THE CURSE OF CLIFTON
OR,
THE WIDOWED BRIDE.
BY MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.
AUTHOR OF “SELF-RAISED,” “ISHMAEL,” “FAIR PLAY,” “A NOBLE LORD,” “THE
CHANGED BRIDES,” “A BEAUTIFUL FIEND,” “HOW HE WON HER,” “RETRIBUTION,”
“THE BRIDE’S FATE,” “THE LADY OF THE ISLE,” “CRUEL AS THE GRAVE,”
“VIVIA,” “THE WIDOW’S SON,” “ALLWORTH ABBEY,” “THE LOST HEIRESS,”
“INDIA,” “THE GYPSY’S PROPHECY,” “THE ARTIST’S LOVE,” “THE THREE
BEAUTIES,” “VICTOR’S TRIUMPH,” “THE MISSING BRIDE,” “FALLEN PRIDE,” “THE
FATAL SECRET,” “THE SPECTRE LOVER,” “MAIDEN WIDOW,” “THE TWO SISTERS,”
“FATAL MARRIAGE,” “THE BRIDAL EVE,” “THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” “THE PRINCE
OF DARKNESS,” “TRIED FOR HER LIFE,” “DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” ETC.
“THE CURSE OF CLIFTON; OR, THE WIDOWED BRIDE” will be found, on perusal
by all, to be equal, if not superior, to any of the previous works by
the celebrated American authoress, Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth, who is
now conceded by critics to be the most popular female writer living, and
her works to be among the greatest novels in the English language, as
well as the most splendid pictures of American life ever written. “THE
CURSE OF CLIFTON” shows all the grace, vigor, and absorbing interest to
be found in “Ishmael” and “Self-Raised,” her last two works, and places
Mrs. Southworth in the front rank of living novelists. The same
indescribable charm pervades all her works, which can only emanate from
a female mind, and the excellences of “THE CURSE OF CLIFTON” are many
and great. It is a model book—graphic, brilliant and original. The
romance is glowing and bold, possessing an absorbing interest that can
attach only to real existences and life-like portraitures. The
characters are beautifully drawn, and the novel throughout is highly
exciting and of unexceptionable moral tendency. It ought to be read by
everybody in the cheap form in which it is now issued.
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
COPYRIGHT:—1875.
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS.
MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S COMPLETE WORKS.
EACH WORK IS COMPLETE IN ONE LARGE DUODECIMO VOLUME.
_SELF-RAISED; or, FROM THE DEPTHS. Sequel to Ishmael._
_ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. (Being Self-Made.)_
_THE MOTHER-IN-LAW; or, MARRIED IN HASTE._
_THE PHANTOM WEDDING; or, Fall of House of Flint._
_THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER._
_A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE._
_VICTOR’S TRIUMPH. A Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend.”_
_THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, Orville Deville._
_FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, the MAN HATER._
_HOW HE WON HER. A Sequel to “Fair Play.”_
_THE CHANGED BRIDES; or, Winning Her Way._
_THE BRIDE’S FATE. Sequel to “The Changed Brides.”_
_CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow Eve Mystery._
_TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to “Cruel as the Grave.”_
_THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or, The Crime and the Curse._
_THE LADY OF THE ISLE; or, The Island Princess._
_THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or, The Brothers._
_A NOBLE LORD. Sequel to “The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.”_
_THE FAMILY DOOM; or, the SIN OF A COUNTESS._
_THE MAIDEN WIDOW. Sequel to “The Family Doom.”_
_THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or, The Bride of an Evening._
_THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, the Bridal Day._
_THE THREE BEAUTIES; or, Shannondale._
_ALL WORTH ABBEY; or, Eudora._
_FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE._
_INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER._
_VIVIA; or, THE SECRET OF POWER._
_THE WIDOW’S SON; or, Left Alone._
_THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, The Children of the Isle._
_BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. Sequel to “The Widow’s Son.”_
_THE BRIDAL EVE; or, Rose Elmer._
_THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, Hickory Hall._
_THE DESERTED WIFE._
_HAUNTED HOMESTEAD._
_THE LOST HEIRESS._
_THE SPECTRE LOVER._
_THE WIFE’S VICTORY._
_THE FATAL SECRET._
_THE CURSE OF CLIFTON._
_THE TWO SISTERS._
_THE ARTISTS LOVE._
_LOVE’S LABOR WON._
_MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW._
_RETRIBUTION._
Above Books are Bound in Morocco Cloth. Price $1.50 Each.
☞ _Mrs. Southworth’s works are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of
any one, or more of them, will be sent to any one, postage prepaid, or
free of freight, on remitting the price of the ones wanted, to the
publishers_,
_T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE MOUNTAIN HUT 17
II. CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES 42
III. MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN 54
IV. THE TIDE OF FATE 65
V. THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE 75
VI. THE RUPTURED TIE 84
VII. THE SEVERED HEARTS 102
VIII. LOST AFFECTION 115
IX. WOMAN’S PRIDE 142
X. THE SISTERS 156
XI. MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL 161
XII. SUSPENSE 169
XIII. ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES 176
XIV. THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION 185
XV. THE BLACK SEAL 195
XVI. MR. CLIFTON’S RESOLUTION 203
XVII. THE WIDOWED BRIDE 208
XVIII. THE YOUNG MOURNER 217
XIX. CONFESSION 228
XX. A DOMESTIC SCENE 235
XXI. IN THE CITY 245
XXII. LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES 255
XXIII. ZULEIME 265
XXIV. THE CATASTROPHE 276
XXV. “IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 294
XXVI. GEORGIA 313
XXVII. CATHERINE 324
XXVIII. WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM 329
XXIX. THE RETURN 338
XXX. BETROTHAL 348
XXXI. THE POISON WORKS 363
XXXII. DEDICATION 371
XXXIII. “THE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 380
XXXIV. CATHERINE’S REGENCY 397
XXV. CATHERINE’S PROGRESS 406
XXXVI. THE NIGHT JOURNEY 415
XXXVII. THE GOAL 436
XXXVIII. CONCLUSION 453
THE CURSE OF CLIFTON.
CHAPTER I.
THE MOUNTAIN HUT.
A lonesome lodge
That stands so lowe in lonely glen,
The little windowe, dim and darke,
Is hung with ivy, brier and yewe.
PERCY’S RELIQUES.
Upon a glorious morning, in the mid-summer of 18—, two equestrian
travellers spurred their horses up the ascent of the Eagle’s Flight, the
loftiest and most perilous pass of the Alleghanies.
Though the sun was near the meridian, and all the sky above was “darkly,
deeply, beautifully blue,” and perfectly clear, yet all the earth
beneath was covered by a thick, low-lying fog.
On reaching the highest point of the pass, both travellers drew rein and
paused, looking—North, South, East, West—over the ocean of vapor rolling
from horizon to horizon below them! And while they so pause, let us
catch that nearly vertical ray of the sun that falls upon them, lighting
up the group like fire above the fog, and daguerreotype them as they
stand.
Both are young men of about the same age, probably twenty-five; both are
well mounted upon fine bay horses, and both wear the undress uniform of
the ———— Regiment of Cavalry; and here all resemblance between them
ceases.
He on the right hand, who holds in his horse’s head with so tight a
rein, causing the gallant steed to arch his beautiful neck so
gracefully, while he lets fly a falcon-glance around the shrouded
horizon, is Archer Clifton, of Clifton, now holding the rank of Captain
in the —— Regiment of Cavalry. His form is of middle size, strongly
built, yet elegantly proportioned. His complexion is dark and bronzed as
by exposure; his features are Roman; his hair and whiskers trimly cut,
are of the darkest chestnut, with what painters call _cool_ lights,
which is to say, that there is no warmth of coloring even where the sun
lights. Indeed, there is no warmth about the looks of the whole man. His
eyes are singularly beautiful and brilliant, combining all those dark,
shifting, scintillating, prismatic hues, that would drive an artist mad,
for want of colors to portray, or an author to despair, for lack of
words to describe. He wears the dark blue uniform of his regiment, and
manages his noble charger with the ease and grace only to be found in
the accomplished cavalry officer.
He upon the left hand, who, with languid air and loosened rein, inclines
his body forward, permitting his graceful horse to droop his head and
scent the earth, as in quest of herbage, is Francis Fairfax, of Green
Plains, a Lieutenant in the company under the command of Captain
Clifton. He is of about the same height of Clifton, but his figure is
slender almost to fragility. His features are delicate and piquant. His
complexion is fair and transparent. His hair is also very fair, and
waves off from a forehead so snowy, round and smooth, as to seem
child-like, especially with those clear blue eyes, that now brood
roguishly under their golden lashes, as in profound quest of mischief,
and now light up and sparkle with fun and frolic. He _miss_manages his
spoiled pet of a steed with the charming _insouciance_, only to be seen
in the amateur poet, painter, player, musician, etc., etc., etc. And yet
there is sometimes an earnest, thoughtful aspect about the youth, that
surprises one into the suspicion that all his levity is superficial, and
hides his deeper and better nature, as stubble sometimes covers and
conceals a mine of precious metal.
“Well!” at last spoke Mr. Fairfax, “it is now about twelve hours since
we were emptied out of that atrocious old stage coach, which, for a week
past, has been beating us about in its interior, from side to side, and
from seat to ceiling, as if we were a lump of butter in an old woman’s
churn, and whose kindest turn of all to us was, when it turned over and
shook us out down the precipice, and into the trough of the Wolf’s Lick,
as if we had been apples fed to the pigs. Oh! by the lost baronetcy of
the house of Fairfax, my self-esteem will never recover the effects of
it! Perdition seize the picturesque at this price! And ever since long
before daybreak this morning, have we been wandering about over those
mountain tops, with the earth below us hidden in mist and only the
highest peaks looming through the sea of vapor like islands in the
ocean! And _we_ plunging wildly about in the fog, like death on the pale
horse riding the waves! And to the momentarily recurring risk of riding
over some hidden precipice of a thousand feet perpendicular. If this be
your glorious mountain scenery, to the demon with it! For I had as lief
be on the open sea with the ‘Ancient Mariner!’”
To this half petulant, half laughing philippic Captain Clifton, while
his glance still roved over the shrouded hemisphere, replied, with an
indulgent smile—
“You cannot see the face of the country for the morning veil she chooses
to wear. But wait till high noon, when the sun, her royal lover, in the
meridian of his glory, shall raise that gauzy covering, and she, like a
right royal bride, shall smile and blush in light and glory.”
“By my soul, I could fancy the lady earth wore this veil to conceal fast
gathering tears, rather than smiles or blushes! _Anglicé_, I think we
shall have rain soon—though blistered be my tongue for saying it!—not
about the rain but about the veil! For, look you! Fret as I may at this
journey through the mist—yet this fine scenery, under a cloud as it
literally _is_, gives me a feeling of breadth, grandeur! I expand,
spread out over the vast area of its shrouded solitudes. Oh! it is only
on the boundless sea or on the mountain top, with a hemisphere below me,
that I feel as if I had room enough to live in! And you give me a
feeling of suffocation by drawing in this awful shrouded world to the
simile of a lady’s veiled face! But it is not to be wondered at! No, by
the shade of Marc Antony, and all other great men, who held the whole
world light in the balance with a woman’s evanescent smile or tear!
everything is _apropos du femmes_ with you now. Could the music of the
spheres suddenly burst upon your astonished ears, as soon as you had
recovered your senses, your highest note of admiration would be to
compare that universal diapason of divine harmony to Lady Carolyn’s
silver laugh!”
“I do not recollect ever to have heard ‘Lady’ Carolyn laugh.”
“_Ten thousand pardons!_ A Clifton of Clifton never laughs. But tell me,
Captain, whereabouts in the world—I mean in the clouds, _are we_? And
when shall we see this pure pearl of beauty and the rich casket that
enshrines her, this stately lily of the mountains and the parterre where
she blooms;—when shall we behold Paradise and the Peri—Clifton and Lady
Carolyn?”
Without replying to this mock-poetic strain, Captain Clifton remained
with his eyes still wandering from East to West, and back again over the
rolling vapor. And Fairfax continued—
“I suspect now, by your abstracted air and wandering eye, that you have
lost your way in the clouds—not the first time such a thing has happened
to a lover, nor would it be strange in a place like this, where the only
land-marks are mountain tops sticking out of the fog with a day’s
journey between each!”
At this instant a distant group of peaks broke suddenly through the mist
like new isles thrown up by the sea, and glittered whitely in the
sunlight against the deep blue horizon.
“See!” exclaimed Clifton, roused from his apathy by the sudden
apparition. “Look, Fairfax! I will show you White Cliffs! Look straight
before you to the Western horizon—a little North of West. You see a
crescent of seven peaks rising through the mist against the sky. That is
White Cliffs.”
“Looking white enough at this distance—quite like snow-capped mountains,
in fact.”
“Yes. They are of white quartz, and their peaks rising from the girdle
of dark evergreens around their base and sides, have quite a cooling
effect in hot weather.”
“Ah! just so. Now how far off are those same blessed refrigerators?”
“About twenty-five miles in a bee-line. But the mountain road is very
circuitous, and makes the distance nearly forty. However, if we ride
well, we shall be able to reach Clifton in time to surprise Mrs. Clifton
at tea.”
“Heaven be praised for that possibility!” ejaculated Fairfax, as they
prepared to descend the mountain side.
As they rode down, Captain Clifton, warming slightly from his cool
reserve, said—
“I think, Fairfax, that you, poet and artist as you claim to be, will
rather like Clifton. Tourists, who have visited our part of the country,
think the scenery there very fine. It impresses _me_ merely as being
unique. There is something formal—but, to myself, not therefore
unpleasing in that crescent of seven peaks—the tallest being in the
centre and gradually declining thence to the lowest, which may be called
the horns of the crescent, and point Southward. Those peaks rise from a
forest of—first elms and oaks around their base; then pines farther up
their sides; and last of cedars, above which rise the pinnacle of white
quartz. This crescent of mountains surrounds and shelters from the North
winds the family mansion, which is situated in the woods at its foot.
North of the peaks, the country is wild and rugged, but partly covered
with thick forest, and affording the best hunting grounds in the world.
There you may course the hare; track the deer; or if your tastes aspire
to a fiercer conflict, hunt the wolf, the wild cat, or the bear—!”
“—Or the rattle-snake, copper-head, or moccasin! Thank you, I have no
inclination for crusade against those mountaineers,” laughed Fairfax.
“Perhaps you like angling? There is a trout stream at the foot of the
wooded lawn, in front of the house. I must tell you about that, for it
is the head waters of a fine river.
“From the Western cliff there springs a torrent that with many a leap,
and fall, and rebound, tumbles tumultuously down the side of the
mountain, and falling into a channel at the foot of the lawn flows
calmly on, until it meets a second fall, from whence it goes hurrying
on, through forests, fields and rocks, taking tribute from many a
mountain torrent, and many a meadow-stream, and widening as it goes,
until it becomes a mighty river, rushing on, to pour its floods into the
majestic James. After which, they both go on, breaking through range
after range of mountains, and so conquer their passage to the sea—even
as in the feudal days of the olden country, some mountain chieftain,
gathering his vassals together, came rushing down from his highland
home, and laying all the country under tribute in his course, hurried on
to throw all his treasures at the feet of his sovereign, and go with him
to the wars.”
“Clifton!” said Fairfax, more seriously than he had yet spoken, “all
your illustrations—all your metaphors—all your thoughts, fancies and
imaginings are—not ‘of the earth, earthy,’ but worse—far worse—of the
_world_, _worldly_! Of the world, its castes, customs and
conventions—its pomps, vanities and falsities! You speak of the
grandest, the most imposing—oh! let me call it at once, the most
magnificent area of mountain scenery in the hemisphere, with all the
earth, below and around, covered with a sea of vapor that rises and
falls, rolling from horizon to horizon, like the waves of the ocean, and
you compare it to a veiled royal bride! You describe a mighty
mountain-river, rending its passage through the everlasting rocks,
overleaping, uprooting, bearing down and bearing on all obstacles to its
resistless rush towards the sea, and you liken it to a chieftain going
to pay tribute to a King! Ah, Clifton of Clifton, the beauty, the glory,
and the majesty of the _earth_ pleases you, but the ‘pomp, pride, and
circumstance’ of the _world_ inspires you! But when was it otherwise
with a Clifton, of Clifton? ‘The spirit of intense worldliness has ever
been their bane and curse—their sin and its punishment!’” he concluded,
relapsing into his mock-tragic air.
“Ah! so you are familiar with the popular legend that you have just
quoted,” said Captain Clifton. “But,” he added, with a sarcastic smile,
“were Georgia here, I think she could refute the charge, and prove one
Clifton, at least, has been guided by any spirit rather than that of
‘intense worldliness.’”
“_Georgia?_”
“I beg her pardon! Mrs. Clifton, of Clifton.”
“Oh! your aunt! but by my soul, Captain, that was a very irreverent way
of introducing the old lady! Do young men in your patriarchal part of
the country call old gentlewomen by their Christian names?”
“Old gentlewomen!” repeated Clifton slowly, with a musing smile,
adding—“Georgia is about seventeen years of age, and the most beautiful
woman in the world!”
“Whe-e-e-ew! I’m amazed! I’m confounded! I’m stunned! Then—the present
Mrs. Clifton is the _second_ wife?”
“No, sir—Georgia is my uncle’s fourth wife.”
“Overwhelmed!—annihilated!” exclaimed the young man. “The—the—old
Blue-beard! the old Henry VIII.! Four wives! Are they all living?—if
not, where does he bury his dead?”
“_Fairfax!_” exclaimed Captain Clifton, in a tone, and with a look, that
speedily recalled the young man to himself—then he added, rather
haughtily—“My Uncle Clifton is a simple, gentle-hearted old man,
excessively fond of women, but mark you, sir!—it is the affection of the
patriarch, not of the pacha.”
“Hang me if ever I saw any difference between Solomon the king, and
Solimaun the caliph; Abraham the patriarch, and Aroun the pacha, in that
respect,” laughed the young man, until, stealing a furtive glance at the
cold and haughty face of Clifton, he held out his hand, and suddenly
exclaimed—“Pardon me, Clifton! or call me out! I—can’t help a jest, to
save my soul! but I’ll fight or apologize, or render any other sort of
satisfaction afterwards!”
Captain Clifton remembered that Francis Fairfax was his guest, going to
spend a long mid-summer furlough at his mother’s house, and so he
cleared his brow and answered—
“Nonsense!”
“Now tell me about Henry VIII.’s fourth Queen—how long has she been
married—I mean the present Mrs. Clifton?”
“About two years. My uncle wedded her when she was fifteen—she is now
seventeen—and, as I said, the most beautiful creature that you, or I, or
any one else, ever did, or ever shall see, anywhere.”
“_Allons_—stop there! False knight and recreant! whose colors do you
wear while you uphold the peerless beauty of Georgia? What would Miss
Clifton of Clifton say to your admiration?”
“Ridiculous, sir! Miss Clifton is herself very beautiful but not the
_most_ beautiful. Miss Clifton has _other_ and _rarer_ distinctions, I
am proud to say?”
“Oh, I understand—her family _name_!—nevertheless, be hanged if I don’t
believe you have been in love with Georgia!”
“Impossible, sir! The perfect beauty of the young girl struck me
forcibly, as it strikes _all others_—nay, more—impressed my
imagination deeply perhaps. I confess to a _penchant_ for female
beauty—and—observe—it is the artist’s taste, sir, not the sultan’s.
But in love with Georgia! Impossible, sir! She was a girl of humble
parentage!”
“Ah! then you think it quite ‘impossible’ that a gentleman born, should
be in love with a girl of ‘humble parentage?’”
“Preposterous, sir!—utterly preposterous! Pray, let us hear no more
about it!”
“Yet your uncle—”
“My uncle married such an one, you would say. Old gentlemen, living on
their own estates, will do such things. And the world charitably
ascribes it to dotage, smiles and forgives them. You will oblige me by
changing the subject, Frank.”
Fairfax fell into reverie, and Clifton dropped into thought, and they
rode on for some time in silence, and in—joy—until—
“Floods and furies! Fire and flames!! Lightning and tempests, and sudden
death!!!” exclaimed Fairfax, rearing and backing his horse with a
terrible jerk, and throwing himself from the saddle, bathed in
perspiration, and shaking with terror. “Look! Look there! There at your
feet! Back! Back your horse, unless you wish to ride straight to the
kingdom of Heaven, or—to the other place! Oh, blessed Lord! I shall
never survive the shock!”
Captain Clifton backed his horse, dismounted, and following the index of
Fairfax, approached the brink of the awful abyss, and looked down a
perpendicular precipice of more than a thousand feet, with the remaining
distance lost in shadows and dim vapors, while faintly to the ear came a
low and hollow murmur, as of the roaring of many waters at a vast depth!
“This is the head of the Devil’s Staircase! We have lost our way!” said
Captain Clifton.
“Devil’s Staircase! I should think it was! Ugh! Oooo-oo-ooh! I shall
never survive it! Where does it lead to? Tell me that! To the infernal
regions, I suppose, of course. Ur-r-r-r-r!” exclaimed Fairfax, with his
teeth chattering.
“We have indeed made a very narrow escape,” said Captain Clifton, gazing
thoughtfully down the horrible pit.
“Narrow escape! Ur-r-r-r-r!” exclaimed Frank, shaking, shuddering, and
streaming with cold perspiration. “I tell you, when I was providentially
led to look down, and saw the fog roll away from beneath my horse’s
feet, and reveal that ghastly—Ur-r-r-r-r! Ur-r-r-r-r! I believe I shall
chatter my teeth to powder!”
“Come, come, Fairfax! this is really unmanly. Thank an ever-watchful
Providence, that has preserved you from a sudden and horrible death, and
calm yourself. Be a man!”
“Be a man! You might as well say to my shuddering horse, there—be a
horse! This is unhorsely! Ur-r-r-r-r. I tell you it has given me the
tertian ague!”
“Why, Frank! Really!”
“Look at my horse—look even at that dumb beast! Yes, look at that
gallant steed, who would charge upon a phalanx of fixed bayonets, and
impale himself upon their points, if spurred to it—look at him!
Positively frozen with terror!”
“Fairfax, you astonish me—certainly you are not really so much
overcome.”
“Overcome! My nerves are shattered to atoms, I tell you! Ur-r-r-r-r! It
has given me the tertian ague, and the St. Vitus’ dance! both together!
Ur-r-r-r-r!”
“Now who would have supposed you to be a—of such a nervous temperament!
Come, let me assist you to mount, and then away.”
“What! And at the end of the next hundred yards, ride headlong over a
precipice of fifteen hundred feet, and before night find sepulchre in
the maws of fifty turkey-buzzards! I tell you there is neither a
glorious death, an honorable burial nor an immortal fame to be found in
such a fate! Heavens and earth, no! For instance—‘Whatever became of
that poor devil, Fairfax?’ asks one. ‘Oh, one day, crossing the
mountains in a fog, with his head in a mist, he had the awkwardness to
pitch himself headforemost down the Devil’s Ladder, in the Alleghanies,’
answers t’other. ‘_Poor creature!_ He was always a miserable—but where
was he buried?’ ‘He wa’n’t buried—the crows eat him up,’ etc., etc.,
etc.! Oh! I know what my posthumous fame would be in such a case. Quite
different from that of the future Major-General Francis Fairfax, who,
fifty years hence, at a good old age, shall die in his downy bed, with
the archbishop praying by him, and be buried with the highest honors of
war, and have a national monument raised to his fame, emblazoning his
immortal services to his grateful country, in receiving her honors and
emoluments for more that half a century! Can’t give up that glorious
future for the sake of dashing myself to pieces this afternoon, Clifton.
No!” said the young man, folding his arms, and striking an attitude
_a-la-Napoleon_, “I have a destiny to fulfill, and shall not stir from
this spot until the mist rises or falls.”
“Mr. Fairfax! It is now drawing late in the afternoon. We shall have a
storm before night; and a storm on the mountains, let me tell you, is a
much more delightful thing to read about in Childe Harold, while
stretched at your ease upon the settee in your shady piazza, than to
take in _propria personæ_ on the Alleghanies,” said Captain Clifton,
quietly.
“Only warrant me from bringing up suddenly to the jumping-off place
before I know it—and I’ll make an attempt! Yea! let him only insure my
body unharmed by fire or water, and I’ll valiantly follow my leader
through flood and flame!” replied Frank, recovering himself with a few
more shudders, and preparing to mount.
“We have left the right road about two miles behind,” said Captain
Clifton, turning his horse’s head and leading the way.
The fog below was condensing very fast. From the North-Western horizon
black clouds were rising behind masses of foaming white vapor. The air
was still and oppressive, and from all around came a faint, low moaning
sound, as if nature cowered and trembled before the coming of the
terrible “storm king.” The fog was now rolling down and gathering into
clouds below them—revealing the majestic features of the landscape,
mountains, vales and forests, rocks, glens and waterfalls, in wild and
magnificent confusion—all wearing now a savage and gloomy aspect under
the shadow of the coming storm. Captain Clifton’s eye had been
constantly on the alert in hope of discovering some mountain cabin,
which might shelter them from the fury of the tempest, but as yet his
search was unsuccessful—no human dwelling even of the humblest
description was to be seen. At length the attention of the travellers
was attracted by the faint tingling of a bell—then by the bleating of
sheep—and then from the deep clouded glen at their right, sprung up into
their path a bell-wether followed by two—five—ten—a whole flock of
sheep; and driven by a girl on a pony; a little coarse, sun-burned girl,
in a boy’s coarse straw hat and a homespun gown, riding on a little
rough-coated, wiry, mountain pony.
“A shepherdess, by all that is romantic,” exclaimed Fairfax, vaulting
aside to let the sheep pass. Then springing to the side of the
rough-coated pony, he doffed his hat to the rider and said—
“My good girl—for the love of Providence, will you tell us where we can
find shelter from the storm?”
The child raised her fine eyes to the stranger’s face with the look of a
startled fawn—and dropped them again instantly. Fairfax repeated his
question. The child stole another furtive glance at the fine gentleman
in the very fine uniform, and then at her own coarse raiment, and
blushed deeply. But before Fairfax could reiterate his request, she
said, quietly—
“Grandfather’s cabin is not far off, if you and the other gentleman will
come with me.”
“With great pleasure—and ten thousand thanks, my dear little girl. Be so
good as to lead the way.”
The flock of sheep had gone on before. The girl put her pony in motion,
and the gentlemen followed—Mr. Fairfax addressing all his conversation
to his little companion; and Captain Clifton riding on in silence and
abstraction.
The sky was darkening very fast, and great single drops of rain
occasionally falling. They quickened their pace, and after riding
briskly several hundred yards, came to the head of a glen, deep down in
which was seen a small, lone cabin. At this instant the sheet lightning
glared from horizon to horizon, followed by a report as of exploded and
falling rocks, and then the rain came down in a deluge. The darkness was
so dense now as to hide their way. The girl jumped from her pony, and
giving him a little slap that sent him travelling down the path, went up
to the head of Clifton’s horse and said, shyly—
“You can’t see the way, sir, and you don’t know the road—let me lead
your horse.”
“By no means, my good girl,” replied Clifton, speaking in a tone of
haughty astonishment.
Without reply the child turned from him and went towards Fairfax. And at
the same instant a thunderbolt was hurled from Heaven with a terrific
crash, riving the ground on which she had just stood. When the panic was
over, the first thought of Captain Clifton was for the safety of that
presumptuous child. A glare of lightning revealed her lying on the rock.
He hastened to her side.
“My dear child, are you hurt,” he asked, dismounting and stooping to
lift her.
“Oh! sir, I am so glad to hear you speak! I thought you were struck.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Oh no, sir, I was only thrown down,” replied the child, lightly
springing to her feet.
“Oh, yes! Exchange your mutual condolences and congratulations. But who
the mischief cares whether I am hurt or not?” exclaimed Fairfax,
stumbling along towards them—for he also had dismounted.
“You were entirely out of danger,” replied Clifton.
“Out of danger! Who the deuce is out of danger within a hundred miles of
these infernal mountains?”
The rain was still pouring down in floods, and in the interval of the
thunder, the roar of the swollen torrents was deafening. The question
now was, whether to remain standing there exposed to all the fury of the
storm, or to attempt the now dangerous descent into the glen.
“I could lead your horses down in safety, if you would let me, for I
know every inch of the road so well,” said the girl.
Another blinding glare of lightning, another terrific peal of thunder,
and another deluge of rain, put a stop to all reply. At last the child
repeated her offer, saying that she could lead the horses down very
well, “one at a time.” But, of course, that was not for a moment to be
thought of by the young men. And her plan was rejected at once.
“Well, then, the only way will be to go down on foot, and leave your
horses here to follow. For you will need your hands as well as your feet
in groping down the slippery rock through the darkness,” said the girl.
After a little more consultation, her last proposition was adopted, and
they began the descent on foot.
After some twenty minutes’ toil and struggle through darkness and
deluge, thunder and lightning, they reached the lowly door of the cabin,
pushed it hastily open, and hurried in.
It was very dark, and nothing was to be seen but the red glow of a few
smouldering embers on the hearth. Towards these the girl went.
“And what do you think has become of your flock of sheep, my good girl?”
inquired Frank, kindly, remembering her interests while he stood there
wringing the water out of his coat skirts.
“Oh, the bell-wether has led them all into the pen long ago, sir. They
are always safe when they are once in the glen,” replied the child, as
she lighted a candle.
The sudden glare of the light showed a rude apartment, with an earth
floor, log walls, and a fire-place of unhewn stone. On the right of the
fire-place stood a poor bedstead, upon which lay a venerable,
white-haired old man, covered with a faded counterpane, and near the bed
sat an old, chip-bottomed arm-chair. On the left of the fire-place were
two rough plank shelves, the lower shelf adorned with a few pewter
plates and mugs; the upper one filled with——books!—piles of old dingy,
musty books; and near these shelves stood a spinning-wheel, with a
broach of yarn on the spindle, and a basket of broaches under it. At the
opposite end of the room, one corner was occupied by a little old oak
table, and the other by a ladder leading up through a trap-door into the
loft overhead. A few rude stools were ranged along the walls, junks of
smoked venison, ropes of onions, bunches of dried herbs, hanks of yarn,
and the old man’s old hat and coat garnished the walls. All this was
seen at a glance.
“Is your grandfather sick?” inquired Frank.
The girl turned her eyes wistfully towards the venerable sleeper, and
did not reply.
“Is your grandfather sick?” repeated Fairfax.
The child raised her eyes sorrowfully to the face of the young man, and
remained silent.
“Is he so _very_ sick?” earnestly reiterated Frank.
“He is not sick, sir,” answered the girl, in a low, sad voice.
“What is the matter with him, then?” thoughtlessly persisted Frank.
Without reply, the girl dropped her eyes, and blushing deeply, turned
away. Setting the candle down upon the table, she took a pail of water
and went up the ladder, and into the loft. After an absence of a few
minutes, she returned, and said—
“If you will go up stairs now, you will find two suits of grandfather’s
and Carl’s Sunday clothes. They are not fine, but they are clean and
dry.”
Our wet and jaded travellers thanked their young hostess, and prepared
to accept her offer.
“And if,” she added, “you would like to rest after so much fatigue,
there is a bed.”
They reached the loft, and found it a small, low place, with a little
window, and a little, clean bed. On the bed lay the two suits of
homespun, and two coarse towels. And on a stool near, sat a pail of
water and a tin basin.
“I do believe that little girl has given us her own sanctuary. What a
dear little thing she is!—so full of courage, and shyness, too! If she
were two or three years older, and a great deal prettier, I could fancy
myself writing poetry about her,” said Frank.
Clifton made no comment—he was engaged in divesting himself of his wet
garments, and thinking about—Miss Clifton.
When they had refreshed themselves by washing and changing their dress,
Frank threw himself upon the bed, stretched out his limbs luxuriously,
and declared that the rustic’s clothes were very loose and comfortable,
and his own position truly delightful. Captain Clifton walked to the
window, and looked out at the storm, which was now abating.
Frank was already sound asleep.
And while Clifton stood at the window, drawing comparisons between the
meanness of the hut in which he found himself, and the magnificence of
the mountain scenery around it, he heard—in that small, shell-like
cabin—he could not help hearing—what follows. First a heave and plunge,
as if the old man below stairs had started violently from his bed and
fallen again, and then a fearful, shuddering voice exclaimed, “Kate!
Kate! they’re coming again! They’re after me, Kate! They’re on me!
They’re on me! Save me, Kate! Save me, Kate! Save—”
“Grandfather—dear grandfather,” said the soothing voice of the girl,
“there is no one here but me—there, there, be quiet—be still; nothing
shall hurt you here—nothing can you know.”
“Look! Look, Kate! Look! They’re not men now but devils!” A violent
plunge, struggles, exclamations of terror and despair which the low,
soothing tones and gestures of the poor girl vainly assayed to
tranquillize for some time, and then—silence for a few minutes—which was
again interrupted by—“Snakes! snakes, Kate! Snakes! _Green_ snakes! See!
see how they dart! They fly! They’re on me! They’re on me! Help! Help!”
And the sound of the maniac laying about him furiously. Captain Clifton
started up with the intention of going to the poor girl’s assistance—but
by the time he reached the head of the ladder, the voice of the child
had again calmed the infuriated man.
All was quiet for a quarter of an hour, and then another violent start
and throw that seemed to shake the little hut, and a horrible shriek
of—“A dragon! A dragon. Kate! A green dragon belching flame!” Then a
succession of violent shrieks and struggles, which aroused Frank, who
springing up in bed, exclaimed—
“What the deuce is the matter? Has the Major got another fit of
_mania-a-potu_ on him?” Then, as all again was quiet, he rubbed his eyes
and said, laughing, “I do believe I have been talking in my sleep! I
dreamed we were in our mess, and the Major was drunk again.”
“A part of your dream was real. The old man below stairs has a fit of
_mania-a-potu_ upon him.”
“What! and you staying here! I must go down and help the girl.”
“You had better not as yet. She seems to have the power of soothing him.
Your presence might, by exasperating him, do more harm than good.”
At this moment another outbreak of fury from the madman caused Frank to
spring to his feet, and, exclaiming—
“I can’t let that maniac tear my dear little hostess to pieces—” rush to
the head of the ladder.
“I tell you you had best not _intrude_—his mania seems perfectly
harmless to the child.”
But Frank was at the foot of the ladder, where, however, an impediment
met him. The girl, who had just succeeded in again soothing the madman,
came and stood before him, saying, “Pray do not come in, sir, just yet.”
“But, my good girl, I must come in and remain to protect you,” gently
trying to pass her. She stood her ground firmly; her _lips_ said—
“I am not in any danger. I beg you, sir, do not come in yet;” but her
steady and rather threatening _glance_ said—“Do not dare to look upon
the old man in his degradation!”
Frank turned back, and went and perched himself at the top of the ladder
to watch over the safety of the girl, and be ready in case of exigency.
He saw the old man lying, clutching the cover around him, while his
terror-dilated eyes glared out like a wild beast’s from its lair—all
ready for another start and spring! He saw the girl mix a mug of strong
vinegar and water, and take it to him, and the old man grasp and quaff
it with fiery thirst; three times she filled the mug, and three times he
gulped its contents with voracity. Then she laid his aged head tenderly
down, and went and saturated a cloth with vinegar, and placed it about
his burning forehead and temples. Next she took a rustic fan of turkey
feathers and stood by him and fanned him until he fell into a sleep,
that every moment became deeper and deeper. Finally she gently laid down
the fan, sunk upon her knees by the bedside, and bowed her head upon her
clasped hands in silent prayer. At last she arose, pressed a light kiss
upon the furrowed brow of the sleeper, and silently went about her
household work.
From a shed at the back of the house she brought wood and water, made up
the fire, filled and hung on the teakettle, set an oven and oven-lid to
heat, and again disappeared through the back door into the shed. In
about fifteen minutes she returned with a tray of dough and a pan of
venison steaks. She made her dough into a loaf and put it in the oven to
bake, and prepared her venison steaks to lay upon the coals. She set her
table with milk and cream, and butter, brought in, doubtless from a
rude, but cool spring-house, near at hand.
When all was done, she sat down to knit, seeming to wait the coming of
another—for she often paused and listened with her head turned towards
the door, and at length got up and drew from under the bed a trunk,
whence she took an old, well-patched but clean suit of homespun clothes,
with a shirt and a pair of socks, and hung them over a chair.
Soon after a step was heard without—the door was thrown open, and a
thin, dark young man, dressed as a farm laborer, entered. Throwing his
coarse hat to the other end of the room, he approached the fire, when
seeing the situation of the old man he stopped short, and placing his
arms akimbo, gazed on him, exclaiming—
“Drunk again, by ——!” and then turned, with an interrogative look,
towards the girl.
A short wave of the hand—a quick, distressful nod, and the choking down
of a sob, told him that it was so.
The young man let down his arms, and with a frown of mingled sorrow and
anger approached and gazed upon the sleeper.
“Have you had much trouble with him, dear Kate?”
The same choking sob and quick nod answered him.
“_Where_ DID he get the liquor? What has he laid his hands on and sold
now—any of my books?”
“No! no!—it was my bonnet—but never mind, I can wear your old hat, you
know!—it doesn’t matter for me!”
“Well, now, by all that’s—”
“Hush, hush, Carl! Don’t swear—he is our grandfather, you know; and
besides,” she added, suddenly dropping her voice, “there are strangers
up stairs.”
“Strangers! What strangers?”
“Two gentlemen who came in here out of the storm.”
“Umph!” said the young man, dropping himself into the arm-chair and
falling into deep thought, from which he was aroused by the voice of
Kate, saying—
“Carl, don’t sit down in your wet clothes; take those on the chair, and
go in the shed and put them on. And make haste, please, Carl, because
supper is nearly ready, and the gentlemen up stairs must be hungry.”
The young man arose, with a heavy sigh, saying—
“I’ll only change my jacket, that I can do here. Oh! Kate!” he
continued, as he divested himself of his wet jacket, and drew on the
other—“Oh! Kate! what between one thing and another this is no home for
you! _Indeed, indeed_, every morning I go away from you with a heavy
heart, and all day long I can hardly work for the dread that’s on my
mind about you. If I could only find a place for you to wait on some
lady, or to nurse a baby—but, Lord! what with the niggers there is never
a place to be got here for a poor white girl.”
“Oh, Carl, if you could get me the best place in the world—even a place
to sew—I wouldn’t leave _him_. Why, Carl, it would break his heart. He
would grieve himself to death!”
“And better for him that he should be dead! And better for you and all
concerned!”
“Oh, don’t say so, Carl! Don’t say so! Come and look at him, and let the
sight soften your heart to him,” said the girl, taking the youth’s hand,
and drawing him to the bedside. “Look, now, at that poor old wrinkled
face—it has not got very long to live, anyhow—and see the two or three
thin, white hairs on his temples—and see the poor, _poor_ withered
hands—so helpless! Oh! I think it is all so pitiful. And now see, he is
asleep, but how much trouble there is on his poor old face—no, no! don’t
say hard things of him, it cuts me to the heart! And, Carl, no matter
how bad his fit may be, he never offers to hurt me or anything else.
Only terror and horror is all that is on him! He is a gentle, harmless,
poor old man. And I always pity him like I pity any one very ill.”
“Kate! I dare say you think this is all tender-heartedness, and you give
yourself a great deal of credit for it! But I tell you it’s nothing but
weakness. And it may be the ruin of you, too, before long. And now I
tell you, I’m going to get a place for you, if I can. Yes, and make you
go to it, too. I can do without you—that is, I _must_ do without you! I
can get the breakfast before I go away in the morning. And I can leave
something for the old man’s dinner, and come home time enough in the
evening to get his supper! And to-morrow I am going down to the turnpike
gate to thrash Scroggings, and bring your bonnet home. And I’ll tell him
if ever he lets the old man have any more liquor, I’ll kick him round
his groggery till he hasn’t got a whole bone left in his body. Yes, and
I’ll do it, too!”
Kate was placing the supper on the table, but she turned, with the same
expression of countenance with which she had stopped Fairfax at the foot
of the stairs, and said—
“I should be very sorry for any violence from you, Carl. But of one
thing be sure—do what you may, I will never, _never_ leave our
grandfather!”
“There! now, whenever you get that hateful Maria Theresa look, I _hate_
you, Katterin! I hate to see strength in women! It don’t belong to them,
nor grace them, anyhow!”
“Strength of _affection_ does, Carl. But now please call the gentlemen
down to supper,” said Kate.
Carl rapped at the foot of the ladder, and summoned the travellers
accordingly.
Now, though Fairfax had honorably withdrawn from the trap-door, the
moment he found that his services would not be required, and that the
conversation between Kate and Carl was growing confidential, yet every
word of that conversation had been distinctly heard by both young men,
and had produced an effect upon both. Frank with difficulty withheld
himself from exclaiming aloud, as pity, disgust, anger or approbation
moved him in turn. Captain Clifton, far less impressible, and more
reserved than his companion, had remained perfectly quiet and silent,
though his thoughts were more practically busy with the case than those
of his companion. They went down, and were received at the foot of the
ladder by Carl, who, with a sort of rough politeness, placed stools at
the table, and invited them to be seated. They placed themselves at the
board, at the head of which Kate already presided, with folded hands and
downcast eyes. Then to their utter astonishment, the rude, irreverent
young man, Carl, stood up and asked a blessing, saying, afterwards, that
he was no parson, nor no Methodist, but Kate would have it so, and he
thought it was best upon the whole, not to oppose females in such
notions, And then he began to wait upon his guests.
Their supper consisted of good coffee, with cream and maple sugar; good
bread, with fresh butter and cheese; venison steak and broiled chickens;
and lastly, of a dish of baked pears, cold, and a pitcher of milk. Frank
was surprised to find such excellence of fare amid the ragged poverty of
the mountain cabin; but, on afterwards expressing this surprise to
Captain Clifton, he was told by the latter, that such contrasts were by
no means rare. Mr. Fairfax applied himself with zeal to the good things
before him, until the sharpness of his appetite was sated, and then
lingered long over the meal, conversing with his host upon the state of
the country in his region, the climate and soil, productions, market,
etc., and receiving from the young mountaineer the information that
there was no great amount of produce about there, except in the glens,
grazing for the cattle, and that the roads were so bad, and the towns
and villages so distant, that nothing was raised for market, except such
kind of produce as could walk thither, to wit: flocks and herds. That
his grandfather, before the infirmities of age had come upon him, had
raised herds of kine and hogs, which he drove fifty miles to market
every year; but that was some years ago, when he himself was a child.
That now they only had a few sheep, which his sister tended while he was
at work on a plantation at the foot of the mountain. In reply to a
question Frank put while leisurely using his gold tooth-pick, the young
man informed him farther that himself and his sister were of German and
Irish descent. That the old man, their grandfather, was a German by
birth, but had lived nearly seventy years in America. That his name was
Carl Wetzel, and his only daughter, Caterina, had been married to an
Irish emigrant, of the name of Kavanagh. That _they_ were the parents of
himself and sister. Finally, that they had been dead nearly seven years.
It was farther ascertained that old Carl Wetzel had been a man of
considerable education; and it was easily seen that Carl Kavanagh had
inherited much of his father’s Irish quickness of intelligence, and much
of his grandfather’s German love of knowledge.
Frank, on his part, was equally communicative, and, in spite of the
haughty reserve of Captain Clifton, informed his host that he had come
up in that neighborhood for the purpose of acting as groomsman at the
approaching marriage of his friend, Captain Clifton, of the —— Regiment
of Cavalry, to his cousin, Miss Carolyn Gower Clifton, of Clifton Place.
That their journey, so far, had been rather disastrous; that they had
set out from Washington City on horseback, but had become so fatigued by
the excessive heat, that they had been obliged, on arriving at
Winchester, to take places for themselves in the stage for Staunton, and
to hire a man to bring their horses after them—riding one and leading
the other, and so alternately. That before reaching Staunton, they had
been thrown from the stage—without serious injury to themselves,
however, and had been obliged to walk some ten miles to a village on
their route, and wait the arrival of their horses, which, fortunately,
were not many hours behind them. That they had ridden all day in a thick
fog, lost their way, came near going over a fearful precipice, and
finally got caught in the tempest that drove them for shelter to the
cabin.
During all this time, Captain Clifton had seemed lost in thought, and
only once spoke to inquire of the young mountaineer whether it were
possible for them to pursue their journey that night. To this the young
man replied that it would be impossible, even if it were then daylight,
inasmuch as the torrents were swollen so greatly. And at the thought of
pursuing their journey, a pang of remorse for his forgetfulness of his
horses shot through the breast of Frank, and—
“What the devil can have become of Saladin?” he exclaimed, starting up.
“Oh, he is safe,” answered Clifton. “I saw them both in the shed as I
looked from the little window up stairs.’
“Who put them there?”
“I tended them,” answered the girl, quietly.
They all now arose from the table. The girl cleared the board, and
carried all the things out to wash up. Carl begged his guests to excuse
him, and went out to give the horses a rub down and another feed.
Captain Clifton threw himself into the arm-chair, crossed his legs, took
out his tablets, and began to make memorandums.
Frank impertinently peeped over his shoulder and read—“Mem. Ask my
mother if she can take a little girl as a companion.” Clifton closed the
book instantly, in silent rebuke of Frank’s impudence. And Frank himself
walked about fidgety and unhappy for not knowing what to do with
himself, until, at a restless movement of the old man, he went and
poured out a mug of water, and carefully keeping behind the eye of the
patient, lifted up his head and gave him drink, and after setting down
the empty mug, fanned him till he went sound asleep again.
The brother and sister soon returned. Carl sat down and begun his best
efforts at entertainment. But Frank, who amused himself by seeing
everything, saw Kate go up stairs into the loft and bring down and carry
out his own and his friend’s regimentals.
After which she came in, and drawing a stool to the table, sat down and
began to knit, as quietly, as silently, as if no strangers were in her
hut.
Carl took down and laid upon the table a rough draught board, and
invited his guests to play with each other.
Frank eagerly caught at the opportunity, but Captain Clifton declined,
on the plea of distaste to the amusement.
“Play with me, my dear fellow, for pity sake,” said Frank to Carl, “and
don’t mind my friend there! You see, he doesn’t want to play, neither
does he want to talk, nor to do anything but sit and think about Miss
Clifton.”
“Do play with him, and keep him quiet, if you can, my good youth,” said
Captain Clifton, turning his chair slightly aside from the table, so
that his face was in the shade. Opposite to him, at the other corner of
the table, sat Katherine, with the light shining full upon her face and
head, as she bowed it over her work. Captain Clifton did not fall into a
brown study, he fell into a study of the brown girl. Let no one presume
to misinterpret him. It was not likely that a man of twenty-five should
fall in love with a girl of fourteen. Dotards do such things, not men.
Then it was utterly preposterous to suppose that Archer Clifton, of
Clifton, Captain in the —— Regiment of Cavalry, the fastidious amateur
in female beauty, should be smitten with a hard-featured, sun-burned
girl, in a coarse, homespun frock, that the all-accomplished scholar
should be charmed with the little ignoramus; that the arrogant
conservative of rank should condescend to a low-born mountaineer; or
that the expectant bridegroom of the beautiful and haughty Carolyn
Clifton, of Clifton, should wish to marry a girl who united all these
repulsive qualities of ignorance, ruggedness, and low birth. Yet if he
could have looked only two short years into the future!
But Clifton was a physiognomist, and liked to study a novel
individuality. A new and very curious subject was before him now. At
first he had seen in Kate nothing more than a coarse-featured,
dark-skinned country girl. Now, as he sat and watched her at her quiet
work, with her countenance in the repose of thoughtfulness, he saw that
her features, though certainly not beautiful or classical, were even of
a higher order of physiognomy, combining the rarest elements of power
and goodness. The broad and massive forehead, straight nose, and square,
firm jaws, were the strong and ugly features—the rugged frame work, as
it were, of her countenance, and indicated great force of character. But
her hair, eyes, and lips were beautiful. Her hair, of rich dark brown,
with golden lights, rippled around her forehead, shading and softening
its stern strength. Her eyes, large and shadowy, with drooping lashes,
and her lips sweetly curved, full, and pensively closed, suggested a
profound depth of tenderness. Indeed the brooding brow, the downcast
eyes, and the compressed lips seemed to be habitual with her, and gave
her countenance an expression of grief and care beyond her years, and of
thought and intellect above her station. As Clifton sat and studied her,
he thought—not of
“Full many a flower that’s born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air,”
for the girl did not resemble a flower so much as a hardy, pine sapling
of her native mountains. No; that look, strength, intellect, and
self-balance—in a word—that look of POWER, suggested rather—_girl_ as
she was—
“Some village Hampden with undaunted breast.
* * * * *
Some mute inglorious Milton, * * *
Some CROMWELL guiltless of his country’s blood.”
It _was_ a Maria Theresa face without the wickedness.
Captain Clifton’s physiognomical studies were interrupted by the abrupt
starting of Frank, who exclaimed vehemently—
“Beaten in four games! Now, that’s what I call outrageous! Don’t you
know, my dear fellow, that there are three persons in the world who
should never be beaten—a guest, a woman, and a monarch?”
Carl laughed and chuckled, and beating the draught-board tambourine-like
above his head in triumph, carried it off and put it away.
The whole party then arose to retire. Carl took the candle and showed
his guests up into the loft and left them to repose.
“Now where will that child sleep, for we have got her room?” asked
Frank, with concern, as soon as they were alone.
“Oh-h!” replied Captain Clifton, indifferently, “anywhere—on a
pallet—perhaps, down stairs.”
“But the old man and the young one—”
“Oh-h!” again drawled Clifton, in a bored tone, “if you expect to meet
with refinement among the mountain people, you will be disappointed.”
Long after the travellers had laid down to rest, they heard the sound of
footsteps moving about in the room below. They moved quietly and
cautiously, as if fearful of disturbing the guests; but, as I said
before, all sounds, even the lowest, could be distinctly heard through
that shell of a house.
On awaking the next morning, the young men found their own clothes well
cleaned, dried, and pressed, ready for them to put on.
“Ah, ha!” said the sagacious Frank, “that is what the poor girl was at
work at so late last night.”
On going down stairs they found the lower room neatly arranged, and
breakfast ready for them—hot coffee, corn pone, hot rolls, rashers of
fried bacon, eggs, potatoes, etc. And there, in the arm-chair, in a
clean homespun suit, sat the old man, looking as calm, as
self-possessed, as noble and venerable as a Roman senator. He arose and
bowed to the gentlemen, and offered his chair to one of them.
No wonder it bowed the young girl’s head with grief and shame—it pained
and humbled even these strangers, to know that this most reverend
white-haired patriarch was often transformed by drunkenness into the
beast! It was a disease, Kate had often said, wringing her hands with
anguish, while seeing his degradation.
It _was_ a disease, and never till vice is treated as such, will an
effectual remedy be applied.
Immediately after breakfast, the gentlemen took leave of the family, and
mounted their horses to pursue their journey. Frank, in the thoughtless
kindness of his heart, would have offered the poor people some
remuneration for their entertainment, but Clifton, who knew the habits
and feelings of the mountaineers better, arrested a purpose that might
have given offence. But on parting with Carl Kavanagh, Captain Clifton
expressed his thanks for the hospitality that had been extended to
himself and friend—adding, that if he could then, or at any time, in any
manner, be of use to his kind host, he should be happy to serve him,
etc., etc. To this the young man replied—
“I thank you, sir. I know Captain Clifton by report, and feel that I can
trust to his generosity. I have a heavy care—my young sister. If you
could hear of a place at service for her among the honorable ladies of
your family or acquaintance, I should feel very grateful indeed, sir.”
Captain Clifton kindly gave his promise to make inquiries. Frank again
shook hands with Carl, bowed to Kate, nodded to the old man through the
window, and then the travellers turned from the door of the mountain
hut, cantered briskly up the glen, and took the road to WHITE CLIFFS.