being! More even than 
 I ever loved you, Kate!” 
 
 This was Clifton’s first declaration to Catherine, and a 
 strange time, place and circunistances, and a strange method 
 of expressing his preference had fallen upon them. I loved 
 her more than I ever loved you, Kate !” 
 
 But it did not seem strange to Catherine. It seemed per- 
 fectly natural and in order. It did not startle her the least. 
 It did not bring back her womanly self-consciousness, for she 
 answered, meekly— 
 
 “7 know it—I know you do. And, oh! don’t you know 
 that I would willingly give my life for hers, if I could restore 
 her, in health, to your affections ?” 
 
 «¢ And yet you did not even write to let me know she wat 
 il! Oh! girl! girl! you were much to blame for that! It 
 was bitterly wrong.” 
 
 “JT told you, but you did not hear me, that she would not 
 permit me to write; she did not wish to give you pain, or to 
 interfere with your arrangements for the year.” 
 
 “Catherine, that does not excuse you! Could not your 
 own heart have told you how precious, how inestimable to nv 
 would have been every hour of her company when her days 
 were numbered? Could you not have written to me se- 
 cretly ?” 
 
 ‘‘ T never did anything secretly in my life. I should never 
 nave thought of doing so. Besides, I could not have had a 
 secret from her, so open, so frank, so noble as she is. No, I 
 proposed to write for you to come home, I entreated permis- 
 sion to do so, but she refused to grant it, and I deferred to 
 her better judgment. I would not have deceived her for the 
 world.” 
 
 ‘‘ Then I have been unjust and unkind to you, Catherine, 
 but you will pardon me when I tell you—when you see how 
 thoroughly weakened and unmanned I am !” 
 
 The gust of sorrow was over, and Kate, with sudden self- 
 recollect‘on withdrew herself from him, deeply blushing, ane 
 
THE RETURN. 843 
 
 hastened down stairs, and the thought of her transient self- 
 forgetfulness rendered the girl even shyer than ever. 
 
 He went into his room and refreshed himself with a new 
 toilet. And when he entered the parlor, an hour after, ne 
 one would have suspected from his handsome, animated face, 
 the existence of the sorrow that lay subdued at the bottom of 
 his heart. 
 
 They dined together, and after dinner Catherine thought 
 it best to retire and leave the mother and son alone to enjoy 
 more fully their re-union. When she had left the room— 
 
 «< How pretty and lady-like Catherine is growing, madam,” 
 said Major Clifton, looking after her, but addressing his 
 mother. 
 
 “Yes,” replied Mrs. Clifton, “lady-like, but not very 
 pretty; Kate will never be pretty; but if she be ‘ blessed to 
 her mind,’ she will be more, she will be handsome.”’ 
 
 After spending a long afternoon with his mother, Major 
 Clifton took temporary leave, and went over to White Cliffs, 
 to pay his respects to Mrs. Georgia. Most happily for all 
 goncerned, Georgia had just left home for a visit of some 
 weeks at ftichmond—ignorant, it is to be supposed, of Major 
 Clifton’s arrival. He returned and spent the evening with 
 the ladies at Hardbargain. 
 
 The next morning found Mrs. Clifton very much better—and 
 in the evening she rode out, accompanied by Major Clifton 
 and Catherine. Mrs. Clifton’s cheerfulness infected all the 
 party—both upon this evening and afterwards. Her decline 
 was so gradual, so painless, that she never took to her bed— 
 but when weakest, sat in the easy-chair in the parlor, often 
 with a little light knitting in her hands, that she would 
 leisurely work upon, or drop into her lap, to be resumed at 
 pleasure, while she conversed with Catherine and Major 
 Clifton, or listened while one of them read, or both sang. 
 There never were more pleasant, serene days, than these of 
 the invalid’s gentle decay. It was genial, pensive autumn; 
 she fall of the leaf without the house, and the fall of the leaf 
 within. 
 
 Catherine was now the housekeeper. She had—through 
 the increasing weakness of the lady—so gradually slidden 
 into this office, that she scarcely knew at what time its whole 
 burden had accumulated upon her. One morning, while 
 Catherine was in the store-room giving out meal and bacon 
 to the vegroes, Mrs. Clifton and Major Clifton occupied the 
 
B44 THE RETURN. 
 
 arlor alone. He had been reading to her from Jeremy 
 aylor, but seeing that she had dropped her knitting, and 
 was sitting back with a look of wear iness, he thought it time 
 to desist and close the book 
 
 «© Year mother, you are fatigued ; will you have anything? 
 What shall I bring you?” 
 
 “ Nothing, my son. Jam not wearied more than usuat, 
 and it will pass in a few minutes.’ 
 
 The lady was silent for a little while, during which Major 
 
 hifton refrained from conversation. And then, after some 
 little thought, she raised her eyes until they met his own 
 and looking at him full in the face, she asked— 
 
 “When are you going to marry Catherine, Archer ?” 
 
 Major Clifton started violently, and looked at the lady in 
 silent astonishment. 
 
 «“ Nay, pray answer me—my question is an earnest one.” 
 
 «© My dear madam, you have taken me by surprise !” 
 
 “‘ Necessary bluntness, Archer.” 
 
 “Very Oliver Cromwellish, madam, my mother.” 
 
 ‘You must excuse it, dear Archer. You did not open 
 the subject to me, therefore, feeling more anxious upon that 
 affair than any other on earth, I am forced to broach it to 
 you. But you have not answered my question yet.” 
 
 « Dear madam—what—exactly—was it ?” 
 
 ‘¢When are you going to marry Catherine ?” 
 
 «Upon my honor, my dear madam, I have no intention 
 of marrying Catherine; nor have I ever given her reason to 
 suppose so.” 
 
 «Ah! [ had thought, or rather, I had hoved otherwise,” 
 said the lady, relapsing into silence, while Major Clifton 
 subsided into painful thought. Again the dark suspicions 
 insinuated by Mrs. Georgia, arose in his mind, to be repressed 
 again with loathing; and he said indignantly to himself—* It 
 is not true! I can never believe her to be an intriguante. 
 Georgia is mistaken—Georgia’s grateful and affectionate in- 
 terest in my welfare, leads her to unjust suspicions of others. 
 Kate is noble-hearted—Kate is true—is truth itself. It 
 would be misery to believe otherwise. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton gently interrupted his silent self-communicn, 
 by saying— 
 
 “ Well, Archer, since you have no intention whatever of 
 marrying Catherine yourself, you can have no reasonable 
 greund of ~bjection to her union with another ?”? 
 
THE RETURN. 845 
 
 He looked up in surprise and anxiety, put soon the 
 startled expression subsided into zalinness, and he replied, 
 coo]ly— 
 
 “ Catherine’s union with another! Oh! the supposition 
 invyoives an impossibility.” 
 
 “[ know you think so, Archer. I know you feel per- 
 fectly secure of this sweet girl, and just as easy about her as 
 if she were secured to you by all the chains that ckurch and 
 state can forge, and that is the reason why you take things 
 so coolly, and listen to your pride. ut I tell you that it is 
 not as you think. You are not forever secure of Catherine. 
 Our moods of mind, and our views of things, change with 
 time. And however the maiden may feel or think now, if 
 you hesitate for years between your pride and love, she will 
 naturally arrive at the conclusion that many a generous 
 hearted woman has come to before her, and say to. herself, 
 ‘Well, I cannot be happy myself, but my life must not, 
 therefore, be wasted—I can make some cne else happy,’ and 
 deing scorned by one she loves, give herself away to one 
 who loves her.” 
 
 Major Clifton started to his feet, with all the dark side of 
 nis character uppermost, exclaiming— 
 
 “Let her attempt it! I would stop such a marriage at 
 the altar! Catherine is mine, or nobody’s. She could not 
 repel my claim.” 
 
 “Dear Archer, sit down; do not excite yourself or me. 
 Remember, [ am in a dying state,” said the lady, as the best 
 means of calming him. 
 
 “ Dear madam, forgive me—forgive me—but why intro- 
 duce this very embarrassing and highly exciting subject? I 
 have had conflict enough in my gwn bosom about it. I love 
 your favorite, I love her jealously, fiercely —I admit it—but 
 there are objections and difficulties, which time, or a new set 
 of circumstances, may remove; meanwhile, I could not bear 
 to see her snatched from me. But there is time enough—- 
 ever. if I should decide upon such a step, there is time’ 
 enough. Kate is very young yet.” 
 
 « But you are not very young, Archer.” 
 
 “| know it, dear madam. I have arrived at that age at 
 which men do not make imprudent marriages for love.” 
 
 ‘“ But when they too offen make unhappy marriages of 
 eonvenience. Dear Archer, it is a false and sinful principle 
 that keeps you and Cath-rine apart. Will you spoil two 
 
346 THE RETURN. 
 
 lives by your pride? Your hesitation between inclination 
 and prejudice, weakens you and destroys her.” 
 
 “<< Prejudices,’ dear madam! Well, I suppose they are 
 prejudices, but just think of the horror of having Carl Kava- 
 nagh, the farm laborer, for a brother-in-law, and being called 
 ‘uncle’ by his ragged progeny !” 
 
 “ Oh, Archer, your inhumanity shocks me—they are hu- 
 man creatures, after all—this Carl and his family.” 
 
 «“ And don’t you see besides, madam, that if I should 
 marry Catherine, and introduce her into society, the first 
 question would be, ‘ Who is she? and the answer by some 
 good-natured friend, ‘ The sister of one of his farm laborers,’ 
 would expose us to contempt, if it did not rule us out of 
 good company.” 
 
 «‘ Archer! Archer! can it be that you weigh these falsi 
 ties with the deep realities of life?” 
 
 << Tt is a deplorable thing, indeed, that a girl of such noble 
 nature should come of such ignoble parentage.” 
 
 “‘ No! it is a congratulatory thing !—or would be so, if it 
 were not such a usual thing! Archer, you will find more 
 moral werth, and it may be more mental worth, among the 
 so-called lower classes, than among the higher; for instance, 
 umong the men, look at some of their brows, of Shaksperian 
 height and breadth—think what they would be with cultiva- 
 tion! And I tell you, with all their disadvantages, the lower 
 classes will give to our republic the greatest of her future 
 great men.’’* 
 
 Major Clifton remained in deep thought for awhile, and 
 then taking the hand of the lady, said— 
 
 ‘¢ My dear mother, the objections that I have advanced 
 are those that have arisen in my mind, from time to time, 
 giving me much pain. I wished to hold them up before my 
 sclf, as I have just done, in order to see what they really 
 consisted of, and looked like. I have seen the worst ot 
 them, and in their ugliest light, and they will not deter me 
 from taking to my heart the girl I love. I have weighed 
 them, and the whole mass is light in the balance with my 
 need of Catherine. I will marry her. I will go and tell 
 her so now. And the ceremony shall be performed whenever 
 you think proper.” 
 
 
 
 * The history of mst prominent men of the day verihes tne predic 
 tion. 
 
THE RETURN. 347 
 
 “Whenever Kafe thinks proper, my dear Archer,” replied 
 the lady, smiling. 
 
 At this moment a servant entered and delivered a note to 
 Major Clifton. It was from Mrs. Georgia, announcing her 
 return to White Cliffs, and hegging the company of Major 
 Clifton to tea that evening. 
 
348 BETROTHAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX, 
 
 BETROTHAL. 
 
 Twas thy high purity of sou., 
 Thy thought revealing eye, 
 That conquered all my pride of heart, 
 Thou wanderer from the sky,_Ww G. CLarr. 
 
 MzJor Crirton held the note between his finger and 
 thumb, in a fit of abstraction, while a pleasant, contemplative 
 gwile dwelt on his face. 
 
 «‘ Well, are you not going to answer it?’ asked Mrs. Clif- 
 ton, 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 busi- 
 ness, 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 de- 
 livery 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 excel- 
 iencies. 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 morn- 
 ing’s household duties, with her little basket of keys hanging 
 on her arm. 
 
 “Come hither, dear Kate,” said Major Clifton, holding 
 eut his hand. Catherine put her little basket in its place, 
 
BETROTHAL. 349 
 
 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 con- 
 fusion, and then he said, “‘ Dear Kate, my mother here, whs 
 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 finaily 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 caleu- 
 late the progress of decay, and the length of life with some 
 accuracy, and I tell you now that my days are num- 
 bered.” 
 
 — Come, Kate, if you cannot speak, give me one of your 
 
 short, quick nods. Come, this is Saturday—shall we be 
 married to-morrow t—next day ?—Tuesday ?—Wednesday ? 
 —Thursday ?” Catherine, whose heart had been filling all 
 this time, now burst into tears. Ife 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 
 lut me know the result,” and tenderly withdrawing his arm, 
 he passed her round before him, and stood her beside Mrs. 
 Clifton’s easy-vhair, 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 
 earessingly, 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-— 
 
 22 
 
350 BETROTHAL. 
 
 ‘ Forgive—excuse—I know it’s weak, wrong—it is omy 
 because—I'm so grateful !” 
 
 The fit of emotion exhausted itself, and she lifted up hey 
 face, wiped her eyes, and said— 
 
 “ Lady—” 
 
 “6 Call ms mother, Kate.” 
 
 ‘‘ Mother! heart’s dearest mother! do you think ne mis 
 took me ?” 
 
 “ How, Kate?” 
 
 “T 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 igno- 
 rance fails, I will pray to Heaven daily for more strength 
 and light. Oh! I know what a sacrifice of pride and preju- 
 dice 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, rark, position, pride and all! Be trug 
 to yourself.” 
 
 ‘¢Oh, what am J, that he should indeed prefer me to ail 
 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' 199 
 
 “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-blissfal, half-fearful 
 trance that falls upon one when the great life’s desire and 
 
BETROTHAL. 351 
 
 tope 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 Jand- 
 scape 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 Cathe- 
 _ tine, 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 re- 
 cognize 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 strong- 
 est had conquered, and now reigned alone, and a fine, vigor- 
 ous, 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 ashaded seat at the end of a piazza, 
 where there were no intruders but a glancing line of sun- 
 light, 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 un- 
 mindful of the presence of the maid, he said— 
 
 «« This is very sweet, dear Kate, very, very sweet—to be 
 zble to say to you everything without reserve—to tell you 
 ail 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 ?”’ 
 
 he next day Major Clifton rode over to White Cliffs ta 
 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 mancuverer, Miss Kava 
 
852 BETROTHAL. 
 
 nagh,” 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 tra- 
 duced 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— 
 
 “JT 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 mar- 
 ried 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. (rod show the right !” 
 
 Major Clifton gazed upon her inwonder. The strong emo- 
 tion 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 
 eame and threw herself upon the sofa beside him, and be- 
 sought, 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 be- 
 loved 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 
 
BETROTHAL. 3038 
 
 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 con- 
 sent she would like to leave the farm of Hardbargain to Cath- 
 erine, as a testimony of her esteem and affection. 
 
 “ And for a4 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 se- 
 cure 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; there- 
 fore it shall not be made.” 
 
 «You mistake my thoughtfulness, dear madam. If I am 
 somewhat grave, it is upon another subject. Believe me, 1 
 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.” 
 
 “Ts it possible? How could Georgia have kuown any- 
 thing about it? But T 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 mea 
 service at the same time, if you will go to L- and bring 
 ' gut Mr. White, the lawyer, tc draw up my will ” 
 
 
 
854 — BETROTITAL. 
 
 A spasm of pain passed over the handsome countcnance 
 of Major Clifton, and he said— 
 
 ‘“‘ | willdo anything you please, dearest mother ; but surely 
 there is no necessity tor baste 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 treme 
 bled as she poured out and administered a restorative. Some- 
 what 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 has- 
 tened, 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 Ka- 
 vanagh, and that intended for Carl to Mrs. Georgia. When 
 she had dispatched these notes by diflerent 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 lung 
 ‘ook around the room, as though she were taking a last leave 
 ef every dear familiar object in it; and then suffered here 
 self to be supported up to her chamber. 
 
 
 
 wee - 
 
 Mrs. Georgia Clifton was paeing her chamber floor, in ali 
 the distraction of excited ev passions, racking her brain fot 
 
BETROTIIAL. 85h 
 
 an expedient fo 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 handwriti ing of Cathe- 
 rine 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 Carn :— 
 
 “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 mvalid, or regret at her approaching death. No! for 
 Vatherine’s veneration and sorrow were too earnest, too real, 
 fo he 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 
 sould 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 te 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 chirogaphy 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 be- 
 lunged to him. She thought there might possibly be a few 
 stray sheets in the writing-table of the likrary. She went 
 thither, and after a diligent search, found a single sheet. 
 This she took with her, and returned to her chamber, locked 
 terse f in, and s*t down to her fiendish task. Perfectly 
 
356 BETROTHAL. 
 
 imitating the handwriting of Catherine, she forge! the fcl- 
 lowing 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 Hard- 
 bargain, 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 J know how to 
 
 manage him. “ CATHERINE.” 
 
 When she had completed her demon-work, Georgia care 
 fully examined it. It satisfied her. She smilud, and mut- 
 tered—“ ny one who ever saw Catherine’s queer hand- 
 writing, would feel safe in swearing this to be Lers.” Then 
 she folded it in the form of the other note, and placed it in 
 the original envelope—and threw it, broken-seauled as it was, 
 upon the table, exclaiming— There !— 
 
 ‘“¢T 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 overwheluied 
 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 ceremuny 
 between you and Kate performed this afternoon, if you 
 
 please.” 
 
BETROTHAL. Sot 
 
 “Certainly, my dear mother, it shall be as you desire,” 
 he replied, repressing a great groan—but desircus, above all 
 things, to gratify that dying parent. ‘Shall it be now, 
 mother ?” 
 
 «¢ No, dear Archer, not just yet—I want the holiest things 
 .2ft for the /ast—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, 
 T shall be ready to depart.” 
 
 “¢ Mother—the minister and the lawyer arv below stairs, 
 awaiting your leisure—they will remain over to-night. D») 
 not disturb yourself.” 
 
 “My good Archer, I made Catherine write to Carl Kava- 
 nagh 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, ha 
 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 tc 
 Archer Clifton the mis-sent note of Catherine to Georgia. 
 
 Major Clifton understood the mistake at once, and retain- 
 ing 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 ip 
 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, BA Major Clifton 
 mounted a fresh horse, and galloped over to White Cliffs 
 Dismounting at the gate, he threw the reins to a servant 
 aud entering the house, sent a message to Mrs. Georgia. 
 
 The servant returned, and requesting Major Clifton to fol: 
 low, 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 
 ner work-table, but looking pale and anxious. By her work- 
 pox lay the enve'ope of Kate’s true note with the forged neta 
 in it. 
 
358 BETROTHAL. 
 
 “Ah!” said Major Clifton, after greeting ner, ‘1 see 
 ibat 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 
 rais-sent letters? Look at this!” she said, throwing i te 
 him, “‘ written by Miss Kavanagh, but directed by mistake 
 tome. 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—unutil 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 tnat 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 J had, before I knew 
 this !” 
 
 ‘¢ Rejoice, rather, that you are saved !” 
 
 “¢ Saved, madam !” 
 
 “¢ Yes—saved: You will never marry her, now. Youare 
 perfectly justifiable in breaking with the unmasked traitress !” 
 
 *« And in shaking the last few sands in my mother’s glase 
 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 ery of a 
 wounded hyena— marry her, and sacrifice all your hopes 
 of happiness, for the sake of keeping quiet the last few hours 
 of adying woman! You will not do such a thing :” 
 
 ‘My hopes of happiness, did you say, Mrs. Clifton? Ah, 
 laly, can yor" noé somprehend, then, that when one at my age 
 
BETROTHAL. 85Y 
 
 fas 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, lmpatiently, he exclaimed—* I say, can you not com. 
 prehend 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!—TI am un- 
 manned! Lam a fool !” 
 
 ‘‘ No, you are not, unless you marry her. You are not the 
 first noble-minded isan 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 some= 
 thing ?”’ 
 
 «« Yes—yes—yes—yes—sweet friend, it is much,” said 
 Archer Ciifton, slowly—half soliloquizing, as he took and 
 held her hand. Then suddenly starting, as out of a reverie, 
 be 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 ?” 
 
 s¢ Yes.” 
 
 “JT will not go! I cannot! I cannot witness such a 
 sacrifice.” 
 
 «¢ As you please, dear Georgia. I suppose there is no im- 
 perative 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 imsane 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.” 
 
 ss Never !—as the husband of that traitress.” 
 
 He did not reply. He raised her hand to his lips, and left 
 
 her. 7 
 Left to kerself, mad ‘mpulses seized the disappomted wo- 
 
360 BETROTHAL. 
 
 man. At one mstant 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. Buta 
 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, sucha step might © 
 possibly result in her own signal defeat aud 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, in- 
 tending 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 Hardbargai, Major Clifton went immediately 
 to Mrs. Clifton’s chaniber. 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 at- 
 tend. ‘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, Car] 
 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 com- 
 fortably upon her pillows. Then she took the hand of her 
 son, ard whispered— 
 
 ‘Let the marriage ceremony be performed at once, dearest 
 Archer.” 
 
 He pressed that wan hand, laid it tenderly down upon the 
 eoverlet, and spoke apart with the clergyman, who occupied 
 the chair beside the head of the bed. The minister solemnly 
 
BETROTHAL. 36) 
 
 arose, drew a prayer-book from his pocket and »pened it 
 Major Clifton went quietly and spoke a few words in expla- 
 nation to the lawyer and Carl Kavanagh, who then approached 
 the bed-side. Lastly, he took the hand of Catherine, and led 
 her up before the minister. The marriage ceremony com- 
 menced. 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,’ ” ete.—instead of answering, 
 according to the ritual, “TI will,’ he replied by a grave and 
 formal bow, with silent lips, * that scarce their scorn for- 
 bore.” 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 no- 
 ticed, 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 chil- 
 dren. Major Clifton was constrained to decline, upon con- 
 scientious scruples; for how could he partake of the Sacra- 
 ment 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 her- 
 self 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 
 ner eyes, and, smiling her old, reflecting smile, said— 
 
362 BETROTHAL. 
 
 “ Dear Archer, I have often tried to detect the exact mo- 
 ment 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 dcaih 
 hymn.” 
 
 Catherine bent and kissed the pallid lips of the dying wo- 
 man, 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 3 
 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—.t disappears ¢ 
 Heaven opens on my eyes; my ears 
 W ith 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— 
 
 F ‘Her death 
 Was like the setting cf a planet md” 
 
THE POISON WORKS. ‘ 863 
 
 CLAPIER XXXL. 
 THE POISON WORKS. 
 
 ’Tis slander ; 
 W hose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue 
 Outvenoms all the worms of the Nile.-—SHaxksPEarReE. 
 
 WueEn 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 hin— 
 
 “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 kneel- 
 ing 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’ 7s now over.” 
 
364 THE POISON WORKS. 
 
 Catherine lifted her eyes, dilated with sorrow and amaze- 
 ment, and fixed them on bis face n+ instant; but the look 
 she met there, the expression of mingled suffering and se- 
 verity, 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, sor- 
 rowful 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 ber 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 
 fur an instant forget her awful bereavement, or the dreadful 
 auger 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,’ a// things, even this! I 
 will believe it!” And her face grew beautiful with divine 
 faitn, and she reverently closed the book, and went on her 
 way comforted. She had need of fresh strength and com- 
 fort, indeed, to meet a fresh trial. On coming down stairs 
 she met Henny, who seemed to be on the look out for her. 
 
THE POISON WORKS. 865 
 
 an4 who placed a note in her hand. It was from Major 
 Curton, and read as follows— 
 
 “T desire that you keep your chamber to-morrow, or, at 
 leas‘, refrain from insulting the memory of the dead, by a 
 
 peariag 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 
 followmg note— 
 
 “T will absent myself from the funeral, since you wish me 
 to do sv; 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. Con- 
 struing 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 ot the recent events, and requesting her to come at once 
 to the house. He had not to wait long; his messenger re- 
 turned, 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. Kava- 
 nagh 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 sinccre 
 sympathy. 
 
 “Set a chair for Mr. Kavanagh, and retire, James.” 
 
 The man obeyed, Carl seated himself, and in person re 
 peited his condolences, and his tenders of service. 
 
 In reply, Major Clifton took from his pocket the forged 
 pote and laid it before him, saying, coldly— 
 
 “There is the note your sister wrote to vou, and sent by 
 mistake to Mrs. Georgia Clifton. Read it.” 
 
 Carl took it up, wondering what might be the use of read- 
 mg 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— 
 
 23 
 
 
 
365 THE POISON WORKS. 
 s¢T am confounded !” 
 
 “ T should think so, sir!”” coldly remarked Major Clifton. 
 
 «She speaks of letting me the farm! I never had the 
 alichtest desire to rent the farm, and before I heard the will 
 read, I had not even the slightest idea that Mrs. Cliften de- 
 signed to leave it to my sister!” 
 
 «Ah! Really?’ asked Mr. Clifton, ironically. 
 
 “ Really and truly, and sincerely and positively, I haa 
 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 1 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 posi- 
 tive 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 youthat 1am amazed! It ig 
 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.” 
 
 *¢T 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 seareely 
 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 man- 
 ner changing, “J, at least am not so confounded as not te 
 knew 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 de- 
 velopment, I am constrained to forbid you the house, and te 
 interdic* all communication between your sister and your 
 self.” 
 
THE POISON WORKS. oor 
 
 There was something of Catherine’s own nobility in the 
 manner of Carl’s reply. He stood a moment with his foree 
 head thrown back, as if in calm, pounpassened thought, then 
 he said—-. 
 
 «© Major Clifton, my sister is now your wits and you have, 
 doubtless, the perfect right to control her actions—neither 
 do I accuse you of undue severity in this affair, for; under 
 hke circumstances, I should, parhaps, 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 can- 
 not 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 your- 
 self than I could be with you. You will reproach yourself 
 more bitterly than I could reproach you, were I never so in- 
 dignant. 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 il] 
 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 add- 
 ing—‘ I presume you have no further commands for me, 
 Major Clifton ?”’ 
 
 «None, Mr. Kavanagh.” 
 
 “‘ Good-night, sir.” 
 
  (Yood-night.” 
 
 The next day was the day of the funeral. Before the peo- 
 ple 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 noi 
 
368 THE POISON WORKS. 
 
 mtrude. 1 will be guided by the spirit as well as by the 
 Ictter 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 ?” 
 
 “T 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 
 Jast time, upon Ker 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 
 mc. and for your dear sake, I will be a good wife to your sen. 
 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 
 
 T cannot sagle 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 s grace, to dedicate all my 
 faculties of brain, and heart, and hands to his interest and 
 uappiness! to bear all things, to endure all things, to hope 
 al! things, even to the end of life, come what may,” she 
 stooped and sealed her vow by a farewell kiss upon tLe brow 
 and lips of that beloved face, and reverently covered it, and 
 
THE POISON WORKS. $63 
 
 —not tc 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 
 yerform the burial service, arrived, and the solemnity com, 
 menced. In the mean time Catherine sat in her distaut 
 chamber, listening to the faint, inaudible sound of the min. 
 ister’s voice that reached her from afar, or else engaged in 
 prayer, but always calmed, strengthened and consoled. Many 
 p2ople 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 itasa 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 mourne 
 er from the contemplation of her grief, and compelling atten- 
 tion to themselves. So they give occupation, and induce 
 forgetfulness—aiding in their humble way the great comfort- 
 ers, 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 wasa iarge sup- 
 per to be prepared, and bed-chambers to be got re eady 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-inaids. 
 
 When everything was in readiness, she went into the draw- 
 ing-room, where she received the returning visitors with a 
 pensive, gentle dignity that won all their hearts, proud con- 
 servators of rank as they were. And that evening, young 
 girl and new bride as she was, she presided at the head of 
 the iong table, filled with the county aristocrats, with all the 
 ease and grace of a lady “to the manner born.”? Preoccu- 
 pied by one earnest thought and purpose, she never once re- 
 membere? herself as a new comer into their ranks, or 
 
370 THE Porsose WORKS, 
 
 troubled nerseif with the question of what might be their 
 spinion of her. For the rest, her courtesy was graceful and 
 dignified, because it was natural, and not assumed—the effevt 
 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 exeulpa- 
 tion from suspicion have pleased him. As it was, he witnessed 
 it all with a moody brow, and sneering lip, and murmured 
 to himsel 
 
 “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 stand- 
 ing togetherin 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 
 eold 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, 
 
 
 
EAacoication. are 
 
 CHAPTER ‘ASUATi, 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 Stand up, look below, 
 It is my life at thy feet [ throw, 
 To step with into light and joy, 
 _ Nota power of life but I'll employ 
 To satisfy thy nature’s want.—BRownina. 
 
 Ti aext a orning after breakfast, the family carriage was 
 snnounved to take them to White Cliffs. Catherine put on 
 her bonuev anf shawl, and stood waiting, until Major Clifton, 
 drawing un his gloves, came forward and attended her to the 
 carriage uvor. He handed her in, entered himself, took the 
 seat oppusite t) her, and bade the coachman drive on. The 
 whole distauce between Hardbargain and White Cliffs was 
 passed over iu perfect silence by the parties. Major Clifton 
 preserving a stern gravity of demeanor, and Catherine 
 scarcely daring to lift her eyes, lest she should encounter 
 that severe bat sorrowful gaze that almost broke her heart. 
 She longed to inquire— 
 
 «Oh, Majer Clifton! What is this that has arisen between 
 us? Give the miserya name! Tell me?” But the shy- 
 ness and fear she had always felt in his presence, and doubly 
 felt when he was reserved or displeased, and above all, the 
 bashfulness of new bridehood, forced her into silence. 
 
 At last the ride was over, and the carriage stopped before 
 the main entrance of the mansion-house. 
 
 The plantation laborers, in their holyday zlothes, mar- 
 shalled by the overscer, were assembled upon the lawn, and 
 the house servants in their “ Sunday’s best,” with the house- 
 keeper at their head, waited on the piazza “to pay their 
 duty.” 
 
 When the carriage had drawn up, Major Clifton alighted 
 and assisted his bride to get out. He led her up the marble 
 atairs to the front door. The housekeeper with a curtsey, 
 
rae PErraaTIon 
 
 stepped forward to attend her. But with the courteous 
 Kindness that Major Clifton seldom omitted, he waved her 
 aside, merely saying— 
 
 “ Mrs. Mercer, send all these women about their duties, 
 and tell Turnbull to disperse the men. I do not wish to be 
 disturbed. There is my pocket-book—give them what they 
 waut—only let me ke «a (€ 6. 
 
 «¢ And give them my love and good-wishes,” murmured 
 Catherine, shyly, but not wishing to dismiss them so coldly, 
 for her desolate heart had been comforted by the looks of 
 sincere respect and affection with which they had seemed to 
 receive and accept her as their new mistress. 
 
 Major Clifton merely threw up his chin with an assenting 
 nod, muttering— 
 
 «“‘ The popularity-secking instinct of the diplomatist.” He 
 then conducted her into the drawing-room, led her up its 
 whole length, and seated her upon a aie with ironical cere- 
 mony, saying— 
 
 «Mrs. Cliftox, you are welcome to White Cliffs.” 
 
 Startled by his tone, she looked up, lifting those long, 
 drooping lashes, until her soft, dark eyes at last met his cold, 
 rebuking gaze. 
 
 Then his whole aspect changed, and from having been sar- 
 castic and scornful, became grave and severe. Standing be- 
 fore her, he folded his arms, drew himself up, and keeping 
 his eyes fixed steadily upon her face, said— 
 
 «¢ And now, lady, listen tome. The aim and object of 
 your life is accomplished—consummated. You have at 
 length attained the position to which you have long aspired, 
 for which you have long and deeply and successfully played. 
 You are numbered among the ladies of the county aristo- 
 eracy. You bear the haughtiest name of all. You are Mrs. 
 Clifton, of Clifton.” 
 
 All this time her eyes, wide open, dilated, fascinated by 
 surprise and grief, met his stern gaze in sorrowful wonder. 
 IIe continued—- 
 
 «“ Yes, madam, you wear my name such as it is. You 
 rule my house such as 7 is! But as for its pcor master, 
 lady, he is your most humble servant, but no lover !” 
 
 Her eyes fell bencath his sarcastic look, and she waa 
 hempted to wish herself dead. 
 
 He eontinued—- 
 
 “J leave here in a few days, for the purpose of raising # 
 
DEDICATION. 873 
 
 company to serve in the con.ing war with Great britain. You 
 will remain here at White Cliffs to take charge of affairs 
 during my absence. If you really hoped to flaunt in the 
 city this winter, I am sorry for your disappointment. But 
 there are duties as well as dignities attending the vosition 
 ot the mistress of Clifton, and these must not be neglected. 
 J snall exact their performance. The overseer and the farm 
 laborers, as well as the housekeeper and her assistants, have 
 crders to obey you in everything. Good-morning, madam.” 
 
 And so abruptly he turned upon his heel and left her 
 One moment she sat there amazed, confused, with her hands 
 pressed upon her temples ; and in ‘another; losing all feeling 
 for herself—feeling only for him, she sprung to his side, and 
 caught his hand, exclaiming— 
 
 “Stay! For the love of Heaven, stay! one moment— 
 only one moment, while you tell me. Oh! after all, have I 
 made you unhappy ?” 
 
 ‘‘lInhappy! You have been and you are the bane of my 
 life! 199 
 
 “ How? Merciful Heaven, how? when I only wish to 
 consecrate mine to you !” 
 
 “Do you dare to ask me ?” 
 
 «¢ Well !—-tell me—tell me! Aow can I remedy my fault- 
 whatever it is? What can I do to comfort you ?”’ 
 
 “© Nothing but refrain from troubling me’with your com- 
 pany or conversation, when it is not absolutely necessary. 
 Again—good-morning.” And so he freed himself from her 
 clasp, and left the room. 
 
 She tottered backwards and fell into a chair, her head 
 dropped upon her hands and she gasped— 
 
 «¢ All-merciful Father, do not forsake me now, for I am 
 desolate—I am desolate.” And she sat despairing, fallen, 
 the very image of utter self-abandonment. She sat there 
 until aroused by the voice of the housekeeper, who entered 
 the room, came up to her side, and spoke to hcr twice before 
 she heard—then—* What did you say?” she asked. 
 
 “‘] have come to receive your orders for the day, Mrs. 
 Dlifton.” 
 
 cc] - Please to manage, to-day, without my advice, 
 I—I am not well—and very, very weary.” 
 
 *¢ You look so, indeed, madam. There isa fire kindled in 
 
 our chamber, will you go up there and lie dow, an1 let me 
 hring you a cup of tea?” 
 
 
 
874 DEDICATION. 
 
 
 
 ik No, I thank you—I am much obliged to you 
 But—only leave me here to rest.” 
 
 The housekeeper went and closed the shutters : stirred the 
 fire, set a screen between it and Catherine’s seat, and quictly 
 withdrew. 
 
 “Oh! this will never do!” said Catherine, trying to rouse 
 herself from her stupor of despair. ‘ This will never do. 
 To-day I have made a bad beginning; but to-morrow I must 
 rise and be as active and efficient as if I were happy.” 
 
 She met Major Clifton again at dinner. The meal passed 
 almost in silence, and immediately after it was over, he took 
 his hat and left the house. She did not see him again until 
 tea-time, after which, he went and spent the evening in his 
 study. Catherine felt the need of calm thought, to under- 
 stand her position and duties; and of prayer, to gain strength 
 und patience to perform them. She spent several hours in 
 reading the Scriptures, in meditation, and in prayer, and 
 then, comforted, retired to bed. She arose early the next 
 morning, strengthened and consoled, with a very clear per- 
 ception of her circumstances and responsibilities. 
 
 ‘‘My path through this intricate trouble is made very 
 plain. I must discharge every domestic duty and every 
 social obligation, just as faithfully, if not as cheerfully, as 
 though I were a happy wife,” she said. And she went down 
 stairs, and gave her orders for the day. 
 
 When Major Clifton came down into the breakfast-room 
 he found a quiet cheerful seene—a sunny window, a bright 
 fire, a well spread breakfast-table, and Catherine herself, in 
 ber simple morning-dress, looking calm and placid. There 
 was an expression of curiously blended anger and admiration 
 and amusement on his face, as he flapped his dressing-gown 
 around him, and dropped himself into the easy-chair by the 
 fire, giving her ‘“‘ Good-morning,” and hoping that she was 
 well. 
 
 ““ As usual,” replied Catherine, handing him the paper 
 that had just come from the village, and ringing for break- 
 fast. : 
 
 When the meal was over, he reseated himself ir the arm- 
 chair, reading the newspaper, while Catherine still sat at the 
 board, pouring out bowls of coffee, and filling plates with 
 ‘cast or muffins, to send to the old or sick among the ne- 
 groes—these being always supplied with their meals from the 
 mistress’s table Major Clifton glanced over the top of his 
 
DEDICATION. 3878 
 
 paper at hor, sometimes in irony, sometimes in sorrow, 
 always in doubt. And she—unpleasant as his manner was, 
 felt. glad to have himnearher. I really believe that she had 
 rather he sat there and made faces at her, than not sat there 
 at all. And she felt lonesome and dreary when at last he 
 left the room, put on his riding-coat and left the house. As 
 yesterday passed, so passed to-day—she meeting him only at 
 meals, And so a week passed on. It is not easy to be 
 very heroic for a day, or two, or three days; but when one 
 day follows another, each with the same continuous, extra- 
 ordinary demand for fortitude, it is strange, indeed, if heart 
 and flesh do not fail under the task. Nothing but Divine 
 Providence can give the requisite strength of endurance. In 
 the prenence of her husband, Catherine was calm and cheer- 
 ful ; but often in her private hours the sense of desolate be- 
 reavement would come over her, and gusts of tears and sobs 
 would foliow. These, like the summer gusts of blessed na- 
 ture, worJd always refresh her, and she would be enabled 
 again to take the comforting promises of the Bible to her 
 heart, iu her favorite text—‘s And we know that all things 
 work together for good, to them that love God,” and to ask 
 God’s blessing again upon her resolution “ to perform every 
 - domestic and every social duty as faithfully, if not as cheer- 
 fuliy, as though she were a happy wife.” And yet it was 
 very hard to do this. It was very dreary to feel shut out 
 from her husband’s heart; to meet him every day with the 
 same stern, sorrowful brow, or in variation of that, with the 
 same ironical smile. It was difficult to goon with a repulsed 
 and acning heart doing mere mechanical duty. She could 
 not have done so but that two powerful principles sustained 
 her—an invincible love for her husband, and an unwavering 
 faith in God. 
 
 One morning, about two weeks after their arrival at home, 
 Major Clifton sat alone, reading, in his study, when the door 
 gpened, and Catherine entered. It was the first time that 
 she had intruded there, and he looked up, threw aside his 
 book, arose, and pushed back his chair with a look of annoy- 
 ance. 
 
 + Excuse me for interrupting you, but may I speak to you 
 for a few minutes ?” 
 
 «¢ Speak on, madam, but oblige me by being brief. Par 
 don me—take a seat,” he said, handing her a chair. and re 
 suming his own. 
 
376 DEDICATION. 
 
 Catherine sat down, felt very much like another fit of sobs 
 and tears, but restrained herself, and said, quietly— 
 
 “ Major Clifton, whatever this is betweeu us—” | 
 
 “‘T must remind you that this is a prohibited subject ot 
 discussion, madam, he said, interrupting her. 
 
 «Twill not talk of it again—how can I, indeed, wken J 
 do not know what it is ?” 
 
 He made a gesture of angry disbelief, and begged her ta 
 come at once to the object of her visit. 
 
 Well, then, I wished only at first to say, that whatever be 
 the cause of this cruel misunderstanding between us, it will 
 pass away. You look at me in surprise and doubt—but it 
 will, Major Clifton—it wi//—it must—there is no truth and 
 reality in it, and it must be temporary. I have thought it 
 ail over, very sadly, but very calmly and clearly, and I know 
 that it must be transient. My faith bridges over this im- 
 practicable present in our lives, and I see the future, when 
 you will understand me. I never did anything to offend you 
 in my life. And God, to whom I have committed our cause, 
 knows my innocence, and in His good time He will make it 
 plain. It must be so. The promise of the All-Merciful, 
 the Almighty Father, is pledged to the Right!” 
 
 He turned away from her, with a stamp of fierce displea~ 
 sure. He turned away from her savagely, because he felt 
 hat, had he looked and listened a moment longer, he should 
 have abjured all his evil thoughts, and snatched her to his 
 bosom—she was so patient, so hopeful, so beautiful with truth 
 and love, that he could scarcely resist the impulse to fold 
 her to his heart—false as he deemed her to be. As it was, 
 he suppressed the true instinct—obeyed the false suspicion, 
 and turning again sharply upon her, demanded to know, ones 
 for all, to what this new piece of hypocrisy tended. 
 
 “I mean this, Major Clifton—that as our estrangemept 
 must needs be transient—do not, under its influence, let us 
 do, or omit to do, anything that may hereafter affect, unhap- 
 pily, our social relations with others.” 
 
 “As how, Mrs. Clifton ?” 
 
 “ Thus. The county families have all called upon ua, Jt 
 is high time that we return their visits, if we mean ta keeg 
 up the connection.’ 
 
 “Oh! Ay! vedeelichels well thought of, Maria Teresa!“ 
 he sneered. 
 
 With a passing look of distress, she said— 
 
 
 
DEDICATION. 377 
 
 “T only fear that our picasant intercourse with the neigh- 
 bors may not be so easily resumed, if they have reason to 
 suppose that we treat them with indifference and neglect.” 
 
 “ Admirably calculated, madam! A contingency has pre- 
 sunted itself to your diplomatic wisdom, that never would 
 have ocenrred to my simpler mind. So, you wish to confirm 
 your position, and extend your connection here in the county! 
 Well! the aristocrats of R———, have certainly taken you 
 np with a zeal and determination that is surprising. But 
 when they have once made up their haughty minds to patro- 
 nizc » Lew comer, it is wonderful to what length they will 
 go. But you may thank your own fine diplomatic talents for 
 that!” 
 
 ‘Diplomatic talents! What diplomatic talents? So many 
 people have ‘thrust’ that questionabie ‘greatness’ upon me, 
 that it mortifies me. No—I know the only value and cur- 
 rency I have among the county people, is the value you have 
 given me—the stamps of your name and rank. And I—I 
 do not wish to disparage it. J] ‘vyish to appear worthy of it— 
 that is all.” 
 
 « And you really believe what you say ?” 
 
 Truly, I do.” 
 
 Again she looked so lovely, in her truth and humility, that 
 he was almost tempted to relent. And again the impulse 
 only made him more unjust. 
 
 “Ina word, madam, what do you wish me to do, for I 
 begin to weary of this discussion. Nor is it well to subject 
 myself to the influence of your fascinations, for I candidly 
 admit to you that I am sensible of them, as others have been.” 
 
 “I only wished to propose to you to take a day, and drive 
 around the neighborhood with me, to return the calls that 
 have been made upon us.” 
 
 ‘Very well, madam, I am at your commands whenever 
 you please to call upon me for that service. When do you 
 propose to go 2?” 
 
 « At your earliest convenience.” 
 
 “ Will to-morrow do?” 
 
 “If you please.” 
 
 « ‘To-morrow then let it be. And now, Mrs. Clifton, have 
 you any further commands for me ?” 
 
 “Thank you—no,” she answered, very sadly, and turned 
 to leave the rooin—hesitated, came tack, and resting her 
 hand upor the study-table for support, because she was 
 
378 DEDICATION. 
 
 trembling, said, “‘ Forgive me—and let me speak to you one 
 more word, will you?” 
 
 “ What is it ?” 
 
 “It is so sorrowful to be misunderstood. Please, do not 
 mistake me in this matter. For myself, I do not care to fol- 
 low up my acquaintance with these county people. I have 
 lived all my life without extensive social intercourse. I have 
 lived all my life in strict domestic retirement. I am so usea 
 to it that it is natural and agreeable to me. Indeed, I prefer 
 it-—but—” 
 
 “Well?” 
 
 She was suddenly silent. She wished to cay, “ But with 
 you it is otherwise. Living in the county, yow need, or will 
 hereafter nced an extensive neighborhood connection. And 
 for your sake, I would not alienate these people by neglect.” 
 But she could not say it. Her old shyness, and a delicate 
 fear of seeming to wish to place him under an obligation, kept 
 her mute. 
 
 “Well, Mrs. Clifton? If such seclusion is so agreeable to 
 you, why do you wish to change it?” 
 
 ‘“‘T owe the ladies some acknowledgment of their civility 
 o us.” 
 
 ‘¢ Have you anything farther to say to me ?” 
 
 “ No,” said Catherine, and with an involuntary gesture of 
 pain and distress; she turned and left the room, with all her 
 generous thoughts unspoken. When the door had closed 
 behind her, Archer Clifton started up, struck his clenched 
 hands to his forehead, and pacing up and down thr floor, dis- 
 tractedly exclaimed— 
 
 “T love her! Ilove her! It is no use, I do love her! 
 Every day more deeply and desperately I love her! In her 
 presence all her unworthiness is forgotten or disbelieved ! 
 Yes! yes! her deep hypocrisy, her black ingratitude, my 
 mother’s wrongs, all, all are lost to memory! Just now [ 
 could have snatched her to my bosom and wept over her 
 falsehood, rather than have cast her from me! Yes, more! 
 T could have implored her forgiveness for ever believing in 
 that guilt which is but too well proved! I love her! She is 
 the pulse of my heart! the soul of my life! She embodies all 
 the meaning of existence to me! Heart and brain—ys!— 
 body, soul and spirit starve, perish for a full reconciliation 
 and a perfect union with her! She is lovely, she is beautiful 
 tome She always was! Yet, oh! Apple of Sodom, thas 
 
DEDICATION. 279 
 
 she is! shall I take such falsehood and corruption to my 
 heart. I must leave the house! must leave the neighbor- 
 ood! for here I wilt and wither! And she! how can she 
 bear it ? for I think, with all her falseness, she loves me very 
 much. How can she bear life so? Uew can she rise each 
 morning and go through all tne occupations of the day so 
 regularly, quietly, cheerfully, day after day ?—omitting ne 
 duty, domestic or social, small or great, from the stitching 
 ny ripped gloves, to the keeping up of the county connec- 
 tion, in sooth! While J, I daily wilt, wither, in this moral 
 mildew—idle, despairing, forgetting all my obligations—for- 
 getting that my country needs my arm! This cannot last! 
 This must not be! I must get away from here! I musi raise 
 a volunteer company, and offer myself to the government, «nd 
 in the tumult of the campaign find forgetfulness or a grave!” 
 
 Unable to compose himself again that morning, he rang 
 the bell, ordered his horse, seized his hat, went out, mounted, 
 and rode away. 
 
 The next morning Catherine arose early, and amo. g her 
 orders for the day directed that the carriage should be at the 
 door by ten o’clock. At the appointed hour she attired her- 
 self with care and taste, and went down into the front hall, 
 where she found Major Clifton in readiness to attend her. 
 They entered the carriage and set out, and in the course of a 
 drive.of five or six hours’ duration, made the circuit of the 
 neighborhood, calling upon several families. And every- 
 where Catherine was received with distinguished respect. 
 They reached home again about the middle of the afternoon. 
 
 The next few days passed on in the usual dreary routine— 
 except that Catherine knew Major Clifton was out riding 
 every day and all day, and that he was in his study writing 
 half the night. She did not know what this portended until 
 one morning he said to her— 
 
 “Mrs. Clifton, you will oblige me by having my wardrobe 
 prepared and packed at your earliest convenience. I have 
 orders to join the regiment within a week.” 
 
 Catherine turned very pale and reeled as if she would have 
 falien, but grasped the chair and steadied herself, till strength 
 returned. 
 
 és All shall be ready for you,” she replied. 
 
 And he, with a cold bow of acknowledgment, went his way. 
 
 
 
Cs 
 oe 
 Cor) 
 
 SrHE MESKMESS OF LOVE.” 
 
 WHAPTER XXXII 
 
 “ TITE 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.—TENNyYSoN. 
 
 CATHERINE remained seated in the chair into which she 
 sad 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 ser- 
 vice, with the exception of the silver plate, which was col- 
 lected 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 Janguidly, 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 :”’ 
 
 «< 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, ipa Kate,” said Henny 
 “fting the laden salver cn her head, and settling it steadily, 
 
“TRE MB2EKNESS OF LOVE.” 8] 
 
 “that s Marster blessed trufe! ’Sides which, [ has a heap 
 to do myself, to ges brother Jack’s duds ready, to go long o’ 
 Marse Archy.” 
 
 “Ts your brother going with Major Clifton, Henny 2?” 
 
 «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 0’ what a slave I’ve made o’ myself to brother Jack, 
 éver 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 0’ 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; ’spos- 
 ing of hisself gettin’ his feet wet sogerin?! An’ he "blige 
 to wear a tar plaster on his ches’, to be campin’ out an’ lay- 
 in’? 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 
 ery, 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 
 uiggers. 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 0’ ridin’ body-sarvant long o’ marster—” 
 
 “¢T 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.” 
 
 24 i 
 
389 “rgdk MEEKNESS OF LOYR.”? 
 
 “© Yes he is, Miss Kate, honey! ’Deed ke knows all about 
 Jack’s ’fection for him! High, honey! aim’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! ’Fere © 
 my blessed Hebbenly Lord, did she! An’ he knows all 
 *bont Jack’s ‘fection for him, and he knows Jack ’ould follow 
 him to the ind 0? 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 preoceupied air, but an- 
 swered— 
 
 ‘JT 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.” 
 
 ‘“‘] 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 
 iet 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. Tel’ 
 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, 
 ¥f 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, ehild! vou are so good bearted’ It 
 
“THE MEEKNESS OF LOVR.” 383 
 
 is a sin too to leave you, so thronged ag you are with 
 work.” 
 
 “No, I can get—get through,” replied Kate, with the 
 same troubled, preoccupied air that had marked her manne: 
 the whole morning. Mrs. Mercer soon after tovk leav- 
 end 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 fora 
 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 port- 
 folio 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 2” 
 
 <s Yes, » answered Catherine attentively. 
 
 “JT 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 ima- 
 ginary.” 
 
 Passing over his bitter jibe, Catherine said— 
 
 _ You need not doubt in leaving all to my care that all 
 will go well. J 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 recohiected a certain text of 
 Scripture which said, “ By tLeir fructs ye shall know them-— 
 do men gather thorns of fig trees ?”? but the demon of cher 
 ished suspicion whispered, “’T'was 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 1 
 
884 Srie MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 
 
 have much faith in your natural talents and acquired expe- 
 rience, but, also, because 1 have more confidence in your 
 celf-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 al] 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 itselt 
 10 Catherine’s mind, but with the loyalty of her nature she 
 repelled it, saying, within herself, “ It is because he has what 
 he thinks condeuning evidence of my unworthiness—would 
 he but charge we! 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 Loth debt and credit sides of the ac- 
 counts, with which it is not necessary to trouble the reader. 
 After two or three heurs spent in looking over bills, com- 
 paring them with receipts, calculating results, ete., 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 
 ganuary, you must contrive an interview with the holders, 
 and get them renewed upon security—as I said before, re- 
 member.” 
 
 “‘T 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 licavy force of negroes on this plantation, it has been neces- 
 gary 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 
 
“THE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.’ 388 
 
 brother Carl here as overseer? You have tested his skiil 
 and probity.” 
 
 This was a very unlucky proposition on Cathcrine’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 hin to set foot cn my pre= 
 mises 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 cun- 
 clude the interview. And she recollected her promise to 
 Henny, te intercede for Jack, and always more couragcvus 
 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.” 
 
 «T 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, 
 T am sure—” 
 
 «To the point, if yon 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 liind- 
 rance. Therefore it is much more for your sake than for the 
 boy’s own, that I should be pleased if ycu would leave hun 
 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 al! 
 
886 “SnHkE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 
 
 too young or too old, or too hopelessly stupid and lumber 
 ing.” 
 
 ‘‘ 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 
 rou.” 
 
 “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 
 m 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 
 sith 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 relexting man- 
 ner into the old sarcasm and scorn. 
 
 «Oh, caJl me Catherine, please call me Catherine,” she 
 said, losing half her reserve. 
 
 “Why? Do you dislike the other name ?” 
 
 « No—TI like it. Iam 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 fan- 
 cied dignity for which you have toiled and plotted so long, 
 ard patiently, and successfully, should be constantly brought 
 to your mind.” 
 
 With a deprecating, imploring gesture, and a brow crim- 
 soned until the purple veins started out, Catherine, pierced 
 by this keen sarcasni, sank into a chair. 
 
 Unpityingly, he added— 
 
 * And now, Mrs. Clifton, I really must eutreat you tw 
 
e 
 
 pth 
 
 “TIE MEEKNESS OF iv Ee 387 
 
 excuse me. I expect Turnbull here, every instant, to eee 
 a talk about the stock.” 
 
 Catherine arose, trembling, and left the room; one ago- 
 aized 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 nian, as to love and live with a perfi- 
 dious 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 loath- 
 ing 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 counte- 
 nance. 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, de- 
 ranged. 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 erying, in wild rebel- 
 lion-— 
 
 “God! Oh, God! Infinite in power and love—-do You 
 see me? Do You see me, and withhold Your help? Oh, 
 Sod! God!” But soon upon her fevered spirit fell the 
 ~yord of the Lord like dew—* All things work together for 
 yood, 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 Baba Se she arose, 
 
 an/ went arcs is whl 
 
388 “rnHE MEEKNESS OF LOVE ” 
 
 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 
 sooncr 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 tlought— 
 and he was going, really geing upon a long and perilous wili- 
 tary service, and parting with her in deep, unmitigated anger, 
 under the seemingly ineffaceable impression of her utter un- 
 worthiness—believing her to be guilty of—what? ay! what? 
 for up to this moment she had not the slighest 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 re- 
 proached herself for that failing of the heart, and falling of 
 the eyes, and faltering of the voice, that made her so power- 
 less, and placed her at such a disadvantage in his presence. 
 “ Oh, yes, indeed,” she said, ** I know my ananner is enough 
 to convict me; I do not wonder at nor blame him for think- 
 ing 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 
 zould look up and speak.” And next she renembered 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 iuspire 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 perse- 
 vere 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 sa 
 entrenched behind his own private thoughts and purposes 
 that she feared to break in upon his reserve. Quce indeed, 
 for the purpose of speaking to him upon the snbject, she 
 entered his study, and stood by the table; but he turned 
 around, drew Lizaself up, sat back in his chair, and looked 
 aron her with such sarcastic arrogance, taat, abashed and 
 
“THE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 889 
 
 confounded, without opening her lips she turned and left tho 
 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 iast 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 pre- 
 parations 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. Sheknelt 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 siniple 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, stil] 
 hoping for some saving revelation. <A little while after seven 
 hé 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 cus- 
 tomary, 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 zive some final directions concerning 
 his baggage, and the pores and servants he was to take with 
 Lim. And then he went up stairs and entered his study. It 
 was just eight o’ciock, and she had two invaluable hours left 
 
390 . OrkE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 
 
 yet. <As if life and death hung upon their.issue, she resolv 
 come what might, to use them in a final effort for a recon 
 giliation. Pale and trembling in every limb, she left the 
 ‘able, and went up stairs, slowly, holding by the balustrades 
 rom 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, 
 bit 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 be- 
 cause 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 sus- 
 picious 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 
 msued. 
 
 With a piercing sarcasm, he asked— 
 
 ‘Can I serve you in any manner this morning, madam %” 
 
 With a gesture of deprecation and entreaty, she an- 
 swered— 
 
 “Yes! ye, 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 jut 
 me upon my defence.” 
 
 Ile frowned, darkly, as with both pain and anger, and re- 
 plicd— 
 
 “I have had occasion twice before to remind you, Mrs. 
 Clifton, that this is a prohibited subject of conversation be- 
 hween us.” 
 
 She elasped her hands, in the earnestness of supplication, 
 sxclaiming— 
 
 “Why? Qh! why? You were always just. You never 
 judged your poorest slave, unheard! Oh! what have I done, 
 er omitted to de* Tel] me! Make the charge, cad see 
 
“THE MEEANESS OF LOVE.” ao] 
 
 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, un- 
 beard ?” 
 
 “Tt is quite sufficient to me, madam,” he answered, 
 haughtly, “that the proofs of your turpitude are conclusive 
 to my own mind.” 
 
 ss] 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 ex- 
 tended 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, sLe 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 isa sub- 
 tile, 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—bclieve 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 savo 
 my life by appealing from your judgment to another tribunal, 
 Tam loyal. Jam faithful' God knoweth that lam. Let 
 me prove it. Put me upon iy defence. Do not— oh, de 
 not persist in cordemning me, unheard.” 
 
392 “rae MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 
 
 ‘¢ (‘atherine,” he answered, in a softened voice—* you aré 
 not condemned ; if you were, you would not be standing here 
 at my side.” 
 
 «‘ What do you mean? good Heaven!” 
 
 ‘‘Tuis,” 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 recog- 
 nize guilt, is to be obliged to punish it. If we distinctly 
 accuse, we are bound to prove, and if we prove, to condemp ~ 
 and sentence.” 
 
 Ar lis my case such a one?” 
 
 ¢ Yc ir 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 fry 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 ex- 
 planations. Whether you could by possibility clear yourself, 
 is another question 5 for I speak—not of suspicions but of 
 positive knowledge.” 
 
 His strong conviction of her turpitude infected her — 
 despair at last. She said, very mournfully— 
 
 “J know that it has sometimes happened that the innocent 
 have been tried and convicted—overwhelmed by a mass of 
 vircumstantial evidence—and that may be my ease; never 
 theless, 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 possi’ e fo our cases to be reversed—were 1 
 
"THE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.’ 393 
 
 forced to think evil of you, I do not know, indeed I de nat 
 know how I could go on with daily life at all!” 
 
 “T think you had better cease discoursing and retiro , 
 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 ycu 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 IJ am, Archer. I believe in Heaven’s justice. I be- 
 lieve that if T call on the Lord, He will sooner or later, in His 
 own good time, enable me to prove it.” | 
 
 “J will produce the testimony,” he said, going to an 
 escritoir, opening it and taking from it a note in a gray en- 
 velope. Returning to his seat, he laid it before her, asking 
 “Ts this your handwriting ?” 
 
 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 re- 
 member, 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 ac- 
 knowledge this as your writing also?’ 
 
 Catherine looked at the note without heeding the words, 
 and raising her innocent eyes with wonder to his face, an- 
 swered, without an instant’s hesitation— 
 
 é Yes, assuredly, that is mine !” 
 
 Her perfect unconsciousness should have convinced him of 
 her innocence—would have done so perhaps, but that, pre- 
 judiced 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—over- 
 whelmed by the enurmous wickedness of the forgery. Scarcely 
 
894 “nok MEEKNESS vF LOVE.” 
 
 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 fect specch- 
 less, mute, but catching his hand, and clinging to it. When 
 she struggled and recovered her voice, she exclaimed, 
 simply— 
 
 “7 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— 
 
 “JT 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 
 T did not do it !”” 
 
 «Come, perjure yourself! Swear it.” 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 “T 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 
 knew before, that, of course, you did write it.” 
 
 She wrung her hands in deep distress, and said— 
 
 *{ caenot swear, Archer. I mean I dae not swear, 
 
“THE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 898 
 
 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-rightéousness V? 
 
 “Oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven' what shall I do*” said Ca- 
 therine, i 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 7” 
 
 “Dol? Does not an astute diplomatist, like you, know 
 that J know a woman who ean be false, treacherous, hypo- 
 critical ;—-who, so young, can plot so well, and succeed so 
 entirely ;—can also tell a falsehood to conceal her baseness 2” 
 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 trea- 
 chery, and written such a letter as that, I could also have 
 ‘ied 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 mira- 
 eles, 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 bit- 
 terly, 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 grovp consisting of his servant 
 Dandy, and three saddle-horses. She saw him vault into his 
 saddle, and ride away, attended by Dandy, mounted on cne 
 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. 
 
396 “THE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 
 
 (one! He was gone! His presence that hsd made al 
 suffering tolerable was withdrawn, and the place was empty: - 
 life itself was empty. 
 
 He was gone—swone—not lovingly, after a lingering, ten- 
 der 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 an- 
 ger would subside, that reflection would come, and reconcilia- 
 tion ensue ; but how much bitterer this hopeless disunion. 
 
 Gone in scorn! Gone in loathing! Gone to return no 
 more but asa stranger! Oh, insupportable grief! Oh, hope- 
 less 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 !ake the clear sky. 
 
 Now all was changed! Now all was clouds and storm and 
 darkness! <A howling wilderness around! A howling ten- 
 pest overhead! And her soul answered back the tempestuous 
 diseord of life, as the storm-tossed ocean, the storm-lowered 
 sky! All was confusion distraction, ohana 
 
 Wild impulses—suggestions of the fiend—darted meteor- 
 iike 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 derpair, she 
 heard this voice of God. 
 
CATHERINE’S REGENCY 307 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 CATHERINE’S REGENCY. 
 
 But a trouble weighed upon her, 
 And perplexed her night and morn, 
 With the burden of a station 
 Unto which she was not born.—TENNYSON 
 
 S1LowLy, very slowly Catherine recovered from the shock 
 of that bitter parting. And then she felt so lonely—so deso- 
 late ; no mother—no sister—no bosom friend, to give her 
 one comforting look of sympathy, or one sustaining word of 
 affection. And she mourned afresh the loss of that dear, 
 sympathising, maternal friend, always so ready in her loving 
 wisdom, always so ready in any trial or affliction to give 
 counsel and comfort. And, oh! Catherine needed these— 
 _for, like the black, soudding. fragments of clouds left by the 
 tempest, dark, despairing thoughts drifted through her mind. 
 Yes, she had need, and profoundly felt that need, of counsel 
 and comfort in this bewildering sorrow ; but of whom could 
 she seek it? Of none—of none must she seek it. The true 
 wife’s instinct taught her that. For even when the retrospec- 
 tive image of his dead mother, her own beloved bosom friend, 
 recurred in the shape of a once possible mediator between 
 herself and husband, her mind intuitively recoiled from the 
 idea, and she knew that were that dear mother now living, 
 nut even of her could she make a confidant—that the reli- 
 gious unity, the integral sanctity, the cherished exclusiveness 
 of marriage would be invaded and broken, and the sweet 
 charm lust by the introduction of a third party—beloved even 
 as that dear, mutual mother—into its sacred counsels. No, 
 unhanpy and bewildered as she was, she felt that by all her 
 hopes of a future happy union, this wretched division must 
 be kept to herself—upon herself solely recoil the burden and 
 
 he pain—she “ must tread the wine press alone.” And 
 25 i 
 
393 CATILERINE’S REGENCY. 
 
 even when she prayed for Divine inspiration to guidc her, the 
 response came from the depths of her spirit, “ The Word of 
 God is within you.” 
 
 ind how empty the house seemed because one was away— 
 how gloomy—how funereal—-even the light footstep of a 
 thamher-maid in the distance sounded hollowly,-—sending a 
 dreary echo through the many passages of the great, empty 
 houss—empty, for that he was gone. 
 
 It seemed not worth while to go on with daily life at all— 
 to keep up the fire on the household hearth, or to light the 
 evening Jamp, or to order meals for herself alone. 
 
 But if Catherine were for once tempted in her sorrow to 
 forget her duties,—her duties were not the least disposed to 
 leave her long in peace—no, not for an hour. 
 
 Catherine was roused from her fit of deep thought by the 
 entrance of a field woman, who, with the usual curtsey, and 
 the customary greeting of—“ Sarvunt, ma’am,” stood before 
 her. 
 
 Kate raised her heavy eyelids abstractedly. 
 
 ‘¢Sarvunt, ma’am,” said the woman, again curtseying 
 “ Aunt Field Mary is well over it, ma’am. It’s a boy-chile, 
 ma’am; a likely little boy-chile as ever you see, ma’am. 
 An’ Aunt Field Mary told me to tell you, ma’am, how, thank 
 the Lord, an’ she’s fotch through safe, an’ how she wouldn’t 
 let dem sturve you las’ night, caze you wur so tired, an’ caze 
 it wur the lassest night Marse Archer had tostay home. An’ 
 Aunt Field Mary say, would you please to come down der to 
 her quarter an’ see her dis mornin’, and how she wants some 
 green tea, an’ loaf sugar, an’—an’—wine, if you please, 
 ma’am.” 
 
 “ What—what did you say?” asked Catherine, passing 
 her hand over her forehead, to dispel the concentration of 
 sorrowful thought. 
 
 « Aunt Field Mary, ma’am, it’s a boy-chile, ma’am, a likely 
 little boy-chile as ever you see, ma’am, an’ she’s fotch well 
 through of it, thank Marster, ma’am. an’ she say, how will 
 you come an’ see her, an’ send her some liquor, an’ things. 
 Likewise, Uncle Jubilee, its daddy, ma’am, he say, can’t he 
 have a holyday to-day, ma’am, an’ stay home out’n de field, 
 seein’ how it’s his firstest son an’ hier out’n seven darters.” 
 
 Passing her hand across her forehead slowly, Catherine 
 dispersed the last lingering fragments of her bitter revorie, 
 ard stood up to her simple, practical, housebold duties. Auk 
 
 
 
CATHERINE’S REGENCY. 399 
 
 then her action was clear and decided. She took up her 
 little basket of keys, bade the woman folloy her, and went 
 down stairs and into the pantry, where she filled a Lamper 
 with tea and sugar, crackers, jelly, and other little matters, 
 anj gave it to her attendant, saying— 
 
 “ Take these to Ficld Mary, and say that I will be down 
 to see her presently.” 
 
 «Yes, ma’am, sure “nough. But ’bout de liquor, honey ? 
 likewise Unele Jubilee’s holyday, seein’ how it’s his firstest 
 sou an’ hier out’n seven darters ?”’ 
 
 ‘Tell Mary that I cannot send her wine, it is not good 
 for her now; but tell her to mention any other want, and if 
 it be a proper one, it shall be supplied. Tell Jubilee to re- 
 turn to the field—his labor cannot possibly be spared from it 
 to-day. And stay—what is your name ?? 
 
 ‘Nelly, ma’am. ’Deed it is, honey. That’s my name, 
 Nelly.” 
 
 “J think I never saw you up at the house before, Nelly ?” 
 
 “ No, ma’am, likely not, chile, indeed. I lives quite dis- 
 tant off, down der on Cedar Creek, unnerneaf of Bushy Hill 
 der on de ou'skeerts 0’ de plantashum.” 
 
 “Well, Nelly, who is tending Field Mary ?” 
 
 “Tis, ma’am. Hardbargain Henny, she long o’ her now 
 But I tends her. “I tends all de winmnin hands when dey’s 
 sick, "deed I does, chile. But poor ereeturs, dey alluz wants 
 der miste’ss, al/uz. Inever knew dem to fail o’ fretting 
 arter Aer, dey don’t seem to feel kinder safe widout her, 
 dough [ alluz tells de poor ignoran’ creeturs, der mist’ess 
 ean’t do nuffin ’tall—dere in de han’s 0’? de Lord—not in de 
 mist’ss’s. An’ dar Fiel’ Mary, ’ceitful thing, sendin’ you 
 word how she didn’t want you sturved, arter keepin’ on arter 
 us all night to send for you; but I telled her good I wan’t 
 agoin’ to have the young madam wurritted long o’ her ’fernal 
 nonsense, bein’ as it was de lassest. night Marster had to stay 
 at home.” 
 
 “Yes, there, go now,” said Catherine, waving her hand 
 wearily. 
 
 “¢ Nyther wan’t it any sort o’ use, case I, myse’f, dough I] 
 
 hould’n be de fuss to bray affen it, am as knowin’ a ’oman 
 as if I wur book edified, bein’ as I has had thirty years 
 ’speriments, ten years practysin’ on ole Marse Roger Gower 
 planrashum, down in ole Sv’ Mary’s, "fore I came here, nuss 
 long 0’ Miss Car’line Gower, wid her fuss baby, which was 
 
400 CATHERINE’S REGENCY. 
 
 our Miss Car’line Clif’n. An’ dat war twenty odd year ago, 
 an’ I’se had twenty years ’speriments here. Lord, mist’ess, 
 ma’ain, whenever you ’quires any ’vice and ’sistance, you 
 ain’t no ’cassion to call in any dem derned, infunnclly, 
 roguing doctors as makes you worse sick, purpose o’ gettin’ 
 more credit and money for makin’ you well.” 
 
 ‘¢ There—there—there—there, Nelly, return to your pa- 
 tient.” 
 
 “Yes, mist’ess, I’m gwine now, ma’am, only I wanted te 
 tell you while I trought of it, how when eber you quire of 
 de aid an’ comfort, you no call to send offen de plantashum, 
 zase—”’ 
 
 ‘“‘ Nelly, there is one thing that I must say to you now, 
 and which [ wish you to remember. It is that when I give 
 a direction I intend it to be followed.” 
 
 The old woman looked mortified, and took up the hamper, 
 settled it upon her head, and went out. It pained Cathe- 
 cine’s gentle heart to speak so peremptorily. But this was 
 one among the abuses she felt it to be her imperative duty to 
 reform, the habits of idleness and listlessness, and the pro- 
 pensity to stand and gossip among the domestics. Trifiing 
 as this little incident was, it served to arouse Catherine and 
 place her on her feet, and she did not utterly sink again. 
 
 The evening fire was kindled on the household hearth, and 
 the evening lamp lighted, though there was but one lonely 
 woman to feel their cheering influence. 
 
 The next day was the Sabbath, and Catherine as usual 
 attended shurch. She felt deeply the need of religious con 
 solation. Her spirit hungered, thirsted, failed and fainted 
 for the feeding, refreshing, strengthening ministrations of the 
 gospel. The old, sad, unanswered problem of unmerited 
 suffering perplexed her: She felt herself sinking into that 
 sad and near ly hopeless state of mind, induced by great and 
 singular trials to be borne perforce ‘alone and in secret-— 
 When, wanting human sympathy and failing of divine com- 
 fort, the soul loses sight of the Merciful Father in the Om- 
 nipotent Creator, or in other words, of especial Providence 
 in yeneral Providence, and falls sadly, despairingly back 
 uj on its helpless self, and says thatthe Supreme Ruler of 
 the Universe, the Governor of countless millions of suns and 
 systems, never stoops to care for a poor, lost atom like itself. 
 She nesded to hear the gospel message of love and hope 
 wain. But when she entered her pew, and raised her eyes 
 
CATHERINE’S REGENCY. 401 
 
 to the pulpit, she was disappointed in missing from his place 
 the mild and venerable face and form of the parish clergy- 
 man, whose teachings every Sabbath morning sent her hone 
 with renewed love, and sustained ber through the week, and 
 she was pained to see in his stead a young man, a mere 
 youth in seeming, some student newly ordained, she sup- 
 posed, and she sank back in her seat, saddened with the 
 thought that she would not get the greatly needed spiritual 
 help from hin; for what could a student in his youth know 
 of life’s dread trials? of the heart’s mournful experiences, 
 or the spirit’s deep needs? She felt sure he could nov help 
 her, and she sank back, resigning herself with a dee; sigh. 
 The opening hymn was given out— 
 
 God moves in a mysterious way 
 His wonders to perform, 
 
 Be plants His footsteps on the sea, 
 And rides upon the storm. 
 
 Ye fearful sonls, fresh courage take, 
 The cloud ye so much dread 
 
 Is big with mercy, and shall break 
 In blessings on your head. 
 
 The first words of this hymn fell upon Catherine’s sur- 
 prised ear, filling her soul with awe—for it seemed a direct 
 answer to her thought. And all that hymn, every stanza, 
 every line, was filled with meaning for her, and powerful in 
 its effect upon her mind, in its peculiar state of experience. 
 She listened in penitent, grateful, reverent silence, folding 
 her hands meekly, and saying within her heart— 
 
 “ Father, forgive my doubts and fears! I will believe it! 
 Yes, I will believe that even this heavy cloud is laden with 
 mercy, and will shower blessings! I will believe that even 
 this bitter trial—this bitter, bitter separation and disunion. 
 is In some way necessary to our moral growth and future 
 welfare, and that I shall see it! I do believe it, for I have 
 had blessed answers before to doubts. ‘ And we know that 
 all chings work together for good to them that love the 
 Lord.’ I do believe it.” 
 
 God is His own interpreter, 
 And He will make it plain, 
 
 were the solemn last words of the Divine Song that awed her 
 into stillness. This hymn was sung, Catherine’s beautifu. 
 voice ‘wining the choir. And when it was ended, followed 
 
402 CATHERINE’S REGENCY. 
 
 the prayer, so singularly coincident, that every word gave 
 voice to the deep silent cry in her own suffering heart. 
 
 And then the young minister arose to give out the text: 
 Matthew x. 29. ‘ Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? 
 And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your 
 Father.” And here followed the sermon. The manner of 
 the young preacher was modest, natural, calm and sweet, as 
 befitted the gentle words of the text, and the consoling sub- 
 ject ot the sermon—FAITH IN ProvineNnG@nenthe childlike 
 faith that comes through the heart, and not through the 
 head. Catherine had thought he could not help her. Never 
 had sbe been more in error in her life. That pale young 
 preacher had a divine message for her—for her ; an answer 
 to ner unsolvable problem; a message, providentially, the 
 most direct, pointed, strong, startling that ever fell from 
 lips touched with fire, revivifying the soul of the receiver ; a 
 meéssage that satisfied every doubt, and calmed every fear, 
 and replied to every question as perfectly, as satisfyingly, as 
 if Heaven had spoken ; a message that aroused faith, revived 
 hope, rekindled love, till all the soul glowed with divine fire. 
 She was wrapped, entranced, carried away by the eloquence, 
 power and pathos of this divinely-inspired discourse. She 
 never saw the young preacher before or after, but he had 
 dropped a celestial treasure deep into where she kept it 
 safe—a talisman through all the trials of life. 
 
 She left the church loving, hopeful, strong in faith, strong 
 to act and endure, patient to wait. So elevated and inspired 
 was her soul, that it illumined her whole countenance. And 
 when the county ladies crowded around her at the church 
 door to condole with her on the departure of Major Clifton, 
 and to press hospitalities upon her, and to urge her not to 
 mope in widowhood at home, their benevolent purposes were 
 forgotten in their surprise, and the first words were— 
 
 “Why, how brightly you look this morning, Mrs. Clif- 
 ton! 199 j 
 
 Catherine promised many visits, and extended many ingi- 
 tations, and finally was glad to escape and enter her carriage, 
 tc dwell in lonely, loving reverence upon the words she had 
 heard. And she reached home. And the Word departed 
 not from her, neither that day, nor the next, nor through life. 
 Ano with the perfect faith in God, perfect trust in her future 
 vame. And again she whispered to herself the charming 
 ‘honghts— . 
 
CATHERINE’S REGENCY. 403 
 
 “¢] wil] wait patiently—lI will work faithfully. The post 
 wt duty, as of hope, is my husband’s house and home. He 
 trusts me, at least, even now, with the charge of this great 
 plantation. Construe it as he may, it is a mark of great 
 confidence. I will be true to the trust.” 
 
 And then, indeed, as she whispered these words to her 
 heart, hope, sweet hope, inspired her more and more, and 
 strenethened her more and more, and she felt that he still 
 loved her—she felt it by that sure instinct that teaches a 
 woman when she is beloved, though no word, look, or ges- 
 ture reveals it to her. And she acted upon this feeling, 
 although almost unconscious of its existence as a motive. 
 And she knew that she would be useful to him, substantially 
 nseful to him where she was—for with her it was not enough 
 to be devoted, soul and body, to his interests,—no, ‘ wishing 
 well ” must have a * body in it,” in order * to be felt.” She 
 rommiuned with her heart, asking— 
 
 «¢ What, besides the service of God, do I really live for in 
 this world? For his happiness. Yes, my profound heart, 
 that is it! For his.good, his interests, his welfare. I have 
 not been an obstacle to his happiness. I have not been a 
 stumbling block in the way of his marrying another. No! 
 “or I feel that he loves me as he never loved another; and I 
 .ove him as he was never loved by another; and has any 
 other the instinct, the inspiration, the strength and patience 
 to bear with him, that God has placed in my heart? I will 
 believe and trust in the Lord and His inspirations. And 
 heart, and brain, and hands,—all that I am, and all that I 
 have, will I devote to his service. And until he restores me, 
 that alone shall make my occupation and my happiness.” 
 
 The next morning being Monday, she arose with the inten- 
 tion of taking seriously in hand the business of the estate. 
 This was now the first of December, and there was a great 
 deal to be done before the close of the year, in financial, as 
 well as in domestic and agricultural matters. The overseer 
 and the hired farm-laborers had all been paid in advance, up 
 to the first of January. And Major Clifton had left Cathe~ 
 rine twelve hundred dollars in cash, for her own current ex- 
 penses. All this money she had at once determined to 
 devote to another purpose—namely—to lifting some of those 
 notes which would fall due on the first of the year. She de- 
 termined, also, in order to help to clear off the incubus of 
 debt for the coming year, to try to find a tenant for Hardhar 
 
404 CATHERINE’S REGENCY. 
 
 vain, and to devote the rent to the taking up of the remaining 
 notes. She went into a patient and thorough examination 
 ot the overseer’s accounts, and discovered, with much pain, 
 that. he had embezzled the funds trusted to him for the pay- 
 ment of the hired hands; and a stricter review of his con- 
 duct, resulted in the detection of other malpractices, that 
 decided Catherine to give him warning. A very little ob- 
 servation convinced her, also, that the * baker’s dozen of 
 Lired laborers, all his own kin folks,” were an unnecessary 
 and expensive set of idle parasites, of whom ske determined 
 to rid the plantation at the end of the year. She finally 
 coneluded still further to lower the scale of expenditures, 
 by parting with her housekeeper. She reconciled herself to 
 this last step, when she heard of a place in the neighborhood 
 to which Mrs. Mercer might go. Yet Catherine did not 
 wish to make these important changes without again consult- 
 ing Major Clifton. And, perhaps—let the whole truth be 
 told- -perhaps poor Kate was desirous to hear from him, and 
 glad of a fair business excuse to write. And she wrote the 
 following note. She had some trouble with it. It was the 
 first (except the lines at the funeral,) she had ever written 
 him, and, under all the cirenmstances, she hesitated how to 
 begin, or how to end it. She disliked to address him as a 
 here acquaintance, and she shrunk from any warmer maaner 
 of greeting. Finally, she wrote, as she would have written 
 to a friend-—thus— 
 
 ‘«¢Wutr Ciirrs, December 8th, 1812. 
 
 * DEAR Masor CLIFTON :— 
 
 “ After a very careful investigation of the affairs of the 
 plantation, and much patient thought concerning them, 
 I have concluded—if I have your approbation and authority 
 for doing so—that the establishment can be cut down 
 so as to reduce the annual expenditure to about one-half 
 its present amount—also, that the Hardbargain farm can 
 be let for a sum, double the annual amount of what we 
 can save at White Cliffs. And, finally, that the aggregate 
 ot these moneys, saved and acquired, will be sufficient, in 
 twe years, to pay off the accumulated debts oppressing the 
 estate. (Here followed a more detailed account of her plans.) 
 Please write, and let me know if I have your authority for 
 proceeding. Yours, faithfully, 
 
 “« CATHERINE.” 
 
CATHERINE’S REGENDY. 405 
 
 In due time, Catherine received the answer. She seized 
 it with an eager hand. She opened it with trembling fingers, 
 She most unreasonably hoped—poor girl—-for some kind, 
 relenting word—some token of approbation or affection. 
 Truly, she believed in miracles. This was the previous 
 epistle— 
 
 «Hampton, December 16th, 1812. 
 “ MADAM :— 
 
 “Your favor of the 8th instant lies before me. I beg 
 leave to reiterate now what I said at parting—viz: that 
 I have not the slightest hesitation in leaving the plantation 
 to your own exclusive charge and direction—having no doubt 
 that self-interest will guide your talent into the surest means 
 of recruiting the resources of the estate. Let-Hardbargain, 
 by all means, if it pleases you to do it, remembering that I 
 have nothing to do with that cunningly acquired little piece 
 of property of yours. Regarding the dismissal of the house- 
 keeper, the overseer, and the hited farm-laborers, whom you 
 consider as supernumeraries, send them off, by all means, if 
 you think it proper to do so. I, myself, perhaps, should 
 have hesitated, ere I sent them adrift upon the world. But 
 money-saving is, I presume, a plebeian instinct. 
 
 “ Finally, pray govern in your own way, without ever again 
 thinking it to be necessary to consult, 
 
 *¢ Your servant, 
 
 «“ ARCHER CI.ICTON ” 
 
406 CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXY. 
 
 CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 
 
 And she grew a noble lady, 
 And her people loved her much.—TEnnyson. 
 
 CATHERIN®’S arrangements for the year were all completed 
 by the first of January; and with less inconvenience te 
 others, and consequently with less pain to herself, than she 
 had dared to anticipate. 
 
 She heard that Turnbull, the cashiered overseer, had pur- 
 chased a piece of land in the valley— (doubtless with the 
 embezzed funds, but of that she did not think)—built upon 
 it a log cab*n, and set up as a farmer upon his own footing; 
 and thee he had taken his tribe of sons and nephews to assist 
 nim. Sne was very much pleased to know that they were 
 out of tne way of swindling others as they had swindled 
 Clifton, nnd also that they were equally removed from want 
 and suffeving. 
 
 Mrs. Mercer, by her warm recommendation, had found a 
 very eligible situation as housekeeper to an elderly, single 
 gentleman—a planter in the neighborhood—and her benevyo- 
 ence was set at rest in regard to the old woman. 
 
 Lastly, she had let Hardbargain to excellent tenants—a 
 young New Englander and his wife—who took it ready 
 furnished and stocked as it was; and designed to work the 
 land and keep a school. 
 
 The negroes had their usual carnival at Christmas, lasting 
 till after New Year—during which, all that had been engaged 
 in the last twelve months were married, and wedding parties 
 were given and dances got up, ect., ect. 
 
 But on the second of January, Catherine caused them all 
 to be assembled in her presence, and told them that she 
 ghould, on the next Monday and thereafter, set them to work 
 ir earnest ; that their overseer was gone—(‘ Thank Marster 
 Lori far that,’? exclaimed several|—but that she herself 
 
 
 
CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 407 
 
 would be their overseer for the ensuing year. es You’ll be 
 fair, young mistress! We am’t afeard o’ you,” said the 
 same.) She waved her hand for silence and attention, and 
 then informed them farther—that though they should find 
 her hereafter as here‘ofore, just and moderate and mercifn!; 
 ready to give ear to their complaints, and settle their difi- 
 culties, and reward their zeal—yet that she should certainly 
 require amore steady and systematic application to their 
 duties than they had ever before given. She said, in conclu- 
 sion, that their health, comfort, improvement and happiness, 
 should be her care; but that even in this also, she should 
 need their co-operation—(‘ You shall hab it, mist’ess, ’deed 
 you shall, honey ;” from some of the older negroes.) Finally 
 she dismissed them, telling them that she wished to see them 
 all together again on Sunday evening at early candle-light, 
 in the spinning-room, where she desired that they should as 
 semble quictly. 
 
 On Saturday evening when the women were done spinning, 
 Catherine directed that all the wheels should be taken to one 
 corner of the room, and crowded together, and that the set- 
 tees and benches from the piazza and lawns, should be brought 
 in and arranged around the walls; and finally that a little 
 reading stand and chair should be brought for her own use. 
 These preparations occupied but ten minutes, and the room 
 was fitted up for family worship. 
 
 On Sunday evening, at the appointed hour, Catherine met 
 her assembled laborers and servants there. When they were 
 all seated and perfectly still and attentive, she said to them— 
 «I desired your presence here this Sabbath evening, that I 
 might make a proposition to you. I have been thinking that 
 we ought not to finish every day without remembering and 
 returning thanks to our Heavenly Father for His daily boun- 
 ties, protection and mercies to us, and asking a continuance 
 of the same blessings; and I think we should not dare to lie 
 down and commit ourselves to that helpless sleep that so re- 
 sembles death, without confessing to our Lord the sins we 
 have committed against Him during the day, imploring His 
 forgiveness of them, and asking His watchful care over us 
 during the darkness of the night and the defencelessness of 
 sleep. Don’t you think so ?”’ 
 
 ‘¢ Yes, yes, mist’ess, we do, we do indeed,” answered several 
 of the elder negroes, clearly—whilea modest muriuur of assent 
 ran thiwugh the assembly. The negroes are strongly inclined 
 
408 CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 
 
 to worship, and ever ready to co-operate in anything of that 
 sacred character. 
 
 Catherine resumed— 
 
 “ We should each do this in private by our own bedsides , 
 but we should also do it together asa household—as the 
 creatures of one God, the children of one Father.” She 
 paused a moment in thought, and then spokeagain. ‘J have 
 been also reflecting that you ought all to know more of the: 
 Bible than you have as yet had any opportunity of knowing. 
 And T think that most of you- would be pleased to know 
 more.’ She paused for an answer. 
 
 A a yes, mist’ess, we do,”’ chimed in many eager voices, 
 old and young. 
 
 ‘7 know you do. Well, then, henceforth we will assemble 
 in this room every evening just before bed time, and as a 
 household of the Lord, a family of one Father, spend a short 
 time together in reading and hearing the Holy Scriptures, and 
 in prayer. In beginning to read the Bible with you, I shall 
 
 commence with the first chapter of the New Testament, anc 
 read a chapter every night, until we regularly read it through. 
 And afterwards, in the same manner, we will go through 
 Tavid’s Psalms and the Prophets. 
 
 Catherine finished and sat down, made a sign for silence, 
 and opened the New Testament and commenced her reading. 
 Never had reader a more attentive or interested audience. 
 She passed over the long, hard genealogical table in the first 
 part of the chapter, and began with the Angel’s visit to the’ 
 Virgin Mary, and read also the second chapter, describing 
 the birth and infancy of the Saviour, sometimes stopping to 
 give explanations, which she knew the simplicity of her au- 
 dience made necessary. The family service was concluded 
 with a prayer, and the servants dismissed. 
 
 And this evening service became thenceforth a daily prac- 
 tice. And Catherine’s people learned more of the life and 
 ioctrines of the Saviour from her, than they would have ae- 
 yuired in a lifetime’s attendance upon learned ministers, who 
 preach only for the educated. 
 
 On Monday morning, Catherine entered upon her assumed 
 juty of overseer. And never were the affairs of a plantation 
 better administered than by her. Her ¢ good will was to it,” 
 and all her faculties brought to bear upon the business. And 
 although she kept a firm hold upon the reins of government, 
 exacted the complete fulfillment of every duty, and kept 
 
CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 409 
 
 rte Avy at their-post every man and woman, yet never was 
 a hustiess more beloved and venerated. And certainly never 
 was one so faithfully served. All subordinates need—not 
 harsh nor 1ax government—but a steady, systematic, rationas 
 governmeat, which they can understand and be satisfied with, 
 and such an one was that of Catherine. Her administration 
 was for her people a very wholesome change from the capri 
 sious tyranny o1 the late overseer, who had been accustomed 
 to permit the utmost license and laxity among the laborers 
 for four or five aays, and then, growing alarmed, to hurry 
 and worry, and arive and maltreat them for a week, to make 
 up for lost time. Uarherine’s government was regular, firm, 
 just and merciful. And sne was loved, respected and served 
 accordingly. There were some exceptions, but they were 
 very few and unimportany, and soun fell under the general 
 rule. 
 
 And thus, in the perfect performance of every duty, do- 
 mestic and social, that devolved upon her as wife, friend, 
 mistress and Christian, Catherme passed the winter. The 
 spring brought the usual accesstow 01 busy work, and she 
 gave herself up to its direction with untiring energy and ac- 
 tivity. She prayed, and labored, ana w usted in Heaven, and 
 Heaven prospered her work, and all weve weil. Before the 
 first of June, she had paid off all those feavy notes, which 
 had been accumulating interest so long. There were. other 
 -heavy debts, but she saw her way clearly wrough, discharg- 
 ing them Beote the end of the current year. 
 
 But she never, never heard from Major Clitton. He seemed 
 just as lost to her as if the grave had received him. She 
 took all the principal newspapers, for the sake of keeping 
 the run of the campaign ; and oh! often her cheeks and very 
 lips paled, and her heart sickened and sunk with terror, to 
 read of the awful perils of war, and to think that he was ex- 
 posed to them. But terror was not the only emotion raised 
 by these descriptions of engagements. No—her whole soul 
 glosxed with patriotic ar dor, when she read of the gallant re- 
 pulse of the combined land and naval forces of the British, 
 under Admirals Warren and Cockburn, and General Sir 
 Sydney Beckwith, from Craney Island, by a mere handful of 
 our troops; and her heart swelled with love and enthusiasm, 
 when in the same account, she saw her husband’s-name men- 
 tioned with the highest encomiums upon his bravery, discre- 
 tion, and inyaluah's services. 
 
410 CATHERINE’S PROGRESS 
 
 Autumn came, bringing along with its other associations 
 intensely distinct images of the last sweet, calm days she had 
 passed at Hardbargain with her dying mother, and these 
 vivid recollections stimulated afresh her devotion and her 
 energy. During her administration, to clear the estate of 
 debt, and at its close, to restore it unencuwbered into the 
 hands of her husband, was now her dear object. When the 
 harvest was gathered in, she consulted several of~her most 
 intelligent and enterprising neighbors, concerning the state 
 of the agricultural markets, and afterwards proceeded to 
 Baltimore in person in order to obtain the best possible 
 prices for her crops. She succeeded in effecting highly ad- 
 vantageous sales, and with the proceeds she returned home 
 and paid off several of those heavy debts. 
 
 And so the autumn passed, and winter came, with its lei- 
 sure, its stormy days, end its long nights. Nothing occurred 
 to break the monotony of daily life until the last of Decem- 
 ber, when she collected the half year’s rent from Hardbar- 
 gain, and paid off all the remaining debts, except one incor 
 siderable note of six hundred dollars. On the morning of 
 the first of January, she sent as usual to the village post 
 office for her papers. When the boy returned, he handed 
 her a letter directed in the hand-writing of Major -Clifton. 
 Ob! joy at last !—she tore open the envelope, and seized the | 
 enclosure—it was nothing but a check upon the Bank of 
 Richmond for five hundred dollars. She let it fall unheeded, 
 covered her face with her hands, and wept silently. But 
 when her fit of silent weeping was over, she arose, took the 
 check, went and collected what money she had left in the house, 
 and ordered her carriage and drove to L———,, and lifted 
 that last note. Then Catherine had the joy of seeing the 
 property entirely free from debt. 
 
 And so passed the winter and came the spring of 1814, 
 And still she heard nothing from Major Clifton. And since 
 reading the account of his gallant conduct on Craney Island, 
 sne learned nothing of him. And still from her loop-hole of 
 retreat, she anxiously watched the progress of the war, seizing 
 upon all the published accounts, and reading them with the 
 greatest avidity. How diligently she searched the papers to 
 find his name, and how eagerly her eyes darted down upon 
 any officer’s name beginning with a C, which always turned 
 out to be Crutchfield, Corbin, Carey, anything but Clifton! 
 Oh, how parren was all this war news, after all! 
 
CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 41] 
 
 But Admiral Cockburn’s piratical fleet was now in the 
 Chesapeake, spreading devastation and terror through al! its 
 islands, coasts, and tributary rivers; and every paper was 
 filled with accounts of his marauding incursions and savage 
 atrocities, that defied just description, much more exaggera- 
 tion. Hear what a cotemporary historian says of him: 
 
 “Throughout the waters and shores of the Chesapeake, 
 Admiral Cockburn now reigned supreme, ubiquitous and ir- 
 resistible. The burglaries, larcenies, incendiarisins, and 
 mere marauding, perpetrated by Admiral Cockburn, were as 
 odious and ignoble, though less bloody and horrible, than the 
 inhuman atrocities of the British savages in the West. Slaves 
 in large numbers, large quantities of tobacco, furniture, and 
 other private property, protected by the laws of war, and 
 seldom taken, even if destroyed by land troops, were seized 
 upon by the sea-faring warriors with piratical rapacity. The 
 predatory attacks of the enemy in the Chesapeake were 
 limited to isolated villages, poor farm-houses, and otber ins 
 defencible objects taken or destroyed. Destruction was the 
 punishment proclaimed and executed for resistance. The 
 house and barn were burned of whoever fired a shot, or drew 
 a sword in self-defence. Many respectable persons in com- 
 fortable circumstances were reduced to poverty by these de- 
 predations. The poor were especial sufferers. With shores 
 so indented with creeks and bays, the whole force of a State 
 under arms would have been unequal to cope with such over- 
 whelming aggressors.” ) 
 
 Reading frequently such accounts as this, and even more 
 alarming ones than this, is it strange that Catherine sickened 
 with terror and anxiety for the safety of him who was exposcd | 
 to all the horrors of this unsparing warfare. 
 
 At length the shock came. It was on the evening of the 
 day after harvest-home, and she had given all her people a 
 holyday, even down to the messenger whose daily duty it wag 
 to bring her papers from the post office, telling him that he 
 might take the whole day, and bring her the mail when he 
 returned home at night. Thus, instead of receiving her pa- 
 pers, 2s usual, in the morning, Catherine had to wait until 
 the boy’s return in the evening. She was sitting in the 
 spinning-room, awaiting the assembling of her servants, whom 
 she had just summoned to evening worship, wlen they all 
 entered, and with them the post-boy, who came up and laid 
 before her the single paper that had come that day. She 
 
412 CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 
 
 took it, to lay aside until after the evening’s devotions were 
 over—but a magic name on the outside arrested her attention. 
 She caught up the paper, and read in large capitals: 
 
 «¢ ENGAGEMENT AT St. Leonarp’s. British forces under 
 Admiral Cockburn repulsed with considerable loss. Major 
 Clifton dangerously wounded.” e 
 
 She read no farther—the room swam around her—she 
 recled, and fell into the arms of Henny, who sprang forward 
 to receive her. Her people crowded around her, in great 
 anxiety. But only one moment she fainted thus—then she 
 recovered, controlled herself, resumed her seat, and after 
 sending the servants all back to their places, by a wave of 
 her hand, opened the Bible, and commenced the evening’s 
 exercises. Her face was very pale, her hands quivered in 
 turning the leaves, and her voice faltered, so as to be nearly 
 inaudible, but she persevered, and got through with the ser- 
 vice, even unto the benediction. After it was all over, she 
 detained them a moment, by a gesture, and then said— 
 
 ‘Your master has been dangerously wounded.” 
 
 Murmurs of surprise, grief and anxiety agitated the assem- 
 bly, and testified to their affectionate concern. 
 
 “Go now quietly to your homes, and to-morrow perhaps 
 I may be able to tell you more.” 
 
 They dispersed slowly, turning glances of uneasiness and 
 distress at the silent anguish of her countenance. 
 
 She too, went out. How she spent the night is best known 
 to Heaven. In the morning when she appeared among her 
 household—the wasted cheeks, the sunken eyes, the hollow 
 temples, and the written agony of the brow, alone proved the 
 zonsuming sorrow of her heart. 
 
 *¢ Jack—I want Jack,” she said, as soon as sbe reached 
 her parlor. And the favorite servant appeared before her. 
 “ Jack, I think you love me,” she said 
 
 “Try me, mist’ess dear, an’ see ef I doesn’t.” 
 
 «And I think you love your master ?” 
 
 “Ah! my Lor’?! Try me—jes on’y try me, raist’ess -- 
 dat’s all.” 
 
 “T wish you to go to him from me.” 
 
 “Oh! do—do—do—do sen’ me, mist’ess! It’s war J] 
 longs for to be.” 
 
 “JT shall. The distance is over a hundred miles. You 
 must sick the best horse in the stable, and start within an 
 
CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 418 
 
 hour, and ride day and night until you reach your destina- 
 tion.” 
 
 “Deed, mist’ess, I won’t let de grass grow onnerneaf of 
 my feet.” 
 
 “Very well, then, go now—have you had your break- 
 fast ?” 
 
 «Yes, ma’am.” - 
 
 “Go now, then, and prepare for your journey, while J 
 write you a pass. And when you are quite ready, come to 
 me, and I will give you farther directions about your jour- 
 ney. 
 
 Tack hastened out—and his mistress remained for a few 
 minutes, with her hands pressed to her heart, repeating to 
 herself, with agonizing earnestness— 
 
 «¢ Would—oh !—would to Heaven, I too, might go.” Soon 
 she started, as with sudden recollection, and burried off to 
 write the pass, and the directions about the road. And when 
 in less than half an hour Jack appeared before her again, she 
 was ready for him. ‘¢ Here,” she said, “is your pass, and 
 written directions, lest you should forget what I tell you.” 
 
 ‘“¢ Nebber fear me forgettin’, mist’ess, dear.” 
 
 “You must take the road to Alexandria, which is seventy 
 miles from here. When you reach that town, take the ferry- 
 boat and cross the Potomac to the Maryland side. Then in- 
 quire your road to the village of Benedict, on the Patuxent, 
 which is thirty or forty miles further down the country. 
 When you reach the village, ask the way to St. Leonard’s. 
 Arrived at your journey’s end, find Colonel Wadsworth, or 
 Major Stuart, or Captain Miller, show your pass and tell your 
 errand, and they will direct you where to find your master. 
 Do you understand ?” 
 
 “¢ Yes, mist’ess.” 
 
 “ All this that I have told you is written down here on 
 this piece of parchment; take care of i it, lest you should forget, 
 and lose your way.’ 
 
 “Yes, ma’am, [’]l be berry cautiencious.” 
 
 ‘¢ And now on to me, Jack ;”? her voice broke down, 
 kome emotion seemed struggling in her bosom for expres- 
 sion-—she quelled it and went on— When you find your 
 master, write to me at once; thank Heaven I taught you to 
 write! write then to me at once, and tell me how he is Will 
 you promise me that?” 
 
 “ Fait'ful, mist’ess—faithf 
 
 26 
 
414 CATHERINE’S PROGRESS 
 
 “ And, Jack, when you have cnve found him, & faunfu 
 untv death to him. Never leave him. Nurse him, wait on 
 him, watch over him day and night—do so, if you love hin, 
 Jack ;?? again the mward struggle choked her voice, and 
 when she resumed, it was with broken and faltering accents , 
 “and, Jack, attend—take this note—and when his tever e 
 off-°-mind you, when he is calm—give it to him.” 
 
 ‘¢ Yes, mist’ess, dear.” 
 
 «“ That is all I have to say to you. Mow hasten. Gn 
 bye- and may Heaven bless and speed vou.” 
 
ZHE NIGHT JOURNEY. 415 
 
 CIIAPTER XXXVI. 
 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 
 
 Tae heart once broken by the loved, 
 ‘s strong to meet the fu2men.—Mrs. Brownina. 
 
 NeARLyY a fortnight of extreme anxiety passed away, during 
 which Catherine heard nothing from her messenger. On the 
 evening of the thirteenth day of his departure, however, a 
 letter was brought to her, directed in the well-known, but 
 alas! not very familiar hand-writing of Major Clifton. Oh, 
 joy! He was living then, and even well enough to write. 
 With a fervent ejaculation of deep gratitude to Heaven, she 
 broke the seal. But her face paled as she read— 
 
 ‘On Boarp THe British Sure ALBION, 
 “ August 21st, 1814. 
 “ CATHERINE :— 
 
 “Are you then destined to be forever fatal, not only to 
 me, but to every human creature that is faithful to me? 
 See what your reckless disregard of others’ lives has 
 done !—doomed a poor, fond, faithful creature to a felon’s 
 death! Attend, woman! to what I am about to write. I 
 was not dangerously wounded, as the newspapers reported, 
 but slightly hurt, and taken prisoner, and conveyed on board 
 this, the Admiral’s ship—as they did not report. Thus, the 
 poor fellow, whom you sent on this death’s errand, not find. 
 ing me in the American camp, and hearing that I was a pris- 
 oner on board the British fleet, true to your command, to find 
 and communicate with me, and reckless of his own danger, 
 procured a boat at Benedict, and came out alongside this 
 ship. You know the result, as well as I] can inform you. 
 Che wretched boy was taken and put in irons as a spy, and 
 
 has been doomed to be hanged at the yard-arm. He only 
 
£16 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 
 
 waits the Admiral’s orders for execution. My own incon- 
 venience is nothing beside his cruel fate—yet, nevertheless, 
 I may as well inform you that 1, who was upon parole, when 
 your messenger sought to communicate with me, have also to 
 thank your interference for beimg put under arrest, and no- 
 thing but the relaxation of strict discipline, incident upon 
 the departure of the two commanders, and a mere fortuity, 
 affords me the opportunity of writing, and sending this note. 
 Admiral Cockburn and General Ross are now on their march 
 to Washington City. And my object in writing to you is 
 merely this: to assure you, by all my hopes of salvation, that 
 unless you, in your unequaled machiavelism, find some way 
 of saving this boy from death, I will never see, or speak to 
 
 you again. 3 ARCHER CLIFTON.” 
 
 Still clasping the letter, her hand and head fell with a 
 gesture of utter despair. 
 
 “Why, what’s. de matter, Miss Kate, honey? no bad news, 
 I trus’,” said Henny. 
 
 A deep, heart-breaking sob only answered her. 
 
 “¢ My goodness, Miss Kate, deary, what is it den? is marster 
 dead? Qh, deary me, Miss Kate, chile, don’t keep on look- 
 ing dat a way—'deed, you puts a scare on to me!—don’t! 
 Sider how it’s de Lord’s will, honey, an’ let de tears come, 
 iet de tears come, chile! Do, honey. *Deed, troubles like 
 de measles ; ef it don’t break out, it strikes in an’ kills you 
 dead—” 
 
 A gasp from Catherine, and a gesture imploring silence, 
 while she spanned her temples with both hands, and tried to 
 think clearly. 
 
 ‘“‘ My gracious, Miss Kate, dont look so ghashly, honey— 
 don’t. /s marster dead, sure enough ?’ 
 
 ‘‘ He’s not dead, he’s not dead,” said Catherine, huskily, 
 while she waved her hand for peace. 
 
 “ Well, den, honey, long as der’s life der’s hope, an’ no 
 ’casion for ’spair. Is he berry bad, honey 2?” 
 
 “ He’s well—well,”’ said Catherine, in the same tone. 
 
 “ Well, den, long as he’s well, what ’casion you take on 
 50, honey Oh! my Lor’—taint—taint poor brother Jack 
 as anything’s happened to?” 
 
 “Oh, Henny! Your master and Jack have both been 
 taken prisoners by Admiral Cockburn!” 
 
 . ‘6QOh, Miss Kate! Oh, my Lor’, Miss Kate! An’ dey 
 
 
 
THE NIGHT JCURNEY. ALT 
 
 do tell me how he eats his prisoners “live,” exclauned Henny, 
 falling down into a chair, flinging her check apron over her 
 head, and beginning to cry. 
 
 Almost heedless of her handmaid’s violent demonstra- 
 tions of gricf and terror, Catherine walked up and down the 
 floor, with her hands clasped around her temples, in the very 
 agony of thought. To save the boy from death—how was 
 she, at that remote distance, to save him? Oh! it seemed a 
 mockery, a snare, to put forgiveness upon such an impracti- 
 cable condition! Yet she thought him no setter of snares. 
 She thought over the whole of the letter, searching fora 
 hint ; she needed not to look at it again—every line and 
 word was burned in upon her brain and heart—she thought 
 over the whole of it, earnestly searching for a clue to action— 
 she found it at length in the phrases, ‘‘ He only waits the 
 Admiral’s order for execution,”’ and ** Admiral Cockburn and 
 General Ross are now on their march to Washington City.” 
 She thought if she could see the Admiral, she might yet save 
 his life--of so little worth as a sacrifice to the enemy, but of 
 such inestimable value to her. The date of the letter was 
 the twenty-first—this day was the twenty-third. Oh! he 
 is probably executed by this time,” said Despondency. But 
 possibly not,”’ said Hope. She tried to think clearly, to sepa- 
 rate the dreadful chaos of thought and passion, and to weigh 
 and adjust circumstances, so as she might decide and act 
 promptly. Admiral Cockburn and General Ross must be 
 near Washington, if they had not already reached the city. 
 Washington was two full day’s journey from her home, 
 but every hour was precious, for life and death night hang 
 upon it. She could perform the journey in a day and night. 
 Her resolution was taken. Going up to where Henny sat 
 erying, and rocking herself backward and forward, she 
 said— 
 
 ‘¢ Rise, Henny, and go and tell James to saddle my horse, 
 my rouch coated pony, Henny, he is the strongest and the 
 fleetest, and bring him around to the door.” 
 
 “Oh, Miss Kate! does you think he'll eat ’em sure 
 *nough ?”” 
 
 «What dc you mean, Henny—are you crazy ?” 
 
 « Admirable Cockbu’n, honey. Does you think he’ll eat 
 Marse Archy an’ brother Jack, sure ’nough? I hopes not, 
 ’eausc you sce, chile, brother Jack, he’s so poor an’ lean, au’ 
 Marse Arc*er, he mus’ be tough an’ stringy ’nongh, too long 
 
 
 
418 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 
 
 o’ all dis yer warfarin’, but Lor’, "haps he’ll think der good 
 ‘pough for sojers rations, and give ’em to dem.” 
 
 “ Henny that is all a notion.” 
 
 “Bout der eaten em, honey ?” 
 
 “ Yes, yes—don’t stop me now, Henny! hasten! hasten ' 
 quick! quick, Henny! Have my pony caught, and then 
 
 urry back to me.” 
 
 “ But, Miss Kate, are you sure ” 
 
 “ Yes, yes, ’msure. Oh! hurry, hurry!” 
 
 The woman went out, and Catherine sat down and penned 
 
 hasty note to her neighbor, the down-east tenant of Hard- 
 bargain, requesting him to give a slight supervision of affairs 
 nt White Cliffs during her absence for a few days. By the 
 time she had sealed and directed it, Henny re-appeared. 
 
 “(30 fetch my riding-dress, Henny,” was her next prompt 
 command. 
 
 “ My goodness, Miss Kate, where—” 
 
 ‘‘Go, Henny, at once, and don’t stay to question me.” 
 
 The maid obeyed, and her mistress rang the bell, and 
 gave the note she had written to a boy, to carry to Hard- 
 bargain. 
 
 As he left the room, Henny entered it with the riding- . 
 
 nabit. 
 
 ‘“‘Help me on with it at once, Henny,” said Catherine, 
 meeting her. 
 
 ‘“ My goodness, Miss Kate! you to be goin’ out this time 
 o night, an’ we-dem in so much trouble. You didn’ ax me 
 to tell nobody who wur to wait on you; but Jeemes, he’s 
 gettin’ ready.” 
 
 “‘ No, no, I don’t want anybody.” 
 
 “‘ Dear me, mist’ess, honey, where’s you gwine?” 
 
 “ Didn’t I tell you? To Washington City.” 
 
 “To Washington?” exclaimed Henny, letting the dress 
 fall from her hands, and looking up in stupor. 
 
 “Yes, yes, didn’t I tell you—to Washington, to see Ad- 
 miral Cockburn, and save your brother. 1 do not believe 
 of Cockburn—I never believe of any one—as ill as is reported 
 of them, and I think if 1 go and make a proper representation 
 to him, I shall be able to save Jack.” 
 
 Henny stood gazing at her mistress in the same stupor. 
 
 ‘“Come, come, Henny! give me the other sleeve around 
 here,” said Catherine, impatiently. 
 
 Still Henny steod and stared in a stupor, until suddenly 
 
THE NIGUT JOURNEY. 419 
 
 all her muscles and limbs gave way, and she sank down be- 
 fore her mistress, embraced her knees, looked up into her 
 face, and said, in tones of earnest, deep affection— 
 
 “ Don’t go, mist’ess, don’t go—don’t trust yerse’f long « 
 Admirable Cockburn an’ his hang-gallows sojers. Don’t.” 
 
 “T must, Henny.” 
 
 “OA! no, no. Memorize what happened at Raison River, 
 in’ at Ham’ton, how dey nyder spared sexes nor ages—nyder 
 ole paralytic men nor little babies, nor der young moders— 
 dem leastes’ ob all. Don’t mist’ess, dear.” 
 
 “T must Henny. It is the only chance of saving your 
 brother.” 
 
 “Oh, dear me! Oh, my heart’s ready for to break; but 
 nebber mind—don’t go, mist’ess, don’t go. Let him die, 
 mist’ess, tain’t nothin’ only but death arter all! an’ Ad- 
 mirable Cockburn, ’save his funnelly soul, can’t do nuffin’ 
 tall but kill him. An’, poor fellow, he hadn’ long to live 
 no how, wid a’sumption in bis breas’, an’ so it on’y comes 
 a little sooner an’ a little deffunt like. Don’t go, Miss Kate, 
 ear, let him die. T’se his sister, an’ I’se been a mammy to 
 him, but I sez so, an’ he’d say so, too, brother Jack would, 
 ef he could on’y speak long 0’ you! Sure he’d lay down his 
 life willin’, an’ so would us all, sooner ’an you should fall 
 in wid Admirable Cockburn.” 
 
 ‘<T know it, Henny! I know it! Don’t talk to me any 
 longer, though every word you say but fixes my resolution 
 to go.” 
 
 & Oh, Miss Kate! oh! don’t, don’t,”’ exclaimed Henny, 
 clasping her knees, and repeating all the arguments and 
 entreaties she had used before. But Catherine was firm 
 as sad. 
 
 “Tf you mzs’? make an effort, sen’ a messenger long 
 of a note, Miss Kate. Dar! do dat—now dat’s a good 
 trought.” 
 
 « Ah, Heaven forbid! I have had enough of risking poor 
 ‘gnorant creatures, who cannot keep themselves out of 
 danger.” 
 
 ‘ Well, den, Miss Kate, who is you gwine for to take long 
 p’ you, to wait on you, chile 2” 
 
 “There, give me my hat, Henny.” 
 
 “Yes, honey, who’s you gwine to tak2 wid you?” 
 
 “T told you no one, Henny—where are my gloves ?”’ 
 
 “ Here day is, honey. Oh, mist’ess, dat’s susanside, an’ 
 
 y 
 
420 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 
 
 nothin’ ’tall else. Take Jeemes ’long 0’ you! He’s brave 
 as a lion—comes to fendin’ at you.” 
 
 “No, James would need rest and food on the journey—I 
 shall require—I shall stop for neither. Besides there is not 
 a horse here who could bear his weight continucusly for so 
 lung a journey. My strong little mountain pony, I think, 
 may carry my light weight to the journey’s end with very 
 little stopping.” 
 
 «Oh, Miss Kate! ’deed I shall pray for you.” 
 
 “Yes, do, Henny—that is the only way in which you can 
 help me. Come, go with me out.” 
 
 “Stay, mist’ess, stay one minute! Ise trought ob anoder 
 trought.”’ 
 
 “ Well ” 
 
 ‘«‘ Long as you will go onattended, please don’t be ’noyed 
 at what ?’m gwine to say.” 
 
 “ Only be quick, Henny, that is all.”’ 
 
 “Well, den, ‘long as you will go widout any ’fence or 
 *tection—” 
 
 “ Except the Lord, Henny.” 
 
 “Yes, honey, sure ’nough—’cept de Lord’s—hadn’t you 
 better put on—hem—a-hem—male boy’s clothes ?”” 
 
 “What 2” 
 
 ‘¢ Wouldn’t it be more of a ’tection to you? Now, der’s 
 a suit in de house, you calls to min’, as ’il] jus’ fit you. Dem 
 as *longed to Miss Georgy, when she were a masquerade: 
 play-actorin’ here wid de city folks, here one Christmas 
 Dey’d fit you to a tee.” 
 
 ‘¢ No, thank you, Henny !” 
 
 “¢ You ain’t mad ’long o’ me for sayin’ of it, is you, Miss 
 Kate ?” 
 
 “Mad? Poor girl! No, Henny.” 
 
 ‘“‘ Nor likewise ’noyed in yer feelin’s ?” 
 
 “No, no, you did but mistake,’ answered Catherine, 
 getting into her saddle, while James held the pony, and 
 HI{enny affectionately arranged the riding skirt around her 
 cet and handed her the whip. 
 
 ‘There, there, that will do; good-bye, all of you,” said — 
 Uatherine, feverishly. 
 
 Henny burst into loud wailing. Catherine paused and 
 ‘aid her hand upon her shoulder, silencing her while she 
 raid— 
 
 “ My poor girl, don-+ fear I have committe’ myseif to 
 
THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 421 
 
 the Lora! J am in His hands. TIT trust in Him, else T 
 should not dare do this which seems to you so much like 
 madness. I trust in Him, and no evil can befall me.” 
 
 “ But oh! mist’ess, mist’ess! If you should arter a! 
 perish !” 
 
 “Tf I perish, I perish!—it will be no evil if the Lord 
 permits it !” 
 
 *¢T doesn’t b’lieve de Lord am gwine fur to ’mit it! I feels 
 safe ’*bout young mist’ess, J does! I b’lieves how ef Admi- 
 rable Cockburn or any of his jail-birds was to come fur tv 
 sturve Mist’ess, trustin’ in Hebben as she does, how a thun- 
 derbolt would strike him down sooner, an’ she as puts hex 
 trus’ in de Lord, should come to any harm.” 
 
 “Yes, or a yethquake, if ne’ssary !” exclaimed the more 
 ardent Henny. ‘J ain’t feard for you no longer, mist’ess 
 dear! Hebben is wid you !” 
 
 Catherine waved her hand in adieu, gave reins to her pony 
 which bounded beneath her, and seemed to fly over the lawn. 
 She was fevered, excited— mad inspired,” say either. 
 Night was closing darkly around her, but its sedative sha- 
 dows had no power to soothe her excited nerves—the dews 
 were falling, but they had no efficacy to cool her fevered 
 veins; a long journey lay before her, hut its length could 
 not discourage her; dangers were thickly strown about her 
 path, but they could not appall her; her only desire, her 
 only anxiety, was to reach her destination in season, if pos- 
 sible, to rescue this boy from death, because he was dear to 
 Clifton—dearer than she herself, his wife, was, she- now 
 thought; and now her life itself seemed of little worth, 
 since the hope that was life’s earthly end, was laid low. 
 Her only remaining hope was to save this life—her only 
 remaining fear, to fail in doing so. 
 
 Her path, for many miles, lay through the deep, intermi- 
 nable wilderness of forest, that, rising and falling with the 
 low mountain ranges, extended over more than half the 
 county. Her path was so narrow, and the branches of th 
 trees often so low and interlaced, that a single start of her 
 horse, or a single moment’s hesitation to bow her head, 
 might have dashed her brains out against the intersecting 
 branches of the trees. And in the deep darkness of the 
 night, and in the despairing absence of her perceptive facul- 
 ties, this danger beset her every instant. But she rode on, 
 like a menomouiac, strangely heedless, and, like @ somnam- 
 
132 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 
 
 bulist, strangely preserved. As night deepened, and low- 
 ered, and thickened around her in the awful depths of the 
 wilderness, the distant howl of the hungry wolf, the nearer 
 cry of the fierce wild cat, and once the more fearful whistle- 
 signal of some outlawed desperado fell upon her ear. But 
 even these appalling sounds struck no terror to a heart, 
 stunned by despair into insensibility to danger. And she 
 rode on through these terrific perils, strangely unconscious, 
 and strangely protected. 
 
 At length, as she descended the last steep, and drew near 
 to the outskirts of the wilderness, the lights of the small 
 village of L gleamed through the interstices of the 
 woods—appearing and disappearing, jack-o”-lanternlike, until 
 she emerged from the forest and came full upon the hamlet. 
 It was so late at night, that all the houses were shut and 
 dark, and the only lights were those she had seen in the fo- 
 rest,—the lights of the stage and post office. She passed 
 like a meteor through the gloomy street, eliciting only a 
 ““ What the deuce was that?’ from a loiterer in the stage- 
 office, who had seen her flight, and emerged again upon an 
 open plain, over which her road lay for many miles. Another 
 village gleamed up from the plains—was reached, passed, 
 and left far behind with the same lightning-like speed. 
 
 She rode all night, less sensible to danger and fatigue than 
 the hardy little mountain pony that was carrying her light 
 weight, but straining every nerve and sinew in the service. 
 The night was deeply dark—the clouds thick, heavy and 
 lowering ; ; she had no means of computing time or distance, 
 but farms, forests and fields continued to loom, appear and 
 vanish, as she fled past them. She watched the East with 
 feverish anxiety for day. But still mountain, meadow, and 
 moorland came and went, as she approached and hurried 
 by them, and still deep darkness hung like a pall over 
 Heaven and earth. Vainly she watched the Hast, for 
 hamlet, village or town in turn was seen and reached and left 
 behind, and still a wall of dense blackness blocked up the 
 Orient. 
 
 A new and very serious danger threatened her every in- 
 stant—her poor horse, fatigued nearly to death, was ready to 
 fall, and she did not know it. He reeled and tottered, and 
 “tumbled and recovered himself many times, and she did not 
 seg or feel it! nay, she mechanically exerted every nerve 
 ard sinew t~ hold him up, and keep him on his feet, while 
 
 
 
 
 
THY NIGHT JOURNEY. 423 
 
 totally uucorscious of her own exertion. Like a sleep 
 walker was she in her deep abstraction. 
 
 She was in a deep forest again riding for life, and the 
 veins in her arms were swelled out like cords, with straining 
 to hold the horse up on his feet. She could no longer see the 
 Hastern horizon, but it was growing lighter, and she knew that 
 morning was dawning. She rode on, and on, and on, and 
 at length came out of the forest in time to see the level rays 
 of the rising sun striking redly across the fields. The win- 
 dows of a farm-house flashing back the early light gleamed 
 upon her vision, and at the same time her horse reeled and 
 fell with her. ‘Good Lord!” “Are you hurt?” “Run 
 here, Tim.” Call your mist’ess, Peter.” ‘ Where are you 
 hurt, lady? can you tell us ?” 
 
 Catherine awoke as out of a dream, to see many people 
 around her all asking questions, and all attempting to extri- 
 eate her from her saddle. She passed her hand across her 
 prow, as was her wont when trying to dispel thorny and 
 she looked at them in perplexity. 
 
 “My Lord, ?’m afraid she’s very much hurt! Oan you | 
 speak, lady? Where is your injury ?” said the eldest man 
 #f the party, at length, lifting her in his arms. 
 
 “< T—no—I’m not hurt—not the least ; is the horse ?” 
 
 “We don’t know, ma’am; [’um sure it’s a blessed thing 
 you’re not killed yourself,” said another of the group, who, 
 with several more, were trying to raise the pony upon his 
 legs. 
 
 «‘ Pray put me down upon my feet. Thank you. Tm not 
 hurt. How far is Washington City from this place?’ said 
 Catherine, as she stood watching her horse. 
 
 ‘Good forty miles, lady. I don’t think he’s hurt, but 
 poor fellow, he’s trembling with fatigue,” said the farmer, 
 answering her, and then examining the horse, which was 
 raised at last and stood trembling and blowing. 
 
 «Can he take me to Washington to-day?” asked Cathe~ 
 rine, as she leaned against the fence for support. 
 
 “‘ He?—Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Why look at him, lady: 
 Besides, can you go there yourself anyhow? Why you’re 
 ready to drop now! Better go in and let the old woman 
 put vou to bed and give you some breakfast.” 
 
 “Tt is true I’m very stiff and weary—having ridden all 
 nigkt. But I must reach Washington without delay; there 
 is one | ~xre about under sentence of death. If I reach 
 
424 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 
 
 there in time, I may get a reprieve and save him. I must 
 go to-day.” Catherine spoke this, frequently pausing fot 
 breath. When she ceased— 
 
 << Some of her ’lations gwine to be hung, an’ she gwine to 
 
 ee President Madison to get him off! May depen’, that’s 
 it!”? whispered one farm laborer to another. 
 
 “Can you let me have a horse to take me there to-day? 
 I will pay twice—ten times his value,” said Catherine, raising 
 her heavy eyelids to the old farmer’s kind face. 
 
 “‘ Lady, Ill let you have another horse in two heurs from 
 this, on condition that you go in to my old woman and tuke 
 soine refreshment, and lie down to rest for that time. And 
 not a minute sooner, and not on any other terms whatsoever, 
 even if it was your father was going to be hanged—would I 
 let you have a horse; because I see very clearly that, unless 
 you take some rest, you will drop down dead before you get 
 a mile farther on your road.” 
 
 “It is true—it is the voice of Providence, I think—I 
 thank you very much; I will rest. Please take care of my 
 poor pony.” 
 
 “‘ He shall be looked after, lady. Take my arm.” And 
 the worthy farmer drew Catherine’s arm within his own, and 
 carefully and respectfully supported her to the house, where 
 he gave her into the charge of his wife, saying, ‘* Here, wait 
 upon this lady, honey! be a mother to her, honey! for she’s 
 sorrowfully in want of one.” 
 
 The farmer’s wife placed her in a stuffed chair, drew off 
 her gloves, untied her hat and removed it, unfastened hei 
 spencer, and asked her if she would have breakfast, which 
 was just ready to go on the table. 
 
 “No, thank you. You are very kind. The Lord reward 
 you. But—rest, I want only rest,” said Catherine, ready to 
 swoon, for the sense of fatigue was growing upon her. 
 
 “¢ Yes, rest, that’s all she wants, or rather that’s the most. 
 she wants now! Put her to bed! let her sleep for two hours, 
 and have a cup of strong coffee and a broiled chicken ready 
 for her when she wakes. That will set her up again, and 
 help her to reach her journey’s end,” said the kind-hearted 
 man. 
 
 Supported by the farmer’s wife, Catherine was guided up 
 the stairs to a cool and quiet room, where she dropped upon 
 the bed. No sooner had her head touched the pillow, thay 
 the 100m. the white-washed wall, blue window-curtains, the 
 
THE NIGHT JOURNEY. AGS 
 
 everfzrecus mm the whitened fire-place, the picture of the an- 
 punciation over the mantle-piece—all reeled around her 
 senses as a vision, and wheeled off, carrying with them the 
 outside worid and alf consciousness of being. 
 
 To her, existence was blotted out for two hours. 
 
 “ Wake up, lady! wake up! your breakfast is ready, and 
 go is your horse!” 
 
 Catherine started uv at the voice of her landlady, and 
 gazed around, bewilderea. Then memory flashed upon her, 
 and she sprung to her feet, and began hastily and nervously: 
 to fasten her habit. 
 
 “‘ Here is water, lady, ana napkins—and is there anything 
 
 .else I can bring you ?” 
 
 «No, thank you, you are very good.” 
 
 « How do you find yourself ¥? 
 
 Better—I think. How long have I slept ?” 
 
 “Just two hours. I wished +o let you lie longer, but my 
 dear old fellow insisted on keeping his word with you.” 
 
 “Tm glad he did. It was very needful. But you ara 
 kind, and I thank you.” 
 
 Catherine bathed her head and face, and the good hostess 
 combed and arranged her hair, and fastened her habit and 
 took her down stairs, where a comfortable breakfast awaited 
 her. It was yet but seven o’clock, and the farmer assured 
 her that she had time enough to reach Washington by night- 
 fall, and that she would be far better able to do it from 
 having had this rest. She hastily swallowed a few mouthfuls 
 of food, drank a cup of strong coffee, that gave her a sort 
 of fictitious strength, and then arose from the table and 
 quickly prepared to resume her journey. The good woman 
 followed her with many kind wishes, and the good man set 
 her in her saddle, and while adjusting her comfortably, gave 
 directions about the nearest way to W , the next con- 
 siderable town upon the road. Then he gave her the reins, 
 and prayed God to bless her. She thanked her kind hosts 
 earnestly again, put whip to her horse and galloped away, 
 leaving her valuable pony in pledge. 
 
 The farm-house, with its garden, orchard and vineyara, 
 barns, wheat-stack and stubble-fields vanished behind her 
 flying steed. The country was now open, and she flew on 
 and on before the wind. And now she had entered the 
 forest, and she hurried through its deep shadows, flecked 
 with golden sun-glances. When she emerged again, and 
 
 
 
426 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 
 
 found herself in the open meadows, it was ngh noon, and tha 
 Augu:t sun was pouring down his burning rays with intolera- 
 ble power. But on and on she rode, unconscious of suffering 
 in herself, and unheedful of the fatigue of her panting and 
 perspiring steed. 
 
 It was two hours past noon when she reached the town of 
 W. , and at the very first inn on the suburbs her horse 
 stopped, of his own will, nor could she, with all her efferts, 
 persuade or force him to budge a step. A boy, a colored 
 woman, and then the landlord, his wife and all the children 
 came out, to see a lady riding, unattended, who could not 
 make her horse go. 
 
 ‘¢ He wants food and drink, I suppose,” said Catherine, te 
 the landlord, who at last came to offer her aid. And then 
 she alighted, and requesting the host to have the animal at- 
 tended, very quickly, followed the landlady, who conducted her 
 into the rustic parlor. She was now so fatigued and stiffened, 
 that the act of standing or walking was really painful, so 
 she sank down upon the lounge, and declining all the land- 
 lady’s offers of refreshment, waited a weary half hour, while 
 her horse was feeding. At the and of that time, she mounted 
 again, and resumed her journey. She passed through the 
 town, and over the wooded hills that environed it on the 
 east, and came down upon the plains. The heat of the after- 
 noon was of that close, breathless, insufferable kind, that 
 always forebodes an awful storm. The sense of suffering 
 was beginning to force itself upon her, and as for the animal 
 she rode, she could not, by any means, coax or drive him 
 beyond a walk. Then her mind became again anxiously 
 concentrated upon the end of her journey, to the total ex- 
 clusion of all other thought, and all sense. It was in this 
 state that she arrived at the foot of a steep hill, covered with 
 copse-wood, ascended its top, descended the other side, and 
 reached a small river at its foot. She drew up her feet, 
 doubled her riding-skirt up over the horse’s shoulders, and 
 guided him into the ford, and—with the water splashing 
 around, and rising even to the animal’s neck, she crossed 
 the river—so mechanically, so unconsciously, that had people 
 asked her, thereafter, whether she had forded a stream in her 
 journey, she could not have told them. 
 
 The sun was declining to his setting, and the sky was 
 heavy with clouds, while still the air was close, sultry, 
 stifling a1d cnpressive. Everything indicated the approach 
 
 
 
THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 427 
 
 before long of a tremendous tornado. The shades of even- 
 ing were falling thickly around her when she was passing 
 through the dense, low-lying forest south-west of Washing- 
 ton. When she emerged from its deep obscurity and came 
 out into the open country, an alarming phenomenon arrested 
 her attention; the eastern horizon was luridly lighted by a 
 ow, dull, red glow, like the earliest dawn of a wintry morn- 
 ing. Her road led directly towards this murky light, and 
 her eyes were fascinated to it. As she rode and gazed, the 
 blood-tinged illumination seemed to glow and brighten on her 
 vision, and presently after, began to send up meteoric streams 
 of fire towards the clouds. As the distance lessened between 
 herself and the awful conflagration, it began to illumine her 
 path more and more distinctly and fearfully, until every ob- 
 ject for miles around was plainly visible in the lurid glare. 
 And then at last Catherine recognized it for a burning city— 
 the city of Washington wrapped in flames ! 
 
 On descending the road towards the Potomac, a scene 
 difficult to describe met her view. All up and down the river 
 and on either shore, were seen in the red glare multitudes 
 of fugitives—some seeking to cross, some in boats on the 
 water, and some landed and hurrying in disorder up the 
 country. Soon after this, she met great numbers of terrified 
 women and children, flying from their desolated homes. The 
 greatest possible consternation and confusion prevailed among 
 these panic-stricken fugitives. The most terrific reports 
 were rife: That the enemy were in hot pursuit—that the 
 slaves had been incited to revolt, and mad with emancipa- 
 tion, and drunk with all manner of licentious excess, were 
 perpetrating more horrible and revolting atrocities than those 
 which at Hampton, the year before, steeped the country in 
 blood and shame. 
 
 Rendered by despair senseless as the dead to all these 
 dangers, Catherine laboriously pushed and threaded her way 
 down the road, blocked up with horses, carriages, foot-pas- 
 sengers, baggage wagons, cattle, and all the miscellaneous 
 eiptyings of a hastily and fearfully evacuated city. As she 
 drew near the Long Bridge, she heard by the frightened 
 talk of the flying multitude, that the end of the bridge on 
 the Virginia side had been burned to prevent, or at least 
 delay, the pursuit of the enemy. She then turned her horse’s 
 head up the course of the river. with the intention of crossing 
 by the Georgetown Ferry She had no trouble in picking 
 
498 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 
 
 her way through the thicket under the hills that bordered the 
 Potomac from this point, for every minutest cbject on the 
 way was made painfully distinct by the light of the burning 
 city. When nearly opposite Georgetown, she descried the 
 ferry-boat put eff from the other shore, and propelled rapidly 
 across the r'~er. She stopped her horse, intending to wait 
 and return with it. In less than five minutes it touched the 
 beach, and a carriage with a small party of ladies, escorted 
 by a guard of nine cavalry volunteers, landed. 
 
 In the hurried consultation that ensued among them, 
 Catherine leazned that the party consisted of Mrs. Madison 
 and her friends and attendants, flying from the burning 
 Presidential Mansion. When they had turned their horses’ 
 heads up the river road, Catherine rode down to the boat, 
 m.1 addressed herself to the ferryman, asking to be taken 
 over. The man looked at her in astonishinent, and when he 
 saw that she was in earnest, advised her strongly against the 
 trip, telling her that she had best turn rein and ride as fast 
 and as far as possible in the opposite direction—that every 
 one had fled or was flying from Washington, that the city 
 was in the undisputed possession of the enemy, who were 
 demolishing, burning and laying waste the metropolis at 
 pleasure. There was no need to tell that—the fact was 
 awfully visible by the light of the great conflagration. But 
 Catherine still persisted in her purpose, replying to his ob- 
 jections that some one whom she did not wish to desert was 
 in the hands of the enemy; and at last prevailed upon him 
 to put her across. 
 
 She was landed on the flats west of the city. Here crowds 
 of women and children, pale with terror, and weeping and 
 wailing for their ruined city and lost homes, waited impa- 
 tiently to be taken across the river, out of the way of more 
 horrible fates, which the atrocious reputation of Cockburn 
 and his Cossacks reasonably taught them to dread. Cathe- 
 rine left them hurrying in mad confusion into the boat, while 
 she hastened on to the very scene of peril from which they 
 were flying. She passed swiftly over the low and marshy 
 ficlds that then lay between the river and the heart of the 
 city, and entered upon Twenty-first Street, above the War 
 Department, and turned into Pennsylvania Avenue. 
 
 What a scene! Volumes of smoke, as from an enormous 
 volcano, were disgorged in massive clouds, and settled like a 
 olack canopy over the doomed city. The President’s P: lace 
 
THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 429 
 
 and the Treasury Building, swathed in their shrouds of fire, 
 iNurmined all the scene with terrific splendor. Even at the 
 distance of several hundred yards off, her eyes ached with 
 the insufferable light and scorching heat. At the distance 
 of a mile, the Capitol, wrapped in its mantle of flame, sent 
 forth a hail-storm of sparks and burning brands. 
 
 In strange and awful contrast to this ‘apalling progress of 
 destruction, w was the dread silence that reigned over the fall- 
 mg city. All the terror, consternation, hurry and distrae- 
 tion were left without. Here, upon the very scene of action, 
 all was comparatively quiet. The houses were shut up, and 
 if they contained any inmates, they were hiding in obscurity. 
 The streets seemed forsaken by the conquerors, as by the 
 conquered. There was no shout of soldiery, no martial music, 
 no sign or expression of a grand military triumph anywhere, 
 no sound to be heard from the powerful enemy in possession, 
 except a distant, dull, heavy, monotonous tramp, as of many 
 retreating hoofs. The flames were doing their work of de- 
 struction in silence, only broken by the occasional crash of 
 some falling roof, cupola, or pillar, or some reverberating ex- 
 plosion. Catherine passed under the blinding glare and 
 scathing heat of the burning Treasury Building, and turning 
 the elbow of the Avenue, came upon a sentinel, eho instantly 
 levelled his musket and challenged her, with « Who goes 
 there ?” 
 
 “The Admiral,” said Catherine, drawing rein. 
 
 The sentinel lowered his musket with a surly “ Pass on,” 
 followed by a low, insulting comment. Catherine had merely 
 intended to express her errand, and had chanced upon the 
 countersign. 
 
 «Where shall i find your commander?” she next said. 
 
 “<The General ?” 
 
  No—Admiral Cockburn.” 
 
 * Corporal,” said the soldier, in a low, distinct veice. The 
 Corporal of the Guard advanced. 
 
 «What did you want, mum ?’ 
 
 “To be conducted to the presence of the Admiral,” an 
 swered Catherine, with an imploring glance. Perhaps some 
 thing in her countenance moved the pity of the officer—- 
 perhaps he thought her a sufferer from the devastation of the 
 city. At least he volunteered to be her guide, and request- 
 ing her to accompany him, led the way down the avenue 
 towards the Capitol 
 
 27 
 
430 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 
 
 « Did you know, mum, that a curfew had been provlaimed, 
 and the citizens forbidden to appear in the streets after eight 
 v’clock in the evening ?” 
 
 “© No, and if I had, I should have been still obliged to 
 disregard it, for a matter of more than life and death hangs 
 upon my interview with the Admiral,” replied Catherine, 
 speaking out of the fullness of her heart. 
 
 The distance between the Treasury Building and the Cap- 
 itol was about one mile, and the glare of the conflagration at 
 each end, revealed a line of sentinels, posted at regular in- 
 tervals the whole length of the avenue. 
 
 A ride of ten minutes brought them to the encampment 
 of the enemy on the Capitol Hill, east of the burning edi- 
 fice. Here, indeed, prevailed much of the noise and disorder 
 consequent upon the relaxation of discipline after a day of 
 severe action. Nearly four thousand men were resting, some 
 leaning upon their muskets, some seated upon the grass, and 
 some flat upon the ground, in the death-like sleep of drunk- 
 enness or exhaustion. 
 
 A group of officers, with their gorgeous scarlet and gold 
 
 laced dresses resplendant in the glare, stood watching the 
 progress of the fire. Towards these the Corporal conducted 
 Vatherinc. One from among them advanced, laughing 
 eoarsely, as he exclaimed—* Who have we got here, Cerpo- 
 ‘al 2—a woman, by George! and a young and pretty one, too, 
 o judge by the pretty figure. You’re welcome, madam. 
 What, afraii? Well, I suppose you have formed a terrible 
 inion of me from the newspapers, which delight to repre- 
 ent us all as devils. Never fear me. Satan is not half so 
 black as the saints paint him! You shall be far safer under 
 wy government than under Madison’s. oss says he makes 
 no war upon letters or ladies. Ho, ho, ho! Ross—Ae’s 
 sentimental, you know! Well! d letters, but J make 
 no war upon ladies either, except with Cupid’s weapons—ho, 
 ho, ho, hc, ho! What, afraid still. Come! let’s see your. 
 face ; never saw a shy woman yet that had not a face worth 
 peeing.” 
 
 Abashed at this manner of address, Catherine hung her 
 head, until the Corporal whispered— 
 
 “ Rear Admiral Cockburn.” 
 
 Then she stole a glance at the speaker. 
 
 4 flashy. overdressed, vet slovenly perscn, a florid com- 
 
 
 
THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 431 
 
 flexion, a clear, mirthful, audacious blue eye— a sensual 
 mouth, and a free, dashing, insolent manner, marked the 
 licensed Pirate of the Chesapeake, and the boon companior 
 of the profligate Prince of Wales. 
 
 What, shy yet! By your leave, my dear!” said the 
 Adiniral, chucking his hand under Catherine’s chin, and 
 raising her face. Poor Kate’s face, as well as her hair and 
 her dress, was stained with dust and tears and perspiration, 
 and her features were pale and haggard with sorrow, anxiety 
 and extreme fatigue. The profligate dropped her chin with 
 a start, as if it had burnt hin, exclaiming— 
 
 “ Whisht! Ugh! Brownies and kelpies, and witches on 
 broomsticks! Oh! ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! Ugh’! what a face! 
 Here, Corporal, I pass her over to you: you seem to be kindly 
 disposed. There is no accounting for tastes, so—Oh! ho, 
 ho, ho, ho, ho! I make you a present of her. OA-A! 
 where can | find a dozen pretty girls to get the cross out of 
 my eyes 2?” 
 
 Mortified, repulsed, despairing, Catherine stood by her 
 horse, with one arm thrown around his neck, and her head 
 resting upon it. 
 
 A low hum of voices around her, seemingly incident upon 
 some one’s arrival on the scene of action, and then a sweet, 
 deep-toned voice near her, inquirmg— 
 
 “Can we be so happy as to serve you in any way, lady 
 I should be most grateful for the opportunity. To be able 
 to render any service is always a most soothing amelioration 
 to me of the harsh duties of war.” 
 
 ‘“¢ Major-General Ross,’? whispered the friendly Corporal, 
 stooping to her ear. 
 
 Catherine raised her head, and saw, bending towards her, 
 a very handsome man, in the early prime of life, of a grave, 
 sweet, thoughtful, and somewhat melancholy expression of 
 sountenance, who regarding her with respectful sympathy, 
 repeated his offers of service, saying— 
 
 “If Iam so fortunate as to be able to assist you, lady, 
 pray do not hesitate a moment to command me.” 
 
 “Thank you, thank you—I—wished to speak with the 
 Admiral—but—” 
 
 ‘¢With me! oh, ho, ho, ho, ho! I beg your pardon! [ 
 oeg to decline the honor! Talk to Ross—he’s sentimental, 
 and—responsible! the father of a family, ect.-- ‘a married 
 
439 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 
 
 man myself, with several sweet children, and venerate the 
 anctity,’* ect. Eh, Ross? Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!” 
 
 «Speak with me, lady. Ishall be most happy to aid you. 
 What is it? Have you or yours suffered, or received any 
 injury by our soldiers that I can redress? Can I help you 
 in any way ?”’ asked General Ross, in gentle, earnest tones. 
 
 “ Yes, yes, I think you may have power to do me a vital 
 service.” 
 
 *‘ Nae it, lady. My word is pledged.” 
 
 “ His word is pledged! Ob, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho !—pledged 
 to a scare~crow pledged to a kelpie!—pledged to a witch 
 on a broomstick! Oh, ho, ho,ho, ho, ho! OA-A!” shouted 
 the coarse Adiiral. 
 
 The eye of Ross flashed for an instant, but sheathed its 
 fire as he turned to Catherine, and, taking her hand respeet- 
 fully, drew her aside from the proximity of the brutal Cock- 
 burn, who, in addition to his other graces, was now doubly 
 inflamed by drink and triumph. 
 
 “ A tryste! a tryste-with the Queen of the Kelpies! Oh, 
 ho, ho, ho, he, ho!”? roared the Aduiiral, holding his sides, 
 and bending forward to shout his insulting laughter, and then 
 stalking off.” 
 
 *¢ Wxplain, lady. I shall be proud to serve you. Pray 
 have confidence in me, madam, and believe in the sincerity 
 of my words,” said General Ross, still holding her hand, 
 while she passed her other one slowly to and fro across her 
 forehead, as was her habit when embarrassed, trying, ‘o clear 
 her mind and arrange her thoughts. 
 
 But as soon as she was relieved from the presence 2f the 
 coarse and insolent Cockburn, she recovered breath and self- 
 possession, and spoke clearly and to the point. 
 
 “ T thank you, sir,—I deeply thank you. I will tell you. 
 I heard, in my distant mountain home, that my husband, 
 Major Clifton, of the Regiment of Volunteers, had 
 been dangerously wounded in the action at St. Leonard’s. I 
 did not hear that he had also been taken prisoner. Believing 
 him to be still in the American camp, and fearing that he 
 needled more constant attention than he could get, and feel- 
 ing very anxious to hear directly from him, I sent his favorite 
 bervant to find him, dirccting the man to remain with him, 
 
 
 
 —_— eS 
 
 * Words used by the ee ie and unfortunate General Ross. while 
 ‘ts ing to sxothe the fears of Mrs E 
 
 
 
THE NIGHT JOURNEY. AX" 
 
 ‘and tc write me of his state. He, this servant, was a poor, 
 rustic negro, sir, totally igrorant of the usages of war. 
 When he reached the American 2amp, he discovered that his 
 master was a prisoner on board the British fleet. He pro- 
 cured a boat and boarded the Albion. He was taken asa 
 spy, of course, and, to end the miserable story, awaits only 
 the orders of Admiral Cockburn to be executed. I heard 
 that yesterday evening, and I instantly set off, and between 
 that hour and this have ridden more than seventy miles, al- 
 most without stopping for food or rest, and entered the city 
 to-night alone, when all were flying from it, to beg this man’s 
 life from the Admiral. Now, you know, you know, how vital 
 is my request, my prayer.” 
 
 ‘You could not have done more for your father, lady !” 
 replied General Ross, with a gentle, earnest wonder on his 
 fine countenance. ‘ You could not have done more for your 
 father than you have done for this slave.” 
 
 «Do not wonder, sir. He would have laid down his life 
 for us. But, oh, sir! time presses—death threatens '” 
 
 “Be at peace, lady! The life or death of this slave, of 
 such vital importance to you, isreally a matter of so little 
 moment to Admiral Cockburn, that I have not the slightest 
 hesitation in promising to secure for you his pardon and 
 liberation.” 
 
 «¢ Oh, may the Lord forever bless you, sir! I never, never 
 can tell you how grateful I am—” 
 
 «‘ Peace, peace, dear lady. It is absolutely nothing. I 
 would to Heaven I could really do anything to merit your 
 kind word and kind remembrance, when others are cursing 
 me for what the stern duties of war force me to do !” 
 
 ‘¢T shall ever remember you, sir, with the deepest grati- 
 tude.” 
 
 ‘¢ And now, Mrs. Clifton, you must have rest and refresh- 
 ment. My head-quarters are at Doctor KH Prey a if 
 amiable family are at home. They will gladly afford you 
 comfort and assistance. Permit me to conduct. you thither.” 
 
 He replaced her carefully in her saddle, and taking the 
 reins, led her horse until they reached the commodious man. 
 sion of Doctor K Here he imtroduced Mrs. Clifton, 
 who was received with respect and sympathy. Leaving her 
 in the care of the kind and hospitable family, he then set out 
 to seek Admiral Cockburn. 
 
 Catherine was shown to a chamber, and afforded the re- 
 
 
 
 
 
THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 
 
 t. sshments of a partial bath and food. After which she lay 
 duwn on a sofa, to rest, and await the return of the gentle 
 and generous Ross. 
 
 In about half an hour she was summoned to the parlor, 
 where she found him standing. He advanced to meet her, 
 and said-— 
 
 “‘ Mrs. Clifton, I have the pardon here, but I very much 
 fear—” and his face clouded over—* I very much fear it will 
 be too late.” 
 
 “© ¢ Too late !’”? echoed Catherine, sinking into a chair, as 
 she repeated the saddest words in the language—* Too late. 
 Is he dead ?”’ she asked, covering her face with her hands. 
 
 «No. Mrs. Clifton, but he has been ordered for execution 
 at eight o’clock to-morrow.” 
 
 “IT 1s NoT TOO LATE!” exclaimed Catherine, starting 
 up, with electric energy. ‘Give me—oh! give me the pars 
 dor !—I will take it there in time !” 
 
 “« Lady, the distance is over forty miles—and the necessary 
 delays, and the dangers that threaten a young female, travel- 
 ing alone by night, through a country infested—” 
 
 “Oh! give me the pardon! give it me, I implore you! 
 I will take it there safely, and in time! Heaven has pro- 
 tected me through dangers as great, and Heaven will pro 
 tect me through these! Oh, for the love of Heaven, do not 
 hesitate! Every moment is inestimable when a ‘too date’ 
 threatens us! Give me the pardon !” 
 
 “«‘ Nay, lady, I can send a courier with the pardon, rather 
 than that you should go, for many reasons.” 
 
 «“ Oh, no, no, your courier would want to stop, to eat and 
 drink—or he might fall in with some of our people, and be 
 killed or taken,—or if he escaped, through his explanation 
 of his errand—why, that very errand would be rendered fu- 
 tile, by the time lost in investigation. J shall pause for no- 
 thing. Heaven will protect and speed me. Oh! give me 
 the pardon. Donotdelay! .4// depends upon promptitude. 
 AJis! excuse my importunity ! but give me the pardon !” 
 
 General Ross attempted to dissuade her; but neither ar- 
 guments nor persuasions had the least effect upon her resolu- 
 tion. At last, overruled by her earnestness, vehemence and 
 faith, he yielded—handed her the pardon, and went out te 
 see if he could procure her a fresh horse. 
 
 When he entered again, after a successful search, he found 
 her equirped foi ber second night’s journey, and standing ir 
 
THE NIGJIT JOURNEY. 138 
 
 the midst of her astunished hosts. He informed her that her 
 horse was ready, and also that he had provided her a guard, 
 to escort her beyond Bladensburg. Then she took a hasty 
 and grateful leave of her amiable entertainers, and accept- 
 ing the arm of the Major-General, left the house. 
 
 As General Ross placed her in the saddle, and handed her 
 the reins, he said—- 
 
 ‘« Heaven protect and speed you, lady. Farewell—and 
 sometimes remember me.” 
 
 ‘< will remember and pray for General Ross while I live,’ 
 said Catherine. And then she put whip to her horse, and 
 rode away, uvheld oy a wonderful energy. 
 
 b] 
 
428 THE GOA 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 THE GOAL. 
 
 Th->’ waves, thro’ storms and clones 
 He gently clears thy way, 
 
 Trust thon his grace—so shal] the night 
 Scon end in joyous day.—Moravian. 
 
 INCALCULARLE is the power of the spirit over the fcsh. 
 In the intense absorption of her soul by one hope, Catherine 
 was carried above all consciousness of the exces.:.e exertion, 
 and ail s.»se of the extreme fatigue that was oppressing and 
 harassing her bodily powers almost to dissolution. Buta 
 watchful Proviaence, 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 Brit- 
 ish outposts, beyond Bladensburg. And by the time she 
 had reached Long Old Hields, the storm, that had been 
 threatening all the evening, burst suddenly, with terrible 
 violence, driving her for shelter mto-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. 
 
THE “GOAL. 437 
 
 When she awoke, the storm had passed, and the stars were 
 shinirg dimly in the early dawn of day. She started up, re- 
 morseful and affrighted to find she had slept so long, and te 
 recollect that her journey was not half over. It was now 
 four o’clock, and she had yet nearly thirty miles to ride be- 
 fore eight, or all was lost! Her pitying hosts tried to per- 
 suade 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 au 
 arrow through the woods. 
 
 Suddenly she stopped and reeled backwards—that ora 
 pain again; it pierced her side and chest like a sword; 
 caught away her breath, and caused the drops of alae 
 to burst from her pale forehead. But not fer pain, or even 
 vr 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; hor brain 
 
438 THE GOAL. 
 
 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 up- 
 heaving of the ground, that kept her moving, moving, moving, 
 forever. Qh! 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 sbe really reached it at last, or was it an illusion of de- 
 lirtum? 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 be- 
 side 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 feil from powerless hands upon the hurse’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 stiffen- 
 ing fingers, and guessing its purport, passed it to the officer 
 in command. nen he sank upon one knee, drew her insen- 
 sible form to and supported it against his breast, while he 
 antied 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 pri- 
 srver released and poor Jack, half-dead with terror before. 
 
THE GOAL. 439 
 
 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 zs the lady?” “ Do you know her, 
 sir 7’ 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 thril- 
 ling 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, mur- 
 muring— 
 
 «¢ 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, 
 gaying— 
 
 ‘Sir, I am a prisoner of war, as you know. Yet, my wife 
 is in a dging state here, and I wish to convey her to a place 
 of safety an” repose.” 
 
440 THE GOAL. 
 
 ‘“‘ 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. 
 
 “‘T 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 re- 
 ceived by the planter’s wife and sisters, who tenderly un- 
 dressed 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 ivsensibility 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 mad- 
 ness—or if left, too, to themselves, might termimate m 
 death ; that her state was exceedingly critical, and that hex 
 rest was by no means to be broken, unless there was a per- 
 ceptible failure in her pulse, in which case the stimulants 
 and restorative he_should leave must be applied and admin- 
 istered, 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 beard the Albion, an agrees 
 able 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, 
 aud shaking hands heartily, exclaimed— 
 
 “You did not expect to find me here? I have come 
 concerning the arrangement of a change of prisoners. Co 
 .onel Lithgow of his Britannic Majesty’s ———— Regiment 
 
THE GOAL. 41) 
 
 and taken prisoner by our people in the same engayrement 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 
 heen effected, and to congratulate you on your restoration to 
 iberty.” 
 
 Major Clifton bowed deeply, and requested the use of a 
 boat to leave the ship. 
 
 “ Nay—yourself and General Conyers will stay and dine 
 witd, us ?”? asked Captain ———-. 
 
 But Major Clifton, thanking him for his invitation, and 
 also for much kindness and attention received during his so- 
 ieurn as a captive among them, declined remaining longer, 
 ond repeated his request for a boat. 
 
 “Oh, mine is here at your service. Jam going ashore 
 wth you of course,” said General Conyers. 
 
 “T beg your pardon, sir! the boat you came in has been 
 eee by Captain Fairfax, who has gone ashore with it.” 
 
 cab, true!” 
 
 ‘“ Captain Fairfax 2?” asked Archer Clifton. 
 
 “¢ Yes, my friend, Captain Fairfax. Frank accompanied 
 eve hither in search of yourself. Some news of vital import- 
 ance he had to communicate, which he did not impart to me 
 He could not wait for your return at all, so he went ashore 
 iu search of you. [le wouid have fran you sooner if he 
 b«d 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 Brit- 
 ish 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 or Clifton, 
 and shaking it cordially, said— 
 
 “So, you have won noble Catherine? Well, I congratu- 
 tate you with a whole heart, though al have wou her trom 
 my hopes.” 
 
 «¢ Won her from your hopes?” 
 
 “Ay, Archer, I loved her.’ 
 
 “« Loved her ?”’ Ns 
 
 ¢ Yes, and love ker! 133 
 
 “ Love her ?” 
 
449 THE GOAL. 
 
 «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.” 
 
 ‘‘T 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 Gene- 
 ral Conyers with his own. General Conyers, with his haughty 
 and powerful connection in town and cour.try ; his immense 
 unincumbered estates ; his high military rank; and last, no. 
 least, his eminently handsome person, accomplished mind, 
 and graceful address;—General Cony ers, 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! Jpon 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.? 
 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 
 eould never be more than a faithful friend to me, for that she 
 loved another.” 
 
 Major Clifton started, and grasped the arm of his com- 
 panion, but instantly recovering his self-control, he inquired, 
 
 
 
 “ And who did she say was that other ?”’ 
 
 “ Nay, she never breathed his name. She could not have 
 aone that, She was trying to do me good when she informed 
 me. [remember well her sweet and holy locks and words 
 At first she fluzhed and paled, hesitating between generous 
 
THE GUAL. 443 
 
 impulse and womanly reserve; and then as princ.ple rose 
 above instinct, her face glowed with an expression such as | 
 have seen in the pictures of St. Agnes ;—a warm, high, holy 
 look, an inspired look, such as might well become the coun- 
 tenance of the Virgin Martyr, and she said, speaking to her- 
 self, ‘ 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 re- 
 mains 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 ?” 
 
 “Tam! Tam! 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!” 
 
 <‘Tt was at the Governor’s levee, where I was first intro- 
 duced to her, and where you met after along 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 uncon- 
 scious 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?! 
 Qh! God help me to say that sincerely.? I had been in- 
 terested in her before; but I saw that, and I loved her from 
 that hour, the sweet, the lovely, the Madonna-like maiden! 
 I Joved her with an affection as free from passion as it was 
 fiom selfishness, and as free from both as her own pure, 
 saintly nature. And I offered her my heart and hand, as I said. 
 Aud she zweetly and gratefully declined them, as 1 might 
 have known before ;—unveiling the sanctuary of her price- 
 less heart, to quiet me forever with the revelation of another 
 master there ” 
 
qi1 THE GOAL. 
 
 “Oh, God! Oh, God!” said Clifton. 
 
 «What disturbs you so, Archer?” 
 
 “Never mind. Never mind! And so, rejecting you as 
 a Hone she won you as a friend ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Hor life and death and eternity. Yes.” om 
 
 “That was a triumph! Rejected lovers seldom becom¢ 
 friends! That was a rare triumph! Bat then Catherine is 
 a rare woman.” 
 
 “ Very rare!’ 
 
 “ Truly nick-named ‘ Maria Theresa.’ ” 
 
 ‘Catherine! ‘Maria Theresa? By whom? By soma 
 one, I suppose, who, recognizing her strong, practical mind,’ 
 secs 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 imagi- 
 aary case, you observe, Conyers ?” 
 
 “Yes! Well?” 
 
 « Suppose you had ipsiie Cather ee? 
 
 ‘¢That is very imaginary! Well?’ 
 
 «¢ And suppose that you had discovered her to be unwor- 
 thy of your good opinion ?” 
 
 ‘Impossible! It could not have happened, because she 
 could not have been unworthy.” 
 
 ‘¢ But suppose that her unworthiness had been n.ade mani- 
 fest 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, T do.” 
 
 «¢ Whose is it?” 
 
 “Mrs. Catherine Clifton’s.” 
 
 « Are you sure ?” : 
 
 “Pooh! Of course Tam! [ am familiar with the wrk 
 ting !77 
 
 “ Could you swear to it?” 
 
TIME GOAL. 44? 
 
 «¢ You are very emphatic in this matter! Let me sce 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 mv 
 contempt for the forgery ; and then I should have raised it 
 with my sword’s point, and thrust it down his throat, to ex 
 press 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 earnest] 
 beg your pardon, Clifton !” 
 
 «¢ And now you are quite as much convinced that she die 
 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 forgivenesr 
 for saying that that was Catherine’s. I said so, because it 
 strongly resembled hers, and I did not know the vile pur- 
 port! Oh, I trust, Clifton, that you signally punished the 
 conspirator who wrote it! I can well believe that you nei- 
 ther 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 con- 
 cerning the state of Catherine, he learned that she still lay 
 without any sign of life, except the faint beating of hev 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 im- 
 pression. The deep, thorough earnestness of confidence in 
 Catherine’s perfect integrity, exhibited by Conyers, hau 
 
 28 
 
446 THE “GOL: 
 
 shaken Clifton’s firm convictions of her guilt to their upreot 
 ings, as the whirlwind shakes the oak. Ay, and fe waa 
 shaken—literally shaken, terribly shaken, by strong passion, 
 as he exclaimed to himself— 
 
 «Oh, would to Heaven I could think as he does! Iam. 
 no longer a youth, credulous of happiness, but if I could only 
 thoroughly believe in Kate as he does—or once sce her inno- 
 cence proycd, it would fill my heart with joy.”’ He entered 
 the chambsr, 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 ]iy, 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, health- 
 ful 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 nob:e 
 face was in perfect rest. The majesty of truth sat enthroned 
 upon the fine, broad, open forehead, with its eyebrows archud 
 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 evei g 
 curve of the lightly-closed and perfect lips. She looked a- 
 quéen in repose— 
 
 “ A Queen of noble Nature’s crowning,” 
 
 whem it were disloyalty to suspect, and treason to accuse. 
 Aste gazed, the earnest faith of Conyers came back wi.h 
 tonfld power to his soul. He more than half abjured his 
 evil convictions, and a flood of tenderness came over his 
 beart. There was no one to see his weakness—not even 
 her—the sleeper. He went and closed the door, and re- 
 tarued and kneeled by her side. He took her hand, and 
 bowed his head over it. From that tranee-sleep there was 
 no fear, because there was no possibility of waking her yet 
 fic kissed and pressed that hand with sorrowful passion— . 
 murmuring—* For once—for this time, I will, J will believe 
 you true, my own dear Catherine. My whole nature starves* 
 it starves, and withers, and dies for a perfect revoncilia- 
 tion, a perfect union with you. Oh, for once, let soul and 
 
THE GOAL. 44) 
 
 heart be satisfied—let me steel my mind against ti 2 thought 
 of evil, and fold you around with my love, ‘and pless 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 sinile ; 
 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 
 J love her. Witness this worn Fraaie 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 Clg*on !” 
 
 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 congratu- 
 Jating 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! 
 ff you had only waited two years longer, until I had some- 
 what recovered the despair of my own awful bercayvement, I 
 should haye tried to dispute the prize with you—not that 1 
 was in love with noble Catherine—I never was but once in 
 love, ard I never shall be again—but that I think her just 
 the most precious woman in the world. Nor am I alone in 
 
443 THE GOAL. 
 
 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 ta 
 Wellington himself. > we had to see Admiral Cockburu 
 about this exchange of prisoners, and met General Ross in 
 his company—lI 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 Ad- 
 miral Cockburn aside, and talked with him in the most em- 
 phatic 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 comnosed 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 2?” 
 
 “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 Lis 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 ¢ busi 
 ness of vital importance,’ which Conyers says, made you his 
 companion in secking 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! Whois it? Ihave no very dear friend, out of 
 tliis 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— 
 
 
 
THE GOAL 449 
 
 “No! Impossible! How could that be? A woman in 
 such fine health !” 
 
 “ Death is always possible; at all times, and to all pers 
 sons.” 
 
 «‘ When, and where, and under what circumstances, did 
 she die? I am very sorry.” 
 
 «She died a week since, at her house, in Richmond.” 
 
 “Tam very sorry. The cause of her death ?” 
 
 *“‘ One ef those virulent summer fevers prevalent in the city 
 just at this season. Her physicians think that hers was fa- 
 tally ageravated 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 meaconfidant ; butafter 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 yow 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 tha 
 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 ske 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 a3tion isa strong passion for himself. Great 
 
{59 THE GOAN. : 
 
 res ucr wickedness had been—great as the suffering it hac 
 carnsed him, he bore no malice to the dead Georgia. Heeven | 
 afrer a time resolved to cover her sin from all eyes--to bury 
 it m the grave with her. But merciful as he was in judging 
 Georgia-—he was stern enough in condemning himself for se 
 rendily believing his innocent wife to be guilty. And he di: 
 viced his broken exclamations between severe self-upbraid. 
 ings, and rejoicings at her full acquittal—F rank watching him 
 Wirh curiosity and strong interest 
 
 ‘Qh! fool! fool! fool !” 
 
 -‘ What is it, Clifton? Who’s a fool 2?’ 
 
 ‘Oh! fool! thrice sodden fool that Pye been! Thank 
 \\waven. 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 
 On Heaven be praised !” 
 
 ** Heaven be praised for folly, blindness, and madness 
 Weu Heaven be praised for all things! But what the deuce 
 is it, Clifton ”’ 
 
 “Mole! mole! Oh, God, how grateful—how rejoiced ] 
 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 yom 
 forehead, like a walking gentleman in a melo-drama, which 
 you always detested ! ‘Besides, you know there is no legiti- 
 mate dramatie reason for a married hero to stride about and 
 obstr eperate, excepting only jealousy, and you’re not jealous ? 
 Come! cease starting and vociferating, and tell me the 
 cause—‘ the CAUSE, my soul! ” 
 
 “ Vrank! [ve been a fool !” 
 
 «“ That’s no news.” 
 
 «And a brute !” 
 
 «¢ Who doesr’t know that ?” 
 
 « And a cursed villain.” 
 
 «“ Nay, ‘1 wouldn’t hear your enemy say that.’ ” 
 
 «Oh! Frank, Frank, what shall I do?’ 
 
 «‘T am sure I don’t know, unless you tell me the premises 
 of action.” 
 
 “TJ cannot, Frank! Dear Frank, I cannot. The memory 
 of the dead should be sacred; so should the differences 
 of —— ~ I cannot tell you. Frank.” 
 
THE GOAL 451 
 
 «© Hist! Here’s the doctor.” 
 Old Doctor Shaw at this moment passed through the par- 
 w, 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 
 mile had departed from her lips, and the color from her 
 cheeks. The old physician put on his spectacles, and looked 
 scrutivizingly at her face and hands, laid kis 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 uy, 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 prescribey, her best medi- 
 cine.’ 
 
 “But, sir, | have something of vital importance to com- 
 municate to her!” persisted Clifton. 
 
 sé Sir, it may be of vital importance to you, but it would 
 be of fatal importance to her, should you rouse her to com- 
 municate 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 putin a warm buth. 
 
 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 gentle- 
 man 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 te 
 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 Cathe- 
 rine, 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. 
 
459 THE GOAT. 
 
 Ay! gaze on, Archer Clifton, tor when you have onve 
 turned your eyes away, sharp heart-pangs must be yours ere 
 vou look vpon 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 
 prouusa to be at her side early in the morning. 
 
 (n the r.orning ! 
 
CONCLUSION 443 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 So trial after trial past, 
 
 Wilt thou fall at the very last, 
 
 Breathless, half in trance, 
 
 With the thrill of a great deliverance, 
 
 Into our arms forever more; 
 
 And thou shalt know these arms once curied 
 About thee—what we knew before— 
 
 How love isthe only good in the world. 
 Henceforth be loved as heart can love, 
 
 Or brain devise, or hand approve.—BrownIna. 
 
 THe e afidential communication made by Mr. Perry, was 
 probably a ruse on the part of that eccentric gentleman, for 
 the purpose of obtaining the assistance of the officers in 
 ‘making a night of it”? over at his house. Certainly, ou 
 reaching the home of their host, they found company await- 
 ing their arrival, and they passed the evening in the jolly 
 festivity of country hospitality. A luxurious supper was 
 served late at night, from which they did not separate until 
 the “small hours.” Thus many of the guests overslept 
 themselves the next morning, which delayed the family break- 
 fast several hours. Therefore it was after ten o’clock, before 
 Major Clifton, very much against the will of his odd enter- 
 tainer, bid him farewell, and set out to return te Greenwood. 
 Jt was eleven o’clock when he reached the farm-house. The 
 ladies were all in their sitting-room, engaged in their various 
 jomestic occupations of netting, sewing, knitting, etc., 
 when he entered, and gave them the morning salutation 
 And then— 
 
 ‘¢ How is Mrs. Clifton this morning, ladies? Can 1 see 
 her immediately ?”’ 
 
 «¢ Mrs. Clifton, sir!” said the eldest lady, looking up in 
 surprise. ‘ Mrs. Clifton is gone sir, Did you not know it” 
 
454 CONCLUSION. 
 
 ‘(Gone ?” repeated Archer Clifton, incredulously. 
 
 “Yes, sir.” 
 
 “‘ Gone!” he reiterated, in amazement. 
 
 “Yes, sir. We certainly thought that you were aware 
 of her departure.” 
 
 “‘ Most certainly not! Gone! When? how? excuse me, 
 madam, but where has she gone ?” 
 
 “We do not know, sir, indeed, since you cannot tell us. 
 We thought that she had gone to join you, at Mr. Perry’s 
 We were very sorry, but—” 
 
 ‘“< How long since she left? How did she go? Pardon mg 
 vehemence, dear madam.” 
 
 “We partake of your anxiety, sir. Mrs. Clifton left us 
 about four hours since, at seven o’clock, immediately after 
 breakfast. She went away on the horse that was brought 
 here yesterday as her own. She left us very much against 
 our arguments and persuasions. We would gladly have de- 
 tained her.” | 
 
 ‘“Gone! Good Heavens, was she able to go.” 
 
 ‘«¢ No, sir, assuredly she was not.” 
 
 Archer Clifton sank into a chair, exclaiming— 
 
 ‘Pray, tell me, dear madam, the circumstances of this 
 departure, and all that occurred from the time I left, until 
 she went away.” 
 
 “ Why, sir, after you left, she continued in the same deep 
 sleep until nearly nine o’clock, when she began to show 
 symptoms of awakening. I sent out and ordered the hot 
 bath to be prepared, and sat down to watch her. As she 
 drew near to consciousness, her face lost that look of pro- 
 found repose, which had previously marked it, and began to 
 assuine an expression of suffering. Her brows folded, and 
 her lips sprang apart and quivered, as with a spasm of sharp 
 pain, and her eyes flared open suddenly, and she was awake. 
 I asked her how she felt, but she shook her head, and closed 
 her eyes again, and shut her teeth tightly, !‘ke one trying to 
 bear silently some sharp, inward pain. The bath was then 
 prepared by the bedside, and we began to get her ready for 
 it; but on the slightest attempt to move her, she groaned 
 8° deeply, that we scarcely dared to lift her for some minutes. 
 I knew then how it was;—that her muscles were stiff and 
 painful, from the severe exertion of such a long equestrian 
 journey. And I knew also that the hot bath would relieve 
 her; and the docta ’s directions had been peremptory, 80 we 
 
CONCLUSION. | 45§ 
 
 tried again, and placed her in the bath. And very soon ths 
 hot water seemed to alleviate her sufferings. And when we 
 put her comfortably to bed again, sbe thanked us very 
 sweetly. [asked her how she found herself. She answered, 
 ‘ Better’—adding, that she thought, by her hard exercise, 
 she had hurt some part of her chest or side, which had given 
 her great pain, but which was now partially relieved.” 
 
 ‘‘ |)id she seem very much better? Was her voice strong 
 in speaking ?” 
 
 “No, it was very weak and faint, and frequently broken, 
 as by some inward pain, as I said.” 
 
 Go on, dear lady.” 
 
 _ We brought her a cup of tea and a plate of toast, of 
 both cf which she partook slightly. It was then after nine 
 o’clock, and she begged that she might not disturb us—that 
 we would retire to bed—and said that she was better, and 
 would try to sleep again. She then composed herself to rest, 
 and the girls all left the room. I remained watching until 
 U thought she slept, and then I lay down to rest on the other 
 bed in the same room. I think she passed a good night, for 
 [ could not divest myself of uneasiness upon her account, and 
 
 0] could not get to sieep until after midnight, and during 
 ail that tme 1 never heard her move, or sigh. After I did 
 get to sleep, however, I slept very soundly, till near six 
 o’clock. And when I awoke, what was my surprise, to see 
 her up and dressed, as for a journey. She looked very pale 
 and ill and sorrowful, and in fastening her habit, she fre- 
 quently stopped and leaned against the bed-post for support 
 L arose quickly and questioned her wishes, and begged her 
 to lie down again. But she only waved her hand against 
 me, with a mute, imploring gesture. I expostulated witb 
 her, but arguments and persuasions were alike in vain—she 
 only answered, ’I wust go.’” 
 
 “Oh, Heaven! Where, where did she wish to go?” 
 «¢ We do not know. She was not communicative, and w 
 
 did not like to question her.” 
 
 ‘‘orgive me, dear madam. Indeed I fear my questione 
 ings must appear almost rude, but my great anxiety must be 
 my excuse.” 
 
 ‘Your anxiety is very natural, sir, and we share it.” 
 
 ‘¢ Did she know that I was in the neighborhood? Did any 
 oné inform ner !” 
 
 6 We cannot tell whatk>+r she knew of your presence here. 
 
 
 
456 CONCLUSION. 
 
 We did not tell her, for, as 1 said, she made no inquiries, 
 and there was a reserve about her despair that shut itself in 
 from all interference. Indeed it would be scarcely doing 
 justice to her lonk of deep sorrow, to say that she was the 
 most hopeless looking human being I ever saw in my life 
 She seeméd like one who had seen her last hope go down.” 
 
 “ Merciful God !” 
 
 ‘’We used every method, except force, to prevent her 
 leaving us, though we were impressed with the idea that she 
 was going to you. And after her departure, in consulting 
 together, we were half sorry that we had not essayed gentle 
 coercion, for we all suspected that the lady’s reason was 
 clouded.” 
 
 «‘ Great God! I have driven her to madness—perhaps to 
 death !” thought Archer Clifton, but then he exerted self- 
 control enough to conceal the depths and extent of his 
 anxiety, and asked “* What road did she take ?” 
 
 ‘“‘The North-west road, sir, which branches off towards 
 Mr. Perry’s a quarter of a mile up, which was one of our 
 reasons for supposing that she had gone to join you.” 
 
 Taking a hasty leave of the family, Major Clifton remounted 
 his horse, and rode furiously up the road, meeting General 
 Conyers and Frank, who had lagged behind on their return 
 home. Stopping them, he communicated what had happened, 
 but concealed his worst fears, and merely said that he pre- 
 sumed that Catherine had left for her Virginia home, in igno- 
 rance of his liberation, and his presence in the neighborhood, 
 and that he wished, if possible, to overtake her, before she 
 had proceeded far upon her road. Frank immediately turned 
 rein to accompany him, while General Conyers, with many 
 expressions of regret and concern, took leave of them, to 
 return to Greenwood, and explain their absence. 
 
 The road lay for many miles through a dense forest, and 
 they galloped onward for hours without meeting a single 
 traveler or seeing a solitary house. Near the outskiris of 
 the forest they came upon a party of stragglers, whom they 
 judged to be deserters from the British army. But these 
 men, when questioned, gave cautious and unsatisfactory an- 
 swers—sulkily insisting that no lady riding alone had passed 
 that way. They next inquired of some field laborers, who 
 were stacking grain a little farther on. They replied that a 
 iady in a dark riding-dress, riding on a bay horse, had 
 
CONCLUSION. 457 
 
 boy, mounted on a white mare, attendea ner. Perhaps this 
 was Catherine, and her attendant scme chance passenger. 
 They questioned more particularly. and the description given 
 answered to her personal appearance. They asked what road 
 she had taken, and being told “ straight ahead,” they set off 
 in a gallop. <A few miles further on they again inquired, 
 .and were told that such a lady, attended by a boy, had passed 
 abcut an hour before. Full of hope, they put spurs to their 
 horse3 and hurried on, congratulating themselves that they 
 were gaining on her so fast. 
 
 At length they reachcd a school-house in the woods, 
 where, tied to a fence, they saw the bay horse, with a side- 
 saddle, and a white pony, with a boy’s saddle. Dismounting 
 quickly, Captain Fairfax hastencd to the school-room door, 
 and inquired of the master to whom the animal belonged ? 
 
 “To Mrs. Jones, who has just brought her son to school,” 
 answered the teacher, full of surprise at the question. 
 
 Axa there, indeed, sat “ Mrs. Jones” and young Hopeful, 
 looking as if they considered such investigation into their 
 r*operty very impertinent, to say the least. 
 
 Disappointed, Frank returned to Major Clifton with this 
 explanation, and they looked at each other m chagrin and 
 perplexity—Major Clifton with great difhculty maintaining 
 his self-possession, and concealing the dreadful forebodings 
 that overshadowed his mind. They were now thirty miles 
 from Greenwood, and the sun was getting low. 
 
 “IT do not see anything better to do, Archer, than to 
 keep on till we reach Washington City. No doubt you wil! 
 see her there, if you do not overtake ber before.” 
 
 Again putting whip to their horses, they galloped on, 
 
 assing the great belt of forest, and entering upon the bare 
 bisade, lying south of the city. It was late in the night 
 when they descended the road leading to the Anacostic 
 bridge. They found that the bridge had been destroyed, 
 and they experienced much difficulty and dclay before find- 
 ing a boat to take them across. They entered the ruined 
 and blackened city a little aiter midnight. At that hour 
 rittle opportunity of search was afforded, and that little was 
 fruitless. They had much trouble in finding a night’s 
 lodging in the desolate city, but at length obtained indiffer- 
 ent shelter, and retired, with the determination to pursue 
 their investigations in the morning. At an early hour they 
 arsse, and went out, making inquiries in every direction, but 
 
458 CONCLUSION. 
 
 in vain. No one had seen or heard of the missing lady 
 though many cheerfully suggested that she had fallen intc 
 the hands of the British soldiery, who were on their retreat 
 through the low counties. Strongly impressed with the idea - 
 hat she must be in or near Washington, they were unwilling 
 to abandon their search, but remained in the city all day, and 
 through the next night, before resigning all hope of finding 
 her there. KHven upon the second morning, Major Clifton 
 and Captain Fairfax were divided in their opinion as to 
 whether they had better go back to St. Mary’s, or go on 
 to R————. Major Clifton, full of the darkest presenti- 
 ments, was disposed to turn back. Captain Fairfax, on the 
 contrary, full of hope and confidence, urged his friend to 
 push forward. While they were debating, General Conyers 
 rode up and joined them. He said he had but that morning 
 reached the city, and had been an hour in search of them, 
 In answer to their anxious questions, General Conyers in- 
 formed them that up to late the night before, no news had 
 been heard of Mrs. Clifton—that she evidently was not in the 
 neighborhood he had just left. He seemed grieved and 
 alarmed to find that they had not yet overtaken Catherine, 
 but expressed a strong conviction that she must be on her 
 way home. He advised them to pursue the journey, and 
 regretting that peremptory duty called him to an interview 
 with the Secretary of War, and prevented his bearing them 
 company, took leave, and rode away—turning back once to 
 beg that as soon as they had found Catherine, tley would - 
 write to him at Washington, and let him know. Major Clif- 
 ton and Frank precured fresh horses, and leaving their own, 
 set forward on their anxious journey. 
 
 The gloomiest forebodings darkened the mind of Archer 
 Clifton. There was one scene ever present to his mental 
 vision—where, at the end of her dreadful journey, fainting 
 ‘rom incredible exertion, Catherine had fallen into his arms, . 
 und he had received her with a harsh-and stern rebuke for 
 making a scene :—one look and tone of hers, that filled his 
 soul with remorse and terror prophetic of doom—her last de- 
 spairing gaze—her last despairing tones, before she sank 
 into insensibility. How plaintively they echoed through his 
 heart «“ Patience, patience, patience Indeed I will 
 not trouble you, love I will go away——-Maybe God 
 will let me die.” Would he ever forget those words, that 
 voice, that gaze of unutterable but meek despair! 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CONCLUSION. 45% 
 
 «I have broken her heart. J have killed her. 1 have 
 killed her. Woman’s nature could not live through what 1 
 have driven er through! Poor, pocr girl!—-so bitterly 
 slandered !—so cruelly tortured! Persecuted unto death— 
 or worse—unto madness! And where is she now? Per- 
 kaps the waves of the Patuxent roll over her cold bosom— 
 calmed at last; or perhaps she lives—a mad and _ houseless 
 wanderer; but I will not believe this, I will not believe it! 
 She may be dead; she must be broken-hearted but not mad! 
 All-Merciful God!—not mad! She may be dead—and that 
 would be just, for it would secure her happiness and my own 
 retribution, in the only way that both could ve secured. 
 perhaps.” | 
 
 Not a hint of this prophetic despair was breathed to Fair- 
 fax. Clifton’s indomitable pride, regnant even over this 
 anxiety, forbade the communication of his remorse and alarm, 
 and the great reason he had for both. Yet Frank observed 
 and tried to cheer his friend’s deep gloom. 
 
 _ « Come, rouse yourself, Archer, we are nearing L— —, 
 and shall be at White Cliffs by night-fall, and who but Mrs. 
 Clifton will meet us at the door, with her gentle smile and 
 gentle welcome, and then shall we not all spend a jolly even- 
 ing, laughing over our cups of tea at the famous wild-goose 
 chase we have had?” Hut little effect had Frank’s words on 
 his drooping fellow traveler. Only as they drew near White 
 Cliffs his depression rose into feverish excitement. Arrived 
 at L——--, they inquired if Mrs. Clifton had passed through 
 there, and were informed that she had aot. It was long 
 after night-fall that they reached White Cliffs. Here the 
 terrified house servants, roused up from their sleep, answered 
 ‘to all inquiries upon the st bject, that they had not seen or 
 heard from their mistress sinee she left to go to Washington. 
 Henny pushed foremost of all to inquire about her * dear 
 mist’ess and brother Jack.” But with a gesture of despera- 
 tion, Major Clifton sent her off unsatisfied, and turned an 
 agonized look upon Frank. Fairfax was almost discouraged, 
 but, nevertheless, he answered that silent appeal hopefully, 
 saying, “Oh! doubtless she will be home to-morrow, or the 
 next day, at farthest. We ought to have remembered that 
 zhe had not recovered from her fatigue, and that she would 
 probably take her own time in returning. We have outridden 
 her, evidently.” 
 
 Major Clifton rejcined by a groan. He ordered refresh- 
 
469 CONCLUSION. 
 
 ments for his guest, and soon after attended him to his room, 
 and retired to his own, not to rest, but to walk about dis- 
 tractedly, and then he burst into Catherine’s vacant chamber, 
 and threw himself down upon her empty bed, in the very 
 anguish of bereavement. His long residence in the lowlands 
 of the Chesapeake, during the hot summer months, had pre- 
 Cisposed him to illness. His long journey, under the burning 
 cun of August by day, and heavy dews of August by night, 
 fatigue and anxiety, loss of food and sleep, all conspired tc 
 bring on the pernicious fever, and before morning Arvher 
 Clitton was tossing and raving in high delirium. Summoned 
 by the alarmed servants, Captain Fairfax was early at his 
 bedside, and seeing his condition, dispatched a messenger 
 for the family physician. For many days, his state alternatee 
 between delirium and stupor, and his life tottered upon the 
 edge of the grave. And in his delirium all his raving was 
 of Catherine—still Catherine—now adjuring her as _ hig 
 Nemesis—now wooing her by the most tender epithets of af 
 
 *ection—calling her his ** poor wounded dove,” his “ broken 
 
 hearted child,” etc. Often he repeated plaintively her las» 
 sorrowful, hopeless words. 
 
 At length the crisis of the disease came. The delirium 
 arose to frenzy. His spirit, as well as his flesh, seemed to 
 be passing through the very fires of purgatory. He raved 
 incessantly—now of Carolyn, now of Georgia, then of his 
 mother, and always of Catherine—sometimes calling down 
 the bitterest imprecations upon his own head, souetines 
 severely reproaching Georgia, sometimes pleading his cause 
 with his mother, and always breaking off to svothe and coax 
 Catherine, as if she were circled in his arm. 
 
 At length the frenzy fairly exhausted itself, and he sank: 
 tnto a comatose state, to dream of Catherine, to see visions 
 of Catherine, to feel her gentle presence, and healing minis 
 trations all about him. ‘Then came insensibility, which lasted 
 ne did not know how long, for all sense of time and place 
 aud existence itself was blotted out. 
 
 And at last he awoke—the burning fever had gone out 
 from his blood, and a delicious coolness ran through all his 
 ve'ns-—the terrible nervous excitement had subsided, and a 
 »uxurious calm Jay upon mind and body, until memory came 
 # disturb it, perbaps to torture it. He was experiencing the 
 delightful sensations of restoration and convalescence, and 
 isis vlivsical state aloue would have been sufficient cause for 
 
CONCLUSION. fol 
 
 happiness, but for one aching, aching epot, ne sharp point 
 of agony us it were in his heart’s core. And when tle cry 
 in his bosom found its corresponding expression, the word 
 was * Catherine '” ‘ Catherine!” 
 
 His eyes had opened on his darkened chamber, whore, 
 upon the hearth, glimmered a feeble taper, that scarcely sent 
 its weak rays beyond the edges of the hearth. He knew it 
 must be near day, for the low, melodious detonating sounds 
 of early morning were echoing through the mountains. Tho 
 chamber seemed deserted—not if Catherine had been living 
 would his sick bed have been so abandoned, he thought. He 
 turned and groaned from the depths of his bosom—* Oh, 
 Catherine! Catherine.” His room was very dusky—he 
 sould not see the presence by his couch—but now gentler 
 than “ tired eyelids upon tired eyes” fell a soft hand upon 
 bis brow. 
 
 Surely there was but one touch like that in the world! 
 
 A new born, feeble hope was trembling at his heart, a 
 hope that he feared to disturb lest it should die in disap- 
 pointment; that he dared scarcely submit to the test of cer- 
 tainty, lest that certainty should bring not joy but despair 
 At last, trembling with doubt, he murmured, “ Am I dream 
 ing, or, dear Kate, are you here 2?” 
 
 “‘T am here,” she answered softly. 
 
 “‘ Darling, are you well ?” 
 
 “‘ Very well—but you are not well enough to talk yet,” 
 said Kate, gently. 
 
 «¢ Dear Kate—how long have you been home ?”’ 
 
 ‘Since the day you were taken ill,” replicd Kate, at the 
 same time encircling his shoulders with one arm, and raising 
 him, while with the other hand she placod a glass to his lips 
 
 Whether the medicine were a potent. sedative, or whether 
 her gentler touch had a soothing effect, or whether both these 
 influences acted upon him, I cannot tell ; but certainly the 
 nervous excitement, just raised by the discovery of her pre- 
 sence, subsided into perfect calmness, and he lay with his 
 hand folded in Catherine’s, until he fell asleep. 
 
 When he awoke again it was sunrise, and his room looked 
 eneerful, and the family physician and Frank Fairfax stood 
 at his bedside, with their congratulations on his convale- 
 scence. And while they staid, his eyes were roving rest- 
 lessly around the room, in search of some one else. 
 
 And whew they went away, Catherine entered, bringing 
 
 2 
 
462 CONCLUSION 
 
 cold water, and came and sponged his head and hands. And 
 then she wert out. and returned with his iight breakfast. 
 She sat upon she bed, supporting his head and sb<ulders 
 vpon her bes371 while he ate. At last— 
 
 ‘“ Take it a!) away, dearest Kate,” he said, “ and sit whera 
 I can see you lt is you who are my restorative.” 
 
 When ‘bz service was removed, and his pillows were ar- 
 ranged, av.d fe was comfortably laid back upon them again, 
 he saic— - 
 
 “ Dearert Kate, do you know that I know at last, how 
 deeply you have been injured ?” 
 
 Sne stooped down to him saying, softly— 
 
 ‘‘ Please do not try to talk to-day. Yield to the inclina- 
 tion you have for sleep. It is so needful to you, and ‘will 
 prove so restorative. And to-morrow, when you are better, 
 we can converse,” 
 
 He smiled upon her, and laid his hand in hers, .ana while 
 she clasped it, fell asleep. 
 
 With a strong constitution like that of Archer Clifton, the 
 convalescence is rapid. And Catherine’s presence, as he 
 said, was his true restorative. 
 
 The fourth morning from this, he was very much bettw, 
 and reclined comfortably upon his couch watching Catherine, 
 who moved quietly about the room setting things in order. 
 He was much wasted by illness, and his face looked stil] 
 more sallow and haggard for the dark, dishevelled hair and 
 whiskers that encircled it; but his countenance wore an ex- 
 pression of subdued joy as he lay and watched Kate. At 
 last— 
 
 «¢ Are you so much afraid that Henny will disturb me by 
 rattling a cup and saucer, or jingling a teaspoon, that you 
 must do all yourself? My devoted Kate, I am not so ill. 
 
 Yome and sit upon the lounge by me, and let me talk to 
 you,” he said, holding out his arms. 
 
 She went and sat upon the side of the couch, and he en- 
 eircled her with his arm, while he said— 
 
 “ My dear Kate, do you know that I thought I had los¢ 
 you ?” | 
 
 She raised her eyes in gentle wonder. 
 
 « Yes, I thought your great and undeserved misfortunes 
 had killed or maddened you.” 
 
 ‘It was the approach of your illness that gave you suck 
 dreadful thoughts,” said Catherine, gently. 
 
CONCLUSION. 463 
 
 “* Not entirely, dear Kate. It was your last words when 
 you fainted on my bosom—do you remember them ?’” 
 
 ‘¢ No-—I remember nothing very distinctly fron: the mo- 
 ncnt I threw myself in among the soldiery, and saw the 
 bayonets glittering around me, until I awoke and fo.ind iny 
 self in the farmer’s house.” 
 
 “Ah! don’t you remember that in answer to my harsh 
 guestion—harsh Kate, because I was stil! in blindness—you 
 answered— Patience, patience, patience: indeed I will not 
 trouble you, love—I will go away; maybe God will let mo 
 die.’ ” 
 
 “ Pid I really use those words ?” 
 
 * Yes, and with such a look of hopeless resignation! I 
 thought that I had lost you, Kate. I thought that you were 
 dead or mad, or at least had been driven from me, for you 
 said so earnestly, ‘I will go away? ”’. 
 
 “Did I say that? I donot remember. But I suppose [ 
 meant that I would go home. And, oh! do you think—” 
 
 «“ Think what, dear Kate 2” 
 
 She paused, and her face flushed. She had been about to 
 say, * Do you think that anything but your own will would 
 have driven me from you?’ But her old shyness returned 
 upon her stronger than ever. 
 
 He understood her, and told her so by as tightening 
 pressure of his arm. 
 
 «“ And, dear Kate, we could hear of you A Sal You 
 were long in returning, Catherine.” 
 
 “Yes, when I started I was still very unequal to the re- 
 tura journey, I had weakened myself, and was obliged to ride 
 slowly. And then I lost my way coming back—that was 
 how you missed me.” 
 
 “And does my Kate know that I know now how deeply 
 she has been wronged, and how nobly she has borne those 
 wrongs—returning always good forevil. And can she guess 
 the remorse and sorrow of heart that hurried on this fit of ill- 
 ness ?” Then snddenly overcome with emotion, he exclained : 
 Ob, my God, Catherine! can you imagine how I suffered ?” 
 
 “y J8, Yes, indeed I-know it all! T learned all—all—is 
 the raving of your delirium. Others thought it mere raving 
 but I knew.” | 
 
 “ And do you know who forged that fatal letter, Kate” 
 
 OY Sa.” 
 
 “ Who was it, then ”” 
 
464 CONCLUSION. 
 
 “Yuu said, Mrs. Georgia.” 
 
 “Yes. It was strange you never suspected that, Rute ” 
 
 ‘JT did suspect it.” 
 
 “ You did suspect it!” exclaimed Archer Clifton, in aur 
 prise. 
 
 eh as 
 
 « And you never breathed that suspicion !” 
 
 No, because I had no certain evidence against her, It 
 would have been wrong to have acted upon a mere suspicion.” 
 
 “ Just and upright in all things !” 
 
 “TI only believed God’s promises. I left my cause to 
 Ieayen.” 
 
 ‘* And Heaven has vindicated you, my Kate! You have 
 seen my svfferings since discovering how unjustly you had 
 been condemned ; but, oh, Kate, I suffered also when I madly 
 believed you guilty.” 
 
 ‘¢J know you did. I do know you did. It was that that 
 gave point to my own sorrow.” 
 
 « When I cast you into the fire, while you were tortured, 
 I was scathed! I loved you too perfectly not to suffer with 
 you. You were too really a portion of myself, for me not to 
 suffer through you. I am thinking of that Archbishop, 
 Kate—whose name I have forgotten—” 
 
 « Cranmer ?? 
 
 “Yes, Cranmer! See how our very unspoken thoughts 
 rush together, dear wife. Yes, Kate, I was thinking of Cran. 
 mer, who thrust his offending hand into the flames, and held 
 it there, until it burned to cinders, and dropped off. Oh, my 
 Kate! was it his hand alone that suffered, or did not his 
 whole body agonize with it? And so, my Catherine, when 
 believing you unworthy, I thrust you into the fire, did I not 
 suffer through you inall my nature? I did! I did, Cathe- 
 rine! Lift up the hair from my temples, and tell me what 
 you see ?” 
 
 Kate lifted the clustering dark curls, and answered— 
 
 sé A few white hairs.” 
 
 “ The tears I made you shed, bleached them, Kate.” . 
 
 She did not reply, except by meeting his gaze with a look 
 of earnest affection. 
 
 He resumed-— 
 
 «“ Yes—even then, when insanely I believed it possible for 
 you to be guilty—even then—every look of anguish on your 
 brow wrung my bosom—every tear you dropped, fell hot upon 
 
CONCLUSION. 465 
 
 my heart. Stoop down. J.et me tell you one little simple 
 thing—I sometimes saw—oh, I used to watch you so closely, 
 because I could not help it, Kate ;—when I was harsh and 
 stern, I sometimes saw your chin quiver-—tixe a grieved 
 child’s—and, Kate, my whole soul would be overflowed with 
 tenderness, which, to conceal, I had to start up and leave the 
 room, with every appearance of anger that I could falsely 
 assume.’ 
 
 iXate wept—her tears fell fast upon his hand, that she had 
 elasped between her own. 
 
 «¢ And, oh, Catherine, to think that all this trouble I have 
 suffered, and have inflicted upon you, should have been so 
 unnecessary !”” 
 
 Catherine slid from the edge of the couch down upon her 
 knees beside it, and her countenance grew earnest, and in- 
 spired with faith and love, as she clasped her hands, and 
 said— 
 
 “Oh, no! it was nof unnecessary. God suffered it to be, 
 and it was well—very well! ‘ All things work together for 
 good, to them that love the Lord.’ And every pang that 
 has ploughed our hearts in the past, will make tbem fruitful 
 of good in the future. One fruit is, that the suffering of the 
 last two years has drawn our hearts together as nething else 
 could have done. Because—”’ 
 
 Again in the full tide of her earnest thoughts. the old 
 bashfulness flushed her cheek, and silenced her tongue. She 
 wished to say, ‘¢ Because I think you would never have known 
 me so well, or held me so dear, if you had not proved me by 
 fiery trial.” 
 
 And again his heart rightly interpreted her silence, and he 
 answered her unuttered thought by saying— ‘ 
 
 “Yes, you are right, my own dear blessing! You are 
 right, for I never should have known your full value but for 
 the trial yon have passed through. Yet not now only, but 
 always have [ loved you, dear wife. I denied it to myself— 
 I denied it to others—but there it was, the perfect, vita] 
 Iove, as sure as fate. When I first saw you, Kate, I met in 
 yeur face, your voice, your manner,—yes, in every look and 
 ton2 and gesture, in your whole unity—something that I had 
 vainly sought through life—something homogenial to my nas 
 sure—something perfectly satisfying. You seemed, dear 
 Kate, not so much a separate existence as the completion of 
 my own. What did you say, Kate? Your voice, too, i 
 
465 CONCLUSION. 
 
 ‘ever soft, gentle and low,’—but speak again dearest. It is 
 something that my heart listens to hear.” 
 
 “1 said that I, too, when we first met,’’ she hesitated, and 
 her cheek crimsoned, but feeling that he listened breathless 
 for her words, she continued,—“ Well, only this: I felt as 
 if I were wholly yours, Archer—I have felt so ever since.” 
 
 Again she paused from native bashfulness. 
 
 ‘‘ Kiss me, Kate,—you never kissed me in your life.” 
 
 _ Blushing and timid as the girl that she was, she stooped 
 and lightly touched his lips with hers. But laughing fondly 
 he threw his arm around her, exclaiming— 
 
 “You child! you child! Married two years and cannot 
 kiss me!” and pressed her to his bosom, for one instant, in 
 a passionate embrace, that sent life and gladness through all 
 her veins, and then he said, “I am not ill, Catherine. I 
 have drawn health from your lips. See who is at the door, 
 love.” 
 
 Kate went and admitted Frank, who came in accoutred 
 for traveling. 
 
 “ Ha! where now, Fairfax ?”’ asked Clifton. 
 
 ‘For Richmond to-day.” 
 
 ‘No! You will not leave us so soon 2?” 
 
 “ Yes,—the truth is, I must. I have an engagement to 
 fulfill there on Thursday.” 
 
 “An engagement! Of what nature, Frank, if a friend 
 may ask ?” 
 
 “ Why, the fact is,’ said Captain Fairfax, growing very 
 red in the face, with the effort of pulling on a pair of gloves, 
 “ T am going to be married.” 
 
 “ Married! Oh, Frank! and not to tell us anything about 
 it till now.” 
 
 “ Hem! There was no proper opportunity till now,” 
 stammered the young man. 
 
 “Well, who is the lady, Frank 2’ asked Cliften, while 
 Catherine looked and listened with interest. 
 
 «The only friend that my dear Zuleimwe found in all her 
 adversitvy—-Mrs. Knight,” said Frank, and then he addea, 
 quickly, “ It was a long time before my mother’s pride could 
 be reconciled to this, but Ida’s genuine goodness won her at 
 ant.” 
 
 After the first involuntary expression of surprise, Cathe 
 rine ana Clifton exchanged glances, and Catherine said 
 
 “ Well, Captain Fairfax, as soon after the marriage as 
 
CONCLUSION. 407 
 
 eonvenient,— instantly after the ceremony, if you please,— 
 you must bring your bride down, and pass some weeks with 
 us.” 
 
 “] thank you, Mrs. Clifton; I profoundly thank you, 
 but we are going immediately to England. Ida pines to see 
 her father, who is a country curate, in Devonshire. She has 
 never been reconciled with him since her first unfortunate 
 marriage. I have promised to take her to him, and so im- 
 mediately after the ceremony, we four—that is, Ida, myself 
 and our two little girls—are going to embark for Liverpool.” 
 
 “¢ Well, altogether, this has put a surprise upon us, Frank,” 
 said Major Clifton, meditatively running his fingers through 
 his hair; ‘‘ but, when you return you will make us a visit. 
 By the way, how long do you intend to be absent 2” 
 
 ‘Until the spring. And now I must really bid you 
 good-bye, r regretting very much that I cannot ie you both 
 along with me.’ 
 
 They shook hands cordially, Clifton saymg— 
 
 “ Well, Frank, our very best wishes attend you. May 
 you have ‘much happiness He 
 
 Captain Fairfax turned to take leave of Catherine, but 
 she said that she would attend him down. She left the room 
 with him. And when the door shut behind them, Clifton 
 clasped his hands upon his brow and closed his eyes, as in 
 deep thought or prayer. When Kate re-entered the room 
 softly, he said— 
 
 “(Some hither, Catherine !” 
 
 And she came and knelt by his side, and he encircled her 
 with his arm, and drew her face down to his tosom, and 
 raising his eyes toward Heaven, said— 
 
 “¢ A wife is from the Lord!’ Even so, oh, God! How 
 shall I thank Thee? Hear me consecrate my whole future 
 life to Thy service, in acknowledgment of this, Thy gift .” 
 

 
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 Basil; or, the Crossed Path,...... 5 | Miss or MT ?......c.sesesseeseesereees 50 
 
 Hide. eid Beek..:: vacdeokensonswcesers 73 Mad Monkton, i. cccvesatsaseesaneaee -- 50 
 
 Attar ‘Dav, i Wescstsecccteevevsapy ips 75 Sights a-Foot,..ysas-cseduseuaneees -- 50 
 
 The Stolen Mask,........ 25 | The Yellow Mask,... 25 | Sister Ruse)... 25 
 
 The above books are each issued in paper cover, in octavo form. 
 
 EMERSON BENNETT’S INDIAN STORIES. 
 Complete in seven large duodecimo vilumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $450 
 each ; or $10.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 
 
 The Border Rover,........cse+e0. $1 50| Bride of the Wilderness,........$1 50 
 Clara Moreland,,...... secescccorse L 50 |. Ellen Norbury, /.vcceses eee 1 50 
 The Orphan’s Trials,............. 1 50' Kate Clarendén,.cic. fase « 1 30 
 Viola; or Adventures in the Far South-West,. a  osedpbacteg hee 
 Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price ‘$1. 50 each. 
 
 The Heiress of Bellefonte,...... 75| The Pioneer’s Daughter,...... 75 
 GREEN'S WORKS ON GAMBLING. 
 
 Complete in four large dundectmo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.50 
 each; or $6.00 a set, each sel is put up ina neal box. 
 Gambling Exposed,.......sse0e- $1 50; The Reformed Gambler,........ $1 50 
 The Gambler’s Life,.............. 1 50 | Secret Band of Brothers,........ 1 50 
 Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each. 
 
 DOW’S PATENT SERMONS. 
 
 Complete in four large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.25 
 each ; ov $5.00 a set, each set ts put up in a neat box. 
 
 Dow’s Patent Sermons, Ist Dow’s Patent woah 3d 
 Series, eloth 3. d1,655). Wiese $t 26! Series, cloth, .::..-0:es<enereee eee 
 
 Dow’s Patent Sermons, 2d Dow’s Patent Sermons, 4th 
 Series) eléth...dstsscciccs aes 1 25\ Series, cloth,cscsseeeee » 1 25 
 
 Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.00 each. 
 
 GEORGE SAND’S GREATEST NOVELS. 
 
 Consuelo, 12mo., cloth,.......... $1 50] Jealousy, 12mo., cloth,...........b1 50 
 Countess of Rudolstadt,......... 1 50.1 Indiana, 12mo., cloth,........00. hab 
 Above are each published in 12mo., eloth, gilt side and back. 
 Fanchon, the Cricket, paper cover, 50 cents, or fine edition, in cloth, 1 50 
 First and True Love. With 11 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, 1 00 
 Consuelo. Paper cover,......... 75 | The Corsatr,...sscsas esses ssccsesee 50 
 Simon. A Love Story,.......... 50! The Last: Aldini,.....ccsssssessctes eee 
 The Countess of Rudolstadt. The Sequel to Consuelo. Papercover, 75 
 
 MISS BRADDON’S FASCINATING BOOKS.- 
 
 PUPOPA RIO 7 visi oscs vases teebeenct 75 | The Lawyer’s Secret,....cecccccee 25 
 Aurora Floyd, cloth...........00. 1 00 | For Better, For Worse,.......0. 75 
 @B_eoe 
 
 
 
 
 
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T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 5 
 CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 This edition is printed from large type, octavo size, each book being complete 
 in one large octavo volume, bound in Morocco Cloth, with Gilt Character 
 Figures on back, and Medallion on side, price $1.50 each, or $27.00 « set, 
 contained in eighteen volumes, the whole containing near Six Hundred 
 Illustrations, by Cruikshank, Phiz, Browne, Maclise, and other artists. 
 
 The Pickwick Papers. By Charles Dickens. With 32 Illustrations,.$1.50 
 
 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles Dickens. With 37 Illustrations,.... 1 50 
 
 David Copperfield. By Charles Dickens. With 8 Illustrations,...... 1 50 
 
 Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens. With 24 I]lustrations,.........06 1 50 
 
 Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. With 38 Illustrations,............ 1 50 
 
 Dembey and Son. By Charles Dickens. With 38 Illustrations,...... 1 50 
 
 Sketches by “Boz.” By Charles Dickens. With 20 Dlustrations,... 1 50 
 
 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dickens. With 38 Illustrations..........00 1 50 
 
 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles Dickens. With 42 Illustrations... 1 
 
 Great Expectations. By Charles Dickens. With 34 Illustrations,... 1 
 
 Lamplighter’s Story. By Charles Dickens. With 7 Ilustrations,... 1 
 
 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. With 50 Lllustrations,........ 1 
 
 Martin Chuzzlewit. By Ciarles Dickens. With 8 Illustrations,. .... 1 
 
 Old Curiosity Shop. By Charles Dickens. With 101 Illustrations,. 1 50 
 
 1 
 1 
 1 
 1 
 
 
 
 Christmas Stories. By Charles Dickens. With 12 Illustrations,..... 
 Dickens’ New Stories. By Charles Dickens. With portrait of author, 
 A Tale of Two Cities. By Charles Dickens. With 64 Dlustrations,, 
 Charles Dickens’ American Notes and Pic-Nic Papers,......... cece covees 
 
 BOOKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS. 
 
 The following books are each issued in one larye duodecimo volume, 
 bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each. 
 
 The Initials. A Love Story. By Baroness Tautphoeus,...........c008- $1 50 
 Married Beneath Him. By author of “ Lost Sir Massingberd,”...... 1 50 
 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oliphant, author of “ Zaidee,”.......... 1 50 
 Family Pride. By author of ** Pique,” “ Family Secrets,” ete......2.. 1 50 
 The Autobiography of Edward Wortley Montagu, ..........cseee cesceeeee 1 50 
 The Forsaken Danghter. A Companion to “ Linda,” ...........cssceee 1 50 
 Love and Liberty. A Revolutionary Story. By Alexander Dumas, 1 50 
 The Morrisons.. By Mrs. Margaret Hosiner,t....... .ccecccee sescevosesecess 1 50 
 The Rich Husband. By author of “ George Geith,” .........cceseeeeeeee 1 50 
 The Lost Beauty. By a Noted Lady of the Spanish Court,............ 1 50 
 My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester. A Charming Love Story,........se0.+ 1 50 
 The Quaker Soldier. A Revolutionary Romance. By Judge Jones,.... 1 50 
 
 Memoirs of Vidoeq, the French Detective. His Life and Adventures, 1 50 
 The Belle of Washington. With her Portrait. By Mrs. N. P. Lasselle, 1 50 
 High Life in Washington. A Life Picture. By Mrs. N. P. Lasselle, 1 50 
 Courtship and Matrimony. By Robert Morris. With a Portrait,... 1 80 
 The Jenlous Husband. By Annette Marie Maillard,.........scceeecesees 1 50 
 The Conscript; or, the Days of Napoleon Ist. By Alex. Dumas,.... 1 50 
 Cousin Harry. By Mrs. Grey, author of “ The Gambler’s Wife,” ete. 1 50 
 Above books are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each. 
 
 KS Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
 by T.-B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelghia, Pa. 
 
6 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 
 WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS. 
 
 The following books are euch issued in one large duodecimo volume, 
 bound in moroceo cloth, price $1.50 each. 
 
 The Count of Monte-Cristo. By Dumas, Illustrated, paper $1 00,..$1 50 
 The Countess of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, price $1.00; or cloth,.. 1 50 
 Camille; or, the Fate of a Coquette. By Alexander Dumas,,........ 1 50 
 Love and Money. By J. B. Jones, author of the “ Rival Belles,”... 1 50 
 
 
 
 The Brother’s Secret; or, the Count De Mara. By William Godwin, 1 50 
 The lsost Love. By Mrs, Oliphant, author of “ Margaret Maitland,” 1 50 
 The Bohemians of London. By Edward M. Whitty,........seessseeee Ae Ges)! 
 Wild Sports and Adventures in Africa. By Major W. C. “Harris, 1 50. 
 The Life, Writings, and Lectures of the late “ Fanny Fern,”......... 1 50 
 The Life and Lectures of Lola Montez, with her portrait,..........0:00. 1 50 
 Wild Southern Scenes. By author of “ Wild Western SeenexMuae 1 50 
 Currer Lyle; or, the Autobiography of an Actress, By Louise Reeder. 1 50 
 The Cahin and Parlor. By J. Thornton Randolph.  Illustrated,..... 1 50 
 The Little Beauty. A Love Story. By Mrs. Grey,......ccccccscses covers 1 50 
 Lizzie Glenn; or, the Trials of a Seamstress. By T. S. Arthur,..... 1 50 
 Lady Maud; or, the Wonder of Kingswood Chase. By Pierce Egan, 1 50 
 Wilfred Montressor ; or, High Life in New York. Illustrated.,....... 1 50 
 Lorrimer Littlegood, by author “ Harry Coverdale’s Oe 1 50 
 Married at Last. A Love Story. By Annie Thomas,.. . 1 50 
 Shoulder Straps. By Henry Morford, author of “ D: ays “of ‘Shoddy,” 1 50 
 Days of Shoddy. By Henry Morford, author of “ Shoulder Straps,” 1 50 
 The Coward. By Henry Morford, author of ‘‘ Shoulder Straps,”..... 1 50 
 
 Above books are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each. 
 The Roman Traitor. By Henry William Herbert. A Roman Story, 1 75 
 The Last Athenian. By Victor Rydberg. From the Swedish,....... 1 75 
 
 MRS. HENRY WOOD’S BEST BOOKS, IN CLOTH. 
 The following are cloth editions of Mrs. Henry Wood’s best books, and they 
 
 are each issued in lurge octavo volumes, bound in qloth, price $1.75 each. 
 Within the Maze. By Mrs: Henry Wood, author of “ East Lynne,” f 75 
 The Master of Greylands. By Mrs, Henry Wo0d,......004sesscecse cosces 1 7% 
 
 Dene Hollow. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of * Within the Maze,” 1 75 
 Bessy Rane. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “ The Channings,”.... 1 75 
 George Canterbury’s Will. By Mrs. Wood, author “Oswald Cray,” 1 75 
 The Channings. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of ‘‘ Dene Hollow,”.,. 1 75 
 Roland Yorke. A Sequel to ‘‘ The Channings.” By Mrs. Wood,...... 1 75 
 Skadow of Ashlydyatt. By Mrs. Wood, author of “ Bessy Rane,”.... 1 75 
 Lord Oakburn’s Daughters; or The Earl’s Heirs. By Mrs. Wood,... 1 75 
 Verner’s Pride. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “The Channings,” 1 75 
 The Castle’s Heir; or Lady Adelaide’s Oath. By Mrs. Henry Wood, 1 75 
 Oswald Cray. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “ Roland Yorke,”.... 1 75 
 Squire Trevlyn’s Heir; or Trevlyn Hold. By Mrs. Henry Wood,..... 1 75 
 The Red Court Farm. By Mrs. Wood, author of “ Verner’s Pride,” 1 75 
 Elster’s Folly. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “ Castle’s Heir,”... 1 75 
 
 St. Martin’s Eve. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of ‘ Dene Hollow,” 1 75 
 
 Mildred Arkell. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “ East Lynne,”.....1 75 
 
 Gs Above Books will be sont, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
 by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Phileds!phia, Pa. 
 
 
 
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 7 
 
 
 
 ALEXANDER DUMAS’ ROMANCES, IN CLOTH 
 
 The following are cloth editions of Alexander Dumas’ works, and they are 
 each issued in large octavo volumes, bound in cloth, price $1.50 each. 
 
 The Three Guardsmen ; or, The Three Mousquetaires. By A. Dumas,31 50 
 Twenty Years After; or the “ Second Series of Three Guardsmen,”... 1 50 
 Bragelonne; Son of Athos; or “ Third Series of Three Guardsmen,” 1 50 
 The Iron Mask; or the “ Fourth Series of The Three Guardsmen,”.... 1 50 
 Louise La Valliere. The Sequel to “The lron Mask.” Being the 
 
 “Fifth Book and End of the Three Guardsmen Series,” ...ccsesseseeee 1 
 The Memoirs of a Physician; or, Joseph Balsamo. TIllustrated,...... 1 50 
 Queen’s Necklace; or “ Second Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” 1 50 
 Six Years Later; or the “ Third Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” 1 50 
 Countess of Charny; or “ Fourth Series of Memoirsof a Physician,” 1 50 
 Andree De Taverney; or “ Fifth Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” 1 50 
 The Chevalier. Zhe Sequel to ‘Andree De Taverney.” Being the 
 
 “Sixth Book and End of the Memoirs of a Physician Series,” ....+.. 1 
 The Adventures of a Marquis. By Alexander Dumas,. ..,.......0s0000. 1 50 
 The Forty-Five Guardsmen. By Alexander Dumas. Illustrated,... 1 50 
 Diana of Meridor, or Lady of Monsoreau. By Alexander Dumas,... 1 50 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 50 
 
 50 
 
 The Iron Hand. By Alex. Dumas, author “Count of Monte-Cristo,” 1 50 
 Camille; or the Fate of a Coquette. (La Dame aux Camelias,)...... 1 50 
 The Conscript. A novel of the Days of Napoleon the First,......... 4-20 
 Love and Liberty. A novel of the French Revolution of 1792-1793, 1 50 
 
 THE ‘COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO SERIES,” IN CLOTH. 
 
 The Count of Monte-Cristo. By Alexander Dumas. Jilustrated,... 1 50 
 Edmond Dantes. The Sequel to the “ Count of Monte-Cristo,”....... 1 25 
 The Countess of Monte-Cristo. The Companion to “ Monte-Cristo,” 1 50 
 The Wife of Monte-Cristo. Continuation of “Count of Monte-Cristo,” 1 25 
 The Son of Monte-Cristo. ‘The Sequel to “ Wife of Munte-Cristo,” 1 25 
 
 T. 8. ARTHUR’S GREAT TEMPERANCE BOOKS, 
 
 Six Nights with the Washingtonians, Illustrated. T. S. Arthur’s 
 Great Temperance Stories. Large Subscription Edition, cloth, gilt, 
 $3.50; Red Roan, $4.50; Full Turkey Antique, Full Gilt,.......... 6 00 
 
 The Latimer Family ; or the Bottle and Pledge. By T. 8. Arthur, cloth, 1 00 
 
 MODEL SPEAKERS AND READERS. 
 
 Comstock’s Elocution and Model Speaker. Intended for the use of 
 Schools, Colleges, and for private Study, for the Promotion of 
 Itealth, Cure of Stammering, and Defective Articulation. By 
 Andrew Comstock and Philip Lawrence. With 236 Illustrations,, 2 00 
 
 The Lawrence Speaker. A Selection of Literary Gems in Poetry and 
 Prose, designed for the use of Colleges, Schools, Seminaries, Literary 
 Societies. By Philip Lawrence, Professor of Elocution. 600 pages.. 2 00 
 
 Comstock’s Colored Chart. Being a perfect Alphabet of the English 
 Language, Graphic and Typic, with exercises in Pitch, Force and 
 Gesture, and Sixty-Eight colored figures, representing the various 
 postures and different attitudes to be used in declamation. Ona large 
 Roller. Every School should have a copy Of it..ssesssseesesseereneerees 5 00 
 
 —»_eo 
 
 = Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
 by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 
 
 
 
8 T.B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 _—_——— 
 
 WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS. 
 
 The following books are each issued in one large octavo volume, bound in 
 cloth, at $1.50 each, or each one is done up in paper cover, at $1.00 each. 
 
 The Wandering Jew. By Eugene Sue. Full of Illustrations,........ $1 50 
 Mysteries of Paris; and its Sequel, Gerolstein. By Eugene Sue,.... 1 50 
 Martin, the Foundling. By Eugene Sue. Full of Illustrations,..... 1 50 
 
 Ten Thousand a Year. By Samuel Warren. With Illustrations,.... 1 50 
 
 The following books are each issued in one large octavo volume, bound in 
 cloth, at $2.00 each, or each one is done up in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 
 
 Washington and His Generals. By George Lippard,.. ......csseesesees 2 00 
 The Quaker City; or, the Monks of Monk Hall. By George Lippard, 2 00 
 Blanche of Brandywine. By George Lippard,........0.ssssce cesses eevee . 2 00 
 
 Paul Ardenheim; the Monk of Wissahickon. By George Lippard,. 2 06 
 The Mysteries of "Florence. By Geo. Lippard, author “ Quaker Ons ” 2 00 
 The Pictorial Tower of London. By W. Harrison Ainswortb,. . 2 50 
 
 The following are each issued in one large octavo volume, bound in cloth, Be $1.50 
 each, or a cheap edition is tssued in paper cover, at 75 cents each. 
 
 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever,...... Cloth, $1 50 
 Harry Lorrequer. With his Confessions. By Charles Lever,...Cloth, 1 50 
 Jack Hinton, the Guardsman. By Charles Lever,............0++ Cloth, 1 50 
 Davenport Dunn. A Manof Our Day. By Charles Lever,...Cloth, 1 50 
 Tom Burke of Ours. By Charles Lever,.........ccecsscsces coececees Cloth, 1 50 
 The Knight of Gwynne. By Charles Lever,............0.secessess Cloth, 1 50 
 Arthur O'Leary... By Charles Levery..iccs cesscecetncescnsacsusuanuie Cloth, 1 50 
 Con Cregan. By Charles Leverjcc.sisspsicesstacsscnpenaes 0Xcasaeenne Cloth, 1 50 
 Horace ‘Templeton. By Charles Lever... .c:e<tsscssesouneionn »eeesCloth, 1 50 
 Kate O'Donoghue. By Charles Lever,..........0..ssesesseseeee.ssCloth, 1 50 
 Valentine Vox, the Ventriloquist. By Harry Cockton,........ Cloth, 1 50 
 
 HUMGROUS ILLUSTRATED BOOKS. 
 Each one is full of Illustrations, by Felix O. C. Darley, and bound in Cloth. 
 Major Jones’ Courtship and Travels. In one vol., 29 Illustrations,.$1 75 
 
 Major Jones’ Scenes in Georgia. With 16 Illustrations,...........ss000« 1 50 
 Swamp Doctor’s Adventures in the South-West. 14 Lllustrations,... 1 50 
 Col. Thorpe’s Scenes in Arkansaw. With 16 Illustrations,............. 1 50 
 High Life in New York, by Jonathan Slick. With Illustrations,.... 1 50 
 Piney Wood’s Tavern; or, Sam Slick in Texas. L[llustrated,.......... 1 50 
 Humors of Falconbridge. By J. F. Kelley. With Illustrations,... 1 50 
 Simon Suggs’ Adventures and Travels. With 17 Illustrations,...... 1 50 
 The Big Bear’s Adventures and Travels. With 18 Iilustrations,...... 1 50 
 Judge Haliburton’s Yankee Stories. Illustrated,. ocendeavnaceecardn eae 
 Harry Coverdale’s Courtship and Marriage. Illustrated,.. ovaase nea 1 50 
 
 Lorrimer Littlegood. Illustrated. By author of “ Frank Fairlegh,” 1 50 
 Neal’s Charcoal Sketches. By Joseph C. Neal. 21 Illustrations,... 2 50 
 Major Jones’s Courtship. 21 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth,..... 1 00 
 Major Jones’s Travels. 8 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth,...... 1 60 
 Major Jones’s Georgia Scenes. 12 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, 1 00 . 
 Rancy Cottem’s Courtship. 8 Illustrations. Paper, 50 cents, cloth, 1 00 
 
 
 
 seo 
 
 
 
 K&S” Above Books will bo sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
 by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS, 
 
 
 
 STANDARD NOVELS, BY BEST WRITERS. 
 
 Consuelo. By George Sand. One volume, 12mo., bound in cloth,...$1 
 
 The Countess of Rudolstadt. Sequel to “Consuelo.” 12mo., cloth,.. 
 Indiana. A Novel. By George Sand, author of “ Consuelo,” eloth, 
 Jealousy; or, Teverino. By Georze Sand, author “ Consuelo,” cloth, 
 Fanchon, the Cricket; or, La Petite Fadette. By George Sand, cloth, 
 The Dead Sceret. By Wilkie Collins, author of “ Basil,” eloth,.. 
 The Crossed Path; or Basil. By Wilkie Collins, cloth, pce taecaseatese 
 John Jasper’s Secret. Sequel to “Mystery of Edwin Drood,” cloth,... 
 The Life of Charles Dickens. By Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie, cloth, 
 The Lamplighter’s Story, with others. By Charles Dickens, cloth,... 
 The Old Stone Mansion. By author of “ Heiress of Sweetwater,” cloth, 
 Lord Montagu’s Page. By G.P. R. James, author ‘ Cavalier,’ cloth, 
 The Earl of Mayfield. By Thomas P. May, cioth, black and gold,.. 
 Myrtle Lawn. A Novel. By Robert E. Ballard, cloth, said pesaentdeasea 
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 Cyrilla; or Mysterious Engagement. By author of “ Initials,” cloth, 
 Treason at Home. A Novel. By Mrs, Greenough, cloth,............6. 
 Letters from Europe. By Colonel John W. Forney. Bound in cloth, 
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 Lewis Arundel. By author of “ Frank Fairlegh,” cloth,.............06 
 Harry Racket Scapegrace. By the author of “ Frank  sidtbaaacepet 
 Tom Racquet. By author of “ Frank Fairlegh,” cloth,.. ; 
 Sam Slick, the Clockmaker. By Judge Haliburton. Tilustrated,. 
 Modern Chivalry. By Judge Breckenridge. Two vols., each......., 
 La Gaviota; the Sea-Gull. By Fernan Caballero, cloth,.............0 
 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. Braddon. Bound in cloth,. ............ 
 The Laws and Practice of the Game of Euchre and Draw Poker, 
 as adopted by the Euchre Club of Washington, D.C. Cloth,...... 
 Youth of Shakspeare, author ‘“Shakspeare and His Friends,” cloth, 
 Shakspeare and His Friends, author “ Youth of Shakspeare,” cloth, 
 The Seeret Passion} author of “ Shukspeare and His Friends,” cloth, 
 Father Tom and the Pope; or, A Night at the Vatican, illus., cloth, 
 Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott. One 8vo. volume, cloth,......... 
 Life of Sir Walter Scott. By John G. Lockhart. - With Portrait,..... 
 Tales of a Grandfather & History of Scotland, by Walter Seott, cloth, 
 Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, by Sir Walter Scott. One 8vo. vol., cloth, 
 Miss Pardoe’s Choice Novels. In one large octavo volume, cloth,... 
 Life, Speeches and Martyrdom of Abraham Lincoln.  Illus., eloth,.. 
 Rome and the Papacy. A History of the Men, Manners and Tempo- 
 ral Government of Rome in the Nineteenth Century, cloth,.......... 
 The French, German, Spanish, Latin and Italian Languages Without 
 a Master. Whereby any one of these Languages can be learned 
 without a Teacher. By A. H. Monteith. One volume, cloth,..... 
 Liebig’s Complete Works on Chemistry. By Justus Liebig, cloth,.. 
 Life and Adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, cloth,....... 
 Tan-go-ru-a. An Historical Drama, in Prose. By Mr. Moorhead,.... 
 The Impeachment Trial of President Andrew Johnson. Cloth,....... 
 Trial of the Assassins for the Murder of Abraham Lincoln. Cloth,... 
 
 = saDeo 
 
 
 
 
 
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 1 
 1 
 1 
 
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 1 
 1 
 1 
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 BGS Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
 
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12 T.B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 ed 
 
 
 
 # Orders solicited from Booksellers, Librarians, Canvassers, News 
 Agents, and ali othors in want of good and fast-selling 
 books, which wil be supplied at very Low Rates. 9 
 
 
 
 EMILE ZOLA’S NEW REALISTIC BOOKS. 
 
 Nana! SequeltoL’Assommoir. By Emile Zola. Nana! Price 75 cents 
 in paper cover, or $1.00 in morocco cloth, black and gold. Nana! 
 
 L’Assommoir; or, Nana’s Mother. By Emile Zola, The Greatest Novel 
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 The Joys of Life, By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana,” “ Pot-Bouille,” ete. 
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 The Ladies’ Paradise; or, The Bonheurdes Dames. By Emile Zola, author 
 of “ Nana.” Paper cover, 75 cents; or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 
 
 Her Two Husbands; and Other Novelettes. By Emile Zolu. Price 75 
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 Pot-Bouille. By Hmile Zola, author of “Nana.” “ Pot-Bouille.” Price 
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 Nana’s Daughter. A Continuation of and Sequel to Emile Zola’s Great 
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 The Mysteries of the Court of Louis Napoleon. Ly Emile Zola. Price 
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 The Girl in Scarlet; or, the Loves of Silvére and Miette. By Emile Zola. 
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 Albine; or, The Abbé’s Temptation. (La Faute De L’Abbe Mouret.) By 
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 La Belle Lisa; or, The Paris Market Girls. By Emile Zola. Price 7a 
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 Héléne, a Love Episode; or, Une Page D’Amour. By Emile Zola, 
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 A Mad Love; or The Abbé and His Court. By Emile Zola. Price 75 
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 Magdalen Ferat. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,” and “ L’Assom- 
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 Claude’s Confession. By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana,” “ L’Assommoir,” 
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 The Black Venus. By Adolphe Belot. Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, $1.00, 
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T. B, PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 13 
 
 
 
 PETERSONS’ SQUARE 12mo. SERIES. 
 
 The following books are printed on tinted paper, and are issued tn uniform 
 style, in square 12mo. form. Price 50 Cents in Paper, or $1.00 in Cloth. 
 Helen’s Babies. Budge and Toddie. By John Habberton. With an 
 
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 Mrs. Mayburn’s Twins. With the Mother’s Trials in the Morning, After- 
 noon and Evening. By John Habberton, author of “ Helen’s Babies.” 
 Bertha’s Baby. Equal to *‘ Helen’s Babies.” Bertha’s Baby. With an 
 
 Illustrated Cover, and a Portrait of “ Bertha’s Baby” on it. 
 
 The Annals of a Baby. Baby’s First Gifts. Naming the Baby. The 
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 Bessie’s Six Lovers. With Her Reflections, Resolves, Coronation, and 
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 A Parisian Romance. Octave feuillet’s New Book, just dramatized. 
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 The Matchmaker. By Beatrice Reynolds, A Charming Love Story. 
 The Story of Elizabeth. By Miss Thackeray, daughter of W. M. Thackeray. 
 The Amours of Philippe; or, Philippe’s Love Affairs, by Octave Feuillet. 
 Sybil Brotherton. A Novel. By Mrs. Emma D. KE, N, Southworth. 
 ‘Rancy Cottem’s Courtship. By author of ‘‘ Majo Jones’s Courtship.” 
 Father Tom and the Pope; or, A Night at the Vatican. Illustrated. 
 
 A Woman’s Mistake; or, Jacques de Trévannes. A Charming Love Story. 
 The Days of Madame Pompadour. A Romance of the Reign of Louis XV. 
 The Little Countess, By Octave Feuillet, author of “ Count De Camors.” 
 The Red Hill Tragedy. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. 
 
 The American L’Assommoir. # parody on Zola’s “ L’Assommoir.” 
 
 Hyde Park Sketches. A very humorous and entertaining work. 
 
 Miss Margery’s Roses. A Charming Love Story. By Robert C. Meyers. 
 Madeleine. A Charming Love Story. Jules Sandeau’s Prize Novel. 
 Carmen. By Prosper Merimee. Book the Opera was dramatized from. 
 That Girl of Mine. By the author of “ That Lover of Mine.” 
 
 That Lover of Mine. By the author of “ That Girl of Mine.” 
 
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 Married Above Her. A Society Romance. By a Lady of New York. 
 The Man from Texas. A Powerful Western Romance, full of adventure. 
 Erring, Yet Noble. A Book of Women and for Women, By I. G. Reed. 
 The Fair Enchantress; or, How She Won Men’s Hearts. By Miss Keller. 
 Above are in paper cover, price 75 cents each, or $1.25 each in cloth. 
 
 Harry Coverdale’s Courtship and Marriage. Paper, 75 cts.; cloth, $1.50. 
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14 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS, 
 
 
 
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T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 15 
 
 
 
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 - Kathleen. A Love Story. By author of “That Lass o’ Lowries.” 
 Theo. A Love Story. By author of “ Kathleen,” “ Miss Crespigny,” ete. 
 Lindsay’s Luck. A Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett. 
 Pretty Polly Pemberton. By author of “ Kathleen,” “ Theo,” ete. 
 A Quiet Life. By Mrs. Burnett, author of ‘That Lass 0’ Lowries.” 
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 Dosia. <A Russian Story. By Henry Gréville, author of “ Markof,.” 
 
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 Sylvie’s Betrothed. A Charming Novel. By Henry Gréville. 
 
 Philoméne’s Marriages. A Love Story. By Henry Gréville. 
 
 Guy’s Marriage; also Pretty Little Countess Zina. By Henry Gréville, 
 Above are in paper cover, price 75 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.25 each. 
 
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 Lucie Rodey. A Charming Society Novel. By Henry Gréville. 
 
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 Xenie’s Inheritance. A Tale of Russian Life. By Henry Gréville. 
 
 Dournof. A Russian Story. By Henry Gréville, author of “ Dosia,” 
 
 Gabrielle; or, The House of Mauréze. By Henry Gréville. 
 
 A Friend; or, “L’Ami.” By Henry Gréville, author of ‘ Dosia.” 
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 Markof, the Russian Violinist. Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, $1.50. 
 
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 A. Heart Twice Won; or, Second Love. A Love Story. By Mrs. Eliza 
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 Under the Willows; or, The Three Countesses. By Mrs. Elizabeth Van 
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 The Last Athenian. By Victor Rydberg. Translated from the Swedish. 
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16 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 
 PETERSONS’ “DOLLAR SERIES.” 
 
 Petersons’ “Dollar Sertes’’ of Good Novels are the cheapest books at One Dollar each 
 ever published. They are all issued in uniform style, in 12mo. form, and are 
 bound in red, blue and tan vellum, with gold and black sides and back, and are sold 
 at the low price of One Dollar each, while they are as large as any books published 
 at $1.75 and $2.00 each. The following have already been issued in this series: 
 
 A Woman’s Thoughts About Women. By Miss Mulock. 
 
 Two Ways to Matrimony; or, Is It Love, or, False Pride? 
 
 The Story of ‘“ Elizabeth.” By Miss Thackeray. 
 
 Flirtations in Fashionable Life. By Catharine Sinclair. 
 
 Lady Edith; or, Alton Towers. A very charming and fascinating work, 
 
 Myrtle Lawn; or, True Love Never Did Run Smooth. A Love Story. 
 
 The Matchmaker. A Society Novel. By Beatrice Reynolds. 
 
 Rose Douglas, the Bonnie Scotch Lass. A Companion to “ Family Pride.” 
 
 The Earl’s Secret. A Charming Love Story. By Miss Pardoe. 
 
 Family Secrets. A Companion to “ Family Pride,” and very fascinating. 
 
 The Macdermots of Ballycloran. An Exciting Novel, by A. Trollope. 
 
 The Family Save-All. With Economical Receipts for the Household. 
 
 Self-Sacrifice. A Charming Work. By author of “‘ Margaret Maitland,” 
 
 The Pride of Life. A Love Story. By Lady Jane Scott, 
 
 The Rival Belles; or, Life in Washington. Author “ Wild Western Scenes,” 
 
 The Clyffards of Clyffe. By James Payn, author “ Lost Sir Massingberd.” 
 
 The Orphan’s Trials; or, Alone in a Great City. By Emerson Bennett. 
 
 The Heiress of Sweetwater. A Love Story, abounding with exciting scenes, 
 
 The Refugee. A delightful book, full of food for laughter, and information. 
 
 Lost Sir Massingberd. A Love Story. By author of “ Clyffards of Clyffe.” 
 
 Cora Belmont; or, The Sincere Lover. A True Story of the Heart. 
 
 The Lover’s Trials; or, The Days Before the Revolution. By Mrs. Denison. 
 
 My Son’s Wife. A strong, bright, interesting and charming Novel. 
 
 Aunt Patty’s Serap Bag. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, author of “ Rena,” 
 
 Saratoga! and the Famous Springs. An Indian Tale of Frontier Life, 
 
 Country Quarters. A Charming Love Story. By Countess of Blessington. 
 
 Self-Love. A Book for Young Ladies, with prospects in Life contrasted. 
 
 The Devoted Bride; or, Faith and Fidelity. A Love Story. 
 
 Colley Cibber’s Life of Edwin Forrest, with Reminiscences of the Actor. 
 
 Outofthe Depths. The Story of a Woman’s Life, anda Woman’s Book. 
 
 The Queen’s Favorite; or, The Price of a Crown. A Romance of Don Juan. 
 
 Six Nights with the Washingtonians. Byd.S.Arthur. Illustrated. 
 
 The Coquette; or, the Life and Letters of the beautiful Eliza Wharton. 
 
 Harem Life in Egypt and Constantinople. By Emmeline Lott. 
 
 The Old Patroon; or, The Great Van Broek Property, by J. A. Maitland. 
 
 Nana, By Emile Zola. Gambling Exposed. By J. H. Green. 
 
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 Dream Numbers. By Trollope. The Cavalier. By G. P. R. James. 
 
 A Lonely Life. Across the Atlantic. 
 
 The Beautiful Widow. Shoulder-Straps. By H. Morford. 
 Loveand Duty. By Mrs. Hubback. The Brothers’ Secret. 
 
 The Heiress in the Family. The Recetor’s Wife. 
 Woman’s Wrong. A Woman’s Book. The Man of the World. 
 
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 by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
e 
 
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 With Iluminated Covers, and beautifully Illustrated by Felix O. C. Darley, 
 
 Major Jones’s Courtship. With Illustrations by Darley,............066 aed gt. 
 Major Jones’s Travels. Full of Illustrations .............00sscscsscess ie 75 
 Major Jones’s Georgia Scenes, with Illustrations by Darley,........... 75 
 Raney Cottem’s Courtship, by author of Major Jones’s Courtship,.... 50 
 The Adventures of Captain Simon Suggs. Illustrated, ......... ....006 + ‘od 
 Major Jones’s Chronicles of Pineville. Fifadtrnted 5) coer ccasaboenccove Ay fo 
 Polly Peablossom’s Wedding. With Illustrations, ...........sc00cseseeee oe he Be 
 Widow Rugby’s Husband. Full of Dlustrations,..............004 ceeeeees ee te 
 The Big Bear of Arkansas. Illustrated by Darley,............csececeeees 75 
 Western Scenes; or, Life on the Prairie. Illustrated,.............-.e006 ee 
 Streaks of Squatter Life and Far West Scenes. Illustrated,............ 75 
 Pickings from the New Orleans Picayune. [Illustrated,.............000. 75 
 Stray Subjects Arrested and Bound Over. Illustrated, ......... esses s 75 
 The Louisiana Swamp Doctor. Full of Illustrations,............000 seeees 75 
 Charcoal Sketches. By Joseph C. Neal. Illustrated,..............e00008 © 75 
 Peter Faber’s Misfortunes. By Joseph C. Neal. Illustrated,........ 475 
 Peter Ploddy and other Oddities. By Joseph C. Neal,.........s00ss00 rainy fo 
 Yankee Among the Mermaids. By William E. Burton........ becspeses on te 
 The Drama in Pokerville. By J. M. Field. Illustrated,.............. Peet ¢ 
 New Orleans Sketch Book. With Illustrations by Darley,............ ee 
 The Deer Stalkers. By Frank Forester. Illustrated, ...............00+ Sao fi 
 The Quorndon Hounds. By Frank Forester.  Illustrated,............. St hae 
 My Shooting Box. By Frank Forester. Illustrated, ..............000 AS ey # 
 The Warwick Woodlands. By Frank Forester. Illustrated,.......... 75 
 Adventures of Captain Farrago. By H. H. Brackenridge,.........++ 2 95 
 Adventures of Major O'Regan. By H. H. Brackenridge, ....... jeeiee ude 
 Sol Smith’s Theatrical Apprenticeship. Illustrated,............seeeeeee ~ 05 
 Sol Smith’s Theatrical Journey-Work. ITllustrated,.........0...s000seeeee 75 
 Quarter Race in Kentucky. With Illustrations by Darley,........... ~ 75 
 The Mysteries of the Backwoods. By T. B. Thorpe,.......... ei eiaaenl e045 
 Percival Mayberry’s Adventures. By J. H. Ingraham,.........+ epasrens,) 2a 0 
 Sam Slick’s Yankee Yarns and Yankee Letters,..........ssscsesecees coves ect 
 Adventures of Fudge Fumble; or, Love Scrapes of bis Pate, Fae roncie: 75 
 Aunt Patty’s Scrap Bag. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz,.........00s000s yume ke. 
 Following the Drum. By Mrs. Gen. Viele,..........s.c++ serenesee cosseees sree 
 The American Joe Miller. ‘ With 100 Engravings,......c00sssseees Cikeses 50 
 
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 Ten Thousand a Year, paper, $l 00 | The Diary of a Medical Stu- 
 
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 The Man in Black,...... ees decees LAE D POATEOIE LIS yacyuiheasanpadecars votes ase fe 
 
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MRS. EMMA D. EN. SOUTHWORTHS WORKS. 
 
 eC St ial BP. 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, have just pub- 
 lished un entire new, comp ele and unijorm edition of all of the cele- 
 brated works written by Mrs. Emma 2. ‘E. N. Southworth, This edition 
 ts in duoleciino form, ts printed on the finest white paper, is complete 
 in forty-three volumes, and each volume is bound in morocco cloth, with 
 au full gilt back, and is sold ut the low price of $1.50 u vorwme, or $64.50 
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 works of Mrs. Southworth, The following are the names of the volumes: 
 
 THE PHANTOM WEDDING; or, the Fall of the House of Flint. 
 SELF-RAISED ; or, From the Depths. Sequei to ‘‘ Ishmael.” 
 ISHMAEL; or. IN THE DEPTHS. (Being ‘* Self-Made.’’) 
 THE ‘‘MOTHER-IN-LAW ;” or, MARRIED IN HASTE. 
 THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER. 
 VICTO3’S TRIUMPH. Seque! to ‘‘A Beautiful Fiend.” 
 A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; cr, THRCUCH THE FIRE. 
 LADY OF THE ISLE; or, THE ISLAND PRINCESS. 
 FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, TRE MAN-HKATER. 
 HOW HE WON HER. A Sequel to “Fair Play.”’ 
 THE CHANGED BRIDES ; or, Winning Her Way. 
 THE BRIDE S FATE. Sequel to “The Changed Brides.” 
 CRU=L AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow Eve Mystery. 
 TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to ‘‘ Cruel as the Grave.” 
 THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or, The Crime and the Curse, 
 THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. 
 THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; cr, The Brothers. 
 A NOBLE LORD. Sequel to ‘‘Lost Heir of Linlithgow.” 
 THE FAMILY DOOM: or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS, 
 THE MAIDEN WIDUW. Sequel to “* Family Doom.” 
 THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or, The Eride of an Evening. 
 THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, The Bridal Day. 
 THE THREE BEAUTIES ; or, SHANNONDALE. 
 ALLWORTH A3BEY; or, EUDORA. 
 FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE, 
 INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. 
 VIVIA; or, THE SECRET OF POWER. 
 THE BRIDAL EVE; or, ROSE ELMER. 
 FHE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, The Children of the Isle, 
 THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS : or, HICKORY HALL. 
 THE TWO SISTERS; or, Virginia and Magdalene. 
 THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, ORVILLE DEVILLE. 
 THE WIDOW’S SON: or, LEFT ALONE. 
 THE MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW. 
 THE DESERTED WIFE. THE WIFE’S VICTORY. 
 THE LOST HEIRESS. THE ARTIST’S LOVE. 
 THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD. LOVE’S LABOR WON. ; 
 THE SPECTRE LOVER. CURSE OF CLIFTON, 
 THE FATAL SECRET. RETRIBUTION. 
 
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 te any one, at once, post-paid, on remitting price of ones wanted to 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Publishers, 
 306 CumstNutT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, Pa, 
 
 
 

 

 
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