Free Nachtstürm Castle by Emily C.A. Snyder Page A

go to the distressed wife, now, who held her tongue and her tears and repeated to herself, silently, that undoubtedly since Henry had planned this whole affair, he had himself destroyed their room – after all nothing had been stolen and those things destroyed were of little consequence – and was now only teazing her, testing her to see how she would react. Well, Catherine would be an excellent wife and prove her sex the stronger.
    Thus she herself held the door for him and raised her cheek for a kiss, saying that no, indeed, he needn’t bother Colin, and that she would seek out Betty for some dinner, and find Helga to straighten the room for his return. At this, Henry’s brows raised, but he said nothing.   Although he did wonder at his wife’s fortitude, feeling – not for the first time – that perhaps he had better collect his bride and man this very night rather than set out to find answers from the dead.   But she sped him on and her conviction strengthened his.   Neither spoke their thoughts, which was just as well, for had Catherine known what Henry had learnt that afternoon whilst she watched young Will and his paramour, not even the strongest imagination or protestation should have kept her from keeping Henry in Nachtstürm!

Chapter XI
     
Concerning Various Matters of Import, To Which the Reader Would Do
Well
to Hearken.
    How quickly does the mind at peace adjust itself to even the most horrific of circumstances! What a piece of work is man who, in the midst of obvious peril, yet feels utter contentment due to his powers of imagination. What strength of character must we attribute to this silent organ – and what folly. For that which heartens the martyr to forgive his persecutors, and that which makes a common man believe there is no executioner, are not sprung from the same source.   For the first touches on the soul and its Creator, and the second on flawed conviction of the fancy – although the looker–on may not be able to discern the inward difference.
    Whether Catherine was guided by Providence or by foolishness, it was yet difficult to say, for she felt all the calm of a Christian thrown to the lions, yet with none of his natural fear – the natural result of a mixed intent. But ameliorated or not, she paid these higher thoughts no mind, and busied herself by straightening what she could, even taking out her little sewing kit and setting to work on repairing the bedding.  
    After some time, however, having made very little progress due to trembling hands and quivering heart (so our bodies are sometimes wiser than our minds), Catherine put down her needle and took up her book.   The damage to its pages bothered her more than the ruination of the upholstery.   She had straightened the creases as best she could, but to no avail.   The various bookmarks must be removed.   Her reunion with these various artifacts – the first buttercup Henry had given her, a washing bill, a slip of her own poetry (very ill), a letter from Eleanor welcoming Catherine to the family – calmed Catherine very much.   Having just put aside this last item, folding it carefully and kissing the seal, Catherine turned to the next sheaf of papers rammed rather strangely into the beginning of the novel (which had never interested Catherine as well as the more romantic latter half).
    These Catherine removed and spread wide, expecting perhaps one of Henry’s sermons or a sheaf of drawings from her younger siblings.   But what she saw, much to her surprise, delight and encouragement, was terribly sensible English beginning with those wonderful words:
    In the Name of God, Amen.
    And continuing onward in a manner very much like a last will and testament.
    Such was her excitement, that she well nigh tore out of the door, the document tightly in her hand, sure that Henry was just about the corner waiting for this very discovery.   Such was her joy that although she had traversed these corridors a week now, it was not