CATHERINE.
Now has descended a serener hour—KEATS.
Colonel Conyers exercised tact and discretion in availing himself of the
privilege granted him by Georgia. In consideration of the recent
affliction of the family, he made up a very quiet and appropriate
party—namely, the lady’s father, the artist, a pale young clergyman who
was suffering for country air, and the wife and sister of the latter.
After his arrival at White Cliffs, Mrs. Georgia gave him every
opportunity of renewing his acquaintance with Catherine, and every
encouragement to persist in his suit. Girls, she said, were often
whimsical, and Catherine was especially shy, but disposed to think
highly of her suitor, and well worth the trouble of perseverance.
Colonel Conyers thereupon grew importunate, and Catherine became
distressed at his persistance, and announced her intention of returning
to Hardbargain. When her lover heard this, his grief seemed unbounded—he
had so long counted on success, so long been deceived by Mrs. Georgia’s
assurances, and by Catherine’s gentleness of denial, that now when his
hopes were quite overthrown, he became passionate and vehement in his
demonstrations of sorrow. His trouble affected Catherine very deeply.
She went and sat down by him, and laid her hand upon his shoulder, and
said, in her gentle sympathetic tones—
“Do not grieve so; indeed I am not worth so much love or so much
regret—indeed I am not—I am a poor girl, very ignorant of society, very
full of weakness and error.”
“Oh, Catherine! Catherine! that is nothing to the purpose! You are what
you are, and I adore you! Do not make me wretched.”
“Heaven knows I do not wish to! I am your friend—_indeed_ I am. I would
do anything in the world to give you peace, indeed I would—except—”
“Except love me, proud girl!”
“‘Proud?’ No, I am not proud. Why should I be? Do not mock me! Indeed I
feel that you have conferred the greatest honor upon me in your
preference. An offer of his hand is the highest mark of respect and
confidence a man can give a woman; the world would think it higher
still, coming from one of your rank to one of mine. I myself should in
any case be proud of your regard, only—”
“Well? ‘Only?’”
“Only I feel so grieved to see you look so sorrowfully; but—”
“Well, my dear girl, well! but what?”
She paused, a slight blush suffused her cheek—she gathered courage and
went on to say—
“I do not know why I should not speak anything that may be upon my
heart, at whatever cost to my natural feelings, if the hearing of it
will do good to any human being. Yes! I will speak, for your sake. I do
not fear to speak, for I have perfect confidence in you. Listen then,
Colonel Conyers, dear friend. You are not the only one who has missed
earthly happiness. I think it must be written in the book of fate, that
we may not have those whom we love too deeply—in other words, that we
may not have idols. It seems to me, that notwithstanding all other
troubles, it would make us too happy, in an existence designed chiefly
for trial and probation.”
“That is a sad, strange, despairing sentiment, for one so young!”
“No, not despairing—for if we may not have joy, there remain the peace
and cheerfulness found in duty. And if we may not have the love of the
heart’s idol, there remain the affection of relatives, the esteem of
friends, the love of God, and the hope of Heaven.”
“Catherine, you have loved. Tell me about it my child.”
“I intended to tell you about it. It is the best proof of entire
confidence and esteem that I can give you. It will show you how highly I
value you, and it will assure you also, of the utter impossibility of
getting a heart that is not mine to give—if it were worth giving.”
She paused in great embarrassment, her cheeks were suffused with
blushes, yet she seemed resolved to proceed. As if to assist her, he
said—
“This being whom you deify with your love, my child! what a splendid,
what a magnificent nature he must have! what transcendant personal
attractions! what an intellect! what a heart! Is it not so? tell me!”
“Ah! no; you are mistaken; these things excite admiration and wonder,
they do not of themselves win affection. Oh, no! he of whom you speak,
is not so handsome as you are; he has no more mind than you have, and
not so much heart—even _I_ admit that.”
“And yet you love him, and can love him.”
“Even so—do you wonder at it? Have not you passed by women—handsome,
graceful, accomplished—to fix upon a plain country girl like me?”
“Oh, but not women with your candor, purity and strength of mind. Oh,
Kate! what depths of truth and innocence you have revealed in the very
confession you have made me! Who else but yourself dared make such a
revelation?”
Catherine looked up at the speaker in doubt.
“Go on, dear girl. Tell me that this man adores you, and I will never,
while I live, trouble you with myself again.”
“Ah, no! it was nothing like that which I set out to tell you. Ah, no! I
only wished to let you know—that your case of disappointed affection is
not solitary—that I too have missed life’s crowning joy—the love of one
I love. He does not even notice me now. I never permit myself to dream
that he will ever love me. Yet I would like to live with him, to serve
him—myself unknown, unnoticed, if I might only be near him. I envy the
waiting-maids and men, and even the dogs, who are full-feasted every
day, with the presence for which my heart starves. I would like to give
my life to his service, but I am unnecessary to his smallest need. Well!
I cannot do him any good; but I serve one who is dear to him, and so I
stay the hunger of my heart. Please do not think ill of me for telling
you all this. It would grieve me to have you think any evil of me. I
esteem you, and want your esteem. I have done some violence to my
instincts in telling you this. Do not think ill of me for doing so. I
only do it that you may know you are not the only one in the world who
is——_not happy_.”
“Think ill of you, Catherine! Do anything but adore you—and mourn your
loss forever—if lose you I must—oh, Heaven!”
“This life is a tragedy—for always that which is dearest, is lost in it,
and it ends in death. The closing scene is the corpse, the shroud, the
coffin—and the curtain drops upon the grave—all beyond is hidden—except
to the eye of faith. My experience of life has been all darkness, clouds
and storm—and the transient gleams of gladness or of hope have been—not
like the sunshine, but like the lightning. Yet through all the grief,
and gloom, and the tempting doubt, the ‘still, small voice’ of God’s
spirit has spoken to my soul, and comforted me.”
“Oh, Catherine, my child! that I could make your life all sunshine—that
you would let me try—I do believe I could make you happy.”
Catherine shook her head, slowly, with a sad smile, saying—
“We all believe that! We all think that in _us only_ is vested the power
of making those we love happy. It is because we know that we are
willing, anxious to do more for them than any other person would! It is
a fond error. Our efforts—our greatest sacrifices are often needless, as
we ourselves are nothing to our gods of flesh.”
“Am I nothing—nothing to you, then?”
“You are my dear and honored friend.”
“Oh, Catherine, I could make your life happy! Nay, but do not look
incredulous—I know I _could_. My love is not selfish, like that of most
other men. It is perfectly disinterested. It only asks to serve you. It
only desires to see you at ease. Dear Kate, you have told me all on your
heart—you might lay that heart, with all its burden of unrequited
affection, upon my bosom, and I would comfort, and cherish, and sustain
it, until I should win its love all to myself.”
Again, and more mournfully, the girl shook her head—
“Do not pursue this subject, Colonel Conyers. Dear friend, by dwelling
upon our wild wishes, they grow to seem hopes, and probabilities, and
certainties. In my youth—”
“In ‘your youth’? How many years ago was that, Catherine?”
“Strange!—but at eighteen, I really feel no longer young.”
“Yet it is not winter, but a wintry spring, that chills your young life.
That is not uncommon. Spring—the spring of hope, the spring of joy, the
spring of life will open indeed by-and-by, and be all the warmer and
brighter for its lateness—and my Catherine shall feel younger—but for
increased wisdom—at twenty-five, then she does now at eighteen—that lot
is for her—whosesoever treasure she may be. But what was she going to
say happened in her long passed youth?”
Catherine smiled, and said—
“Well, then—when life was newer and fresher, believing—as I do now—all
the promises of the Bible—and saying—as I do now—that the days of
miracles are not passed, and never will be so, until the days of God’s
omnipotence and man’s faith is passed, I used to say that I would pray
for what I wanted, though the granting of my prayer should seem to
involve an impossibility. But now, later in life, I have learned a
better lesson still, from the example of my Master. He might have saved
Himself by a miracle, but He chose rather to endure the cross and the
shame, for the working out of His Father’s will and purpose. God has a
purpose and a will in every—the humblest life. And now, for all other
vain and childish petitions, I substitute the words of the Saviour—‘Not
My will—but Thine, be done.’”
“Catherine, you must be happy, even in this world. You are so good. You
must be made happy in the end.”
“Ah, I should be sorry to set up the plea of goodness—when I see so many
people so much better than I am, suffer so deeply. It is too often
represented that goodness is rewarded in this world—but, oh! how can any
one remember the life and death of a thousand martyrs, and the
crucifixion of the Saviour, and not feel that it is not so—and not feel
that the reverse is often so!”
“Oh, Catherine, that is a very gloomy doctrine, and I will not believe
it! There is a hopeful text of Scripture that comes into my
mind—‘Godliness is profitable in all things, having the promise of the
life that _now is_, and that which is to come.’ It is the clouds of your
wintry spring that make everything look so gloomy to you!”
“It is not a gloomy doctrine! Oh, no! not gloomy, by all the hope and
illumining of the glorious Resurrection and Ascension.”