Chapter IV: The Tide of Fate

There is a tide in the affairs of man,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.—SHAKSPEARE.

“There is a tide in the affairs of ‘woman,’
Which, taken at the flood, leads—” God knows where.—BYRON.

Captain Clifton had written to Carl Kavanagh, informing him of the situation he had procured for the sister of the latter, at Hardbargain. And within this letter he had inclosed a longer one, to Kate, filled with good counsels and urgent reasons why she should yield to the wishes of her brother, and accept the place offered to her. After having dispatched these letters by a boy, who left White Cliffs that afternoon, on horseback, he delivered himself up to the delights of Miss Clifton’s society, forgetting all about the mountain-girl, until the next day, when, being seated in the library, his messenger returned, entered his presence, and handed him a packet. It was a letter from Carl Kavanagh, enclosing one from Kate. He read Carl’s epistle first. It began by expressing much gratitude to his benefactor, for his kindness in having procured a situation for his sister, and went on by expressing much sorrow that he could not prevail upon Kate, either by entreaties or threats, to accept it, and unbounded indignation at what he called the girl’s wicked stubbornness. The letter closed by reiterating the thanks of the writer. Captain Clifton held the letter open in his hand, and lifting his head, fell into deep thought. It was strange how much this little matter depressed him. Account for it, any philosopher that can. Some proud people have a proclivity to patronage—Captain Clifton was very proud, and perhaps he was piqued at being prevented playing the patron. Perhaps it was really disappointed benevolence. Only it is certain that Archer Clifton did not possess that quality to an immoderate degree—and having once done his duty of charity, would be likely to content himself with any result. Perchance he felt a deeper interest in the rugged little mountaineer than he would have acknowledged, even to himself. Perhaps it was prescience—the shadow of coming events. Be that as it may, Archer Clifton walked up and down the floor in silent thought, occasionally broken by a slight sigh. It was wonderful how much the knowledge that he should not have this child at home in his mother’s house vexed his soul.

At length he recollected Kate’s own letter, yet unopened. But of what avail to read it! It would certainly be the counterpart of Carl’s. He opened it. It was not, however. In the first place, the paper was perfectly clean; and in the second, the writing, spelling, and style, were rather better. She acknowledged the goodness of Captain Clifton, in taking thought of her humble wants—expressed regret that she could not avail herself of his kindness—could not leave her grandfather, who needed her services, and subscribed herself Captain Clifton’s obliged and grateful servant. It _was_ very much like Carl’s, after all. But here is a postscript. What more can she have to say, after what she has said, thought Clifton, as he turned to it. It read thus—

“P. S.—I hope Captain Clifton will pardon me, if he thinks that I am
doing wrong—but it has come into my head, that as Captain Clifton is
about to marry, and reside in future at White Cliffs—and as Mrs.
Clifton of Hardbargain, will then be quite alone—and as she is not so
young, or active, or able to ride about her plantation, overseeing her
field hands as formerly—perhaps she will be thinking of getting a
farm-manager—if so, will Captain Clifton kindly remember my brother
Carl, and speak a favorable word for him to the lady of Hardbargain,
who already knows and trusts him? If Carl gets a situation as
overseer, I can keep house for him, and we can both take care of our
grandfather. Indeed I am afraid Captain Clifton will be justly angry
with me for this liberty.”

“What a letter!” exclaimed Archer Clifton, as his face alternately lighted up with satisfaction, or became clouded with thought. “What a letter for a rustic girl of fourteen! Yet characteristic of _her_ and of her situation. Showing the germs of reflection, forethought, courage and promptitude, the gifts of nature, mingled with that frankness bordering upon presumption, which belongs to total ignorance of the world. To dare to speak familiarly of our domestic affairs! But yet how naïvely she deprecates my displeasure, at what she feels may be received as presumption.”

So deeply did Captain Clifton study Kate and her letter; Kate’s remarkable countenance, with its breadth of brow and gentleness of eyes, haunted him.

He was a man of prompt decision and action—so, having once admitted the idea that his mother needed an overseer, he exclaimed—

“Yes, my mother must be relieved from her arduous occupation—unbefitting a lady of her rank, and especially of her age. Why could I not think of that before? Why should I never have seen the necessity, until Catherine held it up before me? Yes—my mother must have a manager on her farm, and Carl Kavanagh shall be the man. I will pay his salary myself.” And he rung the bell, ordered his horse, and in less than fifteen minutes was on his way to Hardbargain.

As he rode up to the house, he met a girl with a pail on her head, going to the spring, and inquired of her where her mistress was to be found. He was told, “down in the wheat field.” So, turning his horse’s head a little to the left of the house, he rode down the slope of the hill, to a wide harvest field, where he found Mrs. Clifton, seated on her mule, superintending the operations of some fifteen or twenty laborers, who were employed in stacking wheat. He rode up to his mother’s side, alighted, and held out his hand, saying—

“How-do-you-do, to-day, madam? Busily engaged as ever, I see, mother.”

“How-do-you-do, Archer? Yes, very busy.”

While Captain Clifton was revolving in his mind the best way of introducing the object of his visit, which he had reason to believe would be distasteful to the energetic, independent lady—she quite unconsciously anticipated his intention, and relieved him from his embarrassment, by saying—

“The heat is extremely oppressive, and I begin to find this business too much for me, Archer. This continuing out in the fields day after day, and all day long, throughout this burning weather, begins to tell, even upon my constitution.”

Archer Clifton looked at his mother and noticed for the first time a slight but certain change in her countenance, invisible, perhaps, to an indifferent glance, but seeming to the eye of affection, fearfully like the very earliest premonitory symptoms of decay. That look pierced him to the heart. The fainter sound of her voice, too, had vaguely suggested failing strength—it fell upon his ear like a prophecy, a warning, a knell. He realized then, for the first time, that his mother was mortal—was growing old—that some day he should lose her. He felt then, for the first time, how much _he_—a man—had rested on this good mother—and his heart was troubled within him. And yet it was all caused only by a transient weariness in the look of her face, and a faintness in the tone of her voice. But more than all things else on earth—more _deeply_—though less ardently—than his own fair expectant bride—did Archer Clifton love his mother! It had even been said, some years before, by one who knew him best, that Clifton could never love any woman with the full force of his nature unless in qualities of mind and heart she resembled his mother. But of course, Captain Clifton had disproved that prophecy by adoring his cousin, the haughty and beautiful Miss Clifton. This is a digression—to return—

As the new pang of fear for his mother’s health sped through his heart, Archer Clifton took her hand—he had a singularly sweet and persuasive voice and manner, when moved by his affections, and said—

“There is no necessity for it, dear mother. Surely, the motive that prompted you when I was a lad, and when this farm was our only prospect, has long ceased to operate.”

“I know it, Archer. For some years past this personal superintendence of the fields has been more a matter of habit, than a matter of necessity. If I could find a good manager I might try one.”

“What do you think of Carl Kavanagh in that capacity, mother?”

“Carl! I never thought of him at all. He has never managed a plantation.”

“But yet he has been a farm laborer many years—has a practical knowledge of agriculture, and is, besides, a man of more intelligence than is usually to be found in his class.”

“Yes—he is,” said the lady, thoughtfully.

“He is also a man of excellent moral character, and faultless habits—qualities not too frequently met with among those of his grade.”

“True—most true—but yet he is young, and has had no experience in overseeing.”

“And never will have, dear madam, unless some one gives him the opportunity of making the trial. And as for his youth, mother—why his youth is positively an advantage—for with his practical knowledge, intelligence and honesty, he will be free from the conceit and crotchets of an old manager, and will the more readily fall into your system.”

“There is something in that,” said the lady. “And now, Archer, you will remain and dine with me to-day. And remember, that when this week is out, the next week belongs to me. You must bring your friend with you when you come. Where did you leave him?”

“Playing battledore with Zuleime. But, dear mother, about this Carl Kavanagh—I hope you will consider the plan favorably, and try him.”

“I will think of it, Archer, because you propose it, if for no other reason. And now the horn is blowing for the hands to go to dinner, and my task for the day is relieved. Let us return to the house.”

They turned their animals’ heads, and rode up the ascent, and entered the shady yard. Then the lady alighted from her mule, gathered up her riding skirt, and leaning on the arm of her son, entered the house. A plain but substantial dinner was soon served. Archer Clifton enjoyed his mother’s plain meals more than the most luxurious dinners—not but that he had a taste for luxury—what man has not?—but that there was a home comfort about his mother’s table, that gave him appetite and spirit. And then, after dinner, he could go and stretch himself upon the best lounge in that large, shady, breezy parlor, with a book, and read or doze until she had attended to the putting away of her things, and had locked up her pantries. Then she would come and sit in the rocking-chair by his side, while he could stretch himself at ease, in any ungainly attitude he pleased, and feel what a refreshing thing it was to throw off his dignity in the presence of the only one with whom he could do so—his own familiar mother. Not but that he honored—nay, _revered_ her—but that he enjoyed only in her house, that deep, full sense of home freedom, which not only her son—but to a certain degree all others felt, who possessed the privilege of the lady’s friendship.

This afternoon, then, he was lying at his ease on the cool lounge between the two front windows, which were drawing strong drafts of air, and flapping the festooned curtains lazily. He had thrown himself out at full length upon the lounge, in the most delightfully _degagè_ attitude, albeit it was somewhat angular and awkward—his head being thrown back over the end of the lounge, his hands clasped above his forehead, and his elbows very prominent, one foot, minus a slipper, hoisted upon the window-sill, and the other slippered foot dangling on the carpet. But the picturesque beauty of his dark, handsome face, atoned for all the rest. His mother sat in an easy-chair near him, with her feet upon a footstool, and a work-stand by her side. She was engaged in stitching wristbands—for that vigorous woman never required a lounge in the day-time—but though she never took one, yet she never blamed the indulgence of that habit in others for which she herself felt no inclination. She was the most liberal and benevolent of all human beings, in every act of her daily life. She was happy in seeing others comfortable around her. She was ever pleased to see them enjoying those relaxations which her own strong nature did not need. Indeed, courage without asperity, fortitude without indurancy, strength without hardness, self-denial without sternness, power without arrogance, formed the peculiar excellence of her character. No wonder that her son revered her. No wonder it had been said of him, that he never could love a woman with all the power of his nature, unless in mental and moral endowments—she resembled his mother. As they talked together this afternoon, the hours slipped away till late in the evening, before the image of the beautiful Carolyn had power to draw him from the _tête à tête_. During the afternoon he had prevailed with his mother to receive Carl Kavanagh as her overseer—and to have the comfortable log cabin which had been occupied by the first proprietor of the soil, prepared for the reception of the family.

When Archer Clifton at length arose to take his leave, he pressed his mother to his heart with so much fondness and power, that the quiet, calm lady laughed, a little, low, jolly laugh, and jested about Carolyn’s jealousy—even of his mother.

* * * * *

Captain Clifton returned to White Cliffs, and gave himself up for the rest of the evening, to the charms of Carolyn’s conversation.

The next day was one of festivity. Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, came over to dine at White Cliffs, and to meet a large party of the neighboring gentry. The day after that, the whole party dined and spent the evening at Hardbargain—and this was the commencement of a series of neighborhood entertainments in honor of the approaching marriage, which were kept up for several weeks. The wedding was to come off in the course of a month—the present delay being owing to this circumstance: old Mr. Clifton had sent to England, by the good ship Rockbridge, Captain Cater, an extensive order, including a splendid outfit for the bride; and they were now awaiting to hear of the arrival of the Rockbridge at Norfolk. In all the excitement of social enjoyment, Captain Clifton had found time to ride to the mountain hut, and arrange with Carl Kavanagh to come and take the situation of overseer at Hardbargain. He agreed to pay the latter a liberal salary, and to provide a comfortable house for his family. One thing surprised and annoyed him. Kate, who had written so freely, frankly, almost presumptuously to him—received him with the old cold shyness and reserve—not even expressing the least gratitude for the kindness he had shown in getting the situation for her brother, or the trouble he had condescended to take in coming personally to inform them of it. He agreed with Carl, that the latter, with his grandfather and sister, should remove to Hardbargain in the course of the week—and on his own part he promised to have the log-house prepared for their reception. He shook hands with the old man and Carl on parting, but when he offered the same civility to Kate, she turned pale and trembled, and when he took her hand he found it cold.

“I do not think you are well, my dear girl—your mountain air does not engender chills, does it?” he asked, pressing the cold fingers.

She raised her eyes one brief instant to his, and dropped them quickly again, while her pale check and brow became suffused with crimson, and her hand that he held in his own throbbed like a heart.

“When we get you to the plantation you will be better, my dear girl,” said Clifton, kindly, shaking her hand and letting it go.

Captain Clifton rode away full of thought—speculating more upon Catherine’s reserve than became a gentleman of his station and importance. What was it to him that a rustic girl was too shy to express in person, her thanks for a favor received, even though she had “screwed her courage to the sticking place” to write to him and solicit it? Many people, more conversant with the world than Catherine, can write that which they never can bring their lips to say. Besides it was no matter—what was that lowly maiden to him, the heir of Clifton, and the prospective husband of the highest and haughtiest lady in the land? Yes—what to him except an object of his high patronage could be that girl of—not only “humble parentage,” but indubitably _low birth_? He rode on dissatisfied, he knew not wherefore, with her and himself.

As for Catherine, she stood—lost—where he had left her—lost to the consciousness of her grandfather’s and of Carl’s presence—with her eyes fixed upon the ground, blaming herself for her awkwardness and seeming ingratitude; wondering if _he_ blamed her too; wondering why it was that when she saw him enter she grew cold and trembled so; and when he spoke to her in that gentle tone, and looked at her with that gentle gaze—her whole nature shrank away in fear and trepidation—and though she would have given the world for the ability to express her gratitude and regard, all power of uttering a grateful word or of lifting a grateful glance to his face, deserted, and left her pale and trembling before the man whom she had no cause to fear, and every reason to trust. Catherine stood with her mind deep in this problem, until the harsh voice of Carl startled her, saying, in rasping tones—

“Well! are you going to stand there burrowing your eyes in the ground all day? A pretty way you have behaved! Please goodness, you’ve got no more manners than a dumb brute. I take my oath I am ashamed of you! Now there was Captain Clifton, a gentleman of so high rank, condescending to come here and tell us himself of the place he had got for us, even after your unmannerly refusal of that first place—and here were you with not one _word_ of thanks to give—no! please Heaven, not so much as one civil _look_! I wonder what he’ll think of you?”

“What, indeed?” repeated Catherine, very meekly.

But Carl scarcely recognized her voice. It was no longer the childish treble—it was the deep, full, melodious voice of rich womanhood.

“Why, the _kindest_ thought he can have of you, will be to think you are a _fool_—that is all.”

“Carl, I was in fear of him.”

“In fear of him! In fear of Archer Clifton! A man whom all the country knows to be of the highest honor—and one to whom even _I_, cautious as _I_ am, could trust you with, to go from one end of the world to the other!”

“I know that, Carl—I know he is a gentleman of honor, but—but—I tremble before him, and have not courage to lift my eyes—”

“But that is so confoundedly ridiculous, now! _why_ are you afraid of him?”

Kate shook her head and waved her hand in that quick, short manner which was peculiar to her, and turned away—repeating in her own heart the question—“Yes, why, _why_, WHY?”

Whether the maiden found an answer to her question or not, remained a secret to Carl; this was the first and last conversation they ever held on the subject; and whatever phenomena the opening heart of the maiden revealed to herself, were carefully shrouded away from the eyes of all.

* * * * *

How beautiful was Carolyn Clifton! So fair, so purely, so divinely fair, so radiant, so refined, so stately! How fit a consort for the proud Archer Clifton! How his heart swelled with admiration and pride as he gazed upon her queenly form—and how it glowed to think that in a very few days that fair and stately lady, who never deigned to own a passion, whose love he only guessed by her proud exaction of exclusive service, who scarcely condescended to extend her snowy hand to his salute—would be his own, his own, his wife, his property, his other self—whose form he might press to his bosom in the fullest freedom of possession! And as he sat by her side and held her hand, and gazed upon her inaccessible, delightful beauty; oh! how slowly, slowly, to his impatient, burning, throbbing heart—how slowly, dragged the days and hours.

Well—oh very well would it have been for Archer Clifton, could he have rent his gaze from his magnetic idol a moment, and caught a certain pair of evil eyes upon him. Their baleful glare might have shed upon his path some light to the pitfalls in his way.