“Call Henny, my dear Kate, and let her assist you in getting me up stairs. It has come at last, Kate.”
Almost dismayed by sorrow, Catherine rung the bell that brought the servants into the room. And between them they raised the lady to her feet. Mrs. Clifton took a long look around the room, as though she were taking a last leave of every dear familiar object in it; and then suffered herself to be supported up to her chamber.
Mrs. Georgia Clifton was pacing her chamber floor, in all the distraction of excited evil passions, racking her brain for an expedient to ruin her rival and break off the impending marriage, when the “spirits that tend on mortal thoughts,” furnished her with one. A messenger entered and handed her a sealed envelope, directed in the hand-writing of Catherine Kavanagh. She opened it in surprise, curiosity, and even in some degree of vague, guilty fear, and found within the misdirected note of Kate to Carl. It read simply as follows:
“Dear Carl:—
“Mrs. Clifton is almost dying. She says you must come to the house this afternoon, at four o’clock, to meet a lawyer and a clergyman, and with Mrs. Georgia Clifton, to witness the signing of her last will, and also my marriage. Do not keep her waiting.
“CATHERINE.”
This note contained no expression of esteem or affection for the invalid, or regret at her approaching death. No! for Catherine’s veneration and sorrow were too earnest, too real, to be a matter of wordy formula. But in the evil heart of Georgia this simplicity was turned against the girl. And her first idea, revealed in her smile of satisfaction, was to show this mis-sent note to Archer Clifton, and bid him look and see with what perfect coolness and indifference the writer could announce the approaching demise of her benefactress. But while this thought was revolving in her mind, Satan suggested a surer plan—a deadly stratagem. And at this inspiration of the fiend, the dark face of the baleful woman lighted up with demoniac joy. She seized the note again, and rushed to the window, and scanned the hand-writing. Georgia inherited all the imitative talent of her father, the portrait painter. Catherine’s hand-writing was unique: small, square letters, with heavy strokes, a chirography peculiar to herself, yet easily imitated. Mrs. Georgia copied a few selected words—compared them with the originals, and was satisfied with her work. Next she wished to procure note paper, exactly like it. Catherine’s note was written upon neutral-tinted paper, that had been given her by Major Clifton. Mrs. Georgia recognized it as some that had belonged to him. She thought there might possibly be a few stray sheets in the writing-table of the library. She went thither, and after a diligent search, found a single sheet. This she took with her, and returned to her chamber, locked herself in, and sat down to her fiendish task. Perfectly imitating the hand-writing of Catherine, she forged the following letter:
“Dearest Carl:—
“My long slavery is almost over. The old woman is at her last gasp, and wants you to come over this afternoon at four o’clock, to witness her will and my marriage. You see I have succeeded in catching the aristocrat, and in wheedling his mother into giving me Hardbargain, in my sole right. Am I not a triumphant diplomatist? When she is dead, and I am married, and mistress of White Cliffs and of Hardbargain, as I shall probably reside at the principal seat, I intend to let you this farm, on the easiest terms. Never fear Major Clifton’s interference. You know I know how to manage him.