“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-blissful, half-fearful trance that falls upon one when the great life’s desire and hope 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 landscape 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 Catherine, 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 recognize 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 strongest had conquered, and now reigned alone, and a fine, vigorous, 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 a shaded seat at the end of a piazza, where there were no intruders but a glancing line of sunlight, 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 unmindful of the presence of the maid, he said—
“This is very sweet, dear Kate, very, very sweet—to be able to say to you everything without reserve—to tell you all 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?”
The next day Major Clifton rode over to White Cliffs to 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 manœuverer, Miss Kavanagh,” 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 traduced 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—