THE RETURN.
Come home!—there is a sorrowing breath
In music since ye went,
And fragrant flower scents wander by
With mournful memories blent.
The tones of every household voice
Are grown more sad and deep—
And longing for thee wakes a wish
To turn aside and weep.
Oh, ye beloved! come home!—the hour
Of many a greeting tone,
The time of hearth-light and of song
Returns and ye are gone!
And darkly, heavily it falls
On the forsaken room,
Burdening the heart with tenderness
That deepens into gloom.—MRS. HEMANS.
Notwithstanding all her habitual calmness and cheerful patience, Mrs.
Clifton began to grow uneasy at her son’s protracted stay. He had been
absent a year and a month. And even now, instead of setting out on his
return, he only wrote of coming home soon. At one time he was at Vienna,
at another at Berlin, then at the Hague, progressing, indeed, but very,
very slowly towards England and Liverpool, from which port he intended
to embark. Every letter that came from him at this period, was opened
and read with visible uneasiness by his mother. At length the glad
tidings came, a letter from the mid-ocean, brought by a swift sailing
packet-boat that had spoken the vessel in which he had embarked. He was
hastening home, and might now be expected at any hour. The news
contained in his letter excited the invalid so much upon the evening of
its reception, that she passed a sleepless night, and rose the next
morning weaker than she had ever been before; so weak, indeed, that she
was obliged, in coming down stairs, to lean on the arms of Catherine and
her maid for support. And when she reached the parlor, she was compelled
to recline in an easy-chair, propped up by pillows, and with her feet
supported by a foot-cushion. But her cheerfulness was undiminished. She
gave many directions as to the adjustment and adornment of the room, and
the preparation of certain dainties. Lastly she called Catherine to her
side, and took her hand. Catherine did not appear to the best advantage,
with her plain, dark gingham dress, and her chestnut hair divided simply
above her forehead, rippling in tiny wavelets around her broad temples,
and gathered into a twist behind. This plainness of style did not become
her strongly marked features. And the lady saw it, for she gazed
thoughtfully upon the girl awhile, and then lifting her hand, disengaged
a portion of her tresses from the comb, and let them fall, turning into
natural ringlets down her cheeks, saying—
“There, Catherine, when hair curls naturally and voluntarily, it is
certain that the face it belongs to requires it so, and that it should
be permitted to follow its nature, for nature does all things well. Why
don’t you always wear your hair so? It is so much prettier.”
“Because, dear lady, I never thought it of any importance how my hair
was fixed, so that it looked neat. But I will wear it this way, if it
pleases you.”
“It does. Your face is not a classic one, dear Kate, and none but a
classic face can bear that attic simplicity of style. Your countenance
is a very noble one, Kate, but its very nobility is hard and stern,
without the softening shadow of these ringlets nature has bestowed upon
you. There now, look in the mirror, my little Oliver Cromwell, your face
is much more womanly than before.”
Catherine found it so. The soft, bright, drooping curls shaded and
rounded her large, square forehead into beautiful proportion to her
other features, and softened the expression of the whole. No girl but is
pleased to see herself improved in beauty, and it was with a bright
blush, half of pleasure, half of modesty, that the maiden returned to
the lady’s side.
“Now, dear Kate, you must leave off that dingy gingham, and wear white
wrappers in the morning. It is early in the season, and you can wear
white a month longer yet, and by the end of that time, I suppose, the
world will expect you to wear black. You have no white wrappers though,
my dear!”
“No, madam, I never had one.”
“Well, you have two white cambric dresses, without ornament, they will
do for morning dresses. Do me the kindness to wear them. Nay, now,
Catherine, my dear, no hesitation, I will have it so. Go at once and put
on one of them.”
Kate complied, and in a short time returned to the parlor—by this change
in the style of her toilet, almost transfigured, yet without the loss of
her noble characteristics. One thought troubled the maiden, the
question—What would Clifton think of this? How would he take it? Would
he suspect that she had dressed for his eyes? If he did his suspicions
would be well founded. And the consciousness of this truth, suffused
with blushes the cheeks of the ingenuous girl, and heightened all her
beauty.
There was no certainty of Major Clifton’s advent that day—he might come
any day, but nevertheless they hoped for and expected his arrival. By a
change in the hours, the stage now reached L—— at noon. And Mrs. Clifton
had ordered dinner in the full expectation of having her son’s company
at that meal. Nor were their hopes destined to disappointment. A little
after one o’clock, the carriage that had been sent to L—— to meet the
stage, returned and drove up to the door. And Archer Clifton alighted
from it, and hastened joyfully into the house. Mrs. Clifton arose to
meet him, but, overpowered by agitation and weakness, she sank back into
her seat. Her son was before her in an instant, and had clasped her in
his arms, and pressed her to his breast, and kissed her fondly many
times, and sat her back in her chair to feast his eyes upon her beloved
face and form, before he noticed how cadaverous, how death-like, she
looked; then a startled expression of surprise and alarm sprung into his
countenance, and he turned upon Kate, to whom he had not yet spoken, a
glance of mingled inquiry, anger and reproach.
“You find me in poor health, Archer; but not worse, my son, than what
might have been expected.”
“My dearest mother,” he began, but his voice choked, and to conceal the
emotion he could not entirely suppress, he turned to Catherine and gave
her a brother’s greeting in silence, but at the same time darting into
her eyes a look of stern rebuke from his own, which seemed to say, “You,
at least, should have written and informed me of this.” And the
suspicions excited by Mrs. Georgia rose darkly in his mind, but were
repressed again instantly.
“Dearest Archer, I am not usually so ill as I seem to-day. I have never
been confined to my bed, or even my chair yet. Only to-day and
yesterday, the joy of looking for you has prevented my taking the usual
quantity of sleep. I shall be much better to-morrow. Sit down by me and
rest, and when you are rested, your room is quite ready for you, if you
wish to change your dress before dinner. Catherine, my love, will you go
and direct them to serve dinner?”
Catherine left the room and gave the necessary commands. Then she
ordered a boy to take Major Clifton’s baggage up into his chamber, and
went up stairs to show him where to put it. In the meantime, Major
Clifton, in looking upon his mother’s wasted form, had lost all
self-command, and saying hastily that he thought he would change his
traveling dress at once, hurried out of the room to give vent to a
passionate sorrow, no longer to be restrained. He ran up stairs, but
paused upon the first landing. Catherine, in leaving his room, found him
leaning upon the balustrades, with his face buried in his hands, weeping
convulsively. To women, there is something really appalling in a man’s
tears—we look upon them with more than pity—with awe—with something like
the feeling with which Mary and Martha must have witnessed the Saviour’s
tears—with deep reverence be it said. Catherine would have crept by and
slipped down stairs quietly, for she had a feeling of self-reproach for
having even seen that strong outburst of sorrow; but he stood up and
seized her hand, and drew her towards him, exclaiming—
“Stop, Catherine! You have seen my weakness! Now, tell me why you did
not write to me of this? Cruel and selfish girl! were you so intent upon
your own projects, that you could not find time to indite a line to let
me know that my mother was dying?”
Another burst of weeping prevented his hearing Catherine’s gentle
explanation, that Mrs. Clifton would not permit her to write. And Kate
was not anxious to exculpate herself from an unjust charge; indeed,
after once giving her little, meek explanation, she never thought of it
again—she only thought of his agony of regret, and only wished to soothe
it. He still held her wrist, unconsciously straining it in the strength
of his emotion, until it pained her severely. But she did not care for
that, she did not even feel it; she only cared to see him weep so
convulsively, and losing all self-consciousness, and with it all
reserve, she threw her arm around him, and dropping her head against him
most tenderly, most lovingly, she said—
“Oh, do not grieve so! do not! see how calm and cheerful she is! Try to
emulate her calmness!”
“I loved her, Kate! I loved her more than ever son loved mother before!
She was the worth of life to me! I loved her more than ever I loved
human being! More even than I ever loved you, Kate!”
This was Clifton’s first declaration to Catherine, and a strange time,
place and circumstances, and a strange method of expressing his
preference had fallen upon them. “I loved her more than I ever loved
you, Kate!”
But it did not seem strange to Catherine. It seemed perfectly natural
and in order. It did not startle her the least. It did not bring back
her womanly self-consciousness, for she answered, meekly—
“I know it—I know you do. And, oh! don’t _you_ know that I would
willingly give my life for hers, if I could restore her, in health, to
your affections?”
“And yet you did not even write to let me know she was ill! Oh! girl!
girl! you were much to blame for that! It was bitterly wrong.”
“I told you, but you did not hear me, that she would not permit me to
write; she did not wish to give you pain, or to interfere with your
arrangements for the year.”
“Catherine, that does not excuse you! Could not your own heart have told
you how precious, how inestimable to me would have been every hour of
her company when her days were numbered? Could you not have written to
me secretly?”
“I never did anything secretly in my life. I should never have thought
of doing so. Besides, I could not have had a secret from her, so open,
so frank, so noble as she is. No, I proposed to write for you to come
home, I entreated permission to do so, but she refused to grant it, and
I deferred to her better judgment. I would not have deceived her for the
world.”
“Then I have been unjust and unkind to you, Catherine, but you will
pardon me when I tell you—when you see how thoroughly weakened and
unmanned I am!”
The gust of sorrow was over, and Kate, with sudden self-recollection
withdrew herself from him, deeply blushing, and hastened down stairs,
and the thought of her transient self-forgetfulness rendered the girl
even shyer than ever.
He went into his room and refreshed himself with a new toilet. And when
he entered the parlor, an hour after, no one would have suspected from
his handsome, animated face, the existence of the sorrow that lay
subdued at the bottom of his heart.
They dined together, and after dinner Catherine thought it best to
retire and leave the mother and son alone to enjoy more fully their
re-union. When she had left the room—
“How pretty and lady-like Catherine is growing, madam,” said Major
Clifton, looking after her, but addressing his mother.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Clifton, “lady-like, but not very pretty; Kate will
never be pretty; but if she be ‘blessed to her mind,’ she will be more,
she will be handsome.”
After spending a long afternoon with his mother, Major Clifton took
temporary leave, and went over to White Cliffs, to pay his respects to
Mrs. Georgia. Most happily for all concerned, Georgia had just left home
for a visit of some weeks at Richmond—ignorant, it is to be supposed, of
Major Clifton’s arrival. He returned and spent the evening with the
ladies at Hardbargain.
The next morning found Mrs. Clifton very much better—and in the evening
she rode out, accompanied by Major Clifton and Catherine. Mrs. Clifton’s
cheerfulness infected all the party—both upon this evening and
afterwards. Her decline was so gradual, so painless, that she never took
to her bed—but when weakest, sat in the easy-chair in the parlor, often
with a little light knitting in her hands, that she would leisurely work
upon, or drop into her lap, to be resumed at pleasure, while she
conversed with Catherine and Major Clifton, or listened while one of
them read, or both sang. There never were more pleasant, serene days,
than these of the invalid’s gentle decay. It was genial, pensive autumn;
the fall of the leaf without the house, and the fall of the leaf within.
Catherine was now the housekeeper. She had—through the increasing
weakness of the lady—so gradually slidden into this office, that she
scarcely knew at what time its whole burden had accumulated upon her.
One morning, while Catherine was in the store-room giving out meal and
bacon to the negroes, Mrs. Clifton and Major Clifton occupied the parlor
alone. He had been reading to her from Jeremy Taylor, but seeing that
she had dropped her knitting, and was sitting back with a look of
weariness, he thought it time to desist and close the book.
“Dear mother, you are fatigued; will you have anything? What shall I
bring you?”
“Nothing, my son. I am not wearied more than usual, and it will pass in
a few minutes.”
The lady was silent for a little while, during which Major Clifton
refrained from conversation. And then, after some little thought, she
raised her eyes until they met his own and looking at him full in the
face, she asked—
“When are you going to marry Catherine, Archer?”
Major Clifton started violently, and looked at the lady in silent
astonishment.
“Nay, pray answer me—my question is an earnest one.”
“My dear madam, you have taken me by surprise!”
“Necessary bluntness, Archer.”
“Very Oliver Cromwellish, madam, my mother.”
“You must excuse it, dear Archer. You did not open the subject to me,
therefore, feeling more anxious upon that affair than any other on
earth, I am forced to broach it to you. But you have not answered my
question yet.”
“Dear madam—what—exactly—was it?”
“When are you going to marry Catherine?”
“Upon my honor, my dear madam, I have no intention of marrying
Catherine; nor have I ever given her reason to suppose so.”
“Ah! I had thought, or rather, I had hoped otherwise,” said the lady,
relapsing into silence, while Major Clifton subsided into painful
thought. Again the dark suspicions insinuated by Mrs. Georgia, arose in
his mind, to be repressed again with loathing; and he said indignantly
to himself—“It is not true! I can never believe her to be an
intriguante. Georgia is mistaken—Georgia’s grateful and affectionate
interest in my welfare, leads her to unjust suspicions of others. Kate
is noble-hearted—Kate is true—is truth itself. It would be misery to
believe otherwise.”
Mrs. Clifton gently interrupted his silent self-communion, by saying—
“Well, Archer, since you have no intention whatever of marrying
Catherine yourself, you can have no reasonable ground of objection to
her union with another?”
He looked up in surprise and anxiety, but soon the startled expression
subsided into calmness, and he replied, coolly—
“_Catherine’s_ union with another! Oh! the supposition involves an
impossibility.”
“I know you think so, Archer. I know you feel perfectly secure of this
sweet girl, and just as easy about her as if she were secured to you by
all the chains that church and state can forge, and that is the reason
why you take things so coolly, and listen to your pride. But I tell you
that it is not as you think. You are not forever secure of Catherine.
Our moods of mind, and our views of things, change with time. And
however the maiden may feel or think now, if you hesitate for years
between your pride and love, she will naturally arrive at the conclusion
that many a generous hearted woman has come to before her, and say to
herself, ‘Well, I cannot be happy myself, but my life must not,
therefore, be wasted—I can make some one else happy,’ and being scorned
by one she loves, give herself away to one who loves her.”
Major Clifton started to his feet, with all the dark side of his
character uppermost, exclaiming—
“Let her attempt it! I would stop such a marriage at the altar!
Catherine is mine, or nobody’s. She could not repel my claim.”
“Dear Archer, sit down; do not excite yourself or me. Remember, I am in
a dying state,” said the lady, as the best means of calming him.
“Dear madam, forgive me—forgive me—but why introduce this very
embarrassing and highly exciting subject? I have had conflict enough in
my own bosom about it. I love your favorite, I love her jealously,
fiercely—I admit it—but there are objections and difficulties, which
time, or a new set of circumstances, may remove; meanwhile, I could not
bear to see her snatched from me. But there is time enough—even if I
should decide upon such a step, there is time enough. Kate is very young
yet.”
“But you are not very young, Archer.”
“I know it, dear madam. I have arrived at that age at which men do not
make imprudent marriages for love.”
“But when they too often make unhappy marriages of convenience. Dear
Archer, it is a false and sinful principle that keeps you and Catherine
apart. Will you spoil two lives by your pride? Your hesitation between
inclination and prejudice, weakens you and destroys her.”
“‘Prejudices,’ dear madam! Well, I suppose they are prejudices, but just
think of the horror of having Carl Kavanagh, the farm laborer, for a
brother-in-law, and being called ‘uncle’ by his ragged progeny!”
“Oh, Archer, your inhumanity shocks me—they are human creatures, after
all—this Carl and his family.”
“And don’t you see besides, madam, that if I should marry Catherine, and
introduce her into society, the first question would be, ‘Who is she?’
and the answer by some good-natured friend, ‘The sister of one of his
farm-laborers,’ would expose us to contempt, if it did not rule us out
of good company.”
“Archer! Archer! can it be that you weigh these falsities with the deep
realities of life?”
“It is a deplorable thing, indeed, that a girl of such noble nature
should come of such ignoble parentage.”
“No! it is a congratulatory thing!—or would be so, if it were not such a
usual thing! Archer, you will find more moral worth, and it may be more
mental worth, among the so-called lower classes, than among the higher;
for instance, among the men, look at some of their brows, of Shaksperian
height and breadth—think what they would be with cultivation! And I tell
you, with all their disadvantages, the lower classes will give to our
republic the greatest of her future great men.”[2]
Footnote 2:
The history of most prominent men of the day verifies the prediction.
Major Clifton remained in deep thought for awhile, and then taking the
hand of the lady, said—
“My dear mother, the objections that I have advanced are those that have
arisen in my mind, from time to time, giving me much pain. I wished to
hold them up before myself, as I have just done, in order to see what
they really consisted of, and looked like. I have seen the worst of
them, and in their ugliest light, and they will not deter me from taking
to my heart the girl I love. I have weighed them, and the whole mass is
light in the balance with my need of Catherine. I will marry her. I will
go and tell her so now. And the ceremony shall be performed whenever you
think proper.”
“Whenever _Kate_ thinks proper, my dear Archer,” replied the lady,
smiling.
At this moment a servant entered and delivered a note to Major Clifton.
It was from Mrs. Georgia, announcing her return to White Cliffs, and
begging the company of Major Clifton to tea that evening.