THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION.
When through the deep waters I call thee to go
The rivers of wo shall not thee overflow,
For I will be with thee thy troubles to bless,
And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.
When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,
My grace all-sufficient shall be thy supply;
The flame shall not hurt thee, I only design,
Thy dross to consume and thy gold to refine.
PARAPHRASE FROM SCRIPTURE.
The mansion-house at White Cliffs was all but deserted. The very house
servants, pretty mulatto girls, more afraid of destroying their good
looks than losing their lives, had retreated to their own dens, feigning
illness as an excuse to keep out of the reach of contagion. Catherine
was introduced at once into the sick room. That sick room! What mind can
conceive, or what pen _should_ describe it. Only those who have nursed a
patient through that worst form of the most loathsome pestilence, can
realize its revolting horrors. To see any human being looking as the
once beautiful Carolyn now looked. Her very features almost obliterated,
while——fill up the pause, you who have seen the horrors of that pest. It
was worse than any form of illness—it was worse than death and decay.
Disgust almost overmastered pity, and Catherine turned away, shuddering
with sickness of body and soul. Old Mr. Clifton cast one agonized look
upon the ruin, and unable to bear the sight, rushed from the room.
Catherine turned to her duty. The wretched patient was tossing about in
high fever, and tearing her arms and bosom under the intolerable
irritation. That work of destruction must be stopped first Catherine
knew. Catherine caught her right hand, and it took all her strength to
hold that hand, whose flesh seemed as if it would drop off, under the
pressure, while she secured it to the bedstead. Then she captured the
other dashing, tossing hand, and confined it in the same manner. And
then she looked at the state of her own palms. Oh, offensive duty! No
wonder, she thought, that the beautiful Georgia had fled to Richmond,
and the two pretty house-maids were extremely ill in their attic! Had
_she_ a wish to follow their example? No—for now all selfish fears were
lost in deep compassion for the poor, forsaken wreck of beauty, that lay
there at her mercy. She returned to her duty. She administered to her
patient an opiate, to soothe her restlessness. Took a sponge and tepid
water, and thoroughly cleansed the surface of the skin, and anointed
face, bosom and arms with a fragrant emollient, to allay the intolerable
itching. She then released her hands, and laid them easily upon the
counterpane. Lastly, she ventilated and darkened the chamber, and took
her seat by the bedside, to fan her patient while she slept. And deep
was her satisfaction in watching that quiet, refreshing sleep. It is not
my intention to lead my reader through the dismal days that followed in
that sick room, until the “secondary fever,” the crisis of the disease,
came and passed. Catherine nursed her patient tenderly, faithfully,
night and day. Carolyn’s life was spared, but her peerless beauty was
gone forever. Her luxuriant, fair hair was all lost, and her head was as
bald and discolored as her face—and that!
In that darkened chamber, and in the midst of physical suffering and
weakness, Carolyn had had no opportunity of ascertaining the extent of
the ravages the disease had made in her beauty—if indeed she knew the
nature of the former, or thought about the latter. But as she
convalesced, and became able to sit up in bed and converse, she felt an
invalid’s childish curiosity to look in the glass, and frequently
requested her gentle nurse to hand her one. But Catherine, dreading the
effect of the shock, steadily refused to comply with her wishes in that
respect, and perseveringly kept the room darkened. And the sick girl,
too weak to persist long in any controversy, yielded the point.
But one day, while Catherine was at her breakfast, and old Darkey
supplying her place by the bedside of the patient, Carolyn said in a
tone that admitted of no denial, or even delay—
“Darkey, hand me that hand-glass from my dressing-table.”
And the old woman impulsively, thoughtlessly obeyed her, and brought it.
Carolyn was propped up in bed. She took the mirror, gave one interested
look into it—plucked off her little cap—gave another hurried glance—and
uttering a long, low cry of despair, sunk back insensible upon her
pillow.
Old Darkey flew from the chair to the patient, and from the patient to
the bell, in great trepidation—ringing peals that brought all the
household hurrying in alarm to the room. Old Mr. Clifton, being nearest
at hand, arrived first. And when he saw and understood what had
happened, he seized the hand-glass, and threw it out of the window, and
laid hold of the heavy toilet mirror, and sent it flying after. Then he
drove old Darkey from the room, forbidding her, for a stupid and
dangerous maniac, ever to show her face there again. And all this time,
Catherine, who had entered so quietly that no one saw or heard her, was
silently trying to restore the swooning girl. As Carolyn, with a deep
sigh, opened her eyes, Kate motioned for every one to leave the chamber.
And all noiselessly withdrew. Carolyn shivered and shuddered several
times, as she raised her eyes appealingly, despairingly to Catherine,
who was bending tenderly over her. Catherine thought it best to answer
that silent appeal by speaking at once to the point.
“My dear Miss Clifton, you must not think that your face will continue
to look anything like it does now, for it will not, indeed. For though
it is very much discolored, it is not much pitted, and the discoloration
will wear off in a few days. And as for your hair, Miss Clifton, that
will grow out very soon, and be even more beautiful and luxuriant than
before, on account of the renewal of the skin—so, dear lady, take
comfort and do not look in the glass again until you are better.” And
all this time that Catherine spoke in this gentle manner, she was
bathing the girl’s face and hands with bay water, and her tender touch
was even more soothing than the sedative liquid. Catherine was almost
impelled to say—“Have patience—bow to the will of God, and try to learn
the lesson He intends to teach in this.” But she felt the hour had not
come for speaking such words. That she herself must have patience and
wait for the time when she might minister to her spiritual need.
Up to this period, Miss Clifton did not know who her nurse was. She had
heard her called “My dear child,” or “My good girl,” by the physician
and by her father, and they were the only visitors to the room, except
old Darkey, who came to relieve the nurse at meal times, and who simply
called her “Miss.” And if once or twice she had heard her called
Catherine—still she never imagined her to be Kate Kavanagh, but some
hired attendant. And, indeed, in the languor of illness she thought
nothing about it. A few days after this, however, when she had grown
more composed and resigned, and while she lay watching Catherine’s quiet
movements through the room, she said—
“My dear, good girl—my gentle nurse—tell me your name? I _do_ pray
sometimes, and I wish to know your name that I may ask God to bless you
for exposing life and health and beauty for one whom mother, and sister,
and servants all deserted.” Just now, for the first time, it flashed
like lightning through Kate’s mind that all the danger of infection was
over, and that she might now thank God for preserving her from
contagion. Yes! she had forgotten herself for some time past, but now
her heart leaped for joy and gratitude, and she thanked God before she
replied to Miss Clifton’s question, and said—
“My name is Catherine Kavanagh.”
“So!—you are Kate Kavanagh! Hoist up the blind. Come to me. Let me look
at you,” said Miss Clifton, raising on her elbow. Smiling, because
unconscious of the hidden meaning in her words, Catherine approached and
sat down by her bed. And Carolyn took both her hands, and
“Fell to the perusing of her face,
As though she’d learn it off by heart.”
She pored over the broad, square forehead, looking strong, but not
beautiful, for all the bright chestnut hair was pushed carelessly
aside—she gazed upon those dark gray eyes under their long black
fringes—such deep, transparent wells of darkness and light they were—she
dwelt upon the beautiful lips, and then her glance roved over the
symmetrical form. And she thought she had never seen so perfect a
figure. And she sighed and raised her eyes again to the remarkable
countenance, with its large features, pale and cadaverous now with a
long season of confinement, fatigue and loss of sleep, and grave with
thought, and earnest with deep feeling. And she could not settle it to
her satisfaction whether Kate Kavanagh was a sublime beauty or a fright.
Upon the whole, the girl interested and pained her. And she continued to
hold her hands with a nervous grasp, and pore over her face and form as
freely as though she had been only a dreadfully fascinating statue—while
Kate blushed under the infliction, and finally drew her hands away and
sat down.
But every day Miss Clifton’s confidence in, and esteem for Kate
Kavanagh, increased. And every day Catherine sought to draw her
patient’s soul to the only true source of light, strength and
consolation; and to sanctify this terrible affliction to her spirit’s
good. The obligation to do this pressed upon the girl’s conscience
heavily, as if it were the hand of God. It was in vain that she said to
herself, “I am nothing but a weak, erring girl. It would be presumption
in me to speak. It might be received as impertinence, and do more harm
than good.” Still the answer arose from the depths of her heart,
saying—“Speak the fitting words at the fitting time, as they arise
within your mind, for they are the inspiration of God’s spirit.” And
wisely, lovingly, reverently she spoke them as occasion called them
forth. The right thing was always said at the moment it was needed.
“Words spoken in season are like apples of gold on plates of silver.”
Many a willing but bungling Christian would have failed to do Carolyn
any good, for Miss Clifton was a very difficult subject. There is
nothing so hard of impression as pride and scorn and jealousy. It was
the dominion of that infernal triumvirate that made Lucifer an
impracticable subject among the angels. But Catherine was moved and
guided by a higher power than herself. Of herself she dared say nothing
on Divine subjects. She only spoke when strongly, irresistibly impelled
to do so. And her words were blessed to her patient and sanctified to
her own spirit.
Catherine had a powerful coadjutor in her good work. It was the sorrow
in Carolyn’s heart. And ah, who could sound the depth of that sorrow?
Loving as passionately as she had loved! Sinning against that love as
cruelly as she had sinned! Punished for her sin as terribly as she was
punished! And now ruined and hideous in person, and wrecked and
despairing in mind, to whom could she cry in her sharp agony but to
God?—her Creator and Father!—Whose arm was strong enough to lift her
from that horrible pit but God’s—but God’s? And the All-Powerful, the
All-Merciful, was helping her every day.
The great strength, the great vitality of her sorrow, was the thought of
Archer Clifton. Could she have hoped for a reconciliation with him,
however distant, all else might have been borne. But with that death’s
head of hers, such joy might never be hoped—ought never to be wished.
No, she was as the leper, set apart from human love—at least from
conjugal and maternal love—forever and forever! This was hard—this was
well nigh intolerable!
She would no more grace the saloon with her surpassing loveliness—the
pride of her family—the ornament of their house. Her heart would no more
swell with exultation, when, on entering the drawing-room, in the full
glory of her peerless beauty, she would hear a murmur of admiration pass
through the company. No. If she should ever enter a saloon again, she
would make a tremendous sensation, truly—but it would be one of
astonishment, pity, and perhaps disgust. And that thought was dreadful,
dreadful to the proud young belle! But oh! it was as nothing to the
feeling that her household gods were broken and ruined forever—that her
hopes of domestic happiness were gone forever! For underneath all the
pride and vanity and scorn of the young belle had been the woman’s
thought, the woman’s hope of the coming long, calm days of wife and
mother joy. Yea, as surely as under the burnished satin boddice had beat
the heart of flesh! But all these were over now; the proud, vain
aspirations of the belle, and the woman’s deeper, purer hopes! Both
crushed by one fell blow! All was lost in the world! Nothing was left
but Heaven!
“If God would take
A heart that earth had crushed.”
Many are driven by the storms of life to the Heavenly Father’s bosom. It
is for this that the tempests of sorrow are sent, and the sooner that
Divine sanctuary is sought, the better, for hard and harder will beat
the storm until its end is answered. And too often all is lost, or seems
lost, before we consent to save ourselves. With Carolyn, all the
treasures of her youth were gone,—health and beauty, love and hope.
Something like this she breathed to Catherine, in a weak, despairing
mood,—for only in a miserably depressed state of mind and body would the
proud girl deign to complain.
“Dear lady, do not say so sadly that ‘all is lost—forever lost.’ Dear
lady, _nothing is ever lost_. It is impossible. The Lord, in His Divine
Wisdom, may withdraw His gifts, but they are not lost—they have gone
into His keeping.”
“I do not comprehend you! My poor good looks, such as they were, are
surely gone forever. Nothing can restore them! And oh, Catherine! you do
not know—you cannot understand all the blessings, the hope, and the joy
of my life fled forever! You are a child—you do not understand it!”
“Perhaps I do not, lady, and perhaps I _do_! Seek all that you have lost
in God! He has withdrawn His gifts, your treasures, that He may draw you
to Himself! They are safe in His treasure house. If you have lost the
beauty of the fair roseate complexion, He can endow you with a higher
beauty, emanating from the soul. If you have lost human love, He can
satisfy your soul with the richness and fullness of Divine love that
never faileth! And for your broken earthly hopes, He can give you the
Heavenly hope that never dieth.”
“Oh! but it is the lost earthly hope, personal beauty and human love,
that were so dear to me! So dear to me!” exclaimed the poor girl,
bursting into a passion of tears.
“And He can restore even those! ‘But seek ye _first_ the Kingdom of
Heaven, and all these things shall be added to you.’”
“Ah, child! _Nothing_ but a miracle could give me back dead happiness.
And the days of miracles are over!”
“No! no! There is nothing in the Scripture to warrant that saying. The
days of miracles are _not_ passed. Until the days of human faith and
Divine Omnipotence are past—the days of miracles are not passed.
Anything that _seems_ to me right that I should have, I will pray
God—that if it _be_ right, He will give it me—though it should appear to
my ignorance utterly impossible!” Then Catherine abruptly stopped,
fearing that she had said too much. And she silently prayed for a faith
that should be as far removed from presumption, as from despair.
Carolyn convalesced very slowly. It was weeks before she left her bed.
And then many more weeks before she left her room.
It was a glorious day in Autumn, when she first walked out upon the
lawn, supported between Catherine and her father. And as soon as she set
foot upon the green sward, some cattle that were browsing there—by some
caprice to which cattle are subject—started off as if seized by sudden
panic, and ran huddling together confusedly, and precipitating
themselves towards the outer gate. And so weak were the poor invalid’s
nerves, and so morbid her mind, that she burst into tears, and declared
that the very brutes fled from before her face, as from one less human
than themselves! Nor could any argument of Mr. Clifton’s or of
Catherine’s, disabuse her mind of this absurd idea. She begged Catherine
to take her back to her chamber. And for many weeks no entreaties could
induce her to leave it.
Zuleime came freely to her sister now. She had her harp brought into her
room. And she soothed the recluse with music every day. And at last Kate
Kavanagh, who had gradually merged from nurse into companion, added her
own rich, full-toned voice in accompaniment. The Misses Clifton were
both very much surprised to see this “gift of gracious nature” thrown
away upon a poor girl, with no hopes or prospects but manual labor for
her living. And Zuleime, who could be thoughtful and benevolent in the
midst of anxiety and sorrow, proposed to give Catherine lessons on the
harp. But this was soon stopped. Both Zuleime and Catherine perceived
that the music, far from soothing, seemed to irritate the invalid. And
for this reason, Carolyn had lost her voice. She could never sing again.
And even in speaking, her tones were harsh and rough. The harp was
banished, and books were brought. And while Zuleime worked, and Carolyn
fondled a little King Charles, that had been bought for the childish
invalid, Kate read aloud to the sisters. And now it was that the world
of _written_ poetry broke upon the maiden’s delighted view. Before this,
she had never read a line of poetry in her life, except hymns—for Mrs.
Clifton had judiciously suppressed all books of that nature. But now the
treasures of Milton, Goldsmith, and Cowper, were opened to her ardent
mind! Oh, those days that followed the convalescence of Miss
Clifton—those evenings after Carolyn had gone to rest, when she and
Zuleime would go into the summer saloon and spend the hours in music or
poetry, or in talk as musical, and as poetic. Those evenings, spent with
a refined, warm-hearted girl like Zuleime—they were unfitting her for
her prospective hard life of coarse labor and coarser association. She
felt that it was so. And she determined to leave. She only waited until
Mr. Clifton went to Richmond and brought back his wife. And then she
bade them all good-bye and returned home—not to the farm-house of
Hardbargain, but to her brother Carl’s cabin.
She needed to commune with herself, and be still. She wished to descend
into the unsounded abysses of her heart, and examine, though with awe,
the mystery of iniquity that in some unguarded hour had germinated
there—this growing passion for a man betrothed to another. No matter if
the marriage was broken off for the present. They loved each other. And
_that_ was the true betrothal. As for herself, she would, with the grace
of God, turn out this dangerous bosom guest, so divinely fair as to seem
like an angel of light rather than the tempting demon that it was! And
to do this effectually, she must break every tie that held her to that
fair illusive life she had lately led. She must forsake every
association connected with her sin and folly. She loved Mrs.
Clifton—loved her first for herself alone, and then as the mother of—one
whose name she dared not now to breathe even to herself. She enjoyed the
congenial society and occupations at White Cliffs and at Hardbargain.
And now she was the most welcome visitor on the list of both families.
But she must forego the privilege this gave her. More than all, she had
enjoyed her pleasant life at Hardbargain. The cheerful housekeeping
cares she had shared with its mistress—the conversations over the
pleasant tea-table or the social work-stand—the books, the newspapers,
and the evening music, and the society of the admirable Mrs.
Clifton—these formed the externals, the body of her happiness; but the
interior, the soul of her joy, was that _there_ was the home of Archer
Clifton—the place pervaded by his spirit! redolent of him! But all these
_must_ be abandoned! They might have affinity for her nature, but they
did not belong to her lot in life. And see what they had brought her to!
Even to an insane passion for her benefactor! And now it was high time
she had come to her senses and self-recollection. She was a poor girl,
of the humblest birth—born in poverty and destined to poverty. She must
leave off spending evenings with refined and accomplished young ladies
in elegant saloons, if she wished to do her duty in that station to
which God had called her. And she must give up the society of Archer
Clifton’s mother, if she wished to forget him. And she must betake
herself to the coarse, hard, but dutiful life of her brother’s cabin.
Catherine went no more to White Cliffs or to Hardbargain. And when Mrs.
Clifton sent for her to come and spend a day, she returned a gentle
answer that she could not leave her grandfather.