“Think of it!—it is an infernal forgery! If any man had brought me that letter, and said that Catherine wrote it, I should have treated it just as I have done now, to show my contempt for the forgery; and then I should have raised it with my sword’s point, and thrust it down his throat, to express my loathing of the forger or the accomplice.”
“And yet, just now you could have sworn to the hand-writing.”
“Death! Yes! And for which presumption I earnestly beg your pardon, Clifton!”
“And now you are quite as much convinced that she did not write it. How can you explain this?”
“Why, simply thus—that the whole of Catherine’s noble life is a refutation of the slander contained in that letter. Sir, it is a d—d forgery! Look at it! See how easy the hand is imitated! Give me a pen and ink, and though I have not much talent for imitation, I will produce you a fac simile of Catherine’s hand-writing. I repeat, I beg your forgiveness for saying that that was Catherine’s. I said so, because it strongly resembled hers, and I did not know the vile purport! Oh, I trust, Clifton, that you signally punished the conspirator who wrote it! I can well believe that you neither eat, slept, said your prayers, went to church or into her presence, until you had pursued the forger, and punished him or her to the utmost extent of the law!”
They had now arrived at Greenwood, and Major Clifton, without replying, conducted his companion into the house, and introduced him to the planter’s family. On inquiry concerning the state of Catherine, he learned that she still lay without any sign of life, except the faint beating of her heart. Leaving General Conyers with his host, he went up into his wife’s chamber. He wished to be alone with her. There is something in a sound faith that always makes a strong impression. The deep, thorough earnestness of confidence in Catherine’s perfect integrity, exhibited by Conyers, had shaken Clifton’s firm convictions of her guilt to their uprootings, as the whirlwind shakes the oak. Ay, and he was shaken—literally shaken, terribly shaken, by strong passion, as he exclaimed to himself—
“Oh, would to Heaven I could think as he does! I am no longer a youth, credulous of happiness, but if I could only thoroughly believe in Kate as he does—or once see her innocence proved, it would fill my heart with joy.” He entered the chamber, and went up to her bedside. There was a pallor spread like death over her brow. “But she was always so pale,” he said, in a voice tremulous with tenderness. So still she lay, so profound was her repose, that her breathing could not be seen or heard, until, alarmed, he stooped and listened, and perceived that her respiration was deep, soft, slow and regular. Her sleep was evidently necessary, healthful and recuperative. He stood and gazed at her sculptured, marble-like face, as her head reposed upon the pillow. He had never seen that noble countenance in the deep repose of sleep before. No, and waking, it had always been disturbed by care, or grief, or anxiety, or bashfulness. Now the noble face was in perfect rest. The majesty of truth sat enthroned upon the fine, broad, open forehead, with its eyebrows arched far apart, and more elevated, because the eyelids were shut down, with their dark lashes lying long and still upon the pale cheeks. And the beauty of goodness lay folded in every curve of the lightly-closed and perfect lips. She looked a queen in repose—
“A Queen of noble Nature’s crowning,”
whom it were disloyalty to suspect, and treason to accuse. As he gazed, the earnest faith of Conyers came back with tenfold power to his soul. He more than half abjured his evil convictions, and a flood of tenderness came over his heart. There was no one to see his weakness—not even her—the sleeper. He went and closed the door, and returned and kneeled by her side. He took her hand, and bowed his head over it. From that trance-sleep there was no fear, because there was no possibility of waking her yet. He kissed and pressed that hand with sorrowful passion—murmuring—“For once—for this time, I will, I will believe you true, my own dear Catherine. My whole nature starves, it starves, and withers, and dies for a perfect reconciliation, a perfect union with you. Oh, for once, let soul and heart be satisfied—let me steel my mind against the thought of evil, and fold you around with my love, and press you to this still denied and hungering, perishing heart.” And he raised her in his arms, and folded her to his bosom, pressing an ardent kiss upon her lips. That passionate kiss sent an electric shock through all her still life. A shuddering sigh shook her bosom; her lips parted in a light, rosy smile; color dawned upon her cheeks, and light beamed on her brow. Alarmed, and remembering the physician’s warning that a premature awakening might be fatal, he cautiously laid her down again, and anxiously watched her countenance. She did not awake; nor did the light depart from her brow; nor the color from her cheeks; nor the smile from her lips. “How she loves me. Her soul as well as her person is mine. How she loves me, even in sleep—even in this trance-sleep, with all her senses locked. How she loves me—my Kate! my own! my wife! How she loves me—yet no more than I love her. Witness this worn frame of mine, that sorrow, like years, has aged! My own—”
A light step upon the stairs, and a rap at the door, and he hastened to open it. It was the farmer’s little niece, Susannah, who came to say that Captain Fairfax was in the parlor, waiting to see Major Clifton. He turned back an instant, to arrange the coverlet, gave a last glance at the beloved face, and then followed the child down stairs. The staircase led directly down into the parlor, and as soon as he had reached it, he saw Frank Fairfax, who immediately hastened to meet him, and—