“The letter?”
“Here it is. You seem very much agitated, Clifton!”
“With reason! Give it me!”
And receiving the letter, Major Clifton hastened to the opposite end of the room and began to read it. It was the confession of a guilty and dying woman. She wrote, that on the borders of eternity there was no false seeming, and no false shame—that all human feelings were lost in remorse, in terror, and in awe. Then she confessed her mad and guilty passion for himself, and all the crimes into which it had tempted her; the slanders that had separated him and his cousin Carolyn—the forged letter that had brought such bitter sorrow to himself and Catherine. All was confessed and deplored. Finally she supplicated his forgiveness, as he hoped to be forgiven of God.
The subtle self-love of a man can pardon much in a woman whose motive of action is a strong passion for himself. Great as her wickedness had been—great as the suffering it had caused him, he bore no malice to the dead Georgia. He even after a time resolved to cover her sin from all eyes—to bury it in the grave with her. But merciful as he was in judging Georgia—he was stern enough in condemning himself for so readily believing his innocent wife to be guilty. And he divided his broken exclamations between severe self-upbraidings, and rejoicings at her full acquittal—Frank watching him with curiosity and strong interest.
“Oh! fool! fool! fool!”
“What is it, Clifton? Who’s a fool?”
“Oh! fool! thrice sodden fool that I’ve been! Thank Heaven. Oh! thank Heaven!”
“Thank Heaven that he’s a thrice sodden fool! That’s new cause for thanksgiving! What’s it all about, Archer?”
“Oh! folly! blindness! madness! Heaven be praised! Oh! Heaven be praised!”