“Well, you have two white cambric dresses, without ornament, they will do for morning dresses. Do me the kindness to wear them. Nay, now, Catherine, my dear, no hesitation, I will have it so. Go at once and put on one of them.”
Kate complied, and in a short time returned to the parlor—by this change in the style of her toilet, almost transfigured, 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 he did his suspicions would be well founded. And the consciousness of this truth, suffused with blushes the cheeks of the 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 company 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. Clifton arose to meet him, but, overpowered by agitation and weakness, she sank back into her seat. Her son was before 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 cadaverous, 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 entirely suppress, he turned to Catherine and gave her a brother’s greeting in silence, 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 to-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 sleep. I shall be much better to-morrow. Sit down by me and rest, and 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 looking upon his mother’s wasted form, had lost all self-command, 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. Catherine 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 herself 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. He 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 see him weep so convulsively, and losing all self-consciousness, and with it all reserve, she threw her arm 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 cheerful she is! Try to emulate her calmness!”