Chapter XX: A Domestic Scene

A light, commodious chamber,
Looking out to the hills, where the shine
Of the great sun may enter.—MARY HOWITT.

Nearly twelve months have passed since the death of Mr. Clifton. It is October, the most glorious month in the year, when the gorgeous beauty of nature more than satisfies—when it enraptures the soul.

I shall introduce you into a chamber, whose three large windows look out upon the scene of glorious magnificence, only to be found when mountains, vales and forests wear their gorgeous autumn livery. It is a very large apartment, so long and lofty, that the great four-post bedstead, standing with its head against the upper end, is not in the way. At the lower end of the room, there is an old-fashioned fire-place, where an oak fire is burning. The floor is covered with an ingrain carpet, of warm, rich hues. The bedstead, lounge and cushioned chairs are clothed with dark, bright chintz. The windows are curtained with orange-colored damask, which give a mellow, autumnal tone to the atmosphere of the room. The curtains are festooned back, to admit the sunshine, and the glorious view without.

The lounge is drawn up to the left of the fire-place, and Carolyn Clifton, in deep mourning, reclines upon it. She is very much changed since we saw her last. There is scarcely a trace of her disease left—only a few pits scattered thinly over the lower part of the chin and throat. But she is very, very fragile, and her thin, white face is almost spectral, in contrast with her black dress. Her fair hair has grown out richer, sunnier in hue than before. It is just long enough to turn, in natural, smooth ringlets, that reach to her throat. And she wears it so. And those bright curls soften and shade the pearly whiteness of her cheek. The expression of her countenance has changed also. It wears a subdued, almost patient air of suffering. She is beautiful, although now that the roundness and bloom of her cheek are gone, she does not think so. She is beautiful, as she lies there contemplating, with remorseful tenderness, a miniature that she has drawn from her bosom.

In the cushion chair, on the right of the fire-place, sits Catherine Kavanagh. She has also changed within the year. Her form is fuller, rounder, more womanly. Her grave, almost stern features, have softened into gentleness. Her voice is softer and deeper. Its tones indeed are very beautiful, and modulated with every shade of feeling. She wears her hair in the same old style, parted over the forehead, rippling down in dark, bright wavelets around her cheeks, and carried behind, and woven with the back hair into a large plait, and then rolled round and round into a succession of rings—a rich, dark, burnished mass of hair—

“Golden where the sunlight played,
But where the tendrils sought the shade,
Dark, but very beautiful.”

Her dress of dark brown stuff, with the little white throat-ruffle, and the black silk apron, is not very becoming to her. But she thinks too little of her personal appearance, to care for any quality in her clothing beyond neatness and comfort. She is knitting very leisurely, stopping occasionally to measure the stocking she is engaged upon with the finished one which lies upon her lap. Kate is silent and thoughtful. All her life, up to this date, has been passed in the ministry to sorrow—yes, to all sorts of sorrow—to the suffering arising from vice—to the despair caused by evil passions—to common illness—to pestilence forsaken of all but her—to death! Yes! But little turned of sixteen years of age, and to all these forms of human misery had she been—not a ministering angel, but a ministering child and woman—that ministry of sorrow had filled up all her years, from early childhood, to this hour. Now her days were passed in soothing and cheering the solitude and depression of her invalid companion. And Kate was grave and thoughtful, because she was tempted to think that life was made up of nothing else but trouble. Her hope in happiness beyond her experience was faint. Her faith was dim. And no wonder. It seemed time she saw some one else’s happiness, if not her own. It was hard to pour the words of faith, hope and cheerfulness into the ear of another, when the fountain in her own heart was failing. It was only a temporary darkening and failing of the spirit. A silent, earnest prayer, and all was clear and strong again. The room was provocative of thought, if not of pensiveness. It was so still and warm and mellow, between the fire and the golden sunshine coming softened through the curtains. And both girls were silent, while Kate leisurely plied her knitting-needles, and Carolyn contemplated the miniature. At last Miss Clifton spoke—

“Catherine, look upon that face. Study it. Should you believe, now, that the owner of that beautiful face could be unrelenting, unforgiving?” And she passed the miniature to her companion. Kate received it—glanced at it. It was a faithful likeness of Archer Clifton. And those features, so long unseen, and now suddenly revealed, thrilled with such electric power to the heart of the girl, that after the first recognizing glance, she instantly returned it. And though her heart had paused in its pulsations, and now throbbed thick and fast, she answered, calmly—

“He is not unrelenting or unforgiving, Miss Clifton.”

“Oh! he is! he is! It has been fifteen months since we parted in anger, and no word or sign from him yet. Oh! Kate, what do you think of it?”

“I think he truly loves you, Miss Carolyn.”

“Oh! he _did_—he _did_, but I scorned and insulted him, and it is past, past!”

“There is no past tense to real love, lady.”

“Ah, Catherine, you speak of what you have had no experience in. My scorn killed his love.”

“Real love is immortal, lady, it cannot be killed.”

“Ah, child, you speak without knowledge.”

“Without experimental knowledge, Miss Clifton. And all the highest truths we have are obtained without experimental knowledge. I know that true affection is undying, by the same light that without the Bible shows me that God exists—that He made all souls, and that all souls are immortal. It is one of the ‘self-evident’ truths. Ah, Miss Clifton, true affection can no more be killed by scorn, than an angel could be overcome by a demon, than Heaven could be conquered by hell. In the contest between true affection and scorn, it is affection must conquer—scorn must yield. It must be so, lady. The heavens are pledged to it. The sovereignty of the right is involved in it. And when, in such a contest, affection fails, it is because it never was true. No, lady, true affection is never conquered. It is scorn that is conquered. It is scorn that has yielded now. You do not scorn him now, lady.”

“No—I would I could!”

“Then, in the death of your own scorn see the immortality of his love. He will come back to you. He will come back the first free moment that he has.”

“Ah, Catherine! In all this fifteen months he has not written to me.”

“You do not know that, Miss Carolyn. _I_ believe that he has written to you, and that the letter has been lost. You know how irregular and uncertain the mail is from that distant frontier.”

“Catherine! I have been thinking of writing to him. What is your opinion? What would you advise me to do?”

“Not for the world, lady! For, trust me, for every step of advance a woman makes, a man of high honor and fine sensibilities retreats.”

Miss Clifton’s brow flushed, and she made a gesture, of impatience, as she exclaimed—

“Then _why, why_ knowing that, does he not write?”

“Because, perhaps, his first letters miscarried, and he stopped under the supposition that you would not answer him. And then, lady, under all these circumstances, the stiff pen and the cold paper cannot convey all the burning words he would have to pour out at your feet. He will come!”

“‘He will come.’ Ah! in that very phrase is a knell deeper than all the rest! He will come! And what a spectre he will see in me! He cannot continue to love me! Impossible! Impossible! He can never love such a faded and scarred ruin as I am.”

“Dear Miss Clifton, I have told you so often that you are _not_ a ruin! Your face is very lovely, indeed it is! Fair and delicate and pensive, and far more attractive to all good hearts than ever it was in its high bloom.”

“Ah, but faded—faded—faded!” mournfully replied Carolyn.

“And then, dear lady, true affection is of the soul. It has been said that love is blind. It is not so. Love has Divine eyes, and creates the beauty that it looks upon. He will love you the more for the calamity and sorrows that have fallen upon you. He will see a deeper beauty in your pensive face, and his love will make it real.”

“Oh! impossible, I tell you! Impossible! The sight of me would shock him. He would turn away.”

“Lady, do you love your cousin?”

“_Love him?_ Ah, God!”

“Dear lady, if he had returned from the frontier with the loss of an arm, a leg, or an eye—or with the hideous scar of a sword cut across cheek and brow, could _you_ have turned from him revolted?”

“Oh, no, no, no! Oh! Heaven, no! I should have done all I could to convince him that he was beautiful to me still—that I loved him the deeper for his misfortunes!”

“Then, dear lady, judge his noble heart by your own.”

“Ah, but you said yourself, just now, when advising me not to write, that men feel so differently from women!”

“Yes, but not in tenderness—not in constancy!”

“There is the boy coming from the post-office, Catherine! It is strange—it is strange—but though I have been disappointed a hundred times, I still hope, and the coming of every mail makes my heart pause! Go, dear Catherine, and see what there is.”

Kate rolled up her knitting, and dropped it into a little straw basket, and went below.

“Only one letter, an’ the Pos’-Master say how it war for Miss Carolyn,” said the boy below stairs.

A letter for her at last! Carolyn’s heart stopped almost to death, until Kate ran back up the stairs, entered the room, and placed the letter in her hands.

“It is from Richmond,” she said, in a disappointed tone, as she opened it.

“From my Aunt Cabell,” she added, and began to read it while Kate resumed her knitting.

“I hope your friends are all well,” said Catherine.

“Yes—” replied Miss Clifton; and then a smile of amusement flitted over her face—and still running her eye down the letter, she continued—“My Aunt Cabell writes me that my excellent step-dame, Mrs. Georgia Clifton, is now the reigning belle of Richmond—the most beautiful woman, the most charming musician, the most fascinating waltzer, and the most elegant equestrian in the city! She passes for a wealthy (!) young widow—and her credit is unlimited, and her debts and her extravagance, of course, unbounded. She occupies a whole suit of rooms in the most expensive hotel in the city, and entertains around her, both day and night, a host of adoring worshipers. She has cut her father—worthy man—dead! She is going to bring down a party of ladies and gentlemen to spend Christmas at her country-seat, (!) White Cliffs. Now what do you think of that, Catherine? Pray Heaven she may marry soon, and not wear our name long enough to scandalize it! Mrs. Cabell goes on to say, that Mrs. Georgia cannot long play that game—that Archer Clifton must soon return, and take possession of his property, when it will be arrested. Alas! she does not know that Captain Clifton is as much under the dominion of that dangerous woman as it is possible to be. He will probably be proud to leave Mrs. Clifton in possession here as long as she finds it convenient or agreeable to stay. Now, what do you think of all this, Catherine?”

“Dear lady, I know that you feel very unpleasantly, that all those gay city strangers should be coming down here at Christmas, to turn the quiet house into a hall of orgies. But I do not see how you can prevent it. You can elude it, though! You can go to Hardbargain, you know, and remain until Mrs. Georgia and her guests have departed again. I would do that.”

“No, dear Catherine, there will be no necessity for that, either! My Aunt Cabell has anticipated my embarrassment, and proposed a plan. My aunt and all her family are coming down here to spend the months of October and November, while their city mansion is undergoing repairs—painting, papering, and so on. And she proposes that I shall return with her at the first of December, and pass the Winter in Richmond.”

“And will you go?”

“I do not know. But, Kate, dear, you have comforted me so much, and aunt’s account of Mrs. Georgia’s city airs has diverted me so much, that I think I have spirits for a ride. Go order the horses, and tell Dandy to be ready to attend us. We will go up to Hardbargain and take tea with Aunt Clifton, and amuse her with this letter!”

* * * * *

Mrs. Cabell and her daughters, attended by Major Cabell, arrived in due time, and were received with great pleasure by their orphaned relative. And Catherine, now that she was no longer necessary to the cheerfulness of Miss Clifton, took leave and returned to her brother’s cot. Life in the mansion, and life in the hut, like day and night, about equally divided the girl’s experience—a strange lot, to be ever alternating between luxury and refinement, and poverty and coarseness. And though it was a wonderfully strengthening discipline, Kate found the contrast so painful as to wish that life would change—in some way.

A month passed away—during which she heard nothing whatever from White Cliffs. She was therefore in total ignorance of what was going on there, until one cold morning that had succeeded a snow-stormy night, while she was shoveling away the snow in front of the cottage door, Dandy rode up and delivered her a note from Miss Clifton. The note ran thus:

“DEAR CATHERINE,—

“I am going to leave for Richmond with Aunt Clifton to-morrow morning.
Come over, dear girl, and let me take leave of you before I start.
Come, my good, wise Catherine, for I want to consult you about a
certain matter.

“Your friend CAROLYN.”

Kate saddled her pony and set out, attended by Dandy. As soon as she arrived at White Cliffs, she was invited immediately up into Miss Clifton’s room. She found the young lady surrounded with trunks and bandboxes, and busy with her maids, packing. Carolyn dismissed her attendants, begged Kate to be seated, and sat down by her. After a few mutual inquiries about health and so on, and a little introductory conversation, and some considerable hesitation, Miss Clifton said—

“Catherine! I think—I hope that I have succeeded at last in emancipating myself from the degrading slavery of that old love spell! At last the dread sense of bereavement and desolation is deadened.... If I were to see him again, however, I do not know how it might be.... Perhaps, though, I shall never see him again.... Kate! I have had a proposal for marriage.... My cousin Major Cabell!... It was at least generous in him, all things considered.... Family feeling, I suppose.... Kate, I think of accepting him!... We owe something to our position in society.... My Aunt Cabell has been talking to me about it for a month past.”

Miss Clifton made this communication in a hesitating, disjointed manner; while Catherine looked and listened in grief and astonishment, feeling regret amounting almost to remorse, that she had left her friend, enfeebled in mind and body, so long under the influence of a strong-willed thoroughly worldly-minded woman. And she understood the instinct that had impelled the wavering girl to send for _her_ to steady her. And then athwart these, her purest emotions, swept a dark, burning impulse, like a breath of hell. It was the whisper of the devil, and it said to her,—“Agree with her—agree with her! Let her marry another if she wishes, and thus remove the greatest impediment that separates you from the love, the hope of Archer Clifton.” Catherine stood for a moment horrified by the darkness of the temptation. But then summoning the whole strength of her soul, she inwardly exclaimed, “Get thee behind me, Satan!” And the devil fled from her.

“You do not answer me, Catherine. My dear girl, I have so much confidence in your rectitude of mind! Advise me!”

“Dear Miss Clifton, _never_, as you value your whole life’s peace and rectitude—_never_, for any purpose whatever—under any temptation whatever—consent to marry a man you do not love; _never_, as you hope for earthly content—as you trust in God—_never_ put an insurmountable object between yourself and one you love! How criminal to become a wife, while you love another living man! How terrible to find out, when it is too late, that he loves you still! Perhaps from year to year to long for the—! Lady, I have no words strong enough to express to you all that I feel and fear on this subject! Grave faults sometimes follow little errors! I would fain gain your promise not to entertain any gentleman’s suit until you have met again with Captain Clifton. You cannot have long to wait. He _must_ return to settle up this estate. And legal business, if nothing else, must bring you together!”

“Alas! alas! no! the affairs of this property will be settled by his attorney. Kate, I am very miserable!”

“Dear lady, I know it! Do not, when tempted by hopelessness, do that which you may regret all your life! That which may shut out the possibility of happiness forever! I wish I could go to Richmond with you.”

“Oh, I wish you could! I think that you could save me from danger, Kate.”

“I think you want an honest friend near you, Miss Clifton! But, one thing you can do—you can resolve not to form any matrimonial engagement until you have again met with Captain Clifton. And you can bind your resolution by a promise. Promise _me_, dear lady, by the interest I take in you, to hold yourself free from entanglements, until you see your cousin!”

“Kate!—yes, I solemnly promise you, by all I hold sacred, that I will do as you advise in this matter! And, Kate, enfeebled as I am, or may become, in mind or body, I cannot break my pledged word! Good girl! You have saved me again! Oh, Kate! Kate! do you think I don’t know the full extent of your disinterestedness? Oh, Kate! noble girl! God reward you!”

Catherine began to tremble so violently, that Miss Clifton threw her arms around her, and pressed her to her bosom, whispering,

“Never fear, dear girl! sweet girl! I will not breathe another word! I would as soon sacrilegiously snatch the veil from the sanctuary, as breathe another word about it!”

* * * * *

When Catherine reached home in the afternoon, she found a message waiting her, from Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain. She went up immediately to the farm-house, and found that lady looking very happy.

“Catherine, my dear, sit down. I have good news. I have just received a letter from Archer. He will be in Richmond in four days from this! But his duties are such that he will not be able to leave Richmond for some weeks. He begs me to meet him there! He has been promoted, Kate! He is now Major Clifton, and has been appointed aid-de-camp to the Governor!”

“I am rejoiced to hear it, madam,” replied Kate, calmly, though her heart stood still with the suddenness of this news. “You will send over and inform Miss Clifton, will you not, madam?”

“No, I think not, Catherine. Why excite and disturb her on the eve of a journey? Besides, Catherine, I have many misgivings! This long persistence in silence—his never mentioning her name in any of his few letters to me! his never replying to the letter I wrote upon the subject!—all this is foreboding! I must not meddle farther in this affair until I have seen my son, and can judge his state of mind in regard to it!... But, Catherine, my dear, I sent for you for this: I am going to Richmond on Tuesday, for the purpose of spending some weeks near my son. I need a female companion, and I have your grandfather’s and your brother’s consent for you to accompany me; that is, if you are willing. Will you go with me, Kate?”

“I shall be very glad to do so, indeed, Mrs. Clifton!” said the young girl.

“Then return home at once, Kate, and prepare for the journey. You will have a great deal to do, to make things comfortable for your grandfather and brother during your absence, and to get yourself ready for your city visit.”