THE SEVERED HEARTS.
Alas! how slight a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love—
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;
That stood the storm when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fell off,
Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When Heaven was all tranquillity!
A something light as air—a look—
A word unkind or wrongly taken;
Oh, love that tempests never shook,
A breath—a touch like this hath shaken.—MOORE.
Some hours after the arrival of the company, old Mr. Clifton sat alone
in his study, examining piles of accounts, merchants’, mechanics’, and
hired laborers’ bills, that had come in as usual upon the first of July,
many weeks before, yet had not, up to this night, been settled. For many
years past the financial affairs of the Master of Clifton had been
falling behindhand. The cause of this was that no plantation and
plantation house can thoroughly succeed without the personal
superintendence of an efficient _mistress_ to assist the master’s
effort. Often, indeed, it happens, that while the master himself is
engaged in state politics, or off at the legislature, or at congress, or
on the circuit as a judge of the court, or in the metropolis of the
state, or of the nation, holding some high office under the
government—the mistress, at home upon the plantation, is the main-spring
of all its business—superintending—not only the house and house-maids,
with their multifarious cares and avocations, such as a city housewife
cannot conceive of, but managing the plantation also—keeping the
overseer to his duty, adjudging equitably all difficulties that may
arise between him and the slaves under his charge—looking over all the
numerous accounts, paying debts, and, when necessary, retrenching
expenses. Now the Clifton plantation had been singularly unfortunate in
a series of inefficient mistresses, even before it fell in regular
succession to the present Mr. Clifton. And after that, affairs were
worse than ever. His first wife, the haughty Miss Gower, the mother of
Carolyn, was far too great a lady to look after a housekeeper and
overseer, and her successors had been all young girls, very worthless,
except as pets and playthings, and who had, besides, to be indulged
every year with their winters in Richmond, or in Washington—a two-fold
evil, as it took the master from his plantation and men, and the
mistress from her house and maids, and laid them, besides, under the
heavy expense of city hotel living, dressing, dinner-giving, theatres,
balls, concerts, etc. Once in awhile, as a bridal treat, or at the
successive “coming out” of daughters, a winter in the metropolis may be
well enough. But when continued year after year, through a lifetime, to
the total neglect of the plantation, the revenues of no ordinary estate
will hold out. So it followed, that as the master and mistress ceased to
look after the overseer and the housekeeper, the overseer and
housekeeper ceased to look after the men and maids, and the men and
maids grew careless and indolent in the performance of their duties.
Thus, as the expenses rose, the income fell. And thus, at the present
time, old Mr. Clifton was almost irredeemably in debt, and all the
Clifton property, except the land, mortgaged to its full value. The
mortgage might foreclose at any instant. And at this present moment, the
poor old master of great Clifton had not the ready money to pay his
harvest hands. The extent of his liabilities was, however, so little
known in the neighborhood, that his credit was still good, and almost
high—and the estate of White Cliffs was still considered as one of the
most prosperous in the county, and the owners still held as very
enviable people. While old Mr. Clifton sat pondering most dismally over
his impracticable accounts, the study door was suddenly thrown open, and
Miss Clifton entered, in great excitement, and threw herself into a
chair before her father, exclaiming—
“Father, I have been insulted!”
The old man, never indifferent to his children’s cry—ever ready in the
midst of his own real cares, to hear and sympathize even with their
fantastic griefs—looked up from his papers in perplexity, inquiring—
“What is it? What did you say, my child?”
“I have been insulted!—outraged, sir!”
The old man gazed at her in surprise, repeating—
“‘Insulted, outraged!’”
“Yes, sir! contemned, despised, scorned, insulted, outraged,
_rejected_!”
The old man placed his hands upon the arms of the chair and gazed in
astonishment, exclaiming—
“‘Insulted!—outraged!’ Whom? You, my daughter Miss Clifton!
_Impossible._”
“Yes, sir! me, your daughter—Carolyn Clifton!”
“Who has presumed—who has dared—?”
“Captain Clifton, sir, ‘has dared!’” replied the indignant beauty,
rising in her excitement.
The old gentleman stared at her in blank wonder for a minute, and
then—taking her hand—
“Sit down—sit down—sit down—sit down,” he kept repeating, “and tell me
all about it.”
Carolyn drank a glass of ice water that stood near her on the table, and
then, in a cooler manner, told her father exactly what had passed, and
how it had finally ended.
The old gentleman scratched his snow-white head in vexation and
perplexity, but the winter bloom of his broad, rosy face, was neither
heightened nor lowered at the hearing of the tale. He did not by any
means display the indignation the offended beauty had expected.
“Well, sir!” at last she said, rather haughtily, “what do you say to
this?”
He put his arm fondly around her waist, and drew her to him, saying,
caressingly—
“You’re a fool, Carolyn! A vain, jealous little fool, that’s all! Nay,
now!—no airs with your old father! According to your own showing, it has
been Archer that has been ‘contemned, despised, scorned, insulted,
outraged, rejected!’ and the rest of it—and upon no just grounds,
either! as I can easily prove to you. I am very much mortified—deeply
humbled, indeed, to hear that my daughter, a highborn young maiden,
should have forgotten her feminine pride and delicacy, and approached
her lover with an intimacy with a mountain-girl—a race of women, with
very few exceptions so low and wretched, that a young lady should ignore
their very existence. Oh, my conscience, Carolyn! why do you not cover
your face, and die with humiliation? I do not wonder a man of such high
honor and delicate sensibility as Archer Clifton, should have been
shocked and disgusted. Nay, my child!—no airs with me! No tossing of the
head, and curling of the lip with me! I am your father. You must listen
to me. You have done Archer the most outrageous injustice. And your
jealousy is as ridiculous as it is indelicate. In the first place, this
girl, though brought up on the mountain, comes of respectable, if humble
parentage, and possesses, by all accounts, a higher toned moral and
intellectual nature than most young _ladies_ are endowed with. She is as
far removed from vice as my own Carolyn! In the second place, she is the
protégé of _Mrs._ Clifton, as well as of Captain Clifton, and enjoys
that excellent lady’s esteem and friendship, spending half of every day
in her company, except when visitors are at the house. In the third and
last place, she is not a beautiful woman, but an ugly child—being
scarcely fourteen years of age, and having the ugliest face I ever saw
in my life—at least _I_ think so, though Mrs. Clifton says it is a noble
face. It has large features, and is full of strength and expression,
like a boy’s. There, now, that’s all! Now! what do you think of
yourself?”
During this short explanation, Carolyn’s beautiful countenance had
changed expression as rapidly and as variously as during the lay of the
minstrel the harp changes and varies its notes. At its close she dropped
down by the side of the old man, and throwing her arms and her head upon
his knees, in utter weakness and dejection, sobbed—
“Father! how shall I _ever_ be forgiven?”
He raised her to his knee, and putting his arm around her waist, drew
her head upon his bosom, and said—
“It is an ugly lover’s quarrel, certainly, my love! And Archer Clifton
is as proud as you are! But it must be made up! It must be made up! A
very ugly quarrel, indeed. And on the eve of your marriage, too! But it
must be made up! It must be made up! Ah, doubtless he will be over
to-morrow night! He feels as bad as you do, I’ll warrant he does! I’ll
warrant he does! _I_ should, I know, if I were he!”
“Ah, father! no he does not! He was in the right! I was in the wrong!”
“Yes! you were wrong, Carry! And I hope it will be a lesson to you! But
that makes no difference in _his_ feelings, not a whit! He suffers as
much as you do! Why, when I have a difficulty with my poor little pet,
Georgia, if she is ever so wrong, and I ever so right, I am nevertheless
the most miserable man alive!”
“Ah, father, but there is a great difference—I am not Archer’s pet, but
was to be his consort. We—Archer and myself, are nearly equal in
station, ay, education, disposition, and so are more responsible for our
conduct towards each other!” sighed Carolyn, dropping her head
dejectedly upon his bosom.
“Oh, well! now if you are so full of doubts and fears! it is but ten
o’clock! I will mount my horse, and ride up to Hardbargain, and knock
the young gentleman up—I doubt if he is asleep!—and bring him back here,
to-night!”
“Not for the world! Not for ten thousand worlds!” exclaimed the proud
girl, vehemently.
“Ah, then I don’t know what to do with you—go to bed, and try to sleep,
and if you can’t do that, ring for the housekeeper, and make her give
you some of her nostrums, to put you to sleep! And go into a state of
non-existence, that shall obliterate the time between this and to-morrow
morning. And to-morrow, I’ll warrant Archer will be here to breakfast
with us, and to beg _your_ pardon for the sins that _you_ committed! for
that’s the end of all lovers’ quarrels! No matter who’s right and who’s
wrong—who’s sinned against, and who’s sinning, the gentleman has to do
the penance! There! kiss me, and be off with you!—and hark ye, Carolyn!
don’t forget to kneel down and pray Heaven to give you the grace of a
meeker temper!”
Carolyn Clifton went to her room and retired to bed, to heat her pillow
with her feverish head, to wet it with her hot tears—to sigh, and groan,
and toss, and sob all night. This bitter, bitter quarrel, was the first
trouble the girl had ever had in all her favored life. And she was
impatient with it, indignant at it. She was angry with herself for her
injustice and indelicacy; angry with Clifton for not forcing upon her
the explanation she would not consent to receive, but which, had she
been forced to hear, would have arrested the quarrel, and saved this
cruel suffering; angry at the tedious night, that lingered so long,
keeping her in agonizing suspense; angry at the morning, that delayed
its coming, and bringing her the peace and joy of a reconciliation. And
so she tossed, and groaned, and suffered, like one in high fever, while
the long, long night was slowly, slowly passing away.
* * * * *
In the meantime Captain Clifton had ridden away, not so angry as
shocked, repulsed and alienated by the unprecedented behaviour of his
lady-love. He disliked all demonstrations of emotion, and detested all
exhibitions of evil passion in a woman. It was the high-bred delicacy
and refinement—the queenly placidity—the cool reserve and stately
dignity of Carolyn Clifton, that had attracted his first admiration. And
though he sometimes gallantly complained of her cruelty, he would not
have had her manner one degree warmer. But now this fair, cool, peerless
queen o’er herself and her emotions, had yielded to passions that might
govern a serving-maid—to suspicion, jealousy, and fierce anger—had
descended to virulent, vituperative abuse! And, henceforth, she was
discrowned, and degraded from her pride of place.
He arrived at Hardbargain—gave his horse in charge of a servant, and
entered the house.
The candles were just lighted in the parlor, and Mrs. Clifton and her
favorite Kate sat sewing by the work-stand. As he entered, Kate arose as
usual with the intention of withdrawing, but he signed to her with his
hand, and said in a tone of command—
“No—stay, Catherine, and once for all give up that habit of retiring as
soon as myself, or any other visitor enters.”
The young girl returned to her seat and resumed her work. Then with a
sort of spirit of persecution upon him, as one would think, he went to
the maiden and inquired, impatiently—
“_Why_ do you always do that? _Why_ do you always rise and leave as soon
as any one enters the room?”
She glanced up at him with those large, shy eyes, and instantly veiled
them again, while the blush deepened on her cheek. Her heart—her
disobedient, rebellious heart, that would not be calm when she bade
it—was beating fast against her bosom, as it ever beat, when he looked
at her, or spoke to her. To have saved her soul alive, she could not
have put her motive into words, and told him that she ever feared her
society, or even her presence, might not be as acceptable to Mrs.
Clifton’s visitors as it was to that kind lady herself. She only bowed
her head and blushed the deeper that she could not answer, and yet
deeper still, that she felt him gazing on her. He _was_ gazing on
her!—gazing down on that beautiful, dark auburn hair, rippling and
glittering under the light of the lamp—on that broad monarchal forehead,
on those even eyebrows and long eyelashes, dropping fine shadows on the
glowing cheek—yes! gazing and thinking of Major Cabell’s enthusiastic
admiration, and wondering why all the world did not agree with him in
thinking that countenance grandly beautiful! Yet even while admiring her
so much, he spoke angrily, and said—
“Catherine! You have a second habit even worse than the first! Lately
you have taken up the practice of not replying to me when I ask you a
question—and when you are obliged to raise your eyes to mine, you drop
them instantly as if mine burnt them. Now I have always disliked and
suspected eyes that cannot look freely into _other_ eyes!”
At this the very forehead of the girl burned with a crimson flush.
Clifton took hold of her hand, which fluttered in his own like a
frightened bird, and said, in a kinder tone—
“Come, my child! see now if you can look me honestly in the face, and
tell me why you will not talk to me?”
But Kate’s distress became so great that Mrs. Clifton interposed, and
said—
“_Do_, Archer, leave her alone! It does seem to me, son, that you take a
malicious pleasure in tormenting that poor girl because she is so shy!
Don’t mind him, Kate! He has been a tease ever since he was a boy, when
he used to pull the ears of kittens and puppy dogs. Take up your work,
child, and hurry on with it. And you, Archer! I am as much surprised as
pleased to see you back here to-night. To what am I indebted for the
pleasure?”
“My dear mother, I will tell you after awhile—let me be quiet now a
little time.”
And Mrs. Clifton looked up in surprise, and noticed, for the first time,
how deeply troubled was Archer Clifton’s face. After watching him a few
minutes as he sat and watched Kate, she said, suddenly—
“Oh! I have a letter for you—arrived by the afternoon mail. Henry
brought it from the post-office this evening after you left. Perhaps it
was in quest of that you came, and its contents may dispel your
uneasiness,” and rising, the lady went to the card rack, hanging above
the mantle-piece, and brought him a letter, which he tore open and read
hastily. Then starting up, he exclaimed, “Good! Good! Most excellent,
most opportune!”
“What is it, my dear Archer? I am very glad it gives you such
satisfaction, at any rate! What is it?”
“An order from head-quarters to join my regiment immediately, to take
command of a detachment to march within ten days for the Indian
frontier—to put down an insurrection there!”
“No!” exclaimed the lady, in amazement.
“Yes, indeed, my good mother!” replied Archer Clifton, exultingly.
“_No!_ You astonish me! Ordered upon active duty—upon distant and
dangerous service at the very time you are about to be married! Call you
that opportune—fortunate? I call it most _in_opportune, _un_fortunate!”
“Ah! madam, you do not know! What, and if my marriage were already
broken off! Is it not lucky—I mean providential, that I can join my
regiment immediately, and depart for a distant scene, and active
service, in which I may forget the sorrow and the humiliation!”
“Your marriage broken off? What? Now, at the last moment? A marriage
that has been looked forward to for so many years? To be broken off when
every thing is ready! Impossible, it cannot be!”
“I assure you upon my word, madam, it is but too true!”
“Why—what—_do_ you tell me?” exclaimed the lady, in increasing
astonishment. “When did it happen? What caused it? Had Mr. Clifton
anything to do with it?”
“It happened this evening after my return to Clifton. Mr. Clifton had
nothing whatever to do with it—not having reached home at the time it
occurred. It was occasioned by a most humiliating quarrel between myself
and Miss Clifton!”
“Oh, a quarrel! A lovers’ quarrel! That is nothing! Though, in truth, it
surprises me that the calm, proud Carolyn should descend to such a
thing, as it does that my own son should deign to take a part in it. But
it is really nothing! Such things occur in almost every courtship!”
“And those who quarrel in courtship should never venture upon
matrimony.”
“Ah! that is an inhuman, unfaithful sentiment, my son! Young people are
like other young natures, petulant, vain, irascible, exacting—but life
trains them into modesty, sobriety, forbearance. For this quarrel,
Archer, it must be adjusted! It shall be to-morrow morning!”
“No, madam, it shall not! This quarrel is irreconcilable, believe me!”
“Pooh, pooh! _What! with Carolyn?_ Nonsense!”
“Mother! you shall judge! She has descended from her high place of
maidenly pride and delicacy, and betraying the most revolting phases of
suspicion, jealousy and fierce anger she has charged me with infidelity,
base treachery and vice!”
“Dreadful! dreadful! as all angry words and acts ever are! _But not
unpardonable!_ Spoken in the frenzy of passion—they will be retracted
to-morrow! And then you must be reconciled. Things must go on as they
have been planned. There must be no discreditable exposure of this
affray. The marriage must take place, as proposed, to-morrow evening.
Then, if you _must_ join your regiment, why it will be easily
_understood_ that you must. And there will be no reproach under those
circumstances in leaving your newly wedded bride under her father’s
protection!”
“Impossible, madam! Miss Clifton has to-night exhibited her character
and disposition in such revolting colors, that I can never, never take
her to my bosom!”
“You are angry now, Archer! You will think better of it! I trust in
Heaven you may do so before there is an exposure. Think what will be the
astonishment of the wedding-company who will assemble to-morrow
evening—the mortification of the family at Clifton, and worse than all,
the scandal! the nine days wonder!”
“I thought my dear mother had too strong a mind to fear these bugbears
of the little, when a just occasion for meeting and braving them
occurs.”
“But I do not consider this an adequate occasion. That this quarrel will
be finally adjusted, I firmly believe. And I think it a pity and a shame
that to-morrow evening, three hundred guests should be disappointed and
dispersed, to spread a subject of speculation and scandal all over the
country. And this merely because you will yet a little longer indulge
your anger!”
“I am not angry, mother. If I were only angry I should let the marriage
go on, if Miss Clifton thought proper to do so, for I should know that
my anger would pass away. No, I am not angry, mother, but shocked,
repulsed, and totally estranged. I could no more marry Miss Clifton now,
than I could take any other loathed object to my bosom! The idea makes
me shudder!”
“Still I affirm that all this is intense anger, nothing else, and that
there will come a reaction. Why in anger, Archer, the object is as much
loathed as in love it is desired—but _that_ is temporary, and _this_, I
hope, you will find permanent. I hope, at bottom, you respect Carolyn?
_I esteem_ her. She has been a spoiled child, but has so many
undeveloped good qualities, that she only wants the discipline of a
little affection to make her a very excellent woman. I shall say no more
about this affair to-night, but wait to see what disposition I shall
find you in to-morrow!”
At this moment there was a knock at the door, and instantly afterwards
Henny came in and informed her mistress that Mr. Kavanagh had come to
take his sister home.
“Ask Mr. Kavanagh to sit down in the hall. Put up your sewing,
Catherine, my dear!” said the lady.
Catherine arose to fold up her work, while Captain Clifton looked very
much as if he would like to stop her again.
“Does she not remain with you at night, madam?”
“Certainly not—her brother always comes for her at bedtime.”
“How early does she come in the morning?”
“She never comes in the morning. Catherine has her own domestic affairs
to attend to during the forenoon. She never gets here till late in the
afternoon.”
“Then I shall not see her to-morrow—not see her again for many
months—perhaps _never_ see her again! Come here, Catherine!”
Catherine came to his side, and stood, as usual, with her eyes fixed
upon the ground, and her cheek painfully flushed. He took her hand and
pressed it in his own, while he said—
“Catherine! you have heard all that passed between myself and Mrs.
Clifton, this evening?”
A quick, short, but not ungraceful nod was all her answer.
“And you know that I am going away on a distant and dangerous service; I
leave here very early in the morning—I may never come back, Catherine,”
he said, slowly, looking at her steadily.
Her hand in his grew cold—her cheek paled—her heart stopped still as
death—but no word did she speak in reply.
“Catherine! before I go, I intend to give you a command—do you hear me?”
A spasmodic nod was her reply.
“I may be gone many years. In the meanwhile you will grow up to
womanhood, Catherine; do not have any lovers—_beaux_—as young girls call
them, while I am away—and above all things, do not choose a husband
without first consulting me through my mother.”
Not knowing what to reply to this, Catherine remained perfectly silent.
“Will you obey me in this, girl?” he asked, rather impatiently.
A low, earnest choking “Yes sir,” was her answer.
“Kiss me, then! for I may never return,” said Archer Clifton, folding
her for one moment to his bosom, and pressing a kiss upon her full lips.
But her lips grew cold at the touch—her face paled and fell away from
his bosom—her form drooped and sank back over his arm, where she lay
like one dead, in a swoon.
Surprised, alarmed, Clifton raised her in both arms, and hastened to the
lounge, where he laid her, calling to his mother. The lady came forward
without any trepidation, and bringing a bottle of Hungary water, began
to chafe her temples and face, and finally gave that task to Clifton,
while she herself loosened Kate’s dress.
“What could have been the cause of this, mother? Is she subject to these
attacks?”
“I never knew her to faint before, though I have seen her under very
trying circumstances with that old man, her grandfather.”
“What could have occasioned it?”
“Why, the sudden news of your going away on dangerous service, of
course,” said Mrs. Clifton, as she resumed the bottle, and continued to
chafe the girl’s face and hands. “The child loves you, Archer; she has a
very grateful, affectionate heart, and very strong feelings. She loves
us both. And when you bade her good-bye, for a long and perilous
absence, is it strange she should have been overcome? When _soldiers_
talk of danger, _children_ may be forgiven for being frightened. Do go
and tell Kavanagh that Kate must remain here to-night, and dismiss him.”
He went, and before he came back again, Kate, with a long drawn sigh,
had opened her eyes and recovered.
“You must raise her, and take her up stairs, my dear Archer. She must
suffer no more agitation to-night,” said Mrs. Clifton.
And he lifted the form of Catherine, and took her up stairs, while his
mother called Henny. When they had laid the young girl on a bed, and
left her to the care of Henny, and had returned to the parlor
again—Captain Clifton said—
“Mother! take care of that girl! She has been the innocent, unconscious
cause of my trouble to-day, but I cannot feel dislike or even
indifference towards her. Take care of that humble maiden, mother, as if
she were your daughter and my sister. Don’t let any rustic beaux come
near her, mother. I cannot endure the idea of her marrying, or even
being wooed by any low, miserable fellow of her brother’s grade. And do
not permit any young gentleman of the neighborhood to trifle with her
heart, or endanger her good name. You know how easily, even without her
fault, that sole possession of a poor maiden is lost. The thought that
such an unmerited misfortune should befall Kate, exasperates me beyond
measure, and I feel like quarreling with the whole order of society!”
“What, you! the proud conservator of rank! Truly Archer, one would think
Carolyn _had some little ground_ of complaint!” said the lady, with her
little, low, half dignified, half jolly laugh.
“This from _you_ mother!” exclaimed Archer Clifton, reproachfully. “I
thought you knew me better. You _do_ know me better! But I must have
some hand in this girl’s good fortune.”
Mrs. Clifton, who was walking about the room, quietly setting things in
order for the night, made no reply, but only smiled. And soon after she
lighted a night lamp, and placing it in the hand of her son, bade him
good-night, and retired to her chamber. Captain Clifton remained pacing
up and down the room, in troubled thought, some time after she had left,
before seeking his own couch.