Chapter VI: The Ruptured Tie

Alas! they had been friends in youth,
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above,
And life is thorny, and youth is vain,
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness on the brain.

What ruin a single spark of fire may spread, if carelessly or designedly dropped amid combustible or inflammable material.

What desolation a single word may cause, if thoughtlessly or intentionally let fall into a passionate, impetuous heart.

The three scenes I am about to describe, took place very nearly as they are related.

But first a few words of explanation.

I feel that I have scarcely done justice to the character of Carolyn Clifton, in presenting her only by that cold and frosty crust of pride, which was but the superficial covering of a high-spirited, honorable nature. Her manners were cold and haughty—almost scornful and arrogant—it is but too true. And most people, her family included, supposed her to be destitute of sensibility. Perhaps she was lacking in warmth of affection for her immediate domestic circle. Her whole heart, with all its deep, profound, untold, unguessed devotion, was given to Archer Clifton. And while secretly bestowing upon him her entire, undivided love—she openly exacted a full, unshared return—an exclusive worship.

In truth, in her proud, secret heart, she _was_ a little jealous of Clifton’s affection for his mother! _She_ did not love her _father_ so devotedly!—why should _Clifton_ worship his _mother_ so? To this jealousy she had never given breath, of course—indeed, to her own passionate love, she had never yet given word—preferring, in her high toned, maiden pride, to leave it to be inferred. She had never even _looked_ her jealousy, yet Mrs. Clifton, with the fine instinct of a woman and a mother, guessed it, and in her presence, skillfully eluded all demonstrations of affection from her son. And so well was the proud, exacting spirit of Miss Clifton known in her own family, that even the sprightly and mischievous outlaw, Zuleime, dared take no childish liberty with her sister’s betrothed. Thus it happened that Frank Fairfax’s unlucky jest had deeply offended the arrogant lady, the more especially as in that day, and in that neighborhood, the term “mountain-girl,” was too often the mildest name for an evil woman.—This fact, of course, Frank was not acquainted with. And, therefore it was, that he could not understand Carl Kavanagh’s excessive anxiety to send his young sister off the mountain; and could not in the least comprehend the intense indignation of Miss Clifton, and the difficulty Archer Clifton had in restoring her good humor. Even now, Carolyn Clifton had not forgotten the circumstance. And truth to tell, she was not well pleased at the continued interest displayed by Captain Clifton for his protégé, in bringing her and her family upon his mother’s plantation. But she was too proud again to allude to the subject. Carolyn Clifton had never known a care or a contradiction in her life. Her heart was a sound, strong, high, proud thing, and therefore, very like to break itself without fear, full tilt against the first impediment that opposed it. She was, besides, like all women of her fair complexion and fine tempered nerves—“a discerner of spirits.” And this quick, delicate, and sure perception never failed her, except when she was agitated and blinded by inward passion. Thus, perhaps, quite unconsciously, she read the heart of her betrothed—and knew it better than he did himself—and thus, perhaps, involuntarily, she afterwards acted on that knowledge.

At all events, there was quite enough combustible material on hand for a single spark to ignite it and spread a conflagration.

And the spark—and many sparks were not wanting. A thoughtless jest of Frank’s—a slight word dropped by Georgia at exactly the right, or rather the _wrong_ time and place—and the whole neighborhood of R—— County were agog with gossip. And Captain Clifton and his protégé, were the subjects. Some, right in the face of his well-known engagement to Miss Clifton, did not hesitate to say that she, his protégé, was a beautiful girl, whom he intended to educate and marry, and that his republican mother was highly in favor of the plan. Others told how tastefully the overseer’s house had been furnished and adorned, and—without the slightest foundation in truth—how many hours a day Captain Clifton now spent with his interesting pupil. The suspicious and malignant circulated a still darker tale, and wondered how long it would last, and how it would all end. And then they denounced Captain Clifton, blamed his mother, and pitied Miss Clifton! And all this time, while the whole county was ringing with various and contradictory reports, the persons most concerned knew nothing about it.

Until the day before the wedding, it was suddenly brought to the knowledge of both parties, in the following manner:—

The company assembled at Clifton, consisting of old Mr. Clifton’s brother-in-law and sister, Judge and Mrs. Cabell, of Richmond, with their three daughters and son, Frank Fairfax, Zuleime, and Captain Clifton, had gone over to dine by previous engagement with Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain. Carolyn Clifton had been compelled, by a slight headache, to remain at home. And Georgia had chosen to stay to keep her company. The two ladies sat in the dressing-room of Miss Clifton. Carolyn was silent and abstracted, yet her countenance betrayed more of inward joy than she suspected. A great contrast was her fair, placid face, to that of Georgia, dark, and traversed by spasms of pain-like clouds hurling past a stormy sky. But if Carolyn lifted her fair lashes a moment, instantly that dark face cleared, ere its expression could be detected. At length she ventured, in a sweet tone, to say—

“Carolyn, my dear, to-morrow is your wedding-day. And—but—there is something which you ought to know beforehand, and which for weeks past I have been trying to gain courage to tell you.”

“Well, madam?” asked Miss Clifton, slowly lifting her snowy lids.

“I should—that is, I _might_ expose myself to the resentment of all your family by telling you.”

“Then you had best not tell me, madam.”

“And yet you ought to be informed, and must. _I_ should never forgive a friend for keeping such a secret from me.”

A vague fear and tremor seized upon Carolyn Clifton, and kept her silent. The dark lady went on—

“I think the honor, the happiness, even the tranquillity of your married life, depends upon your previous knowledge of this circumstance.”

“Madam—the honor, happiness, and tranquillity of my married life pass into the keeping of my husband, Captain Clifton, and in him I have the utmost confidence,” remarked Carolyn, coldly and proudly, though, alas!—not _truly_.

“Heaven forbid that I should unnecessarily mar that confidence! But, my love, you will be sure to hear it, when too late, and from less friendly lips than mine!”

“Will it please you, then, madam, to speak out frankly and honestly, and let us know what it is,” said Carolyn, scornfully, at the same time that her heart was rising with emotion.

“Is it possible you do not guess?”

“I do not take the trouble to do so, Mrs. Clifton.”

“Ah! you have always treated me with scorn and hauteur, Miss Clifton. Yet that, alas! does not relieve me of the painful duty of putting you on your guard. In a word, then, do you understand the nature of the relations subsisting between Captain Clifton and the sister of his mother’s overseer?”

The brow of Carolyn Clifton flushed crimson—but she answered, coldly—

“Madam, I believe that young person has been the object of Captain Clifton’s benevolence.”

“Ah! I believe so too! His benevolence is certainly indisputable, and his honor _should_ be above suspicion!” exclaimed Georgia, fervently.

“Madam—_it is_!” coldly replied Miss Clifton.

“Yes—and yet, Carolyn, my love, a poor and beautiful young maiden cannot continue to be the recipient of a handsome young officer’s beneficence with credit to herself, honor to him, or _peace_ or safety to his wife!”

“Is she so very beautiful?” was the question surmised from the haughty girl.

“Passing beautiful, I think, Carolyn, and this it is that makes the country gentlemen jest so about the matter. _They_ give a far different motive than _benevolence_ to the kindness of Captain Clifton to his lovely charge. _I_ know that they do him gross injustice! But this thing should not go on. It is a dangerous relation—dangerous to Archer’s own fidelity, dangerous to your peace, and most dangerous of all, to the poor girl’s reputation. I advise you to speak to Archer. I would do so myself, but it is too delicate a matter for me to speak to a young gentleman about. Now in these palmy days of courtship, he may listen to you as he never would, perhaps, afterwards, and you will be able to prevail with him to send this dangerous young beauty, his protégé, away. Yes! and you may tell Archer that _I_ advise this, for the good of all parties. Tell him that the whole neighborhood is ringing with gossip that may become slander. Tell him that I say the parties most concerned in this rumor, or in any rumor, will be ever the last to hear it. Tell him that I, his friend, Georgia, venture to do him this service, informing him through you. Let there be no concealments. Let all be open candor. I did feel afraid, when I began to tell you this—but now it is out, I feel relieved—I have more courage.”

“Madam!” said Carolyn, more haughtily than before—“Captain Clifton is quite capable of directing his own conduct! And if he were _not_, I should never resign to him the future control of mine! And, farthermore, madam!” she added, sarcastically, “I too highly honor the man about to become my husband—I have too much self-respect and delicacy, to inquire into the nature of Captain Clifton’s individual and private amusements, whether they relate to hounds, horses, or beggar girls! I leave such investigations to——_the daughter of the sign-painter_!” and with an air of the greatest possible scorn and arrogance, she arose, and left the room. Yet under that proud, disdainful bearing, a thousand scorpions, of doubt and jealousy, maddened her soul. She went at once into her own room, and having locked the door, that no rash intruder should look upon her weakness, gave herself up to the anguish of her emotions—now pacing up and down the floor, wringing her hands in distraction—now throwing herself, face downward, upon the bed, in despair. And yet she had no confidence in Mrs. Clifton’s honesty of purpose either.

* * * * *

In the meantime, the party assembled at Hardbargain were enjoying themselves and the hospitalities of their hostess, to the fullest extent.

The late dinner was over; the ladies were lounging about in arm-chairs, or on sofas, in the breezy parlor—dozing, reading, or chatting in low tones, all serenely enjoying that pleasant feeling of home freedom and repose, into which Mrs. Clifton ever charmed her guests.

The gentlemen had left their wine, and in parties of two and three were strolling about the shady yard, or out through the fields and orchards, to cool their heads, previous to joining the ladies at the tea-table.

Archer Clifton, with his cousin, Major Charles Cabell, and Frank Fairfax, took the wooded path leading down the South side of the ridge to a fine spring in the hollow. They came to a log cabin, half hidden by surrounding and overhanging elms—and literally covered with climbing and creeping vines. Before the door sat a girl, spinning on a little wheel, who, at the first glimpse of strangers, instantly arose, and taking up her wheel, retired into the house. Captain Clifton left his companions, and going up to the door, called, saying—

“Catherine, my good girl, bring me a gourd here.”

Kate Kavanagh came, and with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and her face suffused with a deep blush, handed the required article, and instantly disappeared within.

“By all the angels, what a fine face!” exclaimed Major Cabell, gazing after her.

Archer Clifton shot a quick, piercing glance at the speaker, who, meeting it full as he turned, laughed, exclaiming, as if a new discovery had been made—

“Oh! Ay! Soh! you are _there_, are you? So then, this is the mountain-beauty, the hidden treasure of Archer Clifton, that has set all the country ladies agog with scandal, and all the country gentlemen mad with envy?”

The hot blood rushed to Clifton’s brow.

“Oh! now, don’t be jealous! Don’t be alarmed! Your treasure is safe from me—though, by all the queens of chivalry, hers is a noble face—a face to bleed and die for! None of your pretty lily and rose baby beauties that may be seen by hundreds anywhere—but a noble girl, fit for a monarch’s love and counsellor!”

In an instant Archer Clifton strode up and stood with bended brow and folded arms before him; and said, in a low, deep, stern tone of concentrated passion—

“You are my relative, friend, guest! Your three-fold claim upon my forbearance should protect you from any resentment for words spoken against _my_ honor. But, I charge you, retract your words! And if you harbor one single suspicion against that young girl, you are a villain! S’death, sir! Has the world come to such a pass, and is the honor of Archer Clifton of so little worth, that he cannot protect a poor young maiden without injury to her? By Heaven! be warned! For if you do but breathe one breath to dim the lustre of that girl’s good name—by the good Lord that made us good, and the demon that turned us to evil! relative, friend and guest as you are, I will slay and drag you to her feet to die!”

So sudden, so mighty—so appalling was this burst of passion, that for a moment after it was over, Cabell and Fairfax stood as if transfixed with astonishment. Then Cabell, in the frankest way in the world, held out his hand, exclaiming—

“I like that! D—d if I don’t! Come, Clifton—I was wrong, forgive me! give me your hand! By my soul, I like a man that will stand up for—there! by all that’s fatal, I had liked to have tripped again!”

“Understand me, sir,” said Archer Clifton, sternly. “You know me to be on the eve of marriage with our cousin. She is my liege lady, and never for one instant in thought, word or deed, has my allegiance swerved from her service. And more, gentlemen, both! A single word touching the fair fame of _her_—of Catherine, I mean—touches _me home_.”

They were here overtaken by two or three other gentlemen, and the conversation took another and less perilous turn, as they wandered down towards the mineral spring. After slaking their thirst, the party divided. Major Cabell joined the three latest comers, and Clifton and Fairfax turned towards the farm-house.

“You seem to be moody this evening, Archer,” said Frank, after they had pursued their way for some time in silence.

“Yes—that foolish jest of Cabell’s has annoyed me. It is villainous! It is diabolical! Such light words, in which a young girl’s fair fame is laughed and jested away, may be thoughtless, but they should be punished with death!”

“That’s a harsh sentence!”

“A _just_ one!”

“You feel this bitterly!”

“I DO. For _her_ name has been used! Frank! you believe that if a word of disrespect were to be breathed by any man against my mother, I would lay that man dead at my feet without an instant’s grace?”

“Yes! I thoroughly believe that you would send such an one to his last account in a great hurry.”

“And if any one were but to _look_ an insult to Catherine, it would rouse all the ferocity of the demon in me to overthrow and trample him to death!”

“‘All this I steadfastly believe,’ as the catechism says about total depravity!”

“And, Frank! you, yourself have sometimes spoken flippantly of my regard for that girl—never so insultingly as Cabell did just now, else you would not now possess my esteem and friendship—but you have _trifled_ with the subject. Now understand, Frank, that I shall consider it a deep personal affront in future if you repeat it!”

“You haven’t heard me joke to you about Kate for a long time.”

“No—I certainly have not.”

“No—for be hanged if the matter is not getting far too _serious_ for jesting!”

“What do you mean?”

“Archer! Have you never heard it said that those whom it concerns _first_ to be made acquainted with an injurious report are usually the _last_ to hear it, and when they are _innocent_, they are the more exposed for _being_ innocent, because they never _suspect_ the slander, and never _guard_ against it?”

“In Heaven’s name, what do you mean?”

“_This_. Cabell’s jest was but the echo of the whole county talk. I have been asked, I suppose, twenty times, by twenty different young men, to tell them all about our adventure upon the mountain.”

“That was because _you_ first of all represented it as an adventure.”

“I confess it! In shame and confusion I confess it—but then many times I am also asked what is the precise nature of the relations subsisting between yourself and this girl?”

“No, NO!”

“Yes, I tell you!”

“No! no one dares to question that!”

“But they _do_, I tell you! Ay, and _answer_ their own questions in a manner that reflects very little honor upon the parties!”

“Would God I had never seen the girl! Would God I had never brought her here! I would give my right hand rather than evil should befall her! But who is it that dares slander her? Tell me! Give me some name! Let me have SOME one to make an example of!”

“Nay, Clifton! you can’t make an example of women and children!” said Frank, evasively.

“By Heaven, sir, they have husbands and fathers, who shall be held accountable for the license of tongue they allow their wives and daughters!”

“Nay, now, Archer! This is a mere matter of gossip, that will die out, if you are discreet!”

“To dare to talk of _her_! They never looked upon her face! Else they never could associate the thought of evil with that noble brow, those thoughtful eyes, and serious lips! To slander _her_!”

“Nay, nay—it is _not_ slander; only what I am afraid should _become_ such. It is only fun—joke—”

“To dare to joke of _her_!”

“‘_Her!_’ Verily, Clifton, any one to hear you breathe ‘_her!_’ with your full soul’s volume poured into the little word, would think there was but one ‘_her_’ in the world! Archy, you take a very strange interest in that girl. Are you sure that you are not in love with her?”

“In love with her! Nonsense—she is a child!”

“Well then, are you sure you should not be in love with her, if she were a woman?”

“Ridiculous! She is a low-born girl!”

“Oh I forgot! I beg pardon! You demonstrated that to me before.”

“And, besides, sir, please to remember that all my love and faith are due to my cousin, Miss Clifton; and that _she_ has my whole heart! I love, admire, honor, my beautiful betrothed bride—nor for her proud sake will I brook that any one should think it possible that I could even in thought fail in full loyalty to my liege lady! But, Frank! my soul’s dear brother! as I tell you everything, I will tell you this! that I feel the very deepest interest in Catherine’s welfare! If you ask me _why_—I tell you I do not know! It surprises and confounds myself! But from the first moment I looked upon her noble face, I felt that interest stir within my deepest soul. And it has never since ceased!”

“I swear you are enamored of her!”

“Preposterous, Frank! you make me angry! It is a very different thing from being enamored of her, let me tell you! There is my beautiful, but cold and scornful bride, up at Clifton! Well, I am the most patient of all adoring slaves! I wait upon her sovereign eyes all day long! I am proud to submit to her whims—to do her lightest bidding, and pick up her lap-dog—or to obey her severest command, and exile myself from her gracious presence all day long! But now observe the difference! I feel a deep, strong, strange interest in Kate. I cannot account for it. I feel a sort of unratified right of property in her. I wish to do her good. But I wish that all the good she may ever possess in the world, may come from only me! and that for all good things with which I cannot supply her, she may _suffer_ the want rather than owe their possession to another! Very like _love_, is it not? But I wish to control her destiny! I wish to have her in my power!—_in all honor, however!_ It galls me to think that I have no right of authority or guardianship over her! I ardently desire such a right! I long to have the disposal of her person and fate! I crave with a frantic craving, to have more than a father’s—more than a husband’s—more than a master’s right over her! I would to God she were born mine—my own—body, soul and spirit! My own to use or abuse—to crown or kill, as I listed!” exclaimed Clifton, passionately, while his cheeks and very lips were white and dry, and his eyes burned with a fierce, consuming, inward fire. And forgetting all things real, he felt as in a vision, a girl’s spirit swoop down upon his bosom, and a dream voice murmur in his ear—“Oh! if it will give you one instant’s joy to press me strongly to your heart—crush me to death in the fold, and my soul will exhale in rapture to Heaven.” The fervid vision came and passed like lightning, and Clifton roused himself from reverie, with a smile and a sneer, saying—“Very like love, all that! is it not?”

But as Frank did not reply, and as they had now arrived at the gate leading into the yard, the conversation ceased.

The early tea-table was set out under the shade of the great oaks, and the ladies were walking about, taking the evening air in the yard. As supper was only waiting the arrival of Captain Clifton and Mr. Fairfax, it was now speedily served.

After tea was over, the carriages were all brought round and the company took leave of Mrs. Clifton, and departed.

Captain Clifton and Mr. Fairfax were the last to leave. They mounted their horses and took the bridle-path down the mountain side. This separated them from the rest of their party, who went by the road. They did not, however, converse. Frank was thoughtful, and Clifton himself buried in a deep reverie.

It was quite early when they arrived at White Cliffs; and the remainder of the party had not yet arrived. Mr. Fairfax joined Mrs. Clifton in the garden, and Archer Clifton sought his lady-love, where he was informed he would find her, namely, in the Summer saloon. He threw down his hat and entered hurriedly, intending to surprise from her a hasty kiss. Carolyn was standing looking out of the window upon the rich sunset scene—the last sun that would set upon her maiden life, perhaps, she thought. On seeing Clifton she moved away, and retreated to the work-table at which she seated herself. Clifton approached, and with an air of gallantry, half serious, half playful, kneeled upon one knee and kissed her hand. She drew it coldly away—but that was the custom of the “proud ladie,” and did not surprise her lover. He arose and drew a chair to her side and seated himself, and began to affect an interest in her little lady-like occupations. Her right hand rested upon a pile of beautifully fine linen cambric handkerchiefs—an item in the imported trousseau. He laid his hand upon hers, and asked her some trivial question about them.

Now, Carolyn, after a day’s extreme suffering, had almost gained a victory over her passion. Her haughtiness had almost saved her. Not to one soul in that house—not to Georgia, had she betrayed the least sign of the cruel suspicion that had nearly maddened her brain. Not for all Clifton—not for all the world would she have betrayed her passion to her lover—or condescended to admit that she could be jealous of him; for she felt that once to accuse him would be to impose upon her the necessity of breaking with him. How could she, in honor, marry a man to-morrow whom to-day she had accused of treachery?—besides, she was not sure—could never be sure of his moral dereliction. And while there was a doubt in his favor, she must conquer or conceal all suspicion, or, letting escape, must break with him, even at this last moment—must break with him forever! At least so her high spirit and her pride argued. She could not part with him—pride forbade that also.—What! the marriage of Miss Clifton of Clifton broken off at the last moment, and all about a mountain-girl? Pah! Forbid it, all the shades of all the buried Cliftons! Hearts might break, but haughty heads must not be bowed! Better lost peace than lost place! And then she loved him!—loved him the deeper for suppressing all signs of love!—and she could not bear to lose him! And banish him she must, if she should once betray the jealous passion of her heart. This mighty motive kept down the rising storm. Yet all depended upon her vigilant self-control. Should a look, a word of suspicion, escape her then, she felt the curbed frenzy of her soul would have broken all bounds; even as by the smallest fracture in the dyke, the mighty and irresistible sea is let in upon the land, carrying destruction and death before it! All depended on her silence. So, to keep her lover from noticing her mood,—or fatally inquiring its cause—and to give him employment, she pushed the pile of handkerchiefs towards him, saying calmly—

“Mark them for me.”

Clifton smilingly took them, found the little vial of indelible ink, and went to work—himself well pleased to have some service to perform for his liege lady, that would, without disrespect to _her_, deliver _him_ from the duty of keeping up a running conversation, for which he felt indisposed.

She need not have feared that Archer Clifton would observe her mood. He himself was too abstracted, too thoughtful, to be critical or inquisitive. He was deeply troubled by the recollection of the conversations of the afternoon, affecting Kate Kavanagh. Instead of benefiting, had he really wronged that excellent girl?—darkened the very morning of her just opening life with the clouds of suspicion? And was even his mother’s protection insufficient to shield her innocence from such attacks of slander? Yes!—for the _fact_ of his mother’s protection was not even acknowledged. Slander shuts its eyes to truth, while it opens its lips to falsehood. Should he send her back to the mountain, and expose her to all the evils of that life? No, no!—his whole heart protested against that course. Yet what to do to save her? He could not decide then. He could not even get his own consent to consult his mother. What! wound _her_ ear with the repetition of such a story? Never! His usual promptitude of decision and action forsook him quite. A cry was in his heart, and he could only repeat to himself her _name_ in deep sorrow,—“Oh, Kate! Kate! Kate Kavanagh!” until her very name “_Kate Kavanagh_,” became the refrain of a plaintive _silent_ melody! Meantime he pursued his occupation quite mechanically, marking and laying down, one by one, the handkerchiefs, until the whole dozen was complete.

Carolyn Clifton watched his complete and mournful abstraction with increasing suspicion.

When all the handkerchiefs were marked, he took the parcel, and shaking off sad thought, smilingly laid them before his lady’s eyes, gayly entreating her to examine his work, and reward him with a kindly word if it should please her.

Miss Clifton took up the parcel, her eyes fell upon the topmost handkerchief, and she started violently. She swiftly turned it over and looked at the second, and the blood rushed to her brow! At the third, and it receded again, leaving her pale as death! She hurriedly went through the dozen, then springing to her feet, she hurled the parcel to the floor, and setting her heel upon it, lifted her proud form to its loftiest height, and stood, her chest expanded, her head thrown back, her cheek kindling, her eyes blazing,—full! full!—yet proudly suppressing all utterance of passion! Captain Clifton started to his feet, exclaiming—

“Carolyn, my dear cousin!”

But spurning the parcel beneath her heel, she turned imperiously away, and walked up the room.

He followed her, repeating—

“Carolyn, my dearest Carolyn! what is it?”

Turning and flashing upon him her fierce, imperious eyes, she stretched out her arm, and pointed in scornful silence to the handkerchiefs on the floor.

He went and picked them up to examine them. Oh! treacherous absence of mind! Oh! fatal refrain of the mental melody! Oh! horror of horrors! Catastrophe of catastrophes! Upon every handkerchief was beautifully marked—“KATE KAVANAGH.”

“Confirmation strong
As proof from Holy Writ.”

Ay, and a great deal stronger, as sight is more convincing than faith! What was to be done? It was in vain to deny or attempt to explain it! Yet he must try, even if he should make himself ridiculous. Hurling the fatal “handkerchiefs” down with virulence, he sprang to the side of the outraged and indignant beauty; seized her hand, exclaiming, vehemently—

“My dearest love—pardon! pardon! This is all a mistake!”

Spurning his clasp from her hand, she turned away in arrogant silence.

Dropping upon one knee, he took her hand again, and looking up in her face, said, in a voice of entreaty—

“My Carolyn! this is all a mistake!—the most absurd mistake! The effect of the merest absence of mind! The most ridiculous thing!”

“Oh, sir!” she answered, with slow and withering scorn, drawing her hand away again, “I do not doubt it was a mistake. I never supposed you would dare an intentional insult to my father’s daughter!”

“But, Carolyn, my dearest cousin, only permit me to explain—”

“Oh, sir, I _entreat_ you spare me the humiliation of hearing the story!” she sneered, with curling lip.

“But, Carolyn, my dear, loved bride! My bride, that will be, to-morrow—if you will allow me to tell you all the simple truth—the _reason_ why this young girl’s name ran in my head so.”

“Oh, sir,” she exclaimed, raising both hands, and turning away her head in loathing—“I _implore_ you!—I most _humbly beseech_ you to forbear! Spare me _details_ that might shock my—delicacy!”

“Carolyn,” he said, gravely and reproachfully rising, and taking her hand—“this does not become you.”

Throwing off his hand, with scorn and indignation, she replied—

“It would less become me, sir, to listen to the history you would tell.” Then subsiding into a mood of contemptuous irony, she said, with a sneering smile—“Believe me, sir, I feel more disgusted at your bad taste than shocked at your sin, or wronged by your bad faith. _A mountain-girl!_ Truly, I am humiliated to think so base a rival should have moved me—even to contempt. I am dishonored, sir, in that. Had your wandering fancy fixed upon one of my cousins—one of the elegant Misses Cabell, I might have mourned your infidelity, but should have been saved this deep humiliation for myself, and this utter contempt for you—but _a mountain-girl_! A coarse, ignorant, ill-bred mountain-girl! _Oh-h-h!_ that you should have stooped, or I should have been moved, by so low a creature as that! I could bury my head with shame!”

“Carolyn!” he said, sternly, “permit me to inform you—”

“No, SIR!” she exclaimed, scorn writhing her lips, indignation flashing from her eyes—“No, SIR! You shall tell me NOTHING! It would ill-become my mother’s daughter to listen to the revolting history of—your base amour with the mountain-girl!”

Yes, in the bitterness of her passion, she forgot her maiden delicacy, and spoke those shameful words to his astonished ears!

“Miss Clifton!” he replied, severely, folding his arms and gazing sternly and steadily into her blushing face—for she was already blushing for her temerity—until she quailed before him—“Miss Clifton, you mistake my purpose—I have no intention, _now_, to explain anything—the man who would condescend to _deny_ so base a crime as you have charged upon _me_—is not too high or pure to commit it. Therefore, I deign to say nothing for myself. But for the admirable girl that you have slandered—I will say _this_: Had a _man_ dared to asperse the fair fame of Catherine Kavanagh—though that man had been my bosom friend—he should have expiated his falsehood with his life:—Had any other _woman_ breathed a breath of slander on her—her husband or her father should have atoned for the fault:—For yourself, Miss Clifton—you shall retract your words, before ever I shall call you wife!”

This roused her passion to ungovernable fury. Turning ghastly white, while the light seemed to leap from her eyes, she exclaimed, in a low, deep, intense tone—

“DEATH, sir! Do you threaten me? Insult me in my father’s house? Leave it! You are unworthy to stand upon this floor! BEGONE!” And reaching out her hand, she seized the bell cord, and rang a peal that presently brought a servant to the door. The advent of a third party, though that party was a menial, constrained the lady to remember herself. Miss Clifton was her cold, serene, dignified self again. Turning to the servant, she said, haughtily, “Show Captain Clifton to the front door, and bring round his horse, instantly. He returns to Hardbargain, to-night.” And she bowed to Clifton, and calmly and imperiously walked from the room.

The man stood waiting and bowing. Captain Clifton snatched his hat, saying—

“Let my horse be brought round, without delay, Dandy, and tell your master, when he returns, that he shall hear from me at Hardbargain.”

When the man had bowed and retired, Captain Clifton passed out through the open leaf of the window, into the piazza, and thence down into the lawn, to speak to Frank, who was just entering from the garden with Mrs. Clifton on his arm.

Georgia saw at a glance, that her train of gunpowder had caught, and the magazine had blown up, and her dark, beautiful, demoniac, witching face lighted up with a lurid joy for one unguarded instant, and then all was self-recollection, self-control, and sweet, smooth, serene, alluring glamour.

Bowing deeply to Mrs. Clifton, he said—

“Madam, an unexpected event sends me from Clifton this evening. Pray make my adieus to my uncle and cousin. And permit me to commend my friend here to your hospitable care until such time as he pleases to become my guest at Hardbargain—if, indeed, he will not ride thither with me to-night,” he added, turning to Frank.

Fairfax was too surprised to speak.

Mrs. Clifton, who was not surprised at all, yet affected much interest, said, archly—

“Oh, but we shall see you back very early to-morrow morning!”

“I regret to add, madam, that it is not likely,” he said, with another bow; then turning to Frank, he asked—

“Will you ride with me to-night, Fairfax?”

Frank glanced at the lady on his arm, and then looking rebukingly at Clifton, begged to be excused.

“Well, then, you are my guest, Fairfax, and my mother has often pressed you to give her a few weeks of your company. Join me at Hardbargain as soon as possible—the sooner the better. To-morrow even—”

“_To-morrow!_” archly smiled the wily lady. “_To-morrow_, I fancy, his attendance and your own will be required _here_. Do you _forget_?—Well, that is the worst instance of absence of mind I ever saw or heard of! A young bridegroom to forget, for an instant, his wedding-day! Too bad, even for _you_, the notoriously-absent-minded Archer Clifton!”

Not wishing to enter into explanations, Captain Clifton merely replied with another bow—a most convenient, safe and polite manner of answer, since, without lack of courtesy, it committed nothing.

Then, taking leave of both lady and gentleman, and repeating his invitation to Frank, he turned and went to take his horse from the servant that held it, threw himself up into the saddle, and, with a parting wave of his hat, rode away at full speed.

“Clifton looks darkly—what can be the matter?” asked Frank.

“Oh, nothing! probably Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, has been troubled with some refractory servant, and has sent for her son to come up and reduce him to order—or possibly there may be some dispute or difficulty in settling the demands of the hired harvest hands. They are often even dishonest in their extortions.”

“Deferring to your better judgment, madam, still, I fear not! I think such trifles would scarcely have raised so dark a thunder-cloud upon Clifton’s brow,” said Frank.

“Oh, well! At worst it is but some lover’s quarrel with his most exacting queen, Carolyn!” playfully replied the lady.

Frank was not satisfied—he was pained. This most dangerous dark beauty fascinated and frightened him by turns. He had never seen the fiend in her face since that first night, and her witching power had almost erased the remembrance of it from his mind. Indeed, if he had ever recollected it, it was with wonder and remorse that he should have ever read such fearful meaning in a lady’s frown, and he ascribed it to the phantasmagoria of his own fatigued nerves and over-excited brain. But now he felt vaguely anxious, suspicious, foreboding—he scarce knew wherefore. He had no reason to reply to the lady again, for at the instant she finished speaking, the carriages drove into the yard, bringing the company from Hardbargain, and they walked forward to welcome them home.