Chapter XXXIII: “the Meekness of Love”

So she strove against her weakness,
Though at times her spirit sank;
Shaped her heart with woman’s meekness,
To all duties of her rank.—TENNYSON.

Catherine remained seated in the chair into which she had sunk, with her face buried in her open palms. Her favorite maid Henny, from the Hardbargain farm-house, was in attendance. Henny had cleared away the breakfast service, with the exception of the silver plate, which was collected upon a salver; and she stood by her mistress’s chair waiting, in respectful sympathy; at last she said—

“Miss Kate, honey, if you lend me the keys o’ the plate closet, I can put away the things safe, without your troublin’ o’ yourself.”

Catherine lifted her head languidly, and pushing away her drooping hair, exclaimed, quite unconsciously, and as if the words burst of themselves from her overburdened bosom—

“Oh! Henny, if you knew how little heart I have to do anything!”

“I _does_ know it, mist’ess, deary; but you mus’ jes take a ’flection on to it, honey, an’ ’sider how it ain’t on’y marster, but mos’ in general all the gemmum in the neighborhood, as is gwine far the wars.”

Regretting that she had permitted a complaint to escape her lips, yet satisfied that her servant did not understand or suspect the true cause of her sorrow, Catherine arose, and said—

“Take up the salver and follow me, Henny. Idle grief is very fruitless. If we cannot keep our friends with us, it is better to prepare for their comfortable living while absent, than to sit down in useless sorrow.”

“An’ that’s the Lord’s trufe, Miss Kate,” said Henny lifting the laden salver on her head, and settling it steadily, “that’s Marster blessed trufe! ’Sides which, I has a heap to do myself, to get brother Jack’s duds ready, to go long o’ Marse Archy.”

“Is your brother going with Major Clifton, Henny?”

“’Deed he is, honey—gwine to ride body-servant long o’ marster, to wait on him in camp; likewise in field o’ battle, to hold his t’other horse, in case his whichest one should be shot unnerneaf of him—Oh, Lord Marster Jesus! what a thing that is to think of! Likewise in soldier’s newniform, on the bay horse Billy, which brother Jack would sell his mortal soul any time, for the sake o’ dressing fine, an’ ridin’ a horseback—cussed, infunnelly fool!—I axes your pardon, Miss Kate; don’t look so ’noyed, honey; I won’t use bad words again—’deed, ’fore my blessed, Hebbenly Marster won’t I, honey; but it is so aggravoking, when I comes to think o’ what a slave I’ve made o’ myself to brother Jack, ever since mother died, and the ’turn he makes me for it, wantin’ to go gallivauntin’ off to the wars in soldier’s clothes, an’ a long tailed horse! Here has I been ’jecting some o’ the most illegible colored men in the neighborhood, an’ bein’ of an old maid, sake o’ takin’ care o’ him, ’cause he’s delicy in his health, an’ he to be wantin’ to go leave me! An’ he, with a ’sumption in his breas’, to want to go; ’sposing of hisself gettin’ his feet wet sogerin’! An’ he ’blige to wear a tar plaster on his ches’, to be campin’ out an’ layin’ on the naked yeth! An’ knows he can’t congest nothin’ but rabbits an’ partridges, an’ wants to go where he’ll have to live offen roas’ tators, like Gin’al Marion an’ his men, in the Resolutionary War! It mos’—mos’—mos’—breaks my heart!”

And with that Henny set down the salver and began to cry, while her mistress opened the plate closet.

“Put them in, Henny, and I will see what can be done for you afterwards,” said Catherine.

Henny obeyed, and then said, as they left the room—

“If you could ’suade Marse Archy to leave poor Jack, poor sickly fellow, at home, an’ take some o’ the other young niggers. Der ain’t one o’ them but ’ould be ’joyed to go. Der’s Dandy now, ’ould be willin’ to go to his everlastin’ ruination, ’sake o’ ridin’ body-sarvant long o’ marster—”

“I will speak to Major Clifton, Henny. You know him to be kind and considerate. And I am sure, he is not aware of Jack’s pulmonary affection.”

“Yes he is, Miss Kate, honey! ’Deed he knows all about Jack’s ’fection for him! High, honey! ain’t Jack been own man to Marse Archy ever since they was boys together? An’ didn’t Jack wait on him when he wur at college, and ole Mist pay extra for him? ’Deed she did, honey! ’Fore my blessed Hebbenly Lord, did she! An’ he knows all ’bout Jack’s ’fection for him, and he knows Jack ’ould follow him to the ind o’ the world, an’ jump off arter him! Lord love your heart, Miss Kate, ther ain’t no dog marster’s got, loves him more faithful ’an brother Jack does.”

Kate sighed very deeply, with a preoccupied air, but answered—

“I will speak to Major Clifton in your behalf, Henny—now go and ask Mrs. Mercer to come to me in my own chamber.”

And Catherine passed on to her own apartment, and Henny went her errand. Very soon the housekeeper entered the chamber, and found Catherine busily engaged among linen, stockings, cravats, and other “belongings.”

“I want your assistance, Mrs. Mercer, in preparing Major Clifton’s wardrobe this week.”

“My dear child, I am so sorry! But I have been waiting for an hour to speak to you. The truth is, I have just got a letter from my son-in-law, who writes that my daughter is very, extremely low, with the bilious pleurisy, and wants me to come right over to L—— immediately, without loss of time, and I thought I would ask you for a leave of absence, till she got better.”

“And, certainly, I could not refuse it, Mrs. Mercer. I am sorry your daughter is ill.”

“And, my dear child, I was going to ask you if you could let me have one of the mules this morning, and I would send it back to-morrow?”

“The weather is too cold, and the journey too arduous for a woman of your age to perform it in that manner. Tell Dandy to put the horses to the carriage for you.”

“The carriage, dear honey, I shouldn’t think of such a thing. As many years as I have been living in the family, I never used the carriage once. The mule will do very well, if you will let me order him?”

“Mrs. Mercer, why not? I shall not want it to-day. To-morrow Dandy can bring it home.”

“God bless you, child! you are so good hearted! It is a sin too to leave you, so thronged as you are with work.”

“No, I can get—get through,” replied Kate, with the same troubled, preoccupied air that had marked her manner the whole morning. Mrs. Mercer soon after took leave and departed.

An hour after this, Catherine heard Major Clifton enter the hall door and come up stairs. To her surprise, he paused before her chamber door and rapped. When she opened it, he said—

“Will you favor me with your company in my study for a few minutes, Mrs. Clifton?”

Catherine immediately laid down her work and followed him.

When they reached the study, he set her a chair near the writing-table, and dropping into another, drew a portfolio before him, opened it, and turning out a number of papers, said—

“Mrs. Clifton, I told you, some weeks since, that at my departure, and during my indefinite absence, I should be obliged to leave this estate under your charge?”

“Yes,” answered Catherine attentively.

“I am well aware that it is undoubtedly an onerous burden and responsibility for one so young, but, when you feel it so, remember that you, yourself, courted the position, and must be content to take the toils with the honors, real or imaginary.”

Passing over his bitter jibe, Catherine said—

“You need not doubt in leaving all to my care that all will go well. I am not twenty yet, it is true, but I have had much work and much experience for my age, so that every year I have lived since ten years old has counted double. You need suffer no anxiety in trusting me.”

He looked at her countenance, at once noble and meek in expression; he remembered the life of toil, self-denial, and devotion she had lived; he even recollected a certain text of Scripture which said, “By their _fruits_ ye shall know them—do men gather _thorns_ of _fig trees_?” but the demon of cherished suspicion whispered, “’Twas all done for a purpose,” and he hardened his heart, and replied—

“Oh! madam, I have no doubt or hesitation in placing the plantation under your care, and I shall have no anxiety in leaving it so for an indefinite period; not only because I have much faith in your natural talents and acquired experience, but, also, because I have more confidence in your self-love. And knowing that _you_ know our interests in the prosperity of this estate to be identical, I rest assured that you will do for it your very best.”

“He—in all other circumstances, and to all other people—so noble, so liberal, so charitable—he never speaks to me but to upbraid me!” was the thought that presented itself to Catherine’s mind, but with the loyalty of her nature she repelled it, saying, within herself, “It is because he has what he thinks condemning evidence of my unworthiness—would he but charge me! would he but tell me what it is?”

“Will you give me your attention, Mrs. Clifton?” he asked, breaking into her sad reverie.

Catherine bowed gently.

And he took down the “farm-book” from a shelf, opened it, and laying it before her, entered upon a series of details and explanations on both debt and credit sides of the accounts, with which it is not necessary to trouble the reader. After two or three hours spent in looking over bills, comparing them with receipts, calculating results, etc., he closed the book, replaced the papers in the portfolio, clasped it, and turning around to Catherine, said—

“You understand, now?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“As for these heavy notes that will fall due the first of January, you must contrive an interview with the holders, and get them renewed upon security—as I said before, remember.”

“I shall not forget.”

“No, or if you do, the holders of the notes will bring them to your recollection in not the pleasantest manner. And now, Mrs. Clifton, I wish you to keep a vigilant eye over Turnbull, and hold him to a strict account. I _suspect_ the man. I never have been able to understand how, with such a heavy force of negroes on this plantation, it has been necessary to hire about a baker’s dozen of white laborers, all of them, you understand, his own relations—brothers, sons, and nephews! I have reason to mistrust the fellow, but no time to look after him. Hold him to a strict account, Catherine.”

“Suppose, for the coming year, you should place my brother Carl here as overseer? You have tested his skill and probity.”

This was a very unlucky proposition on Catherine’s part. He sat back in his chair, and looking at her in steady scorn, said—

“Yes, madam, I _have_ ‘tested his skill and probity,’ and know so well the degree of the former, and the quality of the latter, that I have already forbid him to set foot on my premises or speak to my wife. Do you dare to think that I am your dupe, or his? And now, hear me: In all the directions that I have given you, I have simply desired or requested you to do this or that, but in this matter of your perfidious brother Carl, I _command_ you to hold no intercourse with him whatever.”

“You shall be obeyed,” said Catherine, “you shall be obeyed,” and she thought—“Your simplest wish, expressed to that effect, would have had all the power of this arbitrary command,”—but she did not say it. She was never free of speech, least of all to him. And now he arose, as if to conclude the interview. And she recollected her promise to Henny, to intercede for Jack, and always more courageous in the cause of any, even the humblest, than in her own, she gently detained him, by saying—“I wished to speak to you about the servant you intend to take with you.”

“Jack?”

“Yes. You were not home last winter, and you do not know that he was sick with a cough the whole winter, and that he is consumptive.”

“I have sometimes thought so, however! Well?”

“Indeed I feel that it is properly no business of mine, and I beg you will excuse my interference. I would not willingly, I am sure—”

“To the point, if you please, Mrs. Clifton.”

“Well, I am afraid that if you take him, and expose him to the unavoidable hardships of campaign life, he will fall sick on your hands, and instead of being a help, be a hindrance. Therefore it is much more for your sake than for the boy’s own, that I should be pleased if you would leave him here and take another.”

“There is much reason in what you have advanced, Mrs. Clifton. Yet, among all the negroes on the place, there is none but Jack who seems fit for the duty, the others are all too young or too old, or too hopelessly stupid and lumbering.”

“There is Dandy, a handsome, likely mulatto, strong and intelligent, dressy and enterprising, the very man for an officer’s servant; he would be very proud and glad to attend you.”

“Oh! ay! I know that he is anxious to go; but he is your carriage-driver and waiter, Catherine, and I cannot think of depriving you of him.”

“There are other careful drivers on the place. Please take him with you.”

“Yes—but those other careful drivers are awkward, ill-looking, farm-laborers, accustomed to driving and hallooing after ox-teams.”

“Have I been so long used to a carriage, as to be choice in my coachman, then? Please do not think of that.”

“And then he is your waiter and messenger.”

“Oh, believe me, I do not need him. Pray take him with you. He is so active, intelligent and faithful, that he will be of inestimable value to you in the campaign.”

“It is precisely because he is so active, intelligent and faithful, that I am unwilling to deprive you of his services, Catherine—I beg your pardon—_Mrs. Clifton_,” he corrected himself, suddenly changing his involuntarily relenting manner into the old sarcasm and scorn.

“Oh, call me Catherine, please call me Catherine,” she said, losing half her reserve.

“Why? Do you dislike the other name?”

“No—I like it. I am proud of it—not because it is a high, haughty name, but because it is _yours_. When other people call me ‘Mrs. Clifton,’ my heart springs with pride and joy, but when you call me so—”

“Ah, now, do not let us grow sentimental, madam! I prefer to call you Mrs. Clifton because I think that the fancied dignity for which you have toiled and plotted so long, and patiently, and successfully, should be constantly brought to your mind.”

With a deprecating, imploring gesture, and a brow crimsoned until the purple veins started out, Catherine, pierced by this keen sarcasm, sank into a chair.

Unpityingly, he added—

“And now, Mrs. Clifton, I really must entreat you to excuse me. I expect Turnbull here, every instant, to have a talk about the stock.”

Catherine arose, trembling, and left the room; one agonized complaint bursting from her tortured bosom—

“Oh, I would to Heaven this were over—some way!”

He looked after her, with a countenance convulsed with sorrow, groaning—

“_And so would I!_ And so would I to God that this were over—_somehow_! Oh!” he thought, rising again, and pacing the floor—“there is nothing in life so humiliating to an honorable-minded man, as to love and live with a perfidious woman—to be daily tempted by his own heart and her blandishment, to become her dupe and his own scorn! To be hourly on the brink of clasping just so much proved treachery as her form conceals, to a half loving, half loathing bosom! Serpents! Yes, I dreamed of a serpent, last night:—methought I was in the forests of Brazil, and the fatal cobra-di-capello had coiled itself around my neck, and raised its horrid head to mine, and I went to snatch the deadly reptile away, and found it to be only Catherine’s gentle arms and noble face. Devils! Never did a demon hide itself under a more deceptive form and face!—with that saint-like blending of nobility and meekness in her countenance. Every time she talks with me, she brings me to the very brink of abjuring my sincere convictions. I must get away from this place, or my mind will become unsettled, deranged. I must hasten my departure, and in the meantime, she shall not talk with me again. She shall not cross the threshold of this room again, or if she does, she shall meet with such a reception that she shall speedily retire.” And so, torn with passion, he walked and raved, while Catherine sought her room, and threw herself upon the bed, giving way to a burst of tears and sobs, and crying, in wild rebellion—

“God! Oh, God! Infinite in power and love—do You see me? Do You see me, and withhold Your help? Oh, God! God!” But soon upon her fevered spirit fell the word of the Lord like dew—“All things work together for good, to them that love the Lord.” And full of penitence for her impatience, she knelt, and humbled herself “under the mighty hand of God.” And then, comforted with love and hope, strengthened with faith and courage, she arose, and went about her work.

Meeting Henny soon after, she told her to be consoled, for that she thought Jack would be let off.

In the afternoon she received a pencilled note from Major Clifton, announcing that he should leave home three days sooner than he had anticipated, namely, on the third day from that date. Leaning against the projecting chimney piece, she held the note, stupidly gazing at it. But two days were left before he should depart then—she thought—and he was going, really going upon a long and perilous military service, and parting with her in deep, unmitigated anger, under the seemingly ineffaceable impression of her utter unworthiness—believing her to be guilty of—what? ay! what? for up to this moment she had not the slightest idea of his reason for condemning her. And now she blamed herself for cowardice, in having hesitated to entreat him to inform her of what fault or crime she was suspected, and to give her the opportunity of exculpating herself. And she reproached herself for that failing of the heart, and falling of the eyes, and faltering of the voice, that made her so powerless, and placed her at such a disadvantage in his presence. “Oh, yes, indeed,” she said, “I know my manner is enough to convict me; I do not wonder at nor blame him for thinking ill of me, so long as my eyes sink beneath his look. But how can I help it. It must be so while he frowns or sneers. One encouraging word or glance from him, and I could look up and speak.” And next she remembered how much he must suffer in continuing to think her unworthy, and in departing under that impression—and at this thought, all that was most generous and benevolent in her nature arose to inspire her with courage, and she resolved to go to him, and, though heart and frame should tremble to meet that dread look of stern sorrow or piercing scorn—to persevere in imploring him to tell her with what crime she stood charged.

But though she had determined upon this act, it was extremely difficult to perform it. All the afternoon and evening he came and went in such hurry, and seemed so entrenched behind his own private thoughts and purposes that she feared to break in upon his reserve. Once indeed for the purpose of speaking to him upon the subject, she entered his study, and stood by the table; but he turned around, drew himself up, sat back in his chair, and looked upon her with such sarcastic arrogance, that, abashed and confounded, without opening her lips she turned and left the room.

And so the afternoon and evening passed, and the next day, the last of his stay, arrived. All day Catherine sought an opportunity of speaking with him alone. In vain! He was resolved to afford her none. He sedulously avoided her. As a last resort she wrote a note, requesting an interview, and sent it to him. She received an answer stating that his time for the day was all pre-engaged. And so this last day also passed. That night she completed her part in the preparations for his departure, and retired late to a sleepless bed. She heard him come in very late, and enter his room, which joined her own.

At early dawn she arose and looked at the time-piece on her chamber mantle-shelf. It was but five o’clock. He was not to leave till ten. There were five precious hours left yet. And oh! how inestimably precious, if in them she could effect a reconciliation with her husband. They were like the last hours of a dying one, with salvation staked upon them. She felt that the crisis had come, that she must not falter now. She knelt and prayed for strength and courage, as we only pray a few times in life—with that impassioned earnestness of supplication that ever brings an angel down “strengthening” us. Then, encouraged, she arose, completed her simple toilet, and went down stairs to her morning duties. The breakfast hour was seven. And oh, she watched the clock as she, unjustly condemned to death, might watch in the last fleeting hours preceding execution—hoping, still hoping for some saving revelation. A little while after seven he came down stairs, entered the breakfast-room, and bowing with his usual cold greeting of—

“Good-morning, madam,” sat down.

She rang for the coffee, and then took her place at the head of the table.

He went through with the morning meal, with his customary, reflective leisure. And Catherine watched the hand of the clock, as it traveled on towards eight. She was sick with apprehension. She could not speak to him there, for the servants were in attendance. At last he arose, left the table, and went out to give some final directions concerning his baggage, and the horses and servants he was to take with him. And then he went up stairs and entered his study. It was just eight o’clock, and she had two invaluable hours left yet. As if life and death hung upon their issue, she resolved come what might, to use them in a final effort for a reconciliation. Pale and trembling in every limb, she left the table, and went up stairs, slowly, holding by the balustrades from weakness. When she reached the study door she found it ajar, and through it she saw him sitting at his writing-table—not busy, as she had feared and expected to find him, but doing absolutely nothing—with his elbows resting on the table, and his face buried in the palms of his hands—in the attitude and expression of the deepest sorrow and despair. That one glimpse of his suffering face, sufficed to drive every fear but that of anxious affection from her heart—“It is because he thinks me unworthy. I must not leave him to think so longer. Be strong, coward heart,” she said, to herself, and then she went in and stood beside his chair, resting her hand, for support, upon the table, trembling with nervous weakness, and blushing with the bashfulness she could not but feel in making this advance, and altogether, in his suspicious eyes, looking very much like a conscious culprit. She stood, unable to utter one word, until he lifted up his head, and seeing her, demanded coldly—

“What is your pleasure, Mrs. Clifton?”

She attempted to speak, but a mute sob was all that ensued.

With a piercing sarcasm, he asked—

“Can I serve you in any manner this morning, madam?”

With a gesture of deprecation and entreaty, she answered—

“Yes! yes! I wish to be put upon my trial! Archer!—Major Clifton! you withdrew your favor from me so suddenly! You never told me why! Oh! tell me, before you go, how I have been so wretched as to lose your esteem—and put me upon my defence.”

He frowned, darkly, as with both pain and anger, and replied—

“I have had occasion twice before to remind you, Mrs. Clifton, that this is a prohibited subject of conversation between us.”

She clasped her hands, in the earnestness of supplication, exclaiming—

“Why? Oh! why? You were always just. You never judged your poorest slave, unheard! Oh! what have I done, or omitted to do? Tell me! Make the charge, and see how I can answer it! Archer!—I mean Major Clifton—forgive it—but for all, it springs so naturally from heart to lip, to call you Archer—because—because there is no feeling of estrangement in my heart, nor can I make it there! Major Clifton, then!—consider!—the greatest criminals have the right of a trial, with the crime of which they are suspected, distinctly and openly charged upon them—with the evidence on both sides taken, and their defence heard, before they are condemned. I know that you would not be otherwise than just. Will you condemn me untried, unjudged, unheard?”

“It is quite sufficient to me, madam,” he answered, haughtily, “that the proofs of your turpitude are conclusive to my own mind.”

“I know it,” she said, meekly, “I know it—yet, pause—what would you think of the justice of a judge, who should say to one suspected of crime—‘Your guilt is so clear, that it is useless to charge you with it, or to hear the testimony, or to listen to what you might have to say in your defence,’ and so proceed to condemn him? Such things were never, surely, done, in the darkest ages, or under the most despotic rulers. And is that guilt, of which I am suspected, of so heinous a character as to preclude me from the privilege extended even to criminals—the privilege of a trial?” She paused—but he continued to regard her with a stern, set face, without replying. Drooping over the table, and leaning heavily upon it, she spoke again, and her voice fell in low, but clear, melodious tones, as she said—“God and man, and I, myself, have made you my judge, and the arbiter of my destiny here. It is an awful power. You have made me feel it to be such. It is an awful power, because it is a subtile, invisible power—higher, and deeper, and broader than any law. I have no appeal from it—none! Nor—please to understand me—do I wish for any—for if all the world were to clear me, I should still be condemned, if you condemned me. And oh! listen, and believe me—believe me, for it is from my deep heart that I speak this truth—if you had the power and the will to doom me to death—my instincts would teach me rather to receive death at your hands, than to save my life by appealing from your judgment to another tribunal. I am loyal. I am faithful! God knoweth that I am. Let me prove it. Put me upon my defence. Do not—oh, do not persist in condemning me, unheard.”

“Catherine,” he answered, in a softened voice—“you are not condemned; if you were, you would not be standing here at my side.”

“What do you mean? good Heaven!”

“THIS,” he replied with a sudden change of manner, as though angry with himself for his transient relenting. “This! that oftentimes it happens that the only mercy we can show the guilty, is _not_ to bring them to trial! To openly recognize guilt, is to be obliged to punish it. If we distinctly accuse, we are bound to prove, and if we prove, to condemn and sentence.”

“And is my case such a one?”

“Your case is such a one.”

“Yet still I beg to be tried! For if _not_ to try them is often the only way to save the guilty, to _try_ them is oftener the only way to clear the innocent. Accuse me—hear my defence, and be yourself my judge. I ask no other.”

“Of what avail were it to rehearse your acts of falsehood and treachery. You know them this moment even better than I do.”

“Falsehood and treachery—just Heaven!”

“Yes, madam, those were the words I used.”

“You are mistaken in attributing such wickedness to me but tell me the grounds of your suspicions; doubtless I can explain them, and clear myself.”

He laughed a scornful, sardonic laugh, and replied, “Oh, doubtless a woman of your diplomatic genius is fertile in explanations. Whether you could by possibility clear yourself, is another question; for I speak—not of suspicions but of positive knowledge.”

His strong conviction of her turpitude infected her with despair at last. She said, very mournfully—

“I know that it has sometimes happened that the innocent have been tried and convicted—overwhelmed by a mass of circumstantial evidence—and that may be my case; nevertheless, even they have had the poor satisfaction of knowing for what they suffered. Tell me, I beseech you. I will still hope that I can acquit myself. Not for my own sake, Archer, dear Archer—but for yours: it must be so agonizing to be forced to think ill of one we have loved as you once loved me. I suffer very much in the loss of your esteem, but were it possible for our cases to be reversed—were I forced to think evil of you, I do not know, indeed I do not know how I could go on with daily life at all!”

“I think you had better cease discoursing and retire, your diplomatic talent is not in high action this morning; you permit your words to betray you.”

“To betray me!”

“Yes, madam; for if you felt yourself to be innocent, would you not necessarily think very ill of me for treating you as a guilty woman?”

“No! no! I know that to have condemned me so promptly, so unequivocally, you must have, what you think, proof positive against me. But produce it! I am innocent; indeed I am, Archer. I believe in Heaven’s justice. I believe that if I call on the Lord, He will sooner or later, in His own good time, enable me to prove it.”

“I _will_ produce the testimony,” he said, going to an escritoir, opening it and taking from it a note in a gray envelope. Returning to his seat, he laid it before her, asking “Is this your hand-writing?”

Catherine glanced at it—it was the envelope she had directed to Mrs. Georgia Clifton, and she immediately answered—

“Yes, certainly it is.”

“Ah! it is; when was it written?”

“The last day of your dear mother’s life. Ah! now I remember, it was from that day you took your favor from me.”

“Yes, madam,” he said, withdrawing the fatal note from the envelope, and laying it before her, adding, “Do you acknowledge _this_ as your writing also?”

Catherine looked at the note without heeding the words, and raising her innocent eyes with wonder to his face, answered, without an instant’s hesitation—

“Yes, assuredly, that is mine!”

Her perfect unconsciousness should have convinced him of her innocence—would have done so perhaps, but that, prejudiced against her, he took her manner to be super-refined art; and determined to force her to the point, he said—

“Would you swear it?”

Catherine took up the letter and examined it.

“Ay! read it, read it.”

Catherine read the note, turned deadly pale, fell back in her chair, and let the paper drop from her hands—overwhelmed by the enormous wickedness of the forgery. Scarcely restraining a bitter curse, he picked up the fatal note, pushed the door open with his foot, crossed the hall, and entered his bed-chamber, banging the door after him.

One stunned moment she sat thus, then started to her feet, bewildered, distracted, and with a wild impulse, fled across the hall and into his chamber, and sank at his feet speechless, mute, but catching his hand, and clinging to it. When she struggled and recovered her voice, she exclaimed, simply—

“I did not write that letter, Archer. I did not write that letter.”

He twisted his hand rudely out of her grasp, and turned away, without reply.

She clasped her hands earnestly, exclaiming again—

“I did not write that letter! It is impossible I ever should have conceived, much less have written such a letter! I do not know who wrote it. I never laid my eyes on it before!”

An incredulous, insulting smile, was his reply.

“Oh! what shall I say to convince you? _Indeed_, _indeed_ I did not do it!”

“Come, perjure yourself! Swear it.”

She was silent.

“I ask you to swear it.”

She was still silent.

“Come, now—will you declare upon oath that you did not write that letter?”

“God sees me! I did not!”

“That’s no oath! Here’s the New Testament, swear upon the Holy Evangelists of Almighty God that you didn’t write it, and, perhaps, I will believe you, for well I know that many unprincipled people have a sort of fearful respect for an oath, which in them is not piety, but superstition. I think you just such a one! Come, now, swear that you did not write it!” He paused for an answer, but she looked at him in great trouble. “Will you do it?”

“Major Clifton, I cannot!”

“Not swear that you did not write it?”

“No, sir.”

“Then that only confirms and seals the truth of what I knew before, that, of course, you _did_ write it.”

She wrung her hands in deep distress, and said—

“I cannot swear, Archer. I mean I _dare_ not swear, Archer, even to prove my innocence, and get back your love.”

“And why, pray?” he asked, with a mocking smile.

“Oh, Archer! my Lord and yours has commanded us to ‘_Swear not at all_.’ I dare not break that command.”

“Tush, girl, you are clumsy. Do you presume to think I can be duped by that affectation of super-righteousness?”

“Oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven! what shall I do?” said Catherine, in despair.

“Swear, and I will believe you,” he answered, mockingly.

“Oh! _why_ will not my simple word do? Oh! do you think I would tell a falsehood even to save my life?”

“Do I? Does not an astute diplomatist, like you, know that _I_ know a woman who can be false, treacherous, hypocritical;—who, so young, can plot so well, and succeed so entirely;—can also tell a falsehood to conceal her baseness?” he answered, looking down upon her in insufferable scorn.

Then her whole manner changed. She arose to her feet with a certain calm and gentle dignity, and pushing back the veiling tresses from her noble brow, answered nobly—

“Yes, it is true! If I could have conceived such treachery, and written such a letter as that, I could also have lied to conceal it! There is only one on earth that knows my innocence, the writer of that letter. But one in Heaven knows it, and He will make it manifest. I believe in miracles, because I believe in the infinite power and goodness of God, and in the everlasting promises of the Bible.”

“Well done, Maria Teresa! really that is the best of all! Indeed, your talents are quite lost upon such unworthy game as me and my poor estate—good-bye!” And laughing bitterly, he left the room, and hurried down stairs. A few minutes after she heard the clock strike ten—then she arose and went to the window to look out. He stood upon the lawn, in riding gear, near a group consisting of his servant Dandy, and three saddle-horses. She saw him vault into his saddle, and ride away, attended by Dandy, mounted on one horse and leading another. As he passed the outer gate, one look of love, sorrow, and despair, he turned towards her window, and then vanished into the forest road.

She did not see that look—she could not have seen it at that distance; she saw that he was gone, and turning from the window, she sank down upon the carpet in the collapse of deepest sorrow.

Gone! He was gone! His presence that had made all suffering tolerable was withdrawn, and the place was empty—life itself was empty.

He was gone—gone—not lovingly, after a lingering, tender leave-taking—that would have been sorrowful enough; but it would have been cheered by the promise of frequent interchange of letters, and the anticipation of re-union; how much more sorrowful this utter separation!

Gone! gone! not in anger—that would have been bitter indeed; but it would have been sweetened by hope that anger would subside, that reflection would come, and reconciliation ensue; but how much bitterer this hopeless disunion.

Gone in scorn! Gone in loathing! Gone to return no more but as a stranger! Oh, insupportable grief! Oh, hopeless anguish! Oh, despair!

A few short weeks ago the heaven of her life had been so serene, so divinely serene, and her soul had reflected back the beautiful “great calm,” as a still lake the clear sky.

Now all was changed! Now all was clouds and storm and darkness! A howling wilderness around! A howling tempest overhead! And her soul answered back the tempestuous discord of life, as the storm-tossed ocean, the storm-lowered sky! All was confusion, distraction, chaos!

Wild impulses—suggestions of the fiend—darted meteor-like athwart her mind:—to fly—to go away and leave a place, where she had been brought a bride, full of love and hope and trust, and where every feeling of womanly pride and delicacy had been ruthlessly, insultingly trampled in the dust!

But simultaneously with this suggestion, arose the instinct of the wife, and the inspiration of the Christian, teaching her that scorned and outraged as she had been, her only post of duty as of _hope_, was her husband’s home. Yes, amid all the gloom and terror, she caught this one glimpse of Heaven. Amid all the clash and clang of passion and despair, she heard this voice of God.