Chapter XXII: Life’s Various Phases

Why, let the stricken deer go weep,
The hart ungalled play,
For some must watch while some may sleep.
So runs the world away.—SHAKSPEARE.

It was always Mrs. Clifton’s rule to spend Christmas at home—so she arranged to leave Richmond on the twenty-third. It was three o’clock on the dark, cold, winter morning, that the stage called for them. Our travelers were muffled up to the ears in hoods, cloaks, shawls and furs, and when they entered the coach, they seemed to fill up all the back. It was so dark that they could see nothing, and the stage seemed to be vacant of other passengers than themselves; until Mrs. Clifton, settling her own outer garments, spoke, cautioning Catherine to fold her cloak carefully about her. Then another voice spoke, from the opposite seat, exclaiming, in a tone of surprise and pleasure—

“Why, is it possible! Mrs. Clifton and Miss Kavanagh?”

“Yes, Colonel Conyers, and I am as much pleased as surprised to find you here! How comes it that we are fellow travelers?” said the lady, placing her own in his offered hand.

“And how-do-you-do, Miss Kavanagh?—really, I am so overjoyed to find you here! Why, you must know, my dear Mrs. Clifton, that I have been due at White Cliffs for several days. I am, in fact, the laggard of a party—but in truth I could not tear myself from Richmond, while you and Miss Kavanagh remained. But last night, after taking leave of you, as I supposed, for some length of time,—under great depression of spirits, Miss Kavanagh,—I sent and had a place taken in this stage, for L——, which I understand to be the nearest stage station to White Cliffs. Why, how little did I suspect that we were to travel by the same coach! Truly, ‘life is full of paper walls.’ A word dropped by either of us, last night, would have revealed the fact to the other! But how delighted I am, Miss Kavanagh! And may I hope, Mrs. Clifton, that our journey lies for some distance together?”

“For the whole distance, I am happy to say. The plantation of White Cliffs and the farm of Hardbargain join. Our journey terminates at L——.”

“Really! Why this is excellent! So, instead of being separated, we shall travel all the way together, and then continue to be neighbors for some weeks! Miss Kavanagh, I am overjoyed.”

There was not much traveling at that season of the year, so our party of three had the coach to themselves, and Colonel Conyers devoted himself with great assiduity to the comfort of the ladies.

At the end of the second day, just as the level beams of the setting sun were gilding all the village windows, the stage rolled into L——.

There, before the little tavern door, waited Mrs. Clifton’s old-fashioned carriage.

“Did you notify the family of White Cliffs of your intended arrival here to-day?” asked Mrs. Clifton, of Colonel Conyers.

“No, madam! My journey was resolved upon so suddenly—out of ‘my grief and my impatience’ at the supposed loss of your own and Miss Kavanagh’s society—that I had no time to write.”

“Ah! that is the reason why their carriage is not waiting for you. Colonel Conyers, if you will take a seat with us to Hardbargain, and rest for a few hours or a few days as you please, we shall be very glad, and we shall furnish you with a conveyance to White Cliffs whenever you wish to go.”

Colonel Conyers expressed himself but too happy to accept Mrs. Clifton’s invitation, and they all entered the old-fashioned carriage, and set out for Hardbargain. The farm was nine miles distant, and the road the very roughest, even of mountain turnpikes. Colonel Conyers ventured to wonder how any carriage could stand it, and surmised that R—— County must be blessed with the best wheelwrights in the world—to which Mrs. Clifton replied that they _had_ the very best to be met with anywhere.

It was ten o’clock at night when they reached Hardbargain, but they found the hall lighted up, fires blazing in the parlor, and the dining-room, and a substantial supper waiting for the order of the mistress. The farm-house looked cheerful, hospitable, and inviting; and Colonel Conyers rubbed his hands in delight. He remained over night. The next day was Christmas, and nothing but the binding engagement to render an account of himself to the beautiful Georgia at least by Christmas, could have forced him to White Cliffs that day. He accepted Mrs. Clifton’s cordial invitation to come over often while he remained in the neighborhood. In fact, Mrs. Clifton had seen that Colonel Conyers was very much pleased with Catherine, and felt desirous that he should have an opportunity of winning the affections of her favorite. Colonel Conyers took the largest advantage of Mrs. Clifton’s hospitality, and not even the charms of the syren of White Cliffs, could wile him away from his daily evening ride over to Hardbargain. And so, after a few weeks—as there is no accounting for tastes, and as the most extraordinary things sometimes really do happen—it turned out that Colonel Conyers actually did lay his heart, hand and fortune at the feet of the humble girl whom his own subordinate officer, Captain Clifton, had despised, and, farthermore, that he was rejected by her! Yes! gratefully, kindly, but firmly and finally rejected! And full of disappointment, humiliation and sorrow, the gallant Colonel abruptly concluded his visit, and returned to town.

“Oh, Catherine, my dear, if you could but have liked him well enough to have married him. He is an honest, kind-hearted man,” said Mrs. Clifton, with a sigh of regret.

“Yes, he is a good man. Heaven bless him with a good wife,” answered Kate.

Neither of these unworldly women once reverted to the advantages of rank resigned with the rejected lover.

And soon Catherine had other thoughts and occupations than those connected with courtship and marriage. The situation of her grandfather demanded all her care. For many months before this, the long and persevering efforts of the patient girl had been blessed with success, and the old man had abandoned the use of intoxicating spirits. But within the last few weeks the total disuse of the stimulant to which he was morbidly accustomed, had began to produce the most dangerous effects upon his aged and infirm frame. He grew weaker and still weaker, until at length he was confined to his bed. And so he slowly sank and failed as weeks—weary weeks—dragged on to months. And through all this dreary time, day and night, Catherine faithfully nursed him. Many a night she sat the only watcher by his bedside, hourly expecting his death; and many a morning he revived again, so deep a hold had life upon that old, worn body. Scarcely for necessary food or rest would Catherine leave him, always watching, waiting on and cheering him, sometimes—whenever he desired it—reading the Bible to him, singing or praying with him. In vain Mrs. Clifton noticing the care-worn, toil-worn, emaciated countenance of the girl, besought her to take care of her own health. Catherine cared for nothing on earth so much as the aged man daily fading away from her sight. And so passed the winter. And so opened the spring. And then his old disease, if it could be called a disease, took a most alarming turn. After a paroxysm more violent than ever had come on him before, he fell into a state of greater prostration. And the physician hastily summoned, declared that another such attack would be fatal, and that only the use of brandy could ward the fit off, and save his life. Carl Wetzel replied that he felt if he should taste the intoxicating liquid again, the fatal appetite for alcohol would return upon him with tenfold violence for the temporary abstinence, and that it would totally subject him to its dominion. The doctor called him a fool and a fanatic, without self-control or self-reliance, and left him to his fate. When the physician had left the hut, the old man called his grand-daughter to his bedside.

“Kate, you heard what the doctor said?”

Kate nodded—her heart was too full for speech.

“My dear child—my dear, good Kate!—he says that unless I drink brandy I shall die. But, Kate, if I taste brandy again, I feel I shall live—a drunkard! Kate, I know you are wise and good beyond your years. Kate, I have full faith in you! My child, I will do as you decide for me. Darling, shall I drink or die?”

Kate sank upon her knees by his bedside, took both his venerable hands and kissed and pressed them to her bosom, bowed her face over them, and wept in silence. At last, raising her head, she gazed earnestly, reverently, lovingly in the old man’s face, and answered—

“Dearest grandfather, do not ask me, a poor, weak, erring girl! Dearest grandfather, ask God!”

The old man feebly raised his hand, and placed it on her head and blessed her, adding—

“I thank Thee, oh, Father! that out of the mouths of babes and sucklings Thou hast perfected praise!”

The next morning, when the doctor came, he found the old man sinking fast, yet clinging as human nature will cling, to the wish for—the hope of—life.

“Doctor, is there no other way of saving me than that you spoke of?”

“None, whatever, my good friend; unless you consent to save yourself by taking alcohol, you must die.”

“Then I will die[1]!” replied Carl Wetzel.

Footnote 1:

A Fact

And within a week from this time the old man died and was buried.

After the funeral was over, Mrs. Clifton invited and urged Catherine to come and take up her permanent residence at Hardbargain. There were now no reasons why Catherine should not, and many why she should, accept this very advantageous offer.

Her brother Carl was about to bring home a wife, after which he would no longer need Catherine’s services. And now that the spring had fully opened, Mrs. Clifton’s health, as usual at that season, failed, and she really needed the companionship and care of our unprofessed Sister of Charity. And, therefore, Catherine accepted her proposal, and came to take possession of the room, Mrs. Clifton had fitted up for her adjoining her own chamber. It had once been Archer Clifton’s room. That was of no consequence to Catherine now, however. You need not now be told again that the girl was a true Christian. She had great faith—she believed in miracles, asserting that the days of miracles had not passed—could not pass until the days of God’s Omnipotence and man’s faith should be passed. When the passion of her heart was about to become the sin of her soul, she prayed to God to remove the last vestige of that erring, ill-fated love—and it was removed—gone! She could think of him, speak of him, without an altered pulse. She knew that he and his wife were soon expected at White Cliffs, and she felt that she would meet them again without any other emotion than pleasure. On the day of her removal to Hardbargain, Mrs. Clifton said to her—

“Catherine! I see by the Richmond Standard, that Archer has resigned his post in the army.”

“It is not possible, madam!”

“Yes, indeed. I was very much astonished to see it.”

“What in the world could have been his motive?”

“I cannot even form an idea. No motive was assigned in the paper.”

“And did he never mention his intention to you in any of his letters?”

“Never, Kate. But indeed, I have not heard from him for six weeks. I cannot tell the reason why he does not write. Perhaps his letters have been lost—the foreign mails are so irregular.

“Was he at Havana when you heard from him last, madam?”

“Yes, Catherine—but then he spoke of a speedy return home. They should have been here long before this time, or at least, he should have written to account for their delay. I send Henny regularly to the post-office—I have sent her to-day. I hope I may get a letter, though the chances seem to diminish.”

Even while they spoke, the girl came in with a letter in her hand. Mrs. Clifton took it and looked at it, saying—

“At last! It is from Havana, Catherine, from Archer.”

She opened it, and as she read it, her face became very grave. And having finished, she fell into thought, and said—

“It is as I feared.”

“I trust there is no bad news, madam?” said Catherine.

“You shall hear, Kate,” replied the lady, taking up the letter and reading as follows;

“HAVANA, May 1, 18—.

“MY DEAR MADAM—

“I have to entreat your forgiveness for a silence of four or five
weeks. I know that you will pardon the seeming neglect when you are
advised of the cause. Every moment of my time for the last month has
been taken up in attendance upon the sick couch of my dearest Carolyn.
Since the opening of the spring, her health, for the last year so
fragile, has fearfully failed. I have had the best medical advice to
be found on the island, but her illness has baffled their utmost
skill. They have recommended me to take her to the South of France. In
order to do this, I have been obliged to resign my commission in the
army. You have doubtless seen my resignation announced in the papers.
I suppose the unsettled business of the White Cliffs estate must also
suffer by my absence at this time. But what is that—what is anything!
all things! in comparison to the health of my beloved Carolyn! I write
in great haste, on the very eve of sailing, for we go on board the
Swallow, bound from this port to Marseilles, to-day.

“With undying respect and affection,

“ARCHER CLIFTON.”

“That is very distressing! Alas! then is life made up of nothing but vain desires and blighted hopes—of sorrow and sickness and death?”

“I knew it would be so, Catherine—that was a secret reason I had for not meddling this last time in bringing about a reconciliation between Carolyn and Archer. I have known for two years past that she was following her mother. All those Gowers die early of consumption.”

“But, madam, let us hope better things. This sea voyage and residence in the South of France, may restore her.”

“Never, Catherine. And it was even cruel in the doctors to send her there, to die in a foreign land, among strangers. They had better have sent her home to the scenes of her childhood and youth, where we could have cheered and nursed her. Catherine, I feel very sad.”

The tears were rolling down Kate’s face. The fountain of consolation in her heart was almost dry—and again she had to lift her heart to the Divine source of all strength and light for new faith and hope. Little else but suffering and sorrow had the girl seen since she came into the world—and no part had she filled in life but that of servant, nurse, or comforter.

The summer passed with Mrs. Clifton and Catherine in almost uninterrupted retirement. They heard, at long intervals, from Major Clifton and his bride, and then the news was various and unsatisfactory. Sometimes Carolyn was better, and there would be a talk of speedy return, and, perhaps, the very next letter, after a long interval, would speak of a season of prostration by extreme illness. And about the middle of the autumn, Mrs. Clifton received a letter from her son announcing their intention of wintering in Lisbon. The irregular arrivals of these bulletins were the most interesting, and nearly the _only_ interesting events of the summer and autumn, if we except a descent upon White Cliffs by Mrs. Georgia and her friends. The syren, after her return from a summer tour to the fashionable watering places, determined to fill up the dull interim before the commencement of the season in town, by a visit to her “seat in R——,” as she persisted in calling White Cliffs. Accordingly, she made up a party of idle ladies and sporting gentlemen, and came down to spend September.

Colonel Conyers was among the guests. He renewed his visits to Hardbargain, and his suit to Catherine—received a second rejection, and hurried off to town, under the sting of mortification as before. At the first of October, the “city riff raff,” as the old family servants of Clifton irreverently and indignantly called the moneyed aristocrats, returned to Richmond, whither they were shortly followed by their beautiful hostess, to prepare for her winter campaign. From this time to the middle of December, no event marked the even tenor of the life at Hardbargain. The inmates had not lately heard from Major Clifton. It was near Christmas. In her anxiety to hear from Lisbon, Mrs. Clifton was in the habit of sending to L—— twice a week, when the mail came in, and sitting up till a very late hour, waiting for the return of the messenger.

One evening after supper, Mrs. Clifton and Catherine sat each side their work-stand, before the fire, awaiting the arrival of the boy who had been dispatched to the post-office. So often had the lady thus sat and waited, and been disappointed, that hope waxed very faint. This time, however, she was destined to have her heart gladdened by the full fruition of hope. About nine o’clock the messenger returned and entered the parlor with a packet of letters and papers. The boy’s face was lighted up with sympathetic joy, and he exclaimed, as he handed the bundle—

“I almos’ rid myself to death, mist’ess, I was so glad I had de letters to bring yer.”

“You have made great haste indeed, Neddy. Go tell Henny to give you your supper,” said the lady.

“Good boy,” said Kate, pressing his little sooty hand as he passed her and went out.

Mrs. Clifton was reading a letter from Archer. It was written in a glad, buoyant spirit and contained the best possible news. Against all hope, Carolyn’s health since her arrival at Lisbon had steadily improved, and it was now so far re-established, that they were already looking forward to their voyage at the earliest opening of spring. Carolyn had gained flesh and color as well as health, and strength and cheerfulness, and was looking far better than she had looked since his first meeting her again at Richmond. Mrs. Clifton repeated all this to Catherine, adding—

“It is true, Kate, that none of her family who have perished by her disease ever tried a change of climate, and although in most cases such a change hurries the patient to the grave, yet, in some instances, it seems to work wonders in the way of cure; and who knows, if Carolyn is so greatly benefited, that she may not get over this danger, and if not positively cured, yet live to a good old age, and die at last of something else, as I have heard of consumptives doing.”

“I’m so glad!” Catherine sat with her face suffused with the flush, and her eyes filled with the tears of sympathizing joy and thanksgiving. After reading and re-reading the letter, and dwelling on it, and talking of it, Mrs. Clifton finally unfolded the paper, the Richmond Standard, and running her eyes over its columns, suddenly exclaimed—

“Catherine, ‘When joys come they come not as single spies but in battalions’—here is excellent news of an old friend—listen—only two or three lines among the ‘items’ of a newspaper column, yet of what great moment to many—hear.” And the lady read:—“At the conclusion of the recent treaty of peace between this government and the Shoshonowa Nation, among the prisoners held to ransom was the gallant Captain Fairfax, supposed to have fallen under their tomahawks, at the massacre near Fort Protection. This brave but unfortunate officer is now understood to be on his way to the seat of government.”

Catherine was positively speechless with joy; only her clasped hands and fervent countenance revealed what she felt. In the great, though calm surprise and rejoicings over the event, these friends forgot its singularity, until after a long while Catherine exclaimed—

“Poor Zuleime! Oh, how _could_ such a fatal misrepresentation have been made of the case? It was reported that he was cloven down from his saddle, and then butchered!”

“It was not a willful misrepresentation. It was a misapprehension. The few who escaped to tell the tale of the massacre, no doubt had seen him struck down; and don’t you see in the terror and confusion, they imagined the rest—knowing perfectly well that scalping and rifling the bodies are the almost invariable custom of the savages? And then remember, Catherine, the body taken for the corpse of Captain Fairfax, was so rifled and mutilated, as to be unrecognizable, except upon circumstantial evidence.”

“So indeed it was said to be! I would the mistake had never been made though! It killed Zuleime!”

“Catherine, my child, I have no idea that Zuleime was really drowned.”

“Madam!”

“Do you not know, Catherine, that any body drowned in that part of the river where the supposed signs of her suicide were found, must have come to light. Don’t you know that the current is very rapid there, and that a ledge of rocks crosses the river a few yards below it, upon which her body must have been thrown, if she had been in the river at all? And, Catherine, if I have never breathed this thought before, it was upon account of poor Carolyn. I knew that in her weak, depressed state of mind and body, she could better bear the belief of Zuleime’s death, than the frightful uncertainty of her fate. You are discreet, Kate; you will not breathe this to Carolyn, or to any one, lest it should reach her ear.”

“Never! And do you know, dear Mrs. Clifton, I have sometimes had the thought that Zuleime might yet be living—and I dared not indulge the hope secretly—much less breathe it aloud.”

“And what was _your_ reason for such a supposition, Catherine?”

“Why my thought was not so well founded—so logical as yours. I knew nothing about the peculiarities of the river. My thought was only a vague hope, and it agitated me so much as to interfere with my practical duties. I had to banish it.”

“You are so sensitive, so sympathetic, my dear girl. Well, Kate, no more exciting talk to-night. We will return thanks to God for these glad tidings, and then retire to rest.”