Chapter XXVIII: Winter Evenings at the Farm

Oh, Winter, ruler of the inverted year,
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest,
And dreaded as thou art.
I crown thee king of intimate delights,
Fire-side enjoyments, homestead happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours
Of long, uninterrupted evening, know.—COWPER.

Catherine returned to Hardbargain on Christmas Eve. It was a clear, cold, crisp afternoon, and the level sun threw a glistening, yellow lustre, like powdered gold dust, over the crusted surface of the snow-clad earth. And as Kate’s little, rough-coated pony stepped freely out over the ground, life and hope and joy tided back to her heart, giving bloom to her cheeks, light to her eyes, and elasticity to all her motions. She was very glad indeed to find herself on her way to the farm, and about to exchange the feverish, exciting atmosphere of White Cliffs, and the disturbing proximity of Georgia, for the long, calm days, and long, calm evenings with Mrs. Clifton, at the farm-house. She reached her destination at dusk. Mrs. Clifton met the girl with a smile of pleasure, and welcomed her with a kiss of affection. Then she conducted her into the parlor, where she made her sit down by the fire, while she removed her bonnet and shawl. Next she summoned Henny, and gave orders that tea should be served immediately, and a fire kindled in Miss Catherine’s room, as the young lady was fatigued, and would wish to retire early. There was in the manner of the lady upon this evening, and from this evening, a maternal tenderness and solicitude, very soothing and delightful to Catherine. This was so apparent to the domestics, that they began to deport themselves towards the maiden with the deference due to the daughter of the house.

And how calmly and cheerfully the winter days passed. There was the early rising, and the early breakfast, in the warm, bright, back parlor, where the morning sun shone in. There was the leisurely talk over the meal, about the occupations, which were also the amusements of the day. After breakfast, came the ride around the farm, in the course of which every field and barn and granary was inspected, and every negro quarter visited. And during these rides, Mrs. Clifton gave Catherine much information relating to agricultural matters.

“For, my dear,” she said, “some day you may be a planter’s wife, and have all these things to look after, while your husband is in the public service, absent with his regiment, or at the legislature.” To which Catherine ventured no reply. And then came dinner, and the short afternoon nap, and tea, and the long, serene evening by the fireside, employed in needle-work, enlivened by rational, cheerful conversation, and occasionally varied by music or reading, and finally ended by family prayer and bed.

Mrs. Clifton and Catherine never, never wearied of each other. They had many occupations for hands and heads—they were both strong, original thinkers, and above all, were both deeply interested in the same being—the absentee.

And now Catherine enjoyed a very dear, but dangerous delight, in the perusal of Major Clifton’s letters of travel. These letters arrived about two in a month. And, ah! the evenings, when they came, were festivals indeed to the recluse lady and the maiden. Often when one was brought in, Mrs. Clifton reclining, through weakness, upon the sofa, shading her eyes with her hand, would say, “Break the seal and read it to me, dear Catherine.” And Kate would do so—drawing delicious draughts of perilous pleasure from the poetic and artistic spirit that pervaded every sentiment, narrative and description in the epistle. And on these long, quiet winter evenings, very often the conversation turned upon the absent son—the dear topic always introduced by his mother. It seemed as if Mrs. Clifton wished to make Catherine thoroughly acquainted with his character and disposition—with his faults and weaknesses, as well as with his virtues and powers.

“My son has his serious imperfections, like other men, of course—though your eyes contradict me, Catherine; if I, his partial mother, see them, they exist, you may depend Archer is no demigod, my dear, in the estimation of any one, but—well, no matter—don’t blush so—I am his mother, and I love him, too, and think highly of him, of course, but I acknowledge he is no angel, Kate, and I should be sorry you should take him for one—disappointment would come of it, my dear. He is proud, jealous, and suspicious as a Spaniard, and while under the influence of these feelings, he is reserved and sullen as an Indian—yet these faults of character have been so transfigured in my dear Kate’s affection, that they have actually seemed virtues—the pride, jealousy and suspicion have seemed high sense of honor and intellectual acumen—and the reserve and sullenness—dignity! Is it not so, my dear?”

Kate’s eyes lighted, and her cheeks flushed highly, but not with bashfulness—with an emotion that was swelling at her heart—and carried away from self-consciousness by enthusiasm, she answered—

“Oh, madam! I know what I would say to you, if I only knew how to say it. Heaven sends divine thoughts and feelings into my heart, and brain sometimes, but they cannot pass thence into words—they are choked up perhaps by sin or imperfection. Such a feeling I have now—heavenly light, if I could only refract it—” She paused an instant, unconscious that the lady was looking intently upon her. Then she spoke again, slowly, in a kind of calm fervor—“Real affection—I do not mean passion or imagination—but real love does _never_ invest its object with _un_real virtues!—never!—all faults are the excess or the deficiency of some virtue—well, real love sees its object not perhaps as he is at his worst—not even perhaps so evil as he is even at his best, but as he may become!—as he surely _will_ become, if that real affection continues faithful to its trust. Ah! how strong that conviction is in my heart—how weak upon my lips!”

“I understand you, Catherine, and may your true affection be the divine alchemy that shall transmute all Archer Clifton’s faults into virtues.” At this personal reply, Catherine’s eyes fell and her cheeks burned with sudden self-recollection, and for weeks after this she could not recall the conversation without deep blushes.

More and more freely as the weeks passed by did Mrs. Clifton talk to Kate of her son and his peculiarities, and the best way to meet them.

“You know, my dear Catherine, the apostle, in order to win proselytes, made himself all things to all men. Archer is proud, and my dear girl must raise herself a little out of that humility of manner which is very distasteful to the haughty, except when exhibited towards themselves, when it naturally becomes very acceptable.” This style of conversation, addressed to her for weeks and months, was at once very pleasing and very painful to Kate. It was sweet, it was dear beyond measure, to be considered in this near relation to her beloved, to be addressed daily and hourly as if she possessed the power of rendering his future life better and happier, and so addressed by his own mother, too, but it was also humiliating to be supposed to presume on the future esteem and affection of one who had never addressed the language of love to her. Often she thought of begging Mrs. Clifton to desist from this style of conversation; but a certain bashfulness, a deep respect for the lady, a distrust of herself and of her own experience, and the childish thought that Major Clifton might have entrusted to his mother an intention that he never confided to herself its object, and the delight of living in this blessed illusion, and the fear of breaking the charm, kept her silent for a long time, during which Mrs. Clifton gradually fell into the manner of considering her and speaking to her as her son’s future wife. All at once one day it suddenly struck Kate that Mrs. Clifton might be the victim of a mistake, and under the impression that some understanding or engagement existed between herself and Major Clifton, and that her own silence and seeming acquiescence had served to confirm this error. And this very natural and rational thought fell upon the girl like a thunderbolt, utterly blasting and destroying all her beautiful hopes, and covering her face with the blushes of deep humiliation. She felt that she must undeceive Mrs. Clifton immediately. So when they sat together at the work-table, before the evening fire, and the lady spoke of her son saying, among other things—

“The most unhappy trait in his character is his tendency to suspicion, my love. Be straight-forward with him, Catherine, never have a secret from him, not even one touching a little pleasant surprise, be perfectly frank and openhearted with him, and, alas! even that course may not always save you from suffering by his besetting sin, and when it does not, Catherine, there is nothing left for you but patience and trust. You see, on Archer’s behalf, I expect a great deal of you, my love, like all mothers-in-law, I suppose.”

Catherine’s face was bent over her work; ashamed of her supposed mistake, ashamed of the weakness that now choked her voice, she remained silent for some time. At length, gathering a false impression from her long continued silence, Mrs. Clifton said—

“Do I hope too much from you, Kate, my love?”

With an effort, Catherine controlled her emotion, looked up and replied, steadily—

“No, no, dear Mrs. Clifton, you do not demand too much of me. As far as my will and my power, as far as the grace of God aids me, I will serve Major Clifton with the affection and fidelity of a sister and a servant, but I have not the smallest reason to suppose that he will ever admit me to a friendship sufficiently intimate to make it possible for me to affect his character and conduct in any way, even if I should presume to wish it.”

“My dear Kate, Archer’s wife will be his friend, companion and counsellor—he never would be happy with a mere housekeeper or parlor ornament, however beautifully accomplished and amiable—it is therefore he will prize my dear Catherine’s clear, strong mind and proud heart—she will be admitted to his closest thoughts and his noblest counsels, do not doubt it.”

“Oh, madam, you do not comprehend me yet, I see. How deeply rooted your mistake must be, dear lady! Oh, how shall I tell you? Indeed you are in error if you suppose—if you suppose that—” Kate stopped short and burst into tears.

Mrs. Clifton encircled her waist with her arm, and said—

“Come, Kate, stop all this blushing and weeping. Let us be confidential, you and I, as mother and daughter should be, for you are as my own daughter, Kate, and am I not a mother to you?”

“Oh, yes! yes! dear lady!” said Catherine, taking her hand, and pressing it to her bosom, and covering it with kisses. “Oh, yes, you are indeed like a mother to me, if I were only worthy to be your daughter! and I love and honor you more than ever a mother was loved and honored in this world before, I do believe!”

“Then let there be no reserve between us, dear Kate. Let us be open with each other, as parent and child, whose loves, and hopes, and wishes are the same. I have been plain with you all along, only gradually unfolding your future, not to alarm your shyness—and to win your confidence. I have longed for this confidence—this perfect openness between us—that we might talk with more intelligence, and with more comfort—and I have courted it by my own frankness; but in return for all my candor, Catherine has shown me only reserve and blushes. Will she be more confiding now?”

“Alas, dearest lady, what can I say to you, but that you are greatly mistaken—sadly mistaken—oh, yes, indeed, sadly mistaken,” replied Kate, almost weeping again.

“I am not mistaken in supposing that Catherine loves my son. I am not mistaken in knowing that the fact gives me more happiness than anything else in the world. Yet I would like to hear Kate admit it.”

“Well, dearest lady—yes!—down, pride!—if it will give you any pleasure to hear it, I must not withhold the confession—yes, I _do_ love your son—so much—so much—that it will make me an old maid!”

Mrs. Clifton laughed, a little, low, jolly laugh. (The lady very seldom laughed, and when she did, it had a strange, exceedingly pleasant effect upon the hearer—it was a very agreeable surprise, revealing, as it were under that grave, stern surface, traces of a mine of wit, humor, fun and mischief, that must have existed, and frequently sparkled forth, ere the sorrow and the seriousness of life smothered and extinguished it.) She laughed her little, low, jolly laugh, and replied—

“That were a strange effect of love, Catherine; but trust me, it will not be so with Archer’s consent.”

“Dear Mrs. Clifton, forgive me for saying again, that you are very much mistaken—never, never in his life, has Major Clifton bestowed upon me one word, or look, that might be misconstrued by the vainest woman into a preference!”

“Well, Kate! I know that! I know that he has never addressed you on the subject. But I know that he will do so. For he loves you, Catherine, and has loved you from the first hour he ever saw you—even from the—the night he sat and studied you in your brother’s cabin. And it is just as certain that you will be his wife, as that you both will live to marry. So, dearest, let there be no more reserve between us—consider this marriage sure, as it really is—(so far as any future event is sure)—and let me talk freely, for my time and opportunity is short.”

Catherine raised her eyes to the sallow—almost cadaverous face of the lady, and a conviction of the truth and reality of what she predicted, forced itself upon her, with a sharp pang.

“Now, dear Catherine, I did not ask you for that troubled look! Will your heart ache because a dry leaf drops in the autumn, rather than hangs shivering on the tree through half the winter? But, dear child, I allude to this coming event, not to cast its ‘shadow’ over you, but to explain why I wish now to use these days in making you as conversant with the idiosyncracies of your future companion, as only years of married life could do, and to prevent years, perhaps, of misunderstanding and sorrow. There is something dreadful in the discovery of unsuspected faults, _after_ marriage—and something very, very mournful in the disappointment of the trusting affection, and in the saddened efforts of the heart to adjust itself to the circumstances—efforts that in one case out of ten, perhaps, succeed. But if the worst is known before marriage, the man or the woman may consider well whether they have the strength of heart to conquer their own faults, and bear with those of their companion. That you would do all this for your husband, Kate, I am convinced. I only talk now to smooth your path of duty.” The lady here released Catherine from the embrace in which she had held her through this conversation, and desired her to ring for the servants to come in to prayers.

Catherine, as had been her custom for several weeks past—upon account of Mrs. Clifton’s weakness—conducted the evening devotions.

When prayers were over, and the servants dismissed, Catherine attended Mrs. Clifton to her chamber, and assisted her with affectionate care until she had retired to bed. Then, after receiving the lady’s parting kiss, she hastened into her own chamber, threw herself upon the bed, and gave way to a long-pent burst of sorrow. Within the last three years Catherine had seen much sickness, death, and bereavement—one after another of her associates or relations had faded and fallen, and she had mourned their loss; and her life had taken a sombre hue, and sunken into a depressed tone. But that this beloved friend, this kind benefactress, this dear, dear companion—this more than mother, sister, _all_ to her heart—should pass away from the earth and be seen no more! Oh! it brought a sense of desolation that threw a shadow and a chill over all the future—over even the bright hopes shining in the distance. And then the identity of the love she bore mother and son together forced itself upon her heart. And she felt that a union with the son could not give her perfect content, unless the mother were there to share her love and service, and to participate in their happiness. Without that mother’s presence, their plan of life would be unfinished—their circle of love incomplete. And oh! came the sharp, agonizing question, how could she ever bear to lose the light, and warmth, and strength, imparted daily, hourly, from that dear face—that face which had never looked on her but in affection—that face, the very image of Clifton’s own, except that it was sweeter, holier, and never, never harsh—how could she ever bear to lose her sweet resting place on that more than maternal bosom—that bosom on which she could ever lay her aching head, or aching heart, in perfect peace and confidence, sure of being understood, sure of being sympathized with? Oh! life would be darkened indeed when she should pass away. The sense of sorrow was so sharp, so agonizing, that the girl could have thrown herself upon the floor—could have wrestled with Heaven, in wild prayer, that this life might be saved, and this sharp anguish spared her. But Catherine was habitually self-restrained, and she bore this mental anguish as she would have endured severe physical pain—in silence, in patience, until her soul was subdued to the meekness of resignation. And then prayer brought comfort.

And she met the lady in the morning with a cheerful countenance. And they spent the day as usual.

So passed the winter and the spring. Though Mrs. Clifton failed visibly from day to day, she still continued her rides around the farm, and her general supervision of the household and of agricultural affairs, and her instructions to Catherine. Her people, who well knew the nearly hopeless state of her health, foretold that their mistress would keep up and out to the very last—and finally die in her chair. Indeed, while flesh and blood wasted away, her nervous energy seemed unimpaired, and her cheerfulness was undiminished. She talked of her approaching departure as calmly and pleasantly as she would have talked of going to Richmond. Never obtruding the subject, however, unless necessity demanded its introduction.

The serenity and cheerfulness of the lady affected Catherine very beneficially—“familiarizing” to her feelings the future, immortal life. Catherine endeavored to persuade her to have a physician.

“Why, so I would, Kate, if I had any specific disease; but when all the frame is wearing out together very slowly and quietly, why call in a doctor to disturb the harmony of natural decay, and painfully build up one portion of the sinking frame at the expense of another? Why not fade and fall easily, as all else in benign nature does?”

Catherine next suggested writing for Major Clifton to hasten home.

“Why, my child? Why, because I am going the common road, should others be hurried and worried? Everything in blessed nature and Divine Revelation teaches us a sweeter lesson. No—Archer set out for a twelve months’ tour; let him complete it. He will return this autumn. Quite time enough, Catherine. I shall live till then, and longer. I can calculate the progress of my body’s failing, and the duration of my life, with almost mathematical precision. I shall live to meet Archer, and to see you married, Catherine—and to leave you willing to survive me and be happy without me. And why not, dear? for shall I not be happier still?”

And so, in sweet mutual confidence, in cheerful resignation, and in patient hope, the summer passed, and autumn arrived in its glory.