“To Mrs. Jones, who has just brought her son to school,” answered the teacher, full of surprise at the question.
And there, indeed, sat “Mrs. Jones” and young Hopeful, looking as if they considered such investigation into their property very impertinent, to say the least.
Disappointed, Frank returned to Major Clifton with this explanation, and they looked at each other in chagrin and perplexity—Major Clifton with great difficulty maintaining his self-possession, and concealing the dreadful forebodings that overshadowed his mind. They were now thirty miles from Greenwood, and the sun was getting low.
“I do not see anything better to do, Archer, than to keep on till we reach Washington City. No doubt you will see her there, if you do not overtake her before.”
Again putting whip to their horses, they galloped on, passing the great belt of forest, and entering upon the bare lowlands, lying south of the city. It was late in the night when they descended the road leading to the Anacostic bridge. They found that the bridge had been destroyed, and they experienced much difficulty and delay before finding a boat to take them across. They entered the ruined and blackened city a little after midnight. At that hour little opportunity of search was afforded, and that little was fruitless. They had much trouble in finding a night’s lodging in the desolate city, but at length obtained indifferent shelter, and retired, with the determination to pursue their investigations in the morning. At an early hour they arose, and went out, making inquiries in every direction, but in vain. No one had seen or heard of the missing lady though many cheerfully suggested that she had fallen into the hands of the British soldiery, who were on their retreat through the low counties. Strongly impressed with the idea that she must be in or near Washington, they were unwilling to abandon their search, but remained in the city all day, and through the next night, before resigning all hope of finding her there. Even upon the second morning, Major Clifton and Captain Fairfax were divided in their opinion as to whether they had better go back to St. Mary’s, or go on to R——. Major Clifton, full of the darkest presentiments, was disposed to turn back. Captain Fairfax, on the contrary, full of hope and confidence, urged his friend to push forward. While they were debating, General Conyers rode up and joined them. He said he had but that morning reached the city, and had been an hour in search of them. In answer to their anxious questions, General Conyers informed them that up to late the night before, no news had been heard of Mrs. Clifton—that she evidently was not in the neighborhood he had just left. He seemed grieved and alarmed to find that they had not yet overtaken Catherine, but expressed a strong conviction that she must be on her way home. He advised them to pursue the journey, and regretting that peremptory duty called him to an interview with the Secretary of War, and prevented his bearing them company, took leave, and rode away—turning back once to beg that as soon as they had found Catherine, they would write to him at Washington, and let him know. Major Clifton and Frank procured fresh horses, and leaving their own, set forward on their anxious journey.
The gloomiest forebodings darkened the mind of Archer Clifton. There was one scene ever present to his mental vision—where, at the end of her dreadful journey, fainting from incredible exertion, Catherine had fallen into his arms, and he had received her with a harsh and stern rebuke for making a scene:—one look and tone of hers, that filled his soul with remorse and terror prophetic of doom—her last despairing gaze—her last despairing tones, before she sank into insensibility. How plaintively they echoed through his heart——“Patience, patience, patience——Indeed I will not trouble you, love——I will go away——Maybe God will let me die.” Would he ever forget those words, that voice, that gaze of unutterable but meek despair!
“I have broken her heart. I have killed her. I have killed her. Woman’s nature could not live through what I have driven her through! Poor, poor girl!—so bitterly slandered!—so cruelly tortured! Persecuted unto death—or worse—unto madness! And where is she now? Perhaps the waves of the Patuxent roll over her cold bosom—calmed at last; or perhaps she lives—a mad and houseless wanderer; but I will not believe this, I will not believe it! She may be dead; she must be broken-hearted, but not mad! All-Merciful God!—not mad! She may be dead—and that would be just, for it would secure her happiness and my own retribution, in the only way that both could be secured, perhaps.”
Not a hint of this prophetic despair was breathed to Fairfax. Clifton’s indomitable pride, regnant even over this anxiety, forbade the communication of his remorse and alarm, and the great reason he had for both. Yet Frank observed and tried to cheer his friend’s deep gloom.
“Come, rouse yourself, Archer, we are nearing L——, and shall be at White Cliffs by night-fall, and who, but Mrs. Clifton will meet us at the door, with her gentle smile and gentle welcome, and then shall we not all spend a jolly evening, laughing over our cups of tea at the famous wild-goose chase we have had?” But little effect had Frank’s words on his drooping fellow traveler. Only as they drew near White Cliffs his depression rose into feverish excitement. Arrived at L——, they inquired if Mrs. Clifton had passed through there, and were informed that she had not. It was long after night-fall that they reached White Cliffs. Here the terrified house servants, roused up from their sleep, answered to all inquiries upon the subject, that they had not seen or heard from their mistress since she left to go to Washington. Henny pushed foremost of all to inquire about her “dear mist’ess and brother Jack.” But with a gesture of desperation, Major Clifton sent her off unsatisfied, and turned an agonized look upon Frank. Fairfax was almost discouraged, but, nevertheless, he answered that silent appeal hopefully, saying, “Oh! doubtless she will be home to-morrow, or the next day, at farthest. We ought to have remembered that she had not recovered from her fatigue, and that she would probably take her own time in returning. We have outridden her, evidently.”
Major Clifton rejoined by a groan. He ordered refreshments for his guest, and soon after attended him to his room, and retired to his own, not to rest, but to walk about distractedly, and then he burst into Catherine’s vacant chamber, and threw himself down upon her empty bed, in the very anguish of bereavement. His long residence in the lowlands of the Chesapeake, during the hot summer months, had pre-disposed him to illness. His long journey, under the burning sun of August by day, and heavy dews of August by night, fatigue and anxiety, loss of food and sleep, all conspired to bring on the pernicious fever, and before morning Archer Clifton was tossing and raving in high delirium. Summoned by the alarmed servants, Captain Fairfax was early at his bedside, and seeing his condition, dispatched a messenger for the family physician. For many days, his state alternated between delirium and stupor, and his life tottered upon the edge of the grave. And in his delirium all his raving was of Catherine—still Catherine—now adjuring her as his Nemesis—now wooing her by the most tender epithets of affection—calling her his “poor wounded dove,” his “broken-hearted child,” etc. Often, he repeated plaintively her last sorrowful, hopeless words.