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 curledAbout thee—what we knew before—How love is the only good in the world.Henceforth be loved as heart can love,Or brain devise, or hand approve.—Browning.
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 curledAbout thee—what we knew before—How love is the only good in the world.Henceforth be loved as heart can love,Or brain devise, or hand approve.—Browning.
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 curledAbout thee—what we knew before—How love is the only good in the world.Henceforth be loved as heart can love,Or brain devise, or hand approve.—Browning.
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 curled
About thee—what we knew before—
How love is the only good in the world.
Henceforth be loved as heart can love,
Or brain devise, or hand approve.—Browning.
The confidential 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, on reaching the home of their host, they found company awaiting 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 breakfast several hours. Therefore it was after ten o’clock, before Major Clifton, very much against the will of his odd entertainer, bid him farewell, and set out to return to Greenwood. It was eleven o’clock when he reached the farm-house. The ladies were all in their sitting-room, engaged in their various domestic 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 I see her immediately?”
“Mrs. Clifton, sir!” said the eldest lady, looking up in surprise. “Mrs. Clifton is gone sir. Did you not know it?”
“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 my 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 detained her.”
“Gone! Good Heavens, was sheableto 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 profound repose, which had previously marked it, and began to assume 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, like 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 so 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 doctor’s directions had been peremptory, so wetried again, and placed her in the bath. And very soon the hot water seemed to alleviate her sufferings. And when we put her comfortably to bed again, she thanked us very sweetly. I 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.”
“Did 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 of 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 I 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 I could not divest myself of uneasiness upon her account, and so I could not get to sleep until after midnight, and during all that time I 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 frequently stopped and leaned against the bed-post for support. I 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 with her, but arguments and persuasions were alike in vain—she only answered, ‘I must go.’”
“Oh, Heaven! Where, where did she wish to go?”
“We do not know. She was not communicative, and we did not like to question her.”
“Forgive me, dear madam. Indeed I fear my questionings 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 one inform her?”
“We cannot tell whether she knew of your presence here.We did not tell her, for, as I 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 look of deep sorrow, to say that she was the most hopeless looking human being I ever saw in my life. She seemed 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 presumed that Catherine had left for her Virginia home, in ignorance 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 outskirts 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 answers—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 lady in a dark riding-dress, riding on a bay horse, and aboy, mounted on a white mare, attended her. Perhaps this was Catherine, and her attendant some 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 about an hour before. Full of hope, they put spurs to their horses and hurried on, congratulating themselves that they were gaining on her so fast.
At length they reached 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 hastened 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.
And there, indeed, sat “Mrs. Jones” and young Hopeful, looking as if they considered such investigation into their property very impertinent, to say the least.
Disappointed, Frank returned to Major Clifton with this explanation, and they looked at each other in chagrin and perplexity—Major Clifton with great difficulty 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.
“I do not see anything better to do, Archer, than to keep on till we reach Washington City. No doubt you will see her there, if you do not overtake her before.”
Again putting whip to their horses, they galloped on, passing the great belt of forest, and entering upon the bare lowlands, 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 delay before finding a boat to take them across. They entered the ruined and blackened city a little after midnight. At that hour little 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 indifferent shelter, and retired, with the determination to pursue their investigations in the morning. At an early hour they arose, and went out, making inquiries in every direction, butin vain. No one had seen or heard of the missing lady though many cheerfully suggested that she had fallen into the hands of the British soldiery, who were on their retreat through the low counties. Strongly impressed with the idea that 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. Even 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 presentiments, 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 informed 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, they would write to him at Washington, and let him know. Major Clifton and Frank procured 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 from incredible exertion, Catherine had fallen into his arms, and 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 despairing 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!
“I have broken her heart. I have killed her. I have killed her. Woman’s nature could not live through what I have drivenherthrough!Poor, poor girl!—so bitterly slandered!—so cruelly tortured! Persecuted unto death—or worse—unto madness! And where is she now? Perhaps 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 be secured, perhaps.”
Not a hint of this prophetic despair was breathed to Fairfax. 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 evening, laughing over our cups of tea at the famous wild-goose chase we have had?” But 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 not. 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 subject, that they had not seen or heard from their mistress since 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 desperation, 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 she had not recovered from her fatigue, and that she would probably take her own time in returning. We have outridden her, evidently.”
Major Clifton rejoined by a groan. He ordered refreshmentsfor his guest, and soon after attended him to his room, and retired to his own, not to rest, but to walk about distractedly, 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-disposed him to illness. His long journey, under the burning sun of August by day, and heavy dews of August by night, fatigue and anxiety, loss of food and sleep, all conspired to bring on the pernicious fever, and before morning Archer Clifton 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 alternated 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 his Nemesis—now wooing her by the most tender epithets of affection—calling her his “poor wounded dove,” his “broken-hearted child,” etc. Often, he repeated plaintively her last sorrowful, hopeless words.
At length the crisis of the disease came. The delirium arose to a 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, sometimes severely reproaching Georgia, sometimes pleading his cause with his mother, and always breaking off to soothe and coax Catherine, as if she were circled in his arm.
At length the frenzy fairly exhausted itself, and he sank into a comatose state, to dream of Catherine, to see visions of Catherine, to feel her gentle presence, and healing ministrations all about him. Then came insensibility, which lasted he did not know how long, for all sense of time and place and 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 veins—the terrible nervous excitement had subsided, and a luxurious calm lay upon mind and body, until memory came to disturb it, perhaps to torture it. He was experiencing the delightful sensations of restoration and convalescence, and his physical state alone would have been a sufficient cause forhappiness, but for one aching, aching spot, one sharp point of agony as it were in his heart’s core. And when the cry in his bosom found its corresponding expression, the word was “Catherine!” “Catherine!”
His eyes had opened on his darkened chamber, where, 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. The 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 could not see the presence by his couch—but now gentler than “tired eyelids upon tired eyes” fell a soft hand upon his 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 disappointment; that he dared scarcely submit to the test of certainty, lest that certainty should bring not joy but despair. At last, trembling with doubt, he murmured, “Am I dreaming, or, dear Kate, are you here?”
“I am here,” she answered softly.
“Darling, are you well?”
“Very well—butyouare not well enough to talk yet,” said Kate, gently.
“Dear Kate—how long have you been home?”
“Since the day you were taken ill,” replied Kate, at the same time encircling his shoulders with one arm, and raising him, while with the other hand she placed 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 presence, 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 cheerful, and the family physician and Frank Fairfax stood at his bedside, with their congratulations on his convalescence. And while they staid, his eyes were roving restlessly around the room, in search of some one else.
And when they went away, Catherine entered, bringingcold water, and came and sponged his head and hands. And then she went out, and returned with his light breakfast. She sat upon the bed, supporting his head and shoulders upon her bosom while he ate. At last—
“Take it all away, dearest Kate,” he said, “and sit where I can see you. It is you who are my restorative.”
When the service was removed, and his pillows were arranged, and he was comfortably laid back upon them again, he said—
“Dearest Kate, do you know that I know at last, how deeply you have been injured?”
She stooped down to him saying, softly—
“Please do not try to talk to-day. Yield to the inclination 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, and 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 better, 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 still more sallow and haggard for the dark, dishevelled hair and whiskers that encircled it; but his countenance wore an expression 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. Come 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 encircled her with his arm, while he said—
“My dear Kate, do you know that I thought I had lost 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 such dreadful thoughts,” said Catherine, gently.
“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 from the moment I threw myself in among the soldiery, and saw the bayonets glittering around me, until I awoke and found myself in the farmer’s house.”
“Ah! don’t you remember that in answer to my harsh question—harsh Kate, because I was still in blindness—you answered—‘Patience, patience, patience; indeed I will not trouble you, love—I will go away; maybe God will let me die.’”
“Did 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 do not remember. But I suppose I meant that I would go home. And, oh! do you think—
“Think what, dear Kate?”
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 the tightening pressure of his arm.
“And, dear Kate, we could hear of you nowhere. You were long in returning, Catherine.”
“Yes, when I started I was still very unequal to the return 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 for evil. And can she guess the remorse and sorrow of heart that hurried on this fit of illness?” Then suddenly overcome with emotion, he exclaimed: “Oh, my God, Catherine! can you imagine how I suffered?”
“Yes, yes, indeed I know it all! I learned all—all—in the raving of your delirium. Others thought itmereraving but I knew.”
“And do you know who forged that fatal letter, Kate?”
“Yes.”
“Who was it, then?”
“You said, Mrs. Georgia.”
“Yes. It was strange you never suspected that, Kate.”
“I did suspect it.”
“You did suspect it!” exclaimed Archer Clifton, in surprise.
“Yes.”
“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!”
“I only believed God’s promises. I left my cause to Heaven.”
“And Heaven has vindicated you, my Kate! You have seen my sufferings since discovering how unjustly you had been condemned; but, oh, Kate, I suffered also when I madly believed you guilty.”
“I 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,Iwas 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 Cranmer, 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 in all my nature? I did! I did, Catherine! Lift up the hair from my temples, and tell me what you see?”
Kate lifted the clustering dark curls, and answered—
“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—eventhen—every look of anguish on your brow wrung my bosom—every tear you dropped, fell hot uponmy heart. Stoop down. Let 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—like 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.”
Kate wept—her tears fell fast upon his hand, that she had clasped 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 inspired with faith and love, as she clasped her hands, and said—
“Oh, no! it wasnotunnecessary. God suffered it to be, and it was well—verywell! ‘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 them fruitful of good in the future. One fruit is, that the suffering of the last two years has drawn our hearts together as nothing 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 you have passed through. Yet not now only, but always have I loved you, dear wife. I denied it to myself—I denied it to others—but there it was, the perfect, vital love, as sure as fate. When I first saw you, Kate, I met in your face, your voice, your manner,—yes, in every look and tone and gesture, in your whole unity—something that I had vainly sought through life—something homogenial to my nature—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, is‘ever soft, gentle and low,’—but speak again dearest. It is something that my heart listens to hear.”
“I 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?”
“Yes,—the truth is, Imust. 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, “I 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?” asked Clifton, while Catherine looked and listened with interest.
“The only friend that my dear Zuleime found in all her adversity—Mrs. Knight,” said Frank, and then he added, quickly, “It was a long time before my mother’s pride could be reconciled to this, but Ida’s genuine goodness won her at last.”
After the first involuntary expression of surprise, Catherine and Clifton exchanged glances, and Catherine said,
“Well, Captain Fairfax, as soon after the marriage asconvenient,—instantly after the ceremony, if you please,—you must bring your bride down, and pass some weeks with us.”
“I 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 immediately 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?”
“Until the spring. And now I must really bid you good-bye, regretting very much that I cannot carry you both along with me.”
They shook hands cordially, Clifton saying—
“Well, Frank, our very best wishes attend you. May you have much happiness!”
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—
“Come hither, Catherine!”
And she came and knelt by his side, and he encircled her with his arm, and drew her face down to his bosom, 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.”
A SWEEPING REDUCTION!All our 12mo. Cloth Books are Reduced to $1.50 a Copy, including all the Works ofMrs. Southworth,Mrs. Hentz,Miss Dupuy,Mrs. Ann S. Stephens,Mrs. Warfield,Dumas,etc., etc.As well as other Books formerly published by us at $1.75 each.CATALOGUE OF BOOKSPUBLISHED BYT. B. PETERSON and BROTHERS,PHILADELPHIA, PA.,And for sale by all Booksellers.☞Any of the Books named in this Catalogue will be sent by mail, to any one, to any place, at once, post-paid, on remitting the price of the ones wanted to T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.
A SWEEPING REDUCTION!All our 12mo. Cloth Books are Reduced to $1.50 a Copy, including all the Works of
A SWEEPING REDUCTION!All our 12mo. Cloth Books are Reduced to $1.50 a Copy, including all the Works of
A SWEEPING REDUCTION!
All our 12mo. Cloth Books are Reduced to $1.50 a Copy, including all the Works of
Mrs. Southworth,Mrs. Hentz,Miss Dupuy,Mrs. Ann S. Stephens,Mrs. Warfield,Dumas,etc., etc.
Mrs. Southworth,Mrs. Hentz,Miss Dupuy,Mrs. Ann S. Stephens,Mrs. Warfield,Dumas,etc., etc.
Mrs. Southworth,Mrs. Hentz,Miss Dupuy,Mrs. Ann S. Stephens,Mrs. Warfield,Dumas,etc., etc.
Mrs. Southworth,
Mrs. Hentz,
Miss Dupuy,
Mrs. Ann S. Stephens,
Mrs. Warfield,
Dumas,etc., etc.
As well as other Books formerly published by us at $1.75 each.CATALOGUE OF BOOKSPUBLISHED BYT. B. PETERSON and BROTHERS,PHILADELPHIA, PA.,And for sale by all Booksellers.
As well as other Books formerly published by us at $1.75 each.CATALOGUE OF BOOKSPUBLISHED BYT. B. PETERSON and BROTHERS,PHILADELPHIA, PA.,And for sale by all Booksellers.
As well as other Books formerly published by us at $1.75 each.
CATALOGUE OF BOOKS
PUBLISHED BY
T. B. PETERSON and BROTHERS,
PHILADELPHIA, PA.,
And for sale by all Booksellers.
☞Any of the Books named in this Catalogue will be sent by mail, to any one, to any place, at once, post-paid, on remitting the price of the ones wanted to T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.
T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS,306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia,
T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS,306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia,
T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS,
306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia,
Desire to direct the close attention of all lovers of good novel reading to the works and authors contained in their new catalogue, just issued. A strict scrutiny is solicited, because the books enumerated in it are among the most popular now in existence. In supplying your wants and taste in the reading line, it is of the first importance that you should give special attention to what is popularly designated entertaining reading matter. No library is either attractive or complete without a collection of novels and romances. The experience of many years has demonstrated that light reading is essential to even the most studious men and women, furnishing the mind with healthful recreation; while to the young, and to those that have not cultivated a taste for solid works of science, it forms one of the best possible training schools, gradually establishing, in a pleasant manner, that habit of concentration of thought absolutely necessary to read understandingly the more ponderous works, which treat of political economy, the sciences, and of the arts.
We publish and sell at very low rates, full and varied editions of the works of all the famous American and Foreign Novelists, whose writings are very entertaining, specially adapted for all readers. The most of them are bound in strong cloth binding, and also in paper covers. Examination is asked for our editions of the writings ofMrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth, whose romances are always in demand;Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, the well-known favorite;Mrs. Henry Wood, the authoress of “East Lynne;”Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, whose stories of Southern life stand unparalleled in their simple truth and exquisite beauty;Mrs. C. A. Warfield, another very popular Southern writer;Miss Eliza A. Dupuy, who has made a wonderful mark;Mrs. F. H. Burnett, the authoress of “Theo;” the charming and pathetic French and Russian romances ofHenry Gréville; the wonderful and famous fictions ofGustave Flaubert; the brilliant and artistic works ofOctave Feuillet; the highly finished and powerful stories ofErnest Daudet; the popular and pleasing productions ofProsper Merimee; the beautiful and touching love tales of the celebratedGeorge Sand; the clever and intensely interesting writings ofJules Sandeau; the exciting and ingenious novels ofAdolphe Belot; the picturesque and enchaining works ofMadame Angele Dussaud; the exquisitely pathetic romances of thePrincess Altieri; the strong and graphic productions ofAndre Theuriet; the wild frontier sketches ofGustave Aimard; the classic and refined works ofMadame De Stael; the absorbing and vivid fictions ofAlexander Dumas, Pere; the natural and forcible novels ofAlexander Dumas, Fils; the startling and mysterious romances ofEugene Sue; the trenchant and unique narratives ofVictor Hugo; the realistic novels ofEmile Zola, which have had a sale in this country unparalleled in the history of recent book-making; of great interest isSir Walter Scott, whose “Waverley” novels still maintain a strong hold on the people.Charles Dickens’complete writings we furnish in every variety of style. We publish also the weird stories ofGeorge Lippard; the martial novels ofCharles Lever; the comical nautical tales ofCaptain Marryat;Emerson Bennett’sIndian stories;Henry Cockton’slaughable narratives;T. S. Arthur’stemperance tales and household stories; the wonderful and entertaining novels ofEugene SueandW. H. Ainsworth; the quiet domestic novels ofFredrika BremerandEllen Pickering; the masterly novels ofWilkie Collins;Frank Fairlegh’squaint stories, andSamuel Warren’selaborate romances; the works ofMrs. C. J. Newby,Mrs. Grey, andMiss Pardoe;W. H. Herbert’ssporting stories; and the graphic Italian romances ofT. A. Trollope; also the fascinating writings ofG. P. R. James,Mrs. S. A. Dorsey,Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton,James A. Maitland,The Shakspeare Novels,Charles G. Leland(Hans Breitmann),Dow’sPatent Sermons,Doesticks, andHenry Morford, as well asFrancatelli’s,Miss Leslie’s, and all the best Cook Books; Petersons’ “Dollar Series of Good Novels;” Petersons’ “Sterling Series” of entertaining books; Petersons’ popular “Square 12mo. Series” of excellent stories; together with hundreds of others, by the best authors in the world.
☞☞ Look over our Catalogue, and enclose a Draft or Post Office Order for five, ten, twenty, or fifty dollars, or more, to us in a letter, and write for what books you wish, and on receipt of the money, or a satisfactory reference, the books will be packed and sent to you at once, in any way you may direct. Address all orders to
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Publishers,306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Publishers,306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Publishers,306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Publishers,
306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.
T. B. PETERSONANDBROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS.☞ Orders solicited from Booksellers, Librarians, Canvassers, News Agents, and all others in want of good and fast-selling books, which will be supplied at very Low Rates ☜MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S FAMOUS WORKS.Complete in forty-three large duodecimo volumes, bound in morocco cloth, gilt back price $1.50 each; or $64.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.
T. B. PETERSONANDBROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS.☞ Orders solicited from Booksellers, Librarians, Canvassers, News Agents, and all others in want of good and fast-selling books, which will be supplied at very Low Rates ☜MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S FAMOUS WORKS.Complete in forty-three large duodecimo volumes, bound in morocco cloth, gilt back price $1.50 each; or $64.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.
T. B. PETERSONANDBROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS.
☞ Orders solicited from Booksellers, Librarians, Canvassers, News Agents, and all others in want of good and fast-selling books, which will be supplied at very Low Rates ☜
MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S FAMOUS WORKS.
Complete in forty-three large duodecimo volumes, bound in morocco cloth, gilt back price $1.50 each; or $64.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.