“As usual,” replied Catherine, handing him the paper that had just come from the village, and ringing for breakfast.
When the meal was over, he reseated himself in the arm-chair, reading the newspaper, while Catherine still sat at the board, pouring out bowls of coffee, and filling plates with toast or muffins, to send to the old or sick among the negroes—these being always supplied with their meals from the mistress’s table. Major Clifton glanced over the top of his paper at her, sometimes in irony, sometimes in sorrow, always in doubt. And she—unpleasant as his manner was, felt glad to have him near her. I really believe that she had rather he sat there and made faces at her, than not sat there at all. And she felt lonesome and dreary when at last he left the room, put on his riding-coat and left the house. As yesterday passed, so passed to-day—she meeting him only at meals. And so a week passed on. It is not easy to be very heroic for a day, or two, or three days; but when one day follows another, each with the same continuous, extraordinary demand for fortitude, it is strange, indeed, if heart and flesh do not fail under the task. Nothing but Divine Providence can give the requisite strength of endurance. In the presence of her husband, Catherine was calm and cheerful; but often in her private hours the sense of desolate bereavement would come over her, and gusts of tears and sobs would follow. These, like the summer gusts of blessed nature, would always refresh her, and she would be enabled again to take the comforting promises of the Bible to her heart, in her favorite text—“And we know that all things work together for good, to them that love God,” and to ask God’s blessing again upon her resolution “to perform every domestic and every social duty as faithfully, if not as cheerfully, as though she were a happy wife.” And yet it was very hard to do this. It was very dreary to feel shut out from her husband’s heart; to meet him every day with the same stern, sorrowful brow, or in variation of that, with the same ironical smile. It was difficult to go on with a repulsed and aching heart doing mere mechanical duty. She could not have done so but that two powerful principles sustained her—an invincible love for her husband, and an unwavering faith in God.
One morning, about two weeks after their arrival at home, Major Clifton sat alone, reading, in his study, when the door opened, and Catherine entered. It was the first time that she had intruded there, and he looked up, threw aside his book, arose, and pushed back his chair with a look of annoyance.
“Excuse me for interrupting you, but may I speak to you for a few minutes?”
“Speak on, madam, but oblige me by being brief. Pardon me—take a seat,” he said, handing her a chair, and resuming his own.
Catherine sat down, felt very much like another fit of sobs and tears, but restrained herself, and said, quietly—
“Major Clifton, whatever this is between us—”
“I must remind you that this is a prohibited subject of discussion, madam,” he said, interrupting her.
“I will not talk of it again—how can I, indeed, when I do not know what it is?”
He made a gesture of angry disbelief, and begged her to come at once to the object of her visit.