A DOMESTIC SCENE
A light, commodious chamber,
Looking out to the hills, where the shine
Of the great sun may enter.—MARY HOWITT.
Nearly twelve months have passed since the death of Mr. Clifton. It is
October, the most glorious month in the year, when the gorgeous beauty
of nature more than satisfies—when it enraptures the soul.
I shall introduce you into a chamber, whose three large windows look out
upon the scene of glorious magnificence, only to be found when
mountains, vales and forests wear their gorgeous autumn livery. It is a
very large apartment, so long and lofty, that the great four-post
bedstead, standing with its head against the upper end, is not in the
way. At the lower end of the room, there is an old-fashioned fire-place,
where an oak fire is burning. The floor is covered with an ingrain
carpet, of warm, rich hues. The bedstead, lounge and cushioned chairs
are clothed with dark, bright chintz. The windows are curtained with
orange-colored damask, which give a mellow, autumnal tone to the
atmosphere of the room. The curtains are festooned back, to admit the
sunshine, and the glorious view without.
The lounge is drawn up to the left of the fire-place, and Carolyn
Clifton, in deep mourning, reclines upon it. She is very much changed
since we saw her last. There is scarcely a trace of her disease
left—only a few pits scattered thinly over the lower part of the chin
and throat. But she is very, very fragile, and her thin, white face is
almost spectral, in contrast with her black dress. Her fair hair has
grown out richer, sunnier in hue than before. It is just long enough to
turn, in natural, smooth ringlets, that reach to her throat. And she
wears it so. And those bright curls soften and shade the pearly
whiteness of her cheek. The expression of her countenance has changed
also. It wears a subdued, almost patient air of suffering. She is
beautiful, although now that the roundness and bloom of her cheek are
gone, she does not think so. She is beautiful, as she lies there
contemplating, with remorseful tenderness, a miniature that she has
drawn from her bosom.
In the cushion chair, on the right of the fire-place, sits Catherine
Kavanagh. She has also changed within the year. Her form is fuller,
rounder, more womanly. Her grave, almost stern features, have softened
into gentleness. Her voice is softer and deeper. Its tones indeed are
very beautiful, and modulated with every shade of feeling. She wears her
hair in the same old style, parted over the forehead, rippling down in
dark, bright wavelets around her cheeks, and carried behind, and woven
with the back hair into a large plait, and then rolled round and round
into a succession of rings—a rich, dark, burnished mass of hair—
“Golden where the sunlight played,
But where the tendrils sought the shade,
Dark, but very beautiful.”
Her dress of dark brown stuff, with the little white throat-ruffle, and
the black silk apron, is not very becoming to her. But she thinks too
little of her personal appearance, to care for any quality in her
clothing beyond neatness and comfort. She is knitting very leisurely,
stopping occasionally to measure the stocking she is engaged upon with
the finished one which lies upon her lap. Kate is silent and thoughtful.
All her life, up to this date, has been passed in the ministry to
sorrow—yes, to all sorts of sorrow—to the suffering arising from vice—to
the despair caused by evil passions—to common illness—to pestilence
forsaken of all but her—to death! Yes! But little turned of sixteen
years of age, and to all these forms of human misery had she been—not a
ministering angel, but a ministering child and woman—that ministry of
sorrow had filled up all her years, from early childhood, to this hour.
Now her days were passed in soothing and cheering the solitude and
depression of her invalid companion. And Kate was grave and thoughtful,
because she was tempted to think that life was made up of nothing else
but trouble. Her hope in happiness beyond her experience was faint. Her
faith was dim. And no wonder. It seemed time she saw some one else’s
happiness, if not her own. It was hard to pour the words of faith, hope
and cheerfulness into the ear of another, when the fountain in her own
heart was failing. It was only a temporary darkening and failing of the
spirit. A silent, earnest prayer, and all was clear and strong again.
The room was provocative of thought, if not of pensiveness. It was so
still and warm and mellow, between the fire and the golden sunshine
coming softened through the curtains. And both girls were silent, while
Kate leisurely plied her knitting-needles, and Carolyn contemplated the
miniature. At last Miss Clifton spoke—
“Catherine, look upon that face. Study it. Should you believe, now, that
the owner of that beautiful face could be unrelenting, unforgiving?” And
she passed the miniature to her companion. Kate received it—glanced at
it. It was a faithful likeness of Archer Clifton. And those features, so
long unseen, and now suddenly revealed, thrilled with such electric
power to the heart of the girl, that after the first recognizing glance,
she instantly returned it. And though her heart had paused in its
pulsations, and now throbbed thick and fast, she answered, calmly—
“He is not unrelenting or unforgiving, Miss Clifton.”
“Oh! he is! he is! It has been fifteen months since we parted in anger,
and no word or sign from him yet. Oh! Kate, what do you think of it?”
“I think he truly loves you, Miss Carolyn.”
“Oh! he _did_—he _did_, but I scorned and insulted him, and it is past,
past!”
“There is no past tense to real love, lady.”
“Ah, Catherine, you speak of what you have had no experience in. My
scorn killed his love.”
“Real love is immortal, lady, it cannot be killed.”
“Ah, child, you speak without knowledge.”
“Without experimental knowledge, Miss Clifton. And all the highest
truths we have are obtained without experimental knowledge. I know that
true affection is undying, by the same light that without the Bible
shows me that God exists—that He made all souls, and that all souls are
immortal. It is one of the ‘self-evident’ truths. Ah, Miss Clifton, true
affection can no more be killed by scorn, than an angel could be
overcome by a demon, than Heaven could be conquered by hell. In the
contest between true affection and scorn, it is affection must
conquer—scorn must yield. It must be so, lady. The heavens are pledged
to it. The sovereignty of the right is involved in it. And when, in such
a contest, affection fails, it is because it never was true. No, lady,
true affection is never conquered. It is scorn that is conquered. It is
scorn that has yielded now. You do not scorn him now, lady.”
“No—I would I could!”
“Then, in the death of your own scorn see the immortality of his love.
He will come back to you. He will come back the first free moment that
he has.”
“Ah, Catherine! In all this fifteen months he has not written to me.”
“You do not know that, Miss Carolyn. _I_ believe that he has written to
you, and that the letter has been lost. You know how irregular and
uncertain the mail is from that distant frontier.”
“Catherine! I have been thinking of writing to him. What is your
opinion? What would you advise me to do?”
“Not for the world, lady! For, trust me, for every step of advance a
woman makes, a man of high honor and fine sensibilities retreats.”
Miss Clifton’s brow flushed, and she made a gesture, of impatience, as
she exclaimed—
“Then _why, why_ knowing that, does he not write?”
“Because, perhaps, his first letters miscarried, and he stopped under
the supposition that you would not answer him. And then, lady, under all
these circumstances, the stiff pen and the cold paper cannot convey all
the burning words he would have to pour out at your feet. He will come!”
“‘He will come.’ Ah! in that very phrase is a knell deeper than all the
rest! He will come! And what a spectre he will see in me! He cannot
continue to love me! Impossible! Impossible! He can never love such a
faded and scarred ruin as I am.”
“Dear Miss Clifton, I have told you so often that you are _not_ a ruin!
Your face is very lovely, indeed it is! Fair and delicate and pensive,
and far more attractive to all good hearts than ever it was in its high
bloom.”
“Ah, but faded—faded—faded!” mournfully replied Carolyn.
“And then, dear lady, true affection is of the soul. It has been said
that love is blind. It is not so. Love has Divine eyes, and creates the
beauty that it looks upon. He will love you the more for the calamity
and sorrows that have fallen upon you. He will see a deeper beauty in
your pensive face, and his love will make it real.”
“Oh! impossible, I tell you! Impossible! The sight of me would shock
him. He would turn away.”
“Lady, do you love your cousin?”
“_Love him?_ Ah, God!”
“Dear lady, if he had returned from the frontier with the loss of an
arm, a leg, or an eye—or with the hideous scar of a sword cut across
cheek and brow, could _you_ have turned from him revolted?”
“Oh, no, no, no! Oh! Heaven, no! I should have done all I could to
convince him that he was beautiful to me still—that I loved him the
deeper for his misfortunes!”
“Then, dear lady, judge his noble heart by your own.”
“Ah, but you said yourself, just now, when advising me not to write,
that men feel so differently from women!”
“Yes, but not in tenderness—not in constancy!”
“There is the boy coming from the post-office, Catherine! It is
strange—it is strange—but though I have been disappointed a hundred
times, I still hope, and the coming of every mail makes my heart pause!
Go, dear Catherine, and see what there is.”
Kate rolled up her knitting, and dropped it into a little straw basket,
and went below.
“Only one letter, an’ the Pos’-Master say how it war for Miss Carolyn,”
said the boy below stairs.
A letter for her at last! Carolyn’s heart stopped almost to death, until
Kate ran back up the stairs, entered the room, and placed the letter in
her hands.
“It is from Richmond,” she said, in a disappointed tone, as she opened
it.
“From my Aunt Cabell,” she added, and began to read it while Kate
resumed her knitting.
“I hope your friends are all well,” said Catherine.
“Yes—” replied Miss Clifton; and then a smile of amusement flitted over
her face—and still running her eye down the letter, she continued—“My
Aunt Cabell writes me that my excellent step-dame, Mrs. Georgia Clifton,
is now the reigning belle of Richmond—the most beautiful woman, the most
charming musician, the most fascinating waltzer, and the most elegant
equestrian in the city! She passes for a wealthy (!) young widow—and her
credit is unlimited, and her debts and her extravagance, of course,
unbounded. She occupies a whole suit of rooms in the most expensive
hotel in the city, and entertains around her, both day and night, a host
of adoring worshipers. She has cut her father—worthy man—dead! She is
going to bring down a party of ladies and gentlemen to spend Christmas
at her country-seat, (!) White Cliffs. Now what do you think of that,
Catherine? Pray Heaven she may marry soon, and not wear our name long
enough to scandalize it! Mrs. Cabell goes on to say, that Mrs. Georgia
cannot long play that game—that Archer Clifton must soon return, and
take possession of his property, when it will be arrested. Alas! she
does not know that Captain Clifton is as much under the dominion of that
dangerous woman as it is possible to be. He will probably be proud to
leave Mrs. Clifton in possession here as long as she finds it convenient
or agreeable to stay. Now, what do you think of all this, Catherine?”
“Dear lady, I know that you feel very unpleasantly, that all those gay
city strangers should be coming down here at Christmas, to turn the
quiet house into a hall of orgies. But I do not see how you can prevent
it. You can elude it, though! You can go to Hardbargain, you know, and
remain until Mrs. Georgia and her guests have departed again. I would do
that.”
“No, dear Catherine, there will be no necessity for that, either! My
Aunt Cabell has anticipated my embarrassment, and proposed a plan. My
aunt and all her family are coming down here to spend the months of
October and November, while their city mansion is undergoing
repairs—painting, papering, and so on. And she proposes that I shall
return with her at the first of December, and pass the Winter in
Richmond.”
“And will you go?”
“I do not know. But, Kate, dear, you have comforted me so much, and
aunt’s account of Mrs. Georgia’s city airs has diverted me so much, that
I think I have spirits for a ride. Go order the horses, and tell Dandy
to be ready to attend us. We will go up to Hardbargain and take tea with
Aunt Clifton, and amuse her with this letter!”
* * * * *
Mrs. Cabell and her daughters, attended by Major Cabell, arrived in due
time, and were received with great pleasure by their orphaned relative.
And Catherine, now that she was no longer necessary to the cheerfulness
of Miss Clifton, took leave and returned to her brother’s cot. Life in
the mansion, and life in the hut, like day and night, about equally
divided the girl’s experience—a strange lot, to be ever alternating
between luxury and refinement, and poverty and coarseness. And though it
was a wonderfully strengthening discipline, Kate found the contrast so
painful as to wish that life would change—in some way.
A month passed away—during which she heard nothing whatever from White
Cliffs. She was therefore in total ignorance of what was going on there,
until one cold morning that had succeeded a snow-stormy night, while she
was shoveling away the snow in front of the cottage door, Dandy rode up
and delivered her a note from Miss Clifton. The note ran thus:
“DEAR CATHERINE,—
“I am going to leave for Richmond with Aunt Clifton to-morrow morning.
Come over, dear girl, and let me take leave of you before I start.
Come, my good, wise Catherine, for I want to consult you about a
certain matter.
“Your friend CAROLYN.”
Kate saddled her pony and set out, attended by Dandy. As soon as she
arrived at White Cliffs, she was invited immediately up into Miss
Clifton’s room. She found the young lady surrounded with trunks and
bandboxes, and busy with her maids, packing. Carolyn dismissed her
attendants, begged Kate to be seated, and sat down by her. After a few
mutual inquiries about health and so on, and a little introductory
conversation, and some considerable hesitation, Miss Clifton said—
“Catherine! I think—I hope that I have succeeded at last in emancipating
myself from the degrading slavery of that old love spell! At last the
dread sense of bereavement and desolation is deadened.... If I were to
see him again, however, I do not know how it might be.... Perhaps,
though, I shall never see him again.... Kate! I have had a proposal for
marriage.... My cousin Major Cabell!... It was at least generous in him,
all things considered.... Family feeling, I suppose.... Kate, I think of
accepting him!... We owe something to our position in society.... My
Aunt Cabell has been talking to me about it for a month past.”
Miss Clifton made this communication in a hesitating, disjointed manner;
while Catherine looked and listened in grief and astonishment, feeling
regret amounting almost to remorse, that she had left her friend,
enfeebled in mind and body, so long under the influence of a
strong-willed thoroughly worldly-minded woman. And she understood the
instinct that had impelled the wavering girl to send for _her_ to steady
her. And then athwart these, her purest emotions, swept a dark, burning
impulse, like a breath of hell. It was the whisper of the devil, and it
said to her,—“Agree with her—agree with her! Let her marry another if
she wishes, and thus remove the greatest impediment that separates you
from the love, the hope of Archer Clifton.” Catherine stood for a moment
horrified by the darkness of the temptation. But then summoning the
whole strength of her soul, she inwardly exclaimed, “Get thee behind me,
Satan!” And the devil fled from her.
“You do not answer me, Catherine. My dear girl, I have so much
confidence in your rectitude of mind! Advise me!”
“Dear Miss Clifton, _never_, as you value your whole life’s peace and
rectitude—_never_, for any purpose whatever—under any temptation
whatever—consent to marry a man you do not love; _never_, as you hope
for earthly content—as you trust in God—_never_ put an insurmountable
object between yourself and one you love! How criminal to become a wife,
while you love another living man! How terrible to find out, when it is
too late, that he loves you still! Perhaps from year to year to long for
the—! Lady, I have no words strong enough to express to you all that I
feel and fear on this subject! Grave faults sometimes follow little
errors! I would fain gain your promise not to entertain any gentleman’s
suit until you have met again with Captain Clifton. You cannot have long
to wait. He _must_ return to settle up this estate. And legal business,
if nothing else, must bring you together!”
“Alas! alas! no! the affairs of this property will be settled by his
attorney. Kate, I am very miserable!”
“Dear lady, I know it! Do not, when tempted by hopelessness, do that
which you may regret all your life! That which may shut out the
possibility of happiness forever! I wish I could go to Richmond with
you.”
“Oh, I wish you could! I think that you could save me from danger,
Kate.”
“I think you want an honest friend near you, Miss Clifton! But, one
thing you can do—you can resolve not to form any matrimonial engagement
until you have again met with Captain Clifton. And you can bind your
resolution by a promise. Promise _me_, dear lady, by the interest I take
in you, to hold yourself free from entanglements, until you see your
cousin!”
“Kate!—yes, I solemnly promise you, by all I hold sacred, that I will do
as you advise in this matter! And, Kate, enfeebled as I am, or may
become, in mind or body, I cannot break my pledged word! Good girl! You
have saved me again! Oh, Kate! Kate! do you think I don’t know the full
extent of your disinterestedness? Oh, Kate! noble girl! God reward you!”
Catherine began to tremble so violently, that Miss Clifton threw her
arms around her, and pressed her to her bosom, whispering,
“Never fear, dear girl! sweet girl! I will not breathe another word! I
would as soon sacrilegiously snatch the veil from the sanctuary, as
breathe another word about it!”
* * * * *
When Catherine reached home in the afternoon, she found a message
waiting her, from Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain. She went up immediately
to the farm-house, and found that lady looking very happy.
“Catherine, my dear, sit down. I have good news. I have just received a
letter from Archer. He will be in Richmond in four days from this! But
his duties are such that he will not be able to leave Richmond for some
weeks. He begs me to meet him there! He has been promoted, Kate! He is
now Major Clifton, and has been appointed aid-de-camp to the Governor!”
“I am rejoiced to hear it, madam,” replied Kate, calmly, though her
heart stood still with the suddenness of this news. “You will send over
and inform Miss Clifton, will you not, madam?”
“No, I think not, Catherine. Why excite and disturb her on the eve of a
journey? Besides, Catherine, I have many misgivings! This long
persistence in silence—his never mentioning her name in any of his few
letters to me! his never replying to the letter I wrote upon the
subject!—all this is foreboding! I must not meddle farther in this
affair until I have seen my son, and can judge his state of mind in
regard to it!... But, Catherine, my dear, I sent for you for this: I am
going to Richmond on Tuesday, for the purpose of spending some weeks
near my son. I need a female companion, and I have your grandfather’s
and your brother’s consent for you to accompany me; that is, if you are
willing. Will you go with me, Kate?”
“I shall be very glad to do so, indeed, Mrs. Clifton!” said the young
girl.
“Then return home at once, Kate, and prepare for the journey. You will
have a great deal to do, to make things comfortable for your grandfather
and brother during your absence, and to get yourself ready for your city
visit.”