MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN.
She is a lady of confirmed honor, of an unmatchable spirit, and
determinate in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate
affront, nor show to feel where just provocation is given.—CHARLES
LAMB.
Clifton by the morning sunlight! Oh! that I could show it to you as
Fairfax saw it from the balcony of his chamber on the morning after his
arrival! The whole face of the country was very high, yet even this
elevated land was broken into hills and valleys, rocks and glens. Behind
the house arose the white cliffs so often mentioned, shutting out the
Northern view, but before the house lay the valley in which the
plantation was situated, and around that, East, West and South,
stretched a magnificent panorama, ridge beyond ridge of mountains,
covered with gigantic forests, clothed with the richest verdure, rolling
on until they gradually faded away in the distance, their forms lost
among the clouds of the horizon. It seemed a vast, boundless ocean of
greenery, of which the vales and mountains were the stupendous waves,
charmed to sleep.
It was a magnificent solitude. Not a human dwelling to be seen. The
planters’ mansions—if there were any in the neighborhood, were low in
the vales, and hidden from sight. The mountain torrent, as it came
leaping down the side of the cliff, running through the wooded lawn,
losing itself in the forest vale, and reappearing as a mountain lake
among the distant hills, was a beautiful feature in the landscape. The
deep intense blue of the clear skies, the early splendor of the
sunlight, the murmur of the breeze among the waving trees, the joyous
songs of birds, gladdened all the scene, and put to flight Frank’s blue
devils, long before Dandy called him to breakfast.
The breakfast-table was set in the lawn under the shadow of the pine
elms.
The old gentleman, in his suit of cool white linen—the sisters in neat
morning dresses of white cambric, and the dark Georgia, in her usual
dress of black, were assembled on the piazza. They greeted Mr. Fairfax
with lively welcome, telling him that Clifton had not yet made his
appearance. But even while they spoke, Captain Clifton joined them, and
they sat down to breakfast. Those breakfasts on the lawn! How many times
in after years, in the sultry heat of the city hotel, did Fairfax recall
them!
Soon after breakfast, Captain Clifton invited Mr. Fairfax to accompany
him in a ride up the ridge to his mother’s farm. And after taking leave
of the ladies they set out. They left the house by the back way, and
took a winding bridle-path up the side of the cliffs. The day was very
fine and cool, and their path was shaded by overhanging trees. It was
altogether a delightful ride, and as they went up, Clifton, who led the
way, turned his head around and inquired—
“Frank! what instigated you to romance so last night about our sojourn
at the mountain hut?”
“Romance? I didn’t romance, except in saying that the girl was
beautiful. I said _that_ for your credit!”
“Oh! I ought to be _exceedingly_ obliged to you!”
“Yes—I think so, too—but what malicious Puck gave _you_ a love-weed, and
fooled you into sitting and studying that ugly little girl’s hard face
all the evening?”
“I did not think her ugly at all. She has a noble countenance. A _most_
noble countenance. One, of which an empress might be proud of!”
“Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! _I_ saw nothing but a mountainous forehead,
and a strong portcullis jaw! ‘Noble!’ Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I said you’d
taken the love-powder!”
“Yet even you cannot find any but a _noble_ simile in speaking of her
‘ugly’ features!”
“Ah! what will Miss Clifton think of this admiration?”
“Sir, Miss Clifton has my deepest homage, and when she is my wife, she
will indulge no follies. But, Fairfax, you are absurd, and I beg you
will abandon this ridiculous conversation. You know that I have always
had a proclivity to the study of character. Nature made me something of
a physiognomist. And if there be any truth in my favorite science, that
mountain-girl’s face presented the most extraordinary combination of
power and goodness I have ever met with.”
“Oh! then you only studied the maiden as the botanist would study a new
plant, the geologist a new fossil, or the naturalist a strange animal?—”
—“Or the astronomer a new STAR? Precisely, sir! Except that the human
being is the highest and most absorbing study of all!”
“Really! really! this passes belief—the proud, fastidious Archer
Clifton, to be smitten with an ugly mountain-girl!”
“Frank! Nonsense—you really anger me. Listen, then, and I will tell you
why that child—for she is but a child—interested me so much. I saw in
her face the signs of wonderful force of character, as yet undeveloped,
and I saw in all her actions that which corroborated their testimony. I
was surprised to find all that in the humble mountaineer, and speculated
as to what, in her _very_ humble situation, it might lead. That was
simply all!”
“And did you not wish to be a providence to the mountain girl, and open
a field for so much energy?”
“Perhaps such a thought might have presented itself to my mind. If so,
it was dismissed at once. A highly gifted _man_ of low birth must have
extraordinary talents indeed, and be placed in extraordinary
circumstances, to elevate himself above his condition—for a _girl_ in
such a case it is impossible. But, Fairfax, really this conversation has
taken a more serious tone than I designed it should. Really, nobility of
character, though very rare among the lower classes of society, is yet
not so impossible as to excite our wonder. There are others like Kate
Kavanagh—”
—“How pat you’ve got her name! Now _I_ had forgotten it!”
“Pooh! I say there are others like her. They are born great—they live
and die, and the world hears nothing of them. And talents that might
have swayed the counsels of a monarch, and decided the destinies of an
empire, have been employed to direct the household of a shepherd, and
determine the fate of a sheep! Such is the order of society, and better,
far better so, than that its boundaries should be thrown down, its ranks
intermingled!”
“There spoke a Clifton of Clifton!” said Frank.
They were now at the top of the ridge, and entering upon a hard, stony,
half-reclaimed farm, in the midst of which stood a rude, but substantial
house, built of hewn rocks of every shade of gray, and surrounded by
trees. Below them, all around, rose the forest-crowned hills; behind
them the white cliffs concealed the mansion of Clifton from their sight,
all around them lay fields of stunted corn.
“This is Hardbargain,” said Captain Clifton, opening a rude farm gate,
and holding it open, while his companion passed through.
“Hardbargain! a most appropriate name! I should think it the hardest of
all bargains, to receive this farm as a precious gift,” replied Frank,
looking around upon the stony field and stunted corn.
“Yes,” admitted Captain Clifton, “it is a well-merited title. It was
once called Rocky Ridge. A poor man got a grant of it, and settled there
first—spent all his health and strength in trying to bring the rugged
soil under cultivation—failed—christened the place Hard_scrabble_, and
sold it to my grandfather for thrice its value. My grandfather repented
the purchase, re-christened the ill-starred farm Hard_bargain_, and, as
the Clifton estate was entailed upon his eldest son, gave this farm as a
portion to his younger son, my father. My father was then a subaltern
officer in the Continental Army, and absent with Washington, at Valley
Forge. My mother, with myself, then an infant, was a temporary sojourner
at Clifton. No sooner had my grandfather made a gift to my father of
this nearly barren farm, than my mother set all her faculties at work
for its cultivation and improvement. My mother was nearly penniless,
being the daughter of a family of decayed fortune. My father was unable
to send her anything except the Continental notes, with which he himself
was paid, but which would scarcely pass farther. But being determined
not to eat the bread of dependence by remaining at Clifton after my
grandfather’s death, my mother sold all her jewelry and plate, which had
been left her by a deceased maiden aunt, and applied the proceeds of the
sale to the improvement of Hardbargain. She hired laborers. There was a
rude log hut, built by the first settler upon the land. She hired a
woman, and placed her in that hut to keep house and cook for them. She
read books on agriculture, and consulted my uncle’s overseer upon the
same subject. And every morning she rode up and spent the day at
Hardbargain, overlooking the laborers. She was her own overseer! Frank!
you appreciate high worth when you see it. I may, besides, tell you
anything—you are my only companion—I tell you that my dear mother was
one in ten thousand. She was a true heroine, a heroine of domestic life.
Abandoning all her habits of elegance and refinement, despising luxury,
ease and comfort, disdaining the sneers of the world, and giving herself
to toil and hardship, and weariness of body and mind, that she might win
from the desert an independent home for her family! My dear mother had
no reason to suppose, and never admitted the possibility that my uncle
would not be blessed with a male heir, that _I_, her son, for whom she
toiled to secure a rugged farm, would be the inheritor of entailed
Clifton! And so she toiled, year after year, until at the end of the
war, when the army was reduced, and my father came home, he found a
comfortable house, and a productive farm.”
Clifton seemed to have fallen into one of his fits of reminiscence;
scarcely conscious that he was talking to his true but volatile friend,
scarcely conscious that he was talking _at all_, he went on—
“My first recollection of my dearest mother, is of a very noble looking
lady, of dark complexion, black hair, and gray eyes. I recollect, when
an infant of four years old, being brought out from the mansion-house of
Clifton every morning, to the back road gate, where she sat upon her
horse awaiting me, with a little basket, containing our dinner, hanging
on the horn of the saddle. I used to be lifted to the saddle before her,
and while her left arm encircled me, with her right hand she would guide
her horse around the base of the cliff, and take the winding bridle-path
that led up the Rocky Ridge, upon which lay her sterile farm of
Hardbargain. Oh! I remember how she used to ride from field to field,
making investigations, and giving directions to her rude workmen—and
with what deference the rough men were used to address her—hat in hand.
I remember, too, our cold dinners, taken under the shade of an elm tree,
whose lowest branches sheltered a fine spring—the head waters of that
very torrent, which, in course of time and space, swells into the mighty
river I told you of. Oh! my noble mother! how few would have displayed
her courage and fortitude!—not one in a million but would have rather
sat down in the luxurious ease and abundance of Clifton, where she had a
long welcome for as long as she should choose to stay—rather than have
dared the toil and hardship that she endured. The land was at last
cleared up, the farm laid off in order, and brought under the best
possible cultivation. A comfortable house was built, and my mother moved
into it to receive my father when he should come home, at the disbanding
of his company. He came at last—it was a happy time—and well I remember
how my mother’s young, but stern and weather-beaten face, bloomed and
softened again into youth and beauty and womanhood, by her soldier’s
side. But, ah! he had survived all the horrible perils and sufferings by
cold, hunger, and the foe, endured by our army during that long and
terrible struggle, and returned safe, to die in a time of peace—to die
at home, where every care and comfort surrounded him. Yes, he came home
in the winter of —82. Towards the spring, he took a slight cold—it was
neglected as of little account—it settled upon his lungs—before winter
came again, he died, and the first snow that fell, fell upon his grave.
My honored mother was a strong-minded woman. After what I have told you,
you know that she was! She loved him as only the strong can love. She
suffered as only the strong can suffer. She rose above that death-blow
to her happiness as only the strong can rise. But she has never been the
same woman since. When a few years had passed, and her son’s welfare
demanded her care, she aroused every faculty of her mind and body, for
the ‘purpose of insuring’ his greatest good. Even at that epoch of time,
there was no reason to suppose that I should inherit the Clifton estate.
My uncle was then in the prime of manhood, had married his second wife,
and by no means despaired of male issue. My dear mother taxed soul, body
and estate to the utmost, to defray my expenses at college, during the
seven years of my residence there. It was also to her persevering
exertions, as well as to the late military services of my deceased
father, that I owed my commission in the army. They say that
_misfortunes_ never come single. _Good fortune_ certainly ne’er does, if
I may judge of our own experience of both. When I had left college, the
heaviest tax was raised from our income, and when I obtained a
commission in the army, my year’s pay more than doubled the annual
income from the proceeds of the farm. At this time also my mother
received a legacy from an aged and distant relative, which enabled her
to stock her farm well, and furnish her house comfortably. Furthermore,
my uncle having lost his _third_ wife, and at last given up all thoughts
of a son of his own, began to take quite a paternal interest in
me—insisting, when off duty, I should spend all my time with him—and
finding neither myself nor my mother disposed to forego each other’s
society, would have persuaded the latter to take up her abode under his
roof. But that arrangement did not suit my mother. She, who in her young
womanhood had too high a spirit for dependence—preferring to give
herself to severest toil and privation, rather than live in easy luxury
under another’s roof—could not in her stern maturity be bribed to give
up her well-earned independence. Nor indeed, under any circumstances,
should I have consented to the plan. We compromised the matter by my
agreeing to spend half the time of furlough at Clifton. This was the
more congenial to my feelings, as my cousin Carolyn had now left school
permanently. As for my uncle, he consoled himself for his disappointment
in not getting my mother’s society at Clifton, by marrying a fourth
wife.”
“I am impressed with the idea that your mother is a very proud woman,
Clifton!” said Frank, taking advantage of Captain Clifton’s first
thoughtful pause.
“No, no,” he answered, slowly, as in half reverie, “no—she is not what
the world calls proud—she is no conservator of rank, as I am. She is the
only _true_ republican I know in this whole Republic. Sprung, herself,
from an ancient, noble, and haughty race, she yet honors talent and
virtue, when met with in the lowest ranks, as much—nay, I verily
believe, _more_, than when found in the highest circles, where it is
natural they should be more frequently seen.
——“But here we are, and you shall judge for yourself,” concluded Captain
Clifton, as he opened a gate admitting them into a shady yard, in the
midst of which stood the house. They alighted at the gate and gave their
horses into the charge of a negro boy, and walked on to the house. It
was a plain oblong stone building, of two stories, with a deep, shady
piazza, running the whole length of the front. It was divided through
the centre by a wide passage way, the front and back doors of which were
both open and drawing a fine draft of air, and from which opened four
large airy rooms, two on a side. They stepped up on the piazza, and were
met at the front door by a neatly clothed negro girl, who admitted them
into the passage, and opening a door on the right hand next the front,
showed them into a cool, breezy, but plainly furnished parlor; the walls
and ceiling being simply white-washed, and the floor bare but highly
polished with wax, as was the summer custom of the country at that day.
The fire-place was open and filled with green bushes. The
window-curtains, and the lounge, and easy-chair covers, were all of
chintz. There was a reality of substantial and permanent comfort about
the place, that Frank thought he had never seen elsewhere. And when
Clifton invited him to be seated, and he rested himself in one of those
cool arm-chairs in that shaded room, he declared that a feeling of
at-home-ativeness came over him, such as he had never experienced since
he left his own mother’s house, and never hoped to feel again until he
should have a house of his own. The negro girl whom Clifton addressed as
Hennie, then left the room to summon her mistress, and shortly after the
lady of the house entered.
Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, was now about fifty years of age—tall, and
inclining to _en bon point_, but not more so than well became her years.
Her complexion was dark, and her hair and eyes black. Her features were
strongly marked and commanding, indicative of great strength of will and
indomitable firmness of purpose, all moderated, however, by the
expression of her countenance, which was at once composed and gracious.
Her manner was marked by unaffected dignity and courtesy—her dress was
of very plain dark silk, made high to the throat, and with sleeves
coming down to the wrists, a small ruff set closely around her neck,
fastened with a mourning pin. Her only head-dress was her own black
hair, which, though slightly mingled with gray, was worn uncovered.
Indeed, cap or turban upon that noble head would have looked
impertinent. She advanced into the room and greeted her son with
affection, and welcomed Mr. Fairfax with courtesy, though her words were
so few, and her manner was so calm, as to seem cool. Frank thought her a
very noble looking woman, though somewhat stiff and cold. Indeed, all
strangers, and superficial observers, thought her cold and proud. Never
was a greater misapprehension of character—never did a larger or more
generous heart live in the bosom of woman—albeit, its pulsations were of
the calmest and most regular character. She sat down and entered into an
easy conversation with her son and his friend, inquiring into the
particulars of their journey, and making comments as they were related.
Once during the recital her cheek almost imperceptibly changed. It was
at the telling of the hair-breadth escape at the brink of the Devil’s
Staircase, but upon that she made no observation whatever. She rang a
little hand bell, which was answered by the entrance of Hennie. She took
a bunch of keys from her pocket, and giving them to the girl, directed
her to bring refreshments. Hennie left the room, but soon returned
bearing a large waiter with home-made wine, cake, and a basket of fine
peaches and pears. While they regaled themselves upon these luxuries,
she inquired after the health and well-being of the family of White
Cliffs, and having received satisfactory answers, turned to Mr. Fairfax
and hoped that he was sufficiently well pleased with their neighborhood
to favor it with a long sojourn. Frank assured her that he should never
grow weary of the delights of his visit, and should conclude it only
when compelled to do so, and _then_ with great regret. The conversation
then became of more general interest. The weather, the condition of the
roads, the health of the neighborhood, &c., were discussed. And then the
discourse took a higher tone, and the agricultural and political
condition and prospects of the whole country, and the great probability
of another speedy war with Great Britain, were debated. And Mr. Fairfax
wondered at the extent of information, the strong grasp of mind, and the
depth and justness of thought, displayed by this recluse lady upon
subjects apparently so foreign to her daily experience.
They made quite a long morning visit, and before their departure,
Captain Clifton took an opportunity—while Mr. Fairfax was walking around
the room and staring at some old family pictures, among which hung a
portrait by ——, of Oliver Cromwell, as Lord Protector of England—to draw
his mother aside, and say to her—
“Madam, I have a proposition to make to you, or a favor to ask—as it may
turn out.”
“What is it, my son?” gravely inquired the lady.
“You heard Mr. Fairfax speak of the young mountain-girl whom we met just
before the storm, and who kindly conducted us to her grandfather’s
cabin?”
“Yes.”
“It is of her that I would speak, and for her that I would enlist your
sympathy and protection—”
“Go on, I attend, my son.”
“You have given me some credit for insight into character. If my
judgment is worthy of your consideration, this young girl is deserving
of your kindest offices.”
“Does she deserve them?”
“Madam, she impressed me as being a child of high moral and mental
endowments, and the trying experience of one night proved the truth of
that impression.”
“Does she need my good offices?”
“Mother! with the finest intellectual capacities, she is nearly
destitute of all opportunities of intellectual culture. That is bad—but
not so deplorable as what follows. Kate Kavanagh—that is her name—is far
removed from all of her own sex. Her young brother, her only protector,
is absent from home from earliest dawn till late at night. Her only
companion is an old man, an habitual drunkard, subject to frequent and
furious fits of _mania-a-potu_. Her case, upon my showing, may not be so
exigent. But if you had seen her as I did, it would seem so. Her brother
being best acquainted with the circumstances, is the best judge in the
premises, and is very anxious upon his sister’s account, and wishes to
get her a place at service.”
“But if she is a girl of so excellent a nature as you have supposed,
will she leave her aged relative?”
“Not willingly, certainly—but—I wish the opportunity of improving her
condition afforded her, indeed, I promised her brother Carl that it
should be presented.”
“I know Carl Kavanagh—he worked for me during the last year. I formed a
good opinion of him. If his sister is equal to him she must be a
meritorious girl.”
“She is very superior to him, madam.”
The lady was mistress of great promptitude and decision of action. With
her eyes fixed upon the ground she reflected for a few moments, then
lifting them, said—
“Write to your friend Carl Kavanagh—”
“Not my _friend_, dear madam, an’ it please you!” haughtily interrupted
her son.
A slight shade of disapproval or of displeasure clouded the lady’s brow
for a moment, and she said—
“Write then to your dependent, Carl Kavanagh, and let him know that I am
willing to receive his sister into my own service on trial—and that he
may bring her hither as soon as is convenient.”
“Thank you, dearest madam, I will write to-day, and send a messenger
with the letter. I am really pleased and grateful for this kindness,”
said Archer Clifton, pressing his lips to the cheek she offered to his
salute.
The young men soon after took leave, being engaged to dine that day at
home at White Cliffs.
“Clifton!” said Mr. Fairfax, as they rode along, “excuse me for telling
you freely how highly I honor your mother. Yes! you may stare! _I_—the
irreverent—the rash said—_excuse_ me for telling you how highly I honor
your mother—for, by my faith, she is a lady whom to praise is
presumption! But, my dear Clifton, how is it that she resembles so
closely that old portrait of Oliver Cromwell, which hangs, besides,
between two family portraits. It is not possible you claim descent from
_him_?”
“My mother does, by the female line. I do not think I have much of his
nature. In his time I should have been a royalist. My mother venerates
his character very highly.”
“By my soul! she is like him enough in feature.”
“Yes, and in many points of character, she is strikingly like him.”
In conversation such as this the friends reached White Cliffs, and Mr.
Fairfax retired to his chamber to dress for dinner, and Captain Clifton
entered the library for the purpose of writing a letter to Carl
Kavanagh.