GEORGIA.
The serpent now began to change;
Her elfin blood in madness ran.—KEATS
Two months have passed since the death of the sisters. To the
consternation of the _haut ton_ of the city, the beautiful Mrs. Clifton
has left Richmond, and come down to mourn with those that mourn at White
Cliffs. With an air at once of earnest conviction and graceful
weariness, she says that it is “All vanity and vexation of spirit,”
meaning fashionable society, spring traveling, and sight seeing; summers
at watering places among the mountains, or by the sea-side; winters in
town, with plays, concerts, balls, dressing, visiting and waltzing;
autumn parties in the country-houses, with equestrian expeditions,
sailing excursions, and forest rides and drives, and even the moonlight
serenades, and “the slight flirtation by the light of the chandelier.”
Mrs. Georgia speaks the truth. “Vanity” all this undoubtedly is in
_her_. But _entres nous_, the “vexation of spirit” appertains to certain
“small” accounts, ranging from fifty to fifteen hundred dollars, and
sent in by landlords, merchants, jewelers, milliners, etc., people so
wanting in delicate perception, as not to see that the honor of the
belle’s custom was quite payment enough in itself for their goods, and
so utterly destitute of classic lore, and the faculty of distinguishing
persons, as actually to draw out on a piece of paper a list of items
opposite to a row of figures, with a sum total at the bottom, and send
it to a Circe, as if she were a tradesman, and could understand it!
Charming Georgia did not even try to comprehend such mysterious
hieroglyphics. She knew, bewitching creature! that “where ignorance is
bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.” Therefore, to escape duns, to recruit
health and spirits, and, of all things, to console Major Clifton, she
has come down to White Cliffs. The beautiful Georgia presented herself
to the mourning master of White Cliffs in a very deprecating spirit—she
said that she felt her arrival there at such a moment to be almost an
intrusion, but that he would excuse it, as she had exhausted money and
credit, and had no other home.
“You know,” she added, as the tears suffused her large, dark eyes, “I am
like the unjust steward of the parable, ‘I cannot work—to beg I am
ashamed.’”
“Except instead of being unjust, you suffer from the injustice of
others,” said Archer Clifton, very gently. He said that he considered
the entail, which cut off the widow from any share in the landed estate
of her deceased husband, very unjust and cruel. He knew that his uncle
had deeply regretted it, and would have left all his personal property
to her, had it not been swallowed up by debt. He said that he _himself_
deplored the circumstance, and if it were legally in his power, he would
divide the land with her, but that he only held it in entail, and as
entire as it came to him it must be held for his heirs. He added, that
he considered it his duty to compensate his uncle’s widow for the
injustice of the law to her, and that the case being so, she would find
thirty thousand dollars placed to her account in the Bank of Richmond.
Mrs. Georgia was overcome with emotion at this generosity on the part of
Major Clifton. She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and arose
hurriedly, with every mark of extreme agitation, exclaiming—
“No, no—this is too much! too good! only lend me the shelter of this
roof—once my home—until I look about me and consider what to do.”
He took her hand, with every demonstration of the tenderest affection
and respect, and pressed it to his lips, and begged her to consider
herself as heretofore, mistress of the establishment for as long as she
wished—for her whole life, if she pleased—and himself only as her
sometime guest—adding, that it was impossible he should ever bring
another lady there. She withdrew her handkerchief from her eyes, and
glancing at him with a countenance eloquent with gratitude, respect, and
affection, exclaimed—
“_I_ take a large portion of your personal property, and _I_ turn you
from your home! Oh! no, no, no, thou thrice noble and generous man, no!
Not one dollar of that money will I touch, so help me Heaven! And not
one hour will I stay under this roof, if the master of the house is to
be only my ‘sometime guest!’ No! I—I—I must go back to the city, and
give lessons in drawing and painting, as befits the artist’s daughter.”
“And as does _not_ befit my uncle’s widow, lady!” said Archer Clifton,
again taking her hand. “I have considered myself in some sort your
guardian and protector—if you will admit the claim. Now, listen to me
calmly, and act reasonably, for we of White Cliffs are not accustomed to
be opposed by the ladies of our family. Hear me, then: This money, which
I have placed to your account, is rightfully yours. I will explain. It
was the fortune of my dearest Carolyn—” here his voice faltered, he
paused a moment, during which Georgia pressed his hand, and looked in
his face with an expression of unspeakable sympathy—then he resumed,
calmly, “Had she died unmarried, and during her father’s lifetime, this
money would have reverted to him, and he would doubtless have left it to
you. I only give you that which, but for me, might have reached you more
directly. And now let that subject rest forever.”
“Ah, but best and most generous of friends, I drive you from your home
by staying here! I cannot stay! I must depart!”
“You must not, Mrs. Clifton—this is your proper home, as it is also
mine. You do not drive me hence—why should you? Could I possibly remain,
your company would be the dearest solace I could have. No! it is memory
that drives me hence, sweet friend! I must—I _must_ forget myself in
distant lands! Forgive me for talking thus—to be quite plain, as soon as
the intricate affairs of this estate are disentangled, and wound up, I
design to set out for two or three years of travel; yet I shall not be
able to get off for several weeks.”
Here the conversation ended for the present. Thinking that for the first
few days, at least, Mrs. Georgia would need a female companion, he got
in his chaise, and went ever to Hardbargain for Catherine.
“Kate is not here,” said Mrs. Clifton, in answer to his inquiries—“do
you not know that she has been for three weeks at her brother’s cabin,
nursing his wife through her confinement?”
Major Clifton threw his hat upon the table, and dropped himself into a
chair, with an air of extreme vexation, saying—
“It really seems to me that that girl is nurse and servant-in-general to
the neighborhood! Her brother might easily have found some old woman to
nurse his wife. I wonder you permit her to be made such a slave of by
everybody, mother.”
“It does her no harm, Archer.”
“Twelve months since you introduced Catherine into the best society in
Richmond.”
“The richest, you mean—not the best, by a great deal.”
“And now you suffer her to throw herself into the most vulgar and
common! Dear madam, is this right?”
“‘What God hath cleansed, call not thou common, or unclean’—yes! it is
right! Catherine, a girl of the very humblest birth, with natural talent
and acquired accomplishments that fit her for any circle—should mix with
all. And, Archer, what do you mean by ‘vulgar?’ If ignoble minds,
corrupt hearts, and mean actions constitute vulgarity—then I for one
have met more vulgar people in so-called high-life than ever I saw in
low-life!”
“My dear mother, you are a Republican—let us waive this discussion, for
I dislike to differ from you, and tell me where I shall find Catherine,
for she positively must return with me to White Cliffs, to bear Mrs.
Georgia company, until some other companion can be procured for her.”
“Catherine is at her brother’s cabin, as I told you.”
“The same cabin he occupied before I left home?”
“Certainly.”
Major Clifton entered the gig, and turned the horse’s head towards the
dell in which the overseer’s cabin stood. When he drew up before the
door, Carl came out to welcome him, and invite him to alight.
“No, thank you, send Catherine hither,” he said—
Carl looked very much as though he did not intend to obey this haughty
behest—but Catherine had already heard the demand, and appeared at the
door.
“How-do-you-do, Kate? Mrs. Georgia Clifton is at my house, and I wish
you to return with me to attend upon her. Come, get your bonnet, at
once, Catherine, for I am rather hurried.”
“We cannot spare Catherine, sir,” said Carl, in a tone of displeasure.
“I did not address myself to you, my good fellow,” said Major Clifton,
looking over his head, and through the door of the cabin, watching
Catherine, as she tied on her bonnet.
When Kate same out, he handed her into the gig, and nodding carelessly
to the flushed, indignant Carl, drove off. When they had driven a little
way—
“Catherine,” he said, “is that man your full brother?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The same father and mother?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Humph! You are not at all alike in feature. Are you very much attached
to this brother, Catherine?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Humph.” He did not speak again until they had reached White Cliffs,
when he handed her out, and said—“Catherine, Mrs. Georgia is greatly
fatigued; I wish you to attend to her comforts, this evening—do you
hear?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Kate.
The next day Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, came over to call on Georgia.
And afterwards, at the earnest solicitation of her son, she paid them a
visit of a week. Major Clifton busied himself with the settlement of the
estate. Although the great debts of the late Mr. Clifton could not be
recovered of him, he determined to pay them all. A great many of them he
discharged at once, by cash; and in payment of others, he gave notes,
bearing interest. The calling in of these numerous debts, and the
arrangement of the terms of payment, and other matters, occupied him
nearly two months, so that it was the last of autumn before he was ready
to set out on his journey.
He had taken leave of his mother the evening previous to the day upon
which he was to leave home. The next morning, in parting from Mrs.
Georgia and Catherine, he took leave of the lady, in a tender and
respectful manner, raising her hand to his lips—but he drew Kate to his
bosom, and pushing back the rippling waves of chestnut hair, that
concealed or shaded two-thirds of her massive forehead, he said, gravely
and sweetly—
“What are you going to do with all this brain while I am gone, Kate? How
much longer will it lie fallow? Well! Never mind!” He kissed her freely
and fondly as a near relative might, and bowing once more to Mrs.
Georgia, hastened away. He paused upon the threshold of the door
however, seemed to hesitate, then suddenly came back, seized the hand of
Kate, and drew her out upon the porch. “Catherine,” he said, “do you
remember a promise you made me once—not to marry without my consent?”
“Yes, sir, I remember it.”
“I hold you to that promise, Kate. I must speak plainly to you at the
risk or the certainty of wounding your feelings; yours is a singular
position, Catherine—a girl of humble birth, quite penniless, yet with
education and accomplishments that fit her to grace a higher circle. It
is not likely, Catherine, that any gentleman in this part of the country
will ever become a suitor for your hand, and no one who is not a
gentleman should be permitted to do so!—Therefore, Catherine, I wish you
to promise me not to listen to any proposals without my consent.”
“I promised you long ago, sir. I will keep that promise until you
release me from it!”
“That is a good girl! Now, then, once more good-bye,” and again he
folded her to his bosom, and then, indeed, he was gone.
Catherine turned with the intention of seeking her own room, but was
instantly confronted by Mrs. Georgia Clifton, who stood before her with
pallid cheek, set teeth, and gleaming eyes. She caught the wrist of the
girl, and keeping a strong, vice-like grasp upon it, dragged her almost
with violence into the parlor before the window, and casting herself
into a chair, pulled Catherine up before her, and fixed those wild,
dilated, star-like eyes upon her face. It fell blushing under the gaze.
“You love that man,” she said, drawing her breath hardly, like one in a
passing pain.
The blush deepened upon Catherine’s cheek, but she did not reply in
words.
“Speak! Answer me! You love that man?” she repeated, clutching the wrist
of the girl so tightly as to cause her to wince.
“Madam, I am grateful to Major Clifton—he is my benefactor—he cares for
me, and I am grateful to him.”
“He is an arrogant man—he reminded you of your low birth.”
“I know he did, madam, and perhaps I ought to have vindicated our common
human nature, and told him, as I tell you now, that there is no such
thing in God’s universe as low birth, that every child comes into His
world with equal claim upon His people; perhaps it was my duty to have
told him this, only I am always a coward before Major Clifton, and never
can say the right thing at the right time to _him_, as I can to others.”
“You love him! That is the reason! And you are a fool if you do not know
it, or a hypocrite if, knowing it, you deny it. But he _despises_ your
love! He said to you, himself, that no _gentleman_ would be likely to be
a suitor for your hand!”
“I know he did, lady. His care for me makes him say rough, blunt things
sometimes. I can bear them from him.”
“You love him! Deny it, if you dare! But you are an idiot! an idiot! if
you do not take _his hint_ to conquer that passion! He said it was not
likely that any gentleman would ever become a suitor for your hand! _he_
is a gentleman—therefore he can never stoop to _you_! You do not answer
me! Do you, perchance, deceive yourself with the idea that he ever
will?”
“Lady—_no_, I do not deceive myself with the idea that he will ever
‘stoop’ to marry me. The woman that Major Clifton shall marry, if he
ever marries, will be quite worthy of him, and that will preclude the
idea of his ‘stooping’ to her.”
“And that woman will not be _you_, presumptuous girl. Do you dare to
hope it will? Speak! Answer me!”
“Lady!” said Catherine, in a tone of grave and dignified rebuke,
“considering the recent bereavement of Major Clifton, the discussion
into which you have drawn me is indelicate, to use no harsher term!”
“‘Recent!’ It is of five months’ standing! You evade my question! You
evade _all_ my questions! I asked you if you loved him! Answer me!”
“Lady! long ago my heart became too unruly for my own management, and I
gave it, with all its desires and affections, to God. I love nothing out
of Him!”
“And do you expect Archer Clifton will ever marry you? Answer that!”
“Madam, I expect nothing.”
“Do you hope it, then?”
“Lady, I hope nothing.”
“You prevaricate, girl! Do you _wish_ it then?”
“Madam, I only wish that God may appoint all times, seasons and events
in my life—making me humble, generous and grateful in prosperity, if it
comes; and strong, courageous and patient in adversity, if, as is most
likely, _that_ comes!”
“Humph—would it make you happy to be the wife of Archer Clifton?”
“Mrs. Clifton, you have no right to ask me that question!”
“Yet I _do_ ask you, and I insist upon a reply!”
“And I decline giving it.”
“I am answered! You love Archer Clifton! You feed your heart upon the
secret hope of one day being his wife! And now listen to me, girl!” she
exclaimed, every vestige of prudence and self-restraint swept away by
her rising passion, “_I, too_, day and night, feed my soul upon one
desperate hope—that I live for, would die for, or go to perdition for!
_I, too_, love Clifton. I loved him the first hour I ever saw him. I
have loved him ever since, only more madly for every obstacle, danger,
_duty_ that stood between, dividing us! I have schemed, dared, _sinned_
for him! Twice he has been snatched from me by fate, twice restored to
my hopes! Oh! I know my own strong will had much to do with that
restoration! He is given to my hopes again! Think you, _now_, that you
can win him from me? _No_, idiot! If there be any power in my own soul,
on earth, in Heaven, or in hell to help me, I will find it out, and
enlist it to give me this one desire of my heart, this man’s love! Since
first I ever beheld his face, I have dreamed, hoped, toiled, _lived_ for
nothing else! I have suffered for him! Oh! angels and devils! how I have
suffered for him! In the days when he came wooing Carolyn, wooing her
before the face of _me_, bound with indissoluble chains!—me, loving him
as _she_ had no power or conception of loving anything! Many times I was
almost mad with despair!—knowing, too, if he would only love me I should
be nearly mad with joy! I have sacrificed great prospects for him. Yes!
little as you think me capable of it! This summer I might have made a
splendid alliance in Richmond—a traveling nobleman—an English nobleman,
girl! a baron with an annual rental of thirty thousand pounds
sterling—with seats in the three kingdoms, and a palace in Portman
Square. I rejected him, when I knew that Clifton was free! In the faint
hope of winning Clifton, I would not bind myself. All that I have ever
done of good or of evil has had him for its end and object! I was the
belle, queen, _idol_ of Richmond. If I schemed and toiled for a
position, and gloried in my success, it was that _he_ might hear of it,
and his pride might be enlisted for me! You saw me one winter at the
governor’s reception! You saw how I was worshiped there! But _he_ was
present—and free, and I did not care what the thousands thought of me, I
only cared what that unit might think!” Her voice sank into tenderness,
and she paused, and dropped her brow into both open hands. But soon
raising her head again, she said, “Look at me well! Ay, look! What sort
of a rival do you take me to be? If you cannot guess, I will tell you! I
am not superstitious or scrupulous, as you are! I am one, who, for my
soul’s great passion, will do, or dare, or suffer anything! I ask no
leave of earth or Heaven for what I do! I do what I will, or _can_, and
take the consequences; earth or Heaven can but punish, and I can risk or
bear it!—for there is no pain or loss in the universe that I weigh with
the loss of my love! And not for the fear of eternal perdition—not for
the hope of everlasting salvation, will I forego the joy of my mortal
love! Now, hear me, girl!” She rose upon her feet, bending over
Catherine, with her hand clutched upon the maiden’s shoulder with a
vice-like grip, and, gazing into her eyes with contracted, gleaming
pupils, she said,—while her voice dropped into the low, deep, stern tone
of intense and concentrated passion, in which every word, syllable,
letter was articulated with a distinct, metallic ring:—“Now, hear me! If
you dare to come between me and my love—by the living Lord that sent my
burning soul upon this dull earth, and who can hurl it hence to a
burning perdition—I will find a way to kill you! Do you hear me?”
Catherine grew pale beneath the tiger eye and clutch of the fearful
woman, but she answered—
“Madam, I have heard you utter wild and wicked words. I will endeavor to
forget them.”
“Remember them! You are warned!”
And releasing her hold, the dark lady passed from the room.
Catherine remained sitting where she had left her, appalled by the
exhibition of demoniac passion she had witnessed. One pain and one fear
possessed her above all others—deep regret that this most wicked woman
had evidently already attained such an ascendancy over the mind of
Clifton, and dread lest, in despite of all the sin, she would gain her
object—his hand! But Catherine carried all her doubts and fears to her
Heavenly Father. And soon to her clear, strong mind it became evident,
that however wicked and unscrupulous, potent and dangerous the Circe
might be on ordinary occasions, she possessed too little
self-government, was under the influence of too strong and impetuous
passions, to succeed in maintaining any long course of duplicity, such
as would be necessary to the accomplishment of her purpose. And Kate
became calm. She wished to leave the house. She could ill bear to live
under the same roof with this woman, and meet her at least three times a
day, at meals, if no oftener. But she had promised Major Clifton to
remain with Mrs. Georgia until she should have other company, and she
must keep her promise. It was, besides, doubly sacred, being made to
him, and the pain it brought her was endurable—borne for him.
Mrs. Georgia sought the garden, the open air, anywhere where she could
breathe freely. When the storm in her bosom had subsided, and reason was
again in the ascendant, she could have torn her hair and beat her
breast, yea, and rent her garments with excess of chagrin, to think that
she had so betrayed herself to Catherine. She did not fully believe that
Catherine would repeat this scene where it could injure her, or
anywhere, in fact. Still, she thought it safer to guard against such a
contingency, and while _she herself_ still possessed the unshaken
confidence and respect of Major Clifton, to impugn the conduct and
character of Catherine, and thus forestall and invalidate any testimony
she might hereafter give. She felt that she must proceed very
cautiously. A plan of correspondence had been arranged with Major
Clifton, previous to his departure. She soon began to receive long
letters from him, filled with interesting descriptions of the countries
through which he passed, the people whom he met, and philosophical
comments upon both. And to these she replied in other letters, full of
appreciation, admiration, gratitude, and breathing, besides, the
highest, purest, most disinterested sentiments and opinions upon all the
subjects of their correspondence. Into these letters, she gradually
introduced the name of Catherine—carelessly, at first, as if she thought
little about her, one way or the other,—as thus: “Catherine is with me
still—she desires to be remembered;” then, in a second letter, by a
slight line of praise, as though the girl was rather winning upon her,
as—“Catherine is well. By the way, what a remarkably clever girl she
is;” then, in another, with warmer panegyric, as though she really very
much improved upon longer acquaintance, thus: “How can I ever thank you
sufficiently for placing Catherine with me?” Next came high encomiums
upon Catherine’s talents, in this wise: “Catherine has left me, and is
with your mother, as no doubt the latter has written you. Apropos! What
a mind that girl has! Did you ever observe?” And then, in a subsequent
epistle, came an expression of wonder at the “diplomatic” character of
Kate’s intellect, and an opinion that the writer really believed her
thrown away in private life. And next, a cooler mention of the maiden,
with the hint of a fear that she was gaining the mastery over Mrs.
Clifton’s strong mind. Finally, after some months, she wrote thus, as if
speaking frankly from a sense of duty, and at the cost of great pain: “I
fear that I have been greatly deceived in my estimate of Catherine’s
good principles. How shall I introduce what I am about to say to you?
But you had best come home and see for yourself. For I know that your
mother is in the power of as dangerous an intriguante as I ever heard
of; and mind—she will influence Mrs. Clifton to disinherit her own son,
and bequeath _her_ the farm at Hardbargain. That ‘Maria Teresa’ brow of
hers meant something, after all. But you do not know with what pain I
write this, Archer! I cannot pursue the subject—only regard for you, and
fidelity to your interests, would have drawn me to its discussion. I
advise you to come home and look after your own welfare!”
What influence this had upon Major Clifton, will be seen in the sequel.
And while Georgia was exercising her power abroad, she was busy at home
also. Having heard or guessed at Colonel Conyer’s “foolish” attachment
to Catherine, she wrote and invited him to make up a party of his own
friends, and come down and spend Christmas with her. And the gallant
officer, delighted with this quintessence and perfection of confidence
and hospitality—this _carte blanche_ to be filled up at his own
pleasure, wrote and most gratefully accepted the invitation for himself
and “friends.”