THE TIDE OF FATE.
There is a tide in the affairs of man,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.—SHAKSPEARE.
“There is a tide in the affairs of ‘woman,’
Which, taken at the flood, leads—” God knows where.—BYRON.
Captain Clifton had written to Carl Kavanagh, informing him of the
situation he had procured for the sister of the latter, at Hardbargain.
And within this letter he had inclosed a longer one, to Kate, filled
with good counsels and urgent reasons why she should yield to the wishes
of her brother, and accept the place offered to her. After having
dispatched these letters by a boy, who left White Cliffs that afternoon,
on horseback, he delivered himself up to the delights of Miss Clifton’s
society, forgetting all about the mountain-girl, until the next day,
when, being seated in the library, his messenger returned, entered his
presence, and handed him a packet. It was a letter from Carl Kavanagh,
enclosing one from Kate. He read Carl’s epistle first. It began by
expressing much gratitude to his benefactor, for his kindness in having
procured a situation for his sister, and went on by expressing much
sorrow that he could not prevail upon Kate, either by entreaties or
threats, to accept it, and unbounded indignation at what he called the
girl’s wicked stubbornness. The letter closed by reiterating the thanks
of the writer. Captain Clifton held the letter open in his hand, and
lifting his head, fell into deep thought. It was strange how much this
little matter depressed him. Account for it, any philosopher that can.
Some proud people have a proclivity to patronage—Captain Clifton was
very proud, and perhaps he was piqued at being prevented playing the
patron. Perhaps it was really disappointed benevolence. Only it is
certain that Archer Clifton did not possess that quality to an
immoderate degree—and having once done his duty of charity, would be
likely to content himself with any result. Perchance he felt a deeper
interest in the rugged little mountaineer than he would have
acknowledged, even to himself. Perhaps it was prescience—the shadow of
coming events. Be that as it may, Archer Clifton walked up and down the
floor in silent thought, occasionally broken by a slight sigh. It was
wonderful how much the knowledge that he should not have this child at
home in his mother’s house vexed his soul.
At length he recollected Kate’s own letter, yet unopened. But of what
avail to read it! It would certainly be the counterpart of Carl’s. He
opened it. It was not, however. In the first place, the paper was
perfectly clean; and in the second, the writing, spelling, and style,
were rather better. She acknowledged the goodness of Captain Clifton, in
taking thought of her humble wants—expressed regret that she could not
avail herself of his kindness—could not leave her grandfather, who
needed her services, and subscribed herself Captain Clifton’s obliged
and grateful servant. It _was_ very much like Carl’s, after all. But
here is a postscript. What more can she have to say, after what she has
said, thought Clifton, as he turned to it. It read thus—
“P. S.—I hope Captain Clifton will pardon me, if he thinks that I am
doing wrong—but it has come into my head, that as Captain Clifton is
about to marry, and reside in future at White Cliffs—and as Mrs.
Clifton of Hardbargain, will then be quite alone—and as she is not so
young, or active, or able to ride about her plantation, overseeing her
field hands as formerly—perhaps she will be thinking of getting a
farm-manager—if so, will Captain Clifton kindly remember my brother
Carl, and speak a favorable word for him to the lady of Hardbargain,
who already knows and trusts him? If Carl gets a situation as
overseer, I can keep house for him, and we can both take care of our
grandfather. Indeed I am afraid Captain Clifton will be justly angry
with me for this liberty.”
“What a letter!” exclaimed Archer Clifton, as his face alternately
lighted up with satisfaction, or became clouded with thought. “What a
letter for a rustic girl of fourteen! Yet characteristic of _her_ and of
her situation. Showing the germs of reflection, forethought, courage and
promptitude, the gifts of nature, mingled with that frankness bordering
upon presumption, which belongs to total ignorance of the world. To dare
to speak familiarly of our domestic affairs! But yet how naïvely she
deprecates my displeasure, at what she feels may be received as
presumption.”
So deeply did Captain Clifton study Kate and her letter; Kate’s
remarkable countenance, with its breadth of brow and gentleness of eyes,
haunted him.
He was a man of prompt decision and action—so, having once admitted the
idea that his mother needed an overseer, he exclaimed—
“Yes, my mother must be relieved from her arduous occupation—unbefitting
a lady of her rank, and especially of her age. Why could I not think of
that before? Why should I never have seen the necessity, until Catherine
held it up before me? Yes—my mother must have a manager on her farm, and
Carl Kavanagh shall be the man. I will pay his salary myself.” And he
rung the bell, ordered his horse, and in less than fifteen minutes was
on his way to Hardbargain.
As he rode up to the house, he met a girl with a pail on her head, going
to the spring, and inquired of her where her mistress was to be found.
He was told, “down in the wheat field.” So, turning his horse’s head a
little to the left of the house, he rode down the slope of the hill, to
a wide harvest field, where he found Mrs. Clifton, seated on her mule,
superintending the operations of some fifteen or twenty laborers, who
were employed in stacking wheat. He rode up to his mother’s side,
alighted, and held out his hand, saying—
“How-do-you-do, to-day, madam? Busily engaged as ever, I see, mother.”
“How-do-you-do, Archer? Yes, very busy.”
While Captain Clifton was revolving in his mind the best way of
introducing the object of his visit, which he had reason to believe
would be distasteful to the energetic, independent lady—she quite
unconsciously anticipated his intention, and relieved him from his
embarrassment, by saying—
“The heat is extremely oppressive, and I begin to find this business too
much for me, Archer. This continuing out in the fields day after day,
and all day long, throughout this burning weather, begins to tell, even
upon my constitution.”
Archer Clifton looked at his mother and noticed for the first time a
slight but certain change in her countenance, invisible, perhaps, to an
indifferent glance, but seeming to the eye of affection, fearfully like
the very earliest premonitory symptoms of decay. That look pierced him
to the heart. The fainter sound of her voice, too, had vaguely suggested
failing strength—it fell upon his ear like a prophecy, a warning, a
knell. He realized then, for the first time, that his mother was
mortal—was growing old—that some day he should lose her. He felt then,
for the first time, how much _he_—a man—had rested on this good
mother—and his heart was troubled within him. And yet it was all caused
only by a transient weariness in the look of her face, and a faintness
in the tone of her voice. But more than all things else on earth—more
_deeply_—though less ardently—than his own fair expectant bride—did
Archer Clifton love his mother! It had even been said, some years
before, by one who knew him best, that Clifton could never love any
woman with the full force of his nature unless in qualities of mind and
heart she resembled his mother. But of course, Captain Clifton had
disproved that prophecy by adoring his cousin, the haughty and beautiful
Miss Clifton. This is a digression—to return—
As the new pang of fear for his mother’s health sped through his heart,
Archer Clifton took her hand—he had a singularly sweet and persuasive
voice and manner, when moved by his affections, and said—
“There is no necessity for it, dear mother. Surely, the motive that
prompted you when I was a lad, and when this farm was our only prospect,
has long ceased to operate.”
“I know it, Archer. For some years past this personal superintendence of
the fields has been more a matter of habit, than a matter of necessity.
If I could find a good manager I might try one.”
“What do you think of Carl Kavanagh in that capacity, mother?”
“Carl! I never thought of him at all. He has never managed a
plantation.”
“But yet he has been a farm laborer many years—has a practical knowledge
of agriculture, and is, besides, a man of more intelligence than is
usually to be found in his class.”
“Yes—he is,” said the lady, thoughtfully.
“He is also a man of excellent moral character, and faultless
habits—qualities not too frequently met with among those of his grade.”
“True—most true—but yet he is young, and has had no experience in
overseeing.”
“And never will have, dear madam, unless some one gives him the
opportunity of making the trial. And as for his youth, mother—why his
youth is positively an advantage—for with his practical knowledge,
intelligence and honesty, he will be free from the conceit and crotchets
of an old manager, and will the more readily fall into your system.”
“There is something in that,” said the lady. “And now, Archer, you will
remain and dine with me to-day. And remember, that when this week is
out, the next week belongs to me. You must bring your friend with you
when you come. Where did you leave him?”
“Playing battledore with Zuleime. But, dear mother, about this Carl
Kavanagh—I hope you will consider the plan favorably, and try him.”
“I will think of it, Archer, because you propose it, if for no other
reason. And now the horn is blowing for the hands to go to dinner, and
my task for the day is relieved. Let us return to the house.”
They turned their animals’ heads, and rode up the ascent, and entered
the shady yard. Then the lady alighted from her mule, gathered up her
riding skirt, and leaning on the arm of her son, entered the house. A
plain but substantial dinner was soon served. Archer Clifton enjoyed his
mother’s plain meals more than the most luxurious dinners—not but that
he had a taste for luxury—what man has not?—but that there was a home
comfort about his mother’s table, that gave him appetite and spirit. And
then, after dinner, he could go and stretch himself upon the best lounge
in that large, shady, breezy parlor, with a book, and read or doze until
she had attended to the putting away of her things, and had locked up
her pantries. Then she would come and sit in the rocking-chair by his
side, while he could stretch himself at ease, in any ungainly attitude
he pleased, and feel what a refreshing thing it was to throw off his
dignity in the presence of the only one with whom he could do so—his own
familiar mother. Not but that he honored—nay, _revered_ her—but that he
enjoyed only in her house, that deep, full sense of home freedom, which
not only her son—but to a certain degree all others felt, who possessed
the privilege of the lady’s friendship.
This afternoon, then, he was lying at his ease on the cool lounge
between the two front windows, which were drawing strong drafts of air,
and flapping the festooned curtains lazily. He had thrown himself out at
full length upon the lounge, in the most delightfully _degagè_ attitude,
albeit it was somewhat angular and awkward—his head being thrown back
over the end of the lounge, his hands clasped above his forehead, and
his elbows very prominent, one foot, minus a slipper, hoisted upon the
window-sill, and the other slippered foot dangling on the carpet. But
the picturesque beauty of his dark, handsome face, atoned for all the
rest. His mother sat in an easy-chair near him, with her feet upon a
footstool, and a work-stand by her side. She was engaged in stitching
wristbands—for that vigorous woman never required a lounge in the
day-time—but though she never took one, yet she never blamed the
indulgence of that habit in others for which she herself felt no
inclination. She was the most liberal and benevolent of all human
beings, in every act of her daily life. She was happy in seeing others
comfortable around her. She was ever pleased to see them enjoying those
relaxations which her own strong nature did not need. Indeed, courage
without asperity, fortitude without indurancy, strength without
hardness, self-denial without sternness, power without arrogance, formed
the peculiar excellence of her character. No wonder that her son revered
her. No wonder it had been said of him, that he never could love a woman
with all the power of his nature, unless in mental and moral
endowments—she resembled his mother. As they talked together this
afternoon, the hours slipped away till late in the evening, before the
image of the beautiful Carolyn had power to draw him from the _tête à
tête_. During the afternoon he had prevailed with his mother to receive
Carl Kavanagh as her overseer—and to have the comfortable log cabin
which had been occupied by the first proprietor of the soil, prepared
for the reception of the family.
When Archer Clifton at length arose to take his leave, he pressed his
mother to his heart with so much fondness and power, that the quiet,
calm lady laughed, a little, low, jolly laugh, and jested about
Carolyn’s jealousy—even of his mother.
* * * * *
Captain Clifton returned to White Cliffs, and gave himself up for the
rest of the evening, to the charms of Carolyn’s conversation.
The next day was one of festivity. Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, came
over to dine at White Cliffs, and to meet a large party of the
neighboring gentry. The day after that, the whole party dined and spent
the evening at Hardbargain—and this was the commencement of a series of
neighborhood entertainments in honor of the approaching marriage, which
were kept up for several weeks. The wedding was to come off in the
course of a month—the present delay being owing to this circumstance:
old Mr. Clifton had sent to England, by the good ship Rockbridge,
Captain Cater, an extensive order, including a splendid outfit for the
bride; and they were now awaiting to hear of the arrival of the
Rockbridge at Norfolk. In all the excitement of social enjoyment,
Captain Clifton had found time to ride to the mountain hut, and arrange
with Carl Kavanagh to come and take the situation of overseer at
Hardbargain. He agreed to pay the latter a liberal salary, and to
provide a comfortable house for his family. One thing surprised and
annoyed him. Kate, who had written so freely, frankly, almost
presumptuously to him—received him with the old cold shyness and
reserve—not even expressing the least gratitude for the kindness he had
shown in getting the situation for her brother, or the trouble he had
condescended to take in coming personally to inform them of it. He
agreed with Carl, that the latter, with his grandfather and sister,
should remove to Hardbargain in the course of the week—and on his own
part he promised to have the log-house prepared for their reception. He
shook hands with the old man and Carl on parting, but when he offered
the same civility to Kate, she turned pale and trembled, and when he
took her hand he found it cold.
“I do not think you are well, my dear girl—your mountain air does not
engender chills, does it?” he asked, pressing the cold fingers.
She raised her eyes one brief instant to his, and dropped them quickly
again, while her pale check and brow became suffused with crimson, and
her hand that he held in his own throbbed like a heart.
“When we get you to the plantation you will be better, my dear girl,”
said Clifton, kindly, shaking her hand and letting it go.
Captain Clifton rode away full of thought—speculating more upon
Catherine’s reserve than became a gentleman of his station and
importance. What was it to him that a rustic girl was too shy to express
in person, her thanks for a favor received, even though she had “screwed
her courage to the sticking place” to write to him and solicit it? Many
people, more conversant with the world than Catherine, can write that
which they never can bring their lips to say. Besides it was no
matter—what was that lowly maiden to him, the heir of Clifton, and the
prospective husband of the highest and haughtiest lady in the land?
Yes—what to him except an object of his high patronage could be that
girl of—not only “humble parentage,” but indubitably _low birth_? He
rode on dissatisfied, he knew not wherefore, with her and himself.
As for Catherine, she stood—lost—where he had left her—lost to the
consciousness of her grandfather’s and of Carl’s presence—with her eyes
fixed upon the ground, blaming herself for her awkwardness and seeming
ingratitude; wondering if _he_ blamed her too; wondering why it was that
when she saw him enter she grew cold and trembled so; and when he spoke
to her in that gentle tone, and looked at her with that gentle gaze—her
whole nature shrank away in fear and trepidation—and though she would
have given the world for the ability to express her gratitude and
regard, all power of uttering a grateful word or of lifting a grateful
glance to his face, deserted, and left her pale and trembling before the
man whom she had no cause to fear, and every reason to trust. Catherine
stood with her mind deep in this problem, until the harsh voice of Carl
startled her, saying, in rasping tones—
“Well! are you going to stand there burrowing your eyes in the ground
all day? A pretty way you have behaved! Please goodness, you’ve got no
more manners than a dumb brute. I take my oath I am ashamed of you! Now
there was Captain Clifton, a gentleman of so high rank, condescending to
come here and tell us himself of the place he had got for us, even after
your unmannerly refusal of that first place—and here were you with not
one _word_ of thanks to give—no! please Heaven, not so much as one civil
_look_! I wonder what he’ll think of you?”
“What, indeed?” repeated Catherine, very meekly.
But Carl scarcely recognized her voice. It was no longer the childish
treble—it was the deep, full, melodious voice of rich womanhood.
“Why, the _kindest_ thought he can have of you, will be to think you are
a _fool_—that is all.”
“Carl, I was in fear of him.”
“In fear of him! In fear of Archer Clifton! A man whom all the country
knows to be of the highest honor—and one to whom even _I_, cautious as
_I_ am, could trust you with, to go from one end of the world to the
other!”
“I know that, Carl—I know he is a gentleman of honor, but—but—I tremble
before him, and have not courage to lift my eyes—”
“But that is so confoundedly ridiculous, now! _why_ are you afraid of
him?”
Kate shook her head and waved her hand in that quick, short manner which
was peculiar to her, and turned away—repeating in her own heart the
question—“Yes, why, _why_, WHY?”
Whether the maiden found an answer to her question or not, remained a
secret to Carl; this was the first and last conversation they ever held
on the subject; and whatever phenomena the opening heart of the maiden
revealed to herself, were carefully shrouded away from the eyes of all.
* * * * *
How beautiful was Carolyn Clifton! So fair, so purely, so divinely fair,
so radiant, so refined, so stately! How fit a consort for the proud
Archer Clifton! How his heart swelled with admiration and pride as he
gazed upon her queenly form—and how it glowed to think that in a very
few days that fair and stately lady, who never deigned to own a passion,
whose love he only guessed by her proud exaction of exclusive service,
who scarcely condescended to extend her snowy hand to his salute—would
be his own, his own, his wife, his property, his other self—whose form
he might press to his bosom in the fullest freedom of possession! And as
he sat by her side and held her hand, and gazed upon her inaccessible,
delightful beauty; oh! how slowly, slowly, to his impatient, burning,
throbbing heart—how slowly, dragged the days and hours.
Well—oh very well would it have been for Archer Clifton, could he have
rent his gaze from his magnetic idol a moment, and caught a certain pair
of evil eyes upon him. Their baleful glare might have shed upon his path
some light to the pitfalls in his way.