“I 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 circumstances, 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 perfectly natural and in order. It did not startle her the least. It did not bring back her womanly self-consciousness, for she answered, meekly—
“I 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 was ill! Oh! girl! girl! you were much to blame for that! It was bitterly wrong.”
“I 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 me would have been every hour of her company when her days were numbered? Could you not have written to me secretly?”
“I never did anything secretly in my life. I should never have 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 permission 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-recollection withdrew herself from him, deeply blushing, and hastened down stairs, and the thought of her transient self-forgetfulness rendered the girl even shyer than ever.