“Oh, lady! lady! lady!” said Kate, warmly, being not yet recovered from her trance—“lady—Carl and I had not many books, so we read what we had over and over again! And one of the books we read the most was the life of Oliver Cromwell!”
“You are generally so shy, Catherine, that it is a blind work in me to direct your studies, not knowing what you have read and what you have not.”
Yes—very delightful to both were these seasons, and very strong was the affection beginning to cement between the lady and the maiden. There was only one thing that disturbed Catherine in the perfect enjoyment of these afternoons. When Archer Clifton would surprise them by suddenly entering the room, and throwing himself into an arm-chair or upon a sofa, her heart would stand still, and her whole frame tremble with an agitation as impossible to comprehend as to conquer. And yet much as his arrival disturbed her, his departure failed to make her happy. On the contrary, it left a strange sadness and yearning she could not shake off. But then these things were of rare occurrence. Captain Clifton very seldom found time to visit his mother—he was contented to know that she had a companion;—and as for Kate, he never thought of her at all—she was provided for and forgotten. Body, soul, and spirit were taken up—absorbed in the contemplation of his promised bride, and in the anticipation of her possession. Catherine knew he was soon to be married, but what of that? She was a child, with no knowledge at her tender years to understand her own heart, and no skill to define its first developments.
At White Cliffs “all went merry as a marriage bell.” The “Rockbridge” was at length telegraphed at Norfolk. A letter with an invoice was received by Mr. Clifton, who immediately dispatched a special messenger to receive his valuable portion of the cargo. The wedding-day was fixed for that day week, and great preparations were on foot. The gentry of the neighboring counties were invited. The mansion-house was “swept and garnished” from garret to cellar. Frank and Zuleime were daily rehearsing their parts as bridesmaid and groomsman, which Frank declared to be only an apprenticeship to the business of enacting bride and groom. Some city guests from Richmond had arrived by particular invitation, four or five days before the expected wedding. Last of all came the wagon with the boxes from Norfolk. They were opened in the hall—such treasure of splendid attire, and such sets of jewelry! And, above all, such a trousseau for the bride—conspicuous in which was the bridal dress and veil—the bridal dress and train of richest white brocade heavily embroidered with silver, after the gorgeous fashion of that time—the bridal veil of finest lace—the orange flower wreath of pearls and emeralds—the pearl embroidered gloves and slippers—the pearl and silver mounted fan, and all complete in correspondence. And richer still was a ball-dress of blue silver-embroidered brocade, with its elegant coiffure of ostrich feathers, the sight of which Zuleime declared was enough to precipitate any girl into matrimony.
Every one was too happy, too busy and too self-important to notice the deathly hue of Georgia’s cheek, far less to detect the fitful glare of the well-guarded eye. Every one but her husband, who, leaving his daughters and their maids to unpack the boxes, followed her into her own chamber, saying, as he fondly laid his hand upon her shoulder—
“My darling doesn’t seem to be merry.”
She shrank—shuddered from his touch, exclaiming, almost shrilly—
“Leave me!”
“Leave you, my dear!—my child,—why leave you?” he asked, passing his hand gently around her shoulders.
“Leave me, leave me!” she cried, sharply, casting off the arm and springing back—her cheek blanched, her teeth snapping, her eyes sparkling fire, more like a terrified wolf than a woman, “have I not told you never, never to come near me in my dark hour?”