An hour after this, Catherine heard Major Clifton enter the hall door and come up stairs. To her surprise, he paused before her chamber door and rapped. When she opened it, he said—
“Will you favor me with your company in my study for a few minutes, Mrs. Clifton?”
Catherine immediately laid down her work and followed him.
When they reached the study, he set her a chair near the writing-table, and dropping into another, drew a portfolio before him, opened it, and turning out a number of papers, said—
“Mrs. Clifton, I told you, some weeks since, that at my departure, and during my indefinite absence, I should be obliged to leave this estate under your charge?”
“Yes,” answered Catherine attentively.
“I am well aware that it is undoubtedly an onerous burden and responsibility for one so young, but, when you feel it so, remember that you, yourself, courted the position, and must be content to take the toils with the honors, real or imaginary.”
Passing over his bitter jibe, Catherine said—
“You need not doubt in leaving all to my care that all will go well. I am not twenty yet, it is true, but I have had much work and much experience for my age, so that every year I have lived since ten years old has counted double. You need suffer no anxiety in trusting me.”
He looked at her countenance, at once noble and meek in expression; he remembered the life of toil, self-denial, and devotion she had lived; he even recollected a certain text of Scripture which said, “By their fruits ye shall know them—do men gather thorns of fig trees?” but the demon of cherished suspicion whispered, “’Twas all done for a purpose,” and he hardened his heart, and replied—