Chapter VII: The Severed Hearts

Alas! how slight a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love—
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;
That stood the storm when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fell off,
Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When Heaven was all tranquillity!
A something light as air—a look—
A word unkind or wrongly taken;
Oh, love that tempests never shook,
A breath—a touch like this hath shaken.—MOORE.

Some hours after the arrival of the company, old Mr. Clifton sat alone in his study, examining piles of accounts, merchants’, mechanics’, and hired laborers’ bills, that had come in as usual upon the first of July, many weeks before, yet had not, up to this night, been settled. For many years past the financial affairs of the Master of Clifton had been falling behindhand. The cause of this was that no plantation and plantation house can thoroughly succeed without the personal superintendence of an efficient _mistress_ to assist the master’s effort. Often, indeed, it happens, that while the master himself is engaged in state politics, or off at the legislature, or at congress, or on the circuit as a judge of the court, or in the metropolis of the state, or of the nation, holding some high office under the government—the mistress, at home upon the plantation, is the main-spring of all its business—superintending—not only the house and house-maids, with their multifarious cares and avocations, such as a city housewife cannot conceive of, but managing the plantation also—keeping the overseer to his duty, adjudging equitably all difficulties that may arise between him and the slaves under his charge—looking over all the numerous accounts, paying debts, and, when necessary, retrenching expenses. Now the Clifton plantation had been singularly unfortunate in a series of inefficient mistresses, even before it fell in regular succession to the present Mr. Clifton. And after that, affairs were worse than ever. His first wife, the haughty Miss Gower, the mother of Carolyn, was far too great a lady to look after a housekeeper and overseer, and her successors had been all young girls, very worthless, except as pets and playthings, and who had, besides, to be indulged every year with their winters in Richmond, or in Washington—a two-fold evil, as it took the master from his plantation and men, and the mistress from her house and maids, and laid them, besides, under the heavy expense of city hotel living, dressing, dinner-giving, theatres, balls, concerts, etc. Once in awhile, as a bridal treat, or at the successive “coming out” of daughters, a winter in the metropolis may be well enough. But when continued year after year, through a lifetime, to the total neglect of the plantation, the revenues of no ordinary estate will hold out. So it followed, that as the master and mistress ceased to look after the overseer and the housekeeper, the overseer and housekeeper ceased to look after the men and maids, and the men and maids grew careless and indolent in the performance of their duties. Thus, as the expenses rose, the income fell. And thus, at the present time, old Mr. Clifton was almost irredeemably in debt, and all the Clifton property, except the land, mortgaged to its full value. The mortgage might foreclose at any instant. And at this present moment, the poor old master of great Clifton had not the ready money to pay his harvest hands. The extent of his liabilities was, however, so little known in the neighborhood, that his credit was still good, and almost high—and the estate of White Cliffs was still considered as one of the most prosperous in the county, and the owners still held as very enviable people. While old Mr. Clifton sat pondering most dismally over his impracticable accounts, the study door was suddenly thrown open, and Miss Clifton entered, in great excitement, and threw herself into a chair before her father, exclaiming—

“Father, I have been insulted!”

The old man, never indifferent to his children’s cry—ever ready in the midst of his own real cares, to hear and sympathize even with their fantastic griefs—looked up from his papers in perplexity, inquiring—

“What is it? What did you say, my child?”

“I have been insulted!—outraged, sir!”

The old man gazed at her in surprise, repeating—

“‘Insulted, outraged!’”

“Yes, sir! contemned, despised, scorned, insulted, outraged, _rejected_!”

The old man placed his hands upon the arms of the chair and gazed in astonishment, exclaiming—

“‘Insulted!—outraged!’ Whom? You, my daughter Miss Clifton! _Impossible._”

“Yes, sir! me, your daughter—Carolyn Clifton!”

“Who has presumed—who has dared—?”

“Captain Clifton, sir, ‘has dared!’” replied the indignant beauty, rising in her excitement.

The old gentleman stared at her in blank wonder for a minute, and then—taking her hand—

“Sit down—sit down—sit down—sit down,” he kept repeating, “and tell me all about it.”

Carolyn drank a glass of ice water that stood near her on the table, and then, in a cooler manner, told her father exactly what had passed, and how it had finally ended.

The old gentleman scratched his snow-white head in vexation and perplexity, but the winter bloom of his broad, rosy face, was neither heightened nor lowered at the hearing of the tale. He did not by any means display the indignation the offended beauty had expected.

“Well, sir!” at last she said, rather haughtily, “what do you say to this?”

He put his arm fondly around her waist, and drew her to him, saying, caressingly—

“You’re a fool, Carolyn! A vain, jealous little fool, that’s all! Nay, now!—no airs with your old father! According to your own showing, it has been Archer that has been ‘contemned, despised, scorned, insulted, outraged, rejected!’ and the rest of it—and upon no just grounds, either! as I can easily prove to you. I am very much mortified—deeply humbled, indeed, to hear that my daughter, a highborn young maiden, should have forgotten her feminine pride and delicacy, and approached her lover with an intimacy with a mountain-girl—a race of women, with very few exceptions so low and wretched, that a young lady should ignore their very existence. Oh, my conscience, Carolyn! why do you not cover your face, and die with humiliation? I do not wonder a man of such high honor and delicate sensibility as Archer Clifton, should have been shocked and disgusted. Nay, my child!—no airs with me! No tossing of the head, and curling of the lip with me! I am your father. You must listen to me. You have done Archer the most outrageous injustice. And your jealousy is as ridiculous as it is indelicate. In the first place, this girl, though brought up on the mountain, comes of respectable, if humble parentage, and possesses, by all accounts, a higher toned moral and intellectual nature than most young _ladies_ are endowed with. She is as far removed from vice as my own Carolyn! In the second place, she is the protégé of _Mrs._ Clifton, as well as of Captain Clifton, and enjoys that excellent lady’s esteem and friendship, spending half of every day in her company, except when visitors are at the house. In the third and last place, she is not a beautiful woman, but an ugly child—being scarcely fourteen years of age, and having the ugliest face I ever saw in my life—at least _I_ think so, though Mrs. Clifton says it is a noble face. It has large features, and is full of strength and expression, like a boy’s. There, now, that’s all! Now! what do you think of yourself?”

During this short explanation, Carolyn’s beautiful countenance had changed expression as rapidly and as variously as during the lay of the minstrel the harp changes and varies its notes. At its close she dropped down by the side of the old man, and throwing her arms and her head upon his knees, in utter weakness and dejection, sobbed—

“Father! how shall I _ever_ be forgiven?”

He raised her to his knee, and putting his arm around her waist, drew her head upon his bosom, and said—

“It is an ugly lover’s quarrel, certainly, my love! And Archer Clifton is as proud as you are! But it must be made up! It must be made up! A very ugly quarrel, indeed. And on the eve of your marriage, too! But it must be made up! It must be made up! Ah, doubtless he will be over to-morrow night! He feels as bad as you do, I’ll warrant he does! I’ll warrant he does! _I_ should, I know, if I were he!”

“Ah, father! no he does not! He was in the right! I was in the wrong!”

“Yes! you were wrong, Carry! And I hope it will be a lesson to you! But that makes no difference in _his_ feelings, not a whit! He suffers as much as you do! Why, when I have a difficulty with my poor little pet, Georgia, if she is ever so wrong, and I ever so right, I am nevertheless the most miserable man alive!”

“Ah, father, but there is a great difference—I am not Archer’s pet, but was to be his consort. We—Archer and myself, are nearly equal in station, ay, education, disposition, and so are more responsible for our conduct towards each other!” sighed Carolyn, dropping her head dejectedly upon his bosom.

“Oh, well! now if you are so full of doubts and fears! it is but ten o’clock! I will mount my horse, and ride up to Hardbargain, and knock the young gentleman up—I doubt if he is asleep!—and bring him back here, to-night!”

“Not for the world! Not for ten thousand worlds!” exclaimed the proud girl, vehemently.

“Ah, then I don’t know what to do with you—go to bed, and try to sleep, and if you can’t do that, ring for the housekeeper, and make her give you some of her nostrums, to put you to sleep! And go into a state of non-existence, that shall obliterate the time between this and to-morrow morning. And to-morrow, I’ll warrant Archer will be here to breakfast with us, and to beg _your_ pardon for the sins that _you_ committed! for that’s the end of all lovers’ quarrels! No matter who’s right and who’s wrong—who’s sinned against, and who’s sinning, the gentleman has to do the penance! There! kiss me, and be off with you!—and hark ye, Carolyn! don’t forget to kneel down and pray Heaven to give you the grace of a meeker temper!”

Carolyn Clifton went to her room and retired to bed, to heat her pillow with her feverish head, to wet it with her hot tears—to sigh, and groan, and toss, and sob all night. This bitter, bitter quarrel, was the first trouble the girl had ever had in all her favored life. And she was impatient with it, indignant at it. She was angry with herself for her injustice and indelicacy; angry with Clifton for not forcing upon her the explanation she would not consent to receive, but which, had she been forced to hear, would have arrested the quarrel, and saved this cruel suffering; angry at the tedious night, that lingered so long, keeping her in agonizing suspense; angry at the morning, that delayed its coming, and bringing her the peace and joy of a reconciliation. And so she tossed, and groaned, and suffered, like one in high fever, while the long, long night was slowly, slowly passing away.

* * * * *

In the meantime Captain Clifton had ridden away, not so angry as shocked, repulsed and alienated by the unprecedented behaviour of his lady-love. He disliked all demonstrations of emotion, and detested all exhibitions of evil passion in a woman. It was the high-bred delicacy and refinement—the queenly placidity—the cool reserve and stately dignity of Carolyn Clifton, that had attracted his first admiration. And though he sometimes gallantly complained of her cruelty, he would not have had her manner one degree warmer. But now this fair, cool, peerless queen o’er herself and her emotions, had yielded to passions that might govern a serving-maid—to suspicion, jealousy, and fierce anger—had descended to virulent, vituperative abuse! And, henceforth, she was discrowned, and degraded from her pride of place.

He arrived at Hardbargain—gave his horse in charge of a servant, and entered the house.

The candles were just lighted in the parlor, and Mrs. Clifton and her favorite Kate sat sewing by the work-stand. As he entered, Kate arose as usual with the intention of withdrawing, but he signed to her with his hand, and said in a tone of command—

“No—stay, Catherine, and once for all give up that habit of retiring as soon as myself, or any other visitor enters.”

The young girl returned to her seat and resumed her work. Then with a sort of spirit of persecution upon him, as one would think, he went to the maiden and inquired, impatiently—

“_Why_ do you always do that? _Why_ do you always rise and leave as soon as any one enters the room?”

She glanced up at him with those large, shy eyes, and instantly veiled them again, while the blush deepened on her cheek. Her heart—her disobedient, rebellious heart, that would not be calm when she bade it—was beating fast against her bosom, as it ever beat, when he looked at her, or spoke to her. To have saved her soul alive, she could not have put her motive into words, and told him that she ever feared her society, or even her presence, might not be as acceptable to Mrs. Clifton’s visitors as it was to that kind lady herself. She only bowed her head and blushed the deeper that she could not answer, and yet deeper still, that she felt him gazing on her. He _was_ gazing on her!—gazing down on that beautiful, dark auburn hair, rippling and glittering under the light of the lamp—on that broad monarchal forehead, on those even eyebrows and long eyelashes, dropping fine shadows on the glowing cheek—yes! gazing and thinking of Major Cabell’s enthusiastic admiration, and wondering why all the world did not agree with him in thinking that countenance grandly beautiful! Yet even while admiring her so much, he spoke angrily, and said—

“Catherine! You have a second habit even worse than the first! Lately you have taken up the practice of not replying to me when I ask you a question—and when you are obliged to raise your eyes to mine, you drop them instantly as if mine burnt them. Now I have always disliked and suspected eyes that cannot look freely into _other_ eyes!”

At this the very forehead of the girl burned with a crimson flush. Clifton took hold of her hand, which fluttered in his own like a frightened bird, and said, in a kinder tone—

“Come, my child! see now if you can look me honestly in the face, and tell me why you will not talk to me?”

But Kate’s distress became so great that Mrs. Clifton interposed, and said—

“_Do_, Archer, leave her alone! It does seem to me, son, that you take a malicious pleasure in tormenting that poor girl because she is so shy! Don’t mind him, Kate! He has been a tease ever since he was a boy, when he used to pull the ears of kittens and puppy dogs. Take up your work, child, and hurry on with it. And you, Archer! I am as much surprised as pleased to see you back here to-night. To what am I indebted for the pleasure?”

“My dear mother, I will tell you after awhile—let me be quiet now a little time.”

And Mrs. Clifton looked up in surprise, and noticed, for the first time, how deeply troubled was Archer Clifton’s face. After watching him a few minutes as he sat and watched Kate, she said, suddenly—

“Oh! I have a letter for you—arrived by the afternoon mail. Henry brought it from the post-office this evening after you left. Perhaps it was in quest of that you came, and its contents may dispel your uneasiness,” and rising, the lady went to the card rack, hanging above the mantle-piece, and brought him a letter, which he tore open and read hastily. Then starting up, he exclaimed, “Good! Good! Most excellent, most opportune!”

“What is it, my dear Archer? I am very glad it gives you such satisfaction, at any rate! What is it?”

“An order from head-quarters to join my regiment immediately, to take command of a detachment to march within ten days for the Indian frontier—to put down an insurrection there!”

“No!” exclaimed the lady, in amazement.

“Yes, indeed, my good mother!” replied Archer Clifton, exultingly.

“_No!_ You astonish me! Ordered upon active duty—upon distant and dangerous service at the very time you are about to be married! Call you that opportune—fortunate? I call it most _in_opportune, _un_fortunate!”

“Ah! madam, you do not know! What, and if my marriage were already broken off! Is it not lucky—I mean providential, that I can join my regiment immediately, and depart for a distant scene, and active service, in which I may forget the sorrow and the humiliation!”

“Your marriage broken off? What? Now, at the last moment? A marriage that has been looked forward to for so many years? To be broken off when every thing is ready! Impossible, it cannot be!”

“I assure you upon my word, madam, it is but too true!”

“Why—what—_do_ you tell me?” exclaimed the lady, in increasing astonishment. “When did it happen? What caused it? Had Mr. Clifton anything to do with it?”

“It happened this evening after my return to Clifton. Mr. Clifton had nothing whatever to do with it—not having reached home at the time it occurred. It was occasioned by a most humiliating quarrel between myself and Miss Clifton!”

“Oh, a quarrel! A lovers’ quarrel! That is nothing! Though, in truth, it surprises me that the calm, proud Carolyn should descend to such a thing, as it does that my own son should deign to take a part in it. But it is really nothing! Such things occur in almost every courtship!”

“And those who quarrel in courtship should never venture upon matrimony.”

“Ah! that is an inhuman, unfaithful sentiment, my son! Young people are like other young natures, petulant, vain, irascible, exacting—but life trains them into modesty, sobriety, forbearance. For this quarrel, Archer, it must be adjusted! It shall be to-morrow morning!”

“No, madam, it shall not! This quarrel is irreconcilable, believe me!”

“Pooh, pooh! _What! with Carolyn?_ Nonsense!”

“Mother! you shall judge! She has descended from her high place of maidenly pride and delicacy, and betraying the most revolting phases of suspicion, jealousy and fierce anger she has charged me with infidelity, base treachery and vice!”

“Dreadful! dreadful! as all angry words and acts ever are! _But not unpardonable!_ Spoken in the frenzy of passion—they will be retracted to-morrow! And then you must be reconciled. Things must go on as they have been planned. There must be no discreditable exposure of this affray. The marriage must take place, as proposed, to-morrow evening. Then, if you _must_ join your regiment, why it will be easily _understood_ that you must. And there will be no reproach under those circumstances in leaving your newly wedded bride under her father’s protection!”

“Impossible, madam! Miss Clifton has to-night exhibited her character and disposition in such revolting colors, that I can never, never take her to my bosom!”

“You are angry now, Archer! You will think better of it! I trust in Heaven you may do so before there is an exposure. Think what will be the astonishment of the wedding-company who will assemble to-morrow evening—the mortification of the family at Clifton, and worse than all, the scandal! the nine days wonder!”

“I thought my dear mother had too strong a mind to fear these bugbears of the little, when a just occasion for meeting and braving them occurs.”

“But I do not consider this an adequate occasion. That this quarrel will be finally adjusted, I firmly believe. And I think it a pity and a shame that to-morrow evening, three hundred guests should be disappointed and dispersed, to spread a subject of speculation and scandal all over the country. And this merely because you will yet a little longer indulge your anger!”

“I am not angry, mother. If I were only angry I should let the marriage go on, if Miss Clifton thought proper to do so, for I should know that my anger would pass away. No, I am not angry, mother, but shocked, repulsed, and totally estranged. I could no more marry Miss Clifton now, than I could take any other loathed object to my bosom! The idea makes me shudder!”

“Still I affirm that all this is intense anger, nothing else, and that there will come a reaction. Why in anger, Archer, the object is as much loathed as in love it is desired—but _that_ is temporary, and _this_, I hope, you will find permanent. I hope, at bottom, you respect Carolyn? _I esteem_ her. She has been a spoiled child, but has so many undeveloped good qualities, that she only wants the discipline of a little affection to make her a very excellent woman. I shall say no more about this affair to-night, but wait to see what disposition I shall find you in to-morrow!”

At this moment there was a knock at the door, and instantly afterwards Henny came in and informed her mistress that Mr. Kavanagh had come to take his sister home.

“Ask Mr. Kavanagh to sit down in the hall. Put up your sewing, Catherine, my dear!” said the lady.

Catherine arose to fold up her work, while Captain Clifton looked very much as if he would like to stop her again.

“Does she not remain with you at night, madam?”

“Certainly not—her brother always comes for her at bedtime.”

“How early does she come in the morning?”

“She never comes in the morning. Catherine has her own domestic affairs to attend to during the forenoon. She never gets here till late in the afternoon.”

“Then I shall not see her to-morrow—not see her again for many months—perhaps _never_ see her again! Come here, Catherine!”

Catherine came to his side, and stood, as usual, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and her cheek painfully flushed. He took her hand and pressed it in his own, while he said—

“Catherine! you have heard all that passed between myself and Mrs. Clifton, this evening?”

A quick, short, but not ungraceful nod was all her answer.

“And you know that I am going away on a distant and dangerous service; I leave here very early in the morning—I may never come back, Catherine,” he said, slowly, looking at her steadily.

Her hand in his grew cold—her cheek paled—her heart stopped still as death—but no word did she speak in reply.

“Catherine! before I go, I intend to give you a command—do you hear me?”

A spasmodic nod was her reply.

“I may be gone many years. In the meanwhile you will grow up to womanhood, Catherine; do not have any lovers—_beaux_—as young girls call them, while I am away—and above all things, do not choose a husband without first consulting me through my mother.”

Not knowing what to reply to this, Catherine remained perfectly silent.

“Will you obey me in this, girl?” he asked, rather impatiently.

A low, earnest choking “Yes sir,” was her answer.

“Kiss me, then! for I may never return,” said Archer Clifton, folding her for one moment to his bosom, and pressing a kiss upon her full lips.

But her lips grew cold at the touch—her face paled and fell away from his bosom—her form drooped and sank back over his arm, where she lay like one dead, in a swoon.

Surprised, alarmed, Clifton raised her in both arms, and hastened to the lounge, where he laid her, calling to his mother. The lady came forward without any trepidation, and bringing a bottle of Hungary water, began to chafe her temples and face, and finally gave that task to Clifton, while she herself loosened Kate’s dress.

“What could have been the cause of this, mother? Is she subject to these attacks?”

“I never knew her to faint before, though I have seen her under very trying circumstances with that old man, her grandfather.”

“What could have occasioned it?”

“Why, the sudden news of your going away on dangerous service, of course,” said Mrs. Clifton, as she resumed the bottle, and continued to chafe the girl’s face and hands. “The child loves you, Archer; she has a very grateful, affectionate heart, and very strong feelings. She loves us both. And when you bade her good-bye, for a long and perilous absence, is it strange she should have been overcome? When _soldiers_ talk of danger, _children_ may be forgiven for being frightened. Do go and tell Kavanagh that Kate must remain here to-night, and dismiss him.”

He went, and before he came back again, Kate, with a long drawn sigh, had opened her eyes and recovered.

“You must raise her, and take her up stairs, my dear Archer. She must suffer no more agitation to-night,” said Mrs. Clifton.

And he lifted the form of Catherine, and took her up stairs, while his mother called Henny. When they had laid the young girl on a bed, and left her to the care of Henny, and had returned to the parlor again—Captain Clifton said—

“Mother! take care of that girl! She has been the innocent, unconscious cause of my trouble to-day, but I cannot feel dislike or even indifference towards her. Take care of that humble maiden, mother, as if she were your daughter and my sister. Don’t let any rustic beaux come near her, mother. I cannot endure the idea of her marrying, or even being wooed by any low, miserable fellow of her brother’s grade. And do not permit any young gentleman of the neighborhood to trifle with her heart, or endanger her good name. You know how easily, even without her fault, that sole possession of a poor maiden is lost. The thought that such an unmerited misfortune should befall Kate, exasperates me beyond measure, and I feel like quarreling with the whole order of society!”

“What, you! the proud conservator of rank! Truly Archer, one would think Carolyn _had some little ground_ of complaint!” said the lady, with her little, low, half dignified, half jolly laugh.

“This from _you_ mother!” exclaimed Archer Clifton, reproachfully. “I thought you knew me better. You _do_ know me better! But I must have some hand in this girl’s good fortune.”

Mrs. Clifton, who was walking about the room, quietly setting things in order for the night, made no reply, but only smiled. And soon after she lighted a night lamp, and placing it in the hand of her son, bade him good-night, and retired to her chamber. Captain Clifton remained pacing up and down the room, in troubled thought, some time after she had left, before seeking his own couch.