DEDICATION.
Stand up, look below,
It is my life at thy feet I throw,
To step with into light and joy,
Not a power of life but I’ll employ
To satisfy thy nature’s want.—BROWNING.
The next morning after breakfast, the family carriage was announced to
take them to White Cliffs. Catherine put on her bonnet and shawl, and
stood waiting, until Major Clifton, drawing on his gloves, came forward
and attended her to the carriage door. He handed her in, entered
himself, took the seat opposite to her, and bade the coachman drive on.
The whole distance between Hardbargain and White Cliffs was passed over
in perfect silence by the parties. Major Clifton preserving a stern
gravity of demeanor, and Catherine scarcely daring to lift her eyes,
lest she should encounter that severe but sorrowful gaze that almost
broke her heart. She longed to inquire—
“Oh, Major Clifton! What is this that has arisen between us? Give the
misery a name! Tell me?” But the shyness and fear she had always felt in
his presence, and doubly felt when he was reserved or displeased, and
above all, the bashfulness of new bridehood, forced her into silence.
At last the ride was over, and the carriage stopped before the main
entrance of the mansion-house.
The plantation laborers, in their holyday clothes, marshalled by the
overseer, were assembled upon the lawn, and the house servants in their
“Sunday’s best,” with the housekeeper at their head, waited on the
piazza “to pay their duty.”
When the carriage had drawn up, Major Clifton alighted and assisted his
bride to get out. He led her up the marble stairs to the front door. The
housekeeper with a curtsey, stepped forward to attend her. But with the
courteous kindness that Major Clifton seldom omitted, he waved her
aside, merely saying—
“Mrs. Mercer, send all these women about their duties, and tell Turnbull
to disperse the men. I do not wish to be disturbed. There is my
pocket-book—give them what they want—only let me be quiet.”
“And give them my love and good wishes,” murmured Catherine, shyly, but
not wishing to dismiss them so coldly, for her desolate heart had been
comforted by the looks of sincere respect and affection with which they
had seemed to receive and accept her as their new mistress.
Major Clifton merely threw up his chin with an assenting nod, muttering—
“The popularity-seeking instinct of the diplomatist.” He then conducted
her into the drawing-room, led her up its whole length, and seated her
upon a sofa with ironical ceremony, saying—
“Mrs. Clifton, you are welcome to White Cliffs.”
Startled by his tone, she looked up, lifting those long, drooping
lashes, until her soft, dark eyes at last met his cold, rebuking gaze.
Then his whole aspect changed, and from having been sarcastic and
scornful, became grave and severe. Standing before her, he folded his
arms, drew himself up, and keeping his eyes fixed steadily upon her
face, said—
“And now, lady, listen to me. The aim and object of your life is
accomplished—consummated. You have at length attained the position to
which you have long aspired, for which you have long and deeply and
successfully played. You are numbered among the ladies of the county
aristocracy. You bear the haughtiest name of all. You are Mrs. Clifton,
of Clifton.”
All this time her eyes, wide open, dilated, fascinated by surprise and
grief, met his stern gaze in sorrowful wonder, He continued—
“Yes, madam, you wear my name such as it is. You rule my house such as
_it_ is! But as for its poor master, lady, he is your most humble
servant, but no lover!”
Her eyes fell beneath his sarcastic look, and she was tempted to wish
herself dead.
He continued—
“I leave here in a few days, for the purpose of raising a company to
serve in the coming war with Great Britain. You will remain here at
White Cliffs to take charge of affairs during my absence. If you really
hoped to flaunt in the city this winter, I am sorry for your
disappointment. But there are duties as well as dignities attending the
position of the mistress of Clifton, and these must not be neglected. I
shall exact their performance. The overseer and the farm laborers, as
well as the housekeeper and her assistants, have orders to obey you in
everything. Good-morning, madam.”
And so abruptly he turned upon his heel and left her. One moment she sat
there amazed, confused, with her hands pressed upon her temples; and in
another, losing all feeling for herself—feeling only for him, she sprung
to his side, and caught his hand, exclaiming—
“Stay! For the love of Heaven, stay! one moment—only one moment, while
you tell me. Oh! _after all_, have I made _you_ unhappy?”
“Unhappy! You have been and you are the bane of my life!”
“_How?_ Merciful Heaven, _how?_ when I only wish to consecrate mine to
you!”
“Do you dare to ask me?”
“Well!—tell me—tell me! _how_ can I remedy my fault—whatever it is? What
can I do to comfort you?”
“_Nothing_ but refrain from troubling me with your company or
conversation, when it is not absolutely necessary. Again—good-morning.”
And so he freed himself from her clasp, and left the room.
She tottered backwards and fell into a chair, her head dropped upon her
hands and she gasped—
“All-merciful Father, do not forsake me now, for I am desolate—I am
desolate.” And she sat despairing, fallen, the very image of utter
self-abandonment. She sat there until aroused by the voice of the
housekeeper, who entered the room, came up to her side, and spoke to her
twice before she heard—then—“What did you say?” she asked.
“I have come to receive your orders for the day, Mrs. Clifton.”
“I——Please to manage, to-day, without my advice, I—I am not well—and
very, very weary.”
“You look so, indeed, madam. There is a fire kindled in your chamber,
will you go up there and lie down, and let me bring you a cup of tea?”
“I——No, I thank you—I am much obliged to you. But—only leave me here to
rest.”
The housekeeper went and closed the shutters: stirred the fire, set a
screen between it and Catherine’s seat, and quietly withdrew.
“Oh! this will never do!” said Catherine, trying to rouse herself from
her stupor of despair. “This will never do. To-day I have made a bad
beginning; but to-morrow I must rise and be as active and efficient as
if I were happy.”
She met Major Clifton again at dinner. The meal passed almost in
silence, and immediately after it was over, he took his hat and left the
house. She did not see him again until tea-time, after which, he went
and spent the evening in his study. Catherine felt the need of calm
thought, to understand her position and duties; and of prayer, to gain
strength and patience to perform them. She spent several hours in
reading the Scriptures, in meditation, and in prayer, and then,
comforted, retired to bed. She arose early the next morning,
strengthened and consoled, with a very clear perception of her
circumstances and responsibilities.
“My path through this intricate trouble is made very plain. I must
discharge every domestic duty and every social obligation, just as
faithfully, if not as cheerfully, as though I were a happy wife,” she
said. And she went down stairs, and gave her orders for the day.
When Major Clifton came down into the breakfast-room he found a quiet
cheerful scene—a sunny window, a bright fire, a well spread
breakfast-table, and Catherine herself, in her simple morning-dress,
looking calm and placid. There was an expression of curiously blended
anger and admiration and amusement on his face, as he flapped his
dressing-gown around him, and dropped himself into the easy-chair by the
fire, giving her “Good-morning,” and hoping that she was well.
“As usual,” replied Catherine, handing him the paper that had just come
from the village, and ringing for breakfast.
When the meal was over, he reseated himself in the arm-chair, reading
the newspaper, while Catherine still sat at the board, pouring out bowls
of coffee, and filling plates with toast or muffins, to send to the old
or sick among the negroes—these being always supplied with their meals
from the mistress’s table. Major Clifton glanced over the top of his
paper at her, sometimes in irony, sometimes in sorrow, always in doubt.
And she—unpleasant as his manner was, felt glad to have him near her. I
really believe that she had rather he sat there and made faces at her,
than not sat there at all. And she felt lonesome and dreary when at last
he left the room, put on his riding-coat and left the house. As
yesterday passed, so passed to-day—she meeting him only at meals. And so
a week passed on. It is not easy to be very heroic for a day, or two, or
three days; but when one day follows another, each with the same
continuous, extraordinary demand for fortitude, it is strange, indeed,
if heart and flesh do not fail under the task. Nothing but Divine
Providence can give the requisite strength of endurance. In the presence
of her husband, Catherine was calm and cheerful; but often in her
private hours the sense of desolate bereavement would come over her, and
gusts of tears and sobs would follow. These, like the summer gusts of
blessed nature, would always refresh her, and she would be enabled again
to take the comforting promises of the Bible to her heart, in her
favorite text—“And we know that all things work together for good, to
them that love God,” and to ask God’s blessing again upon her resolution
“to perform every domestic and every social duty as faithfully, if not
as cheerfully, as though she were a happy wife.” And yet it was very
hard to do this. It was very dreary to feel shut out from her husband’s
heart; to meet him every day with the same stern, sorrowful brow, or in
variation of that, with the same ironical smile. It was difficult to go
on with a repulsed and aching heart doing mere mechanical duty. She
could not have done so but that two powerful principles sustained her—an
invincible love for her husband, and an unwavering faith in God.
One morning, about two weeks after their arrival at home, Major Clifton
sat alone, reading, in his study, when the door opened, and Catherine
entered. It was the first time that she had intruded there, and he
looked up, threw aside his book, arose, and pushed back his chair with a
look of annoyance.
“Excuse me for interrupting you, but may I speak to you for a few
minutes?”
“Speak on, madam, but oblige me by being brief. Pardon me—take a seat,”
he said, handing her a chair, and resuming his own.
Catherine sat down, felt very much like another fit of sobs and tears,
but restrained herself, and said, quietly—
“Major Clifton, whatever this is between us—”
“I must remind you that this is a prohibited subject of discussion,
madam,” he said, interrupting her.
“I will not talk of it again—how can I, indeed, when I do not know what
it is?”
He made a gesture of angry disbelief, and begged her to come at once to
the object of her visit.
“Well, then, I wished only at first to say, that whatever be the cause
of this cruel misunderstanding between us, it will pass away. You look
at me in surprise and doubt—but it _will_, Major Clifton—it _will_—it
_must_—there is no truth and reality in it, and it _must_ be temporary.
I have thought it all over, very sadly, but very calmly and clearly, and
I know that it _must_ be transient. My faith bridges over this
impracticable present in our lives, and I see the future, when you will
understand me. I never did anything to offend you in my life. And God,
to whom I have committed our cause, knows my innocence, and in His good
time He will make it plain. It must be so. The promise of the
All-Merciful, the Almighty Father, is pledged to the Right!”
He turned away from her, with a stamp of fierce displeasure. He turned
away from her savagely, because he felt that, had he looked and listened
a moment longer, he should have abjured all his evil thoughts, and
snatched her to his bosom—she was so patient, so hopeful, so beautiful
with truth and love, that he could scarcely resist the impulse to fold
her to his heart—false as he deemed her to be. As it was, he suppressed
the true instinct—obeyed the false suspicion, and turning again sharply
upon her, demanded to know, once for all, to what this new piece of
hypocrisy tended.
“I mean this, Major Clifton—that as our estrangement must needs be
transient—do not, under its influence, let us do, or omit to do,
anything that may hereafter affect, unhappily, our social relations with
others.”
“As——_how_, Mrs. Clifton?”
“_Thus._ The county families have all called upon us. It is high time
that we return their visits, if we mean to keep up the connection.”
“Oh! Ay! Excellently well thought of, Maria Teresa!” he sneered.
With a passing look of distress, she said—
“I only fear that our pleasant intercourse with the neighbors may not be
so easily resumed, if they have reason to suppose that we treat them
with indifference and neglect.”
“Admirably calculated, madam! A contingency has presented itself to your
diplomatic wisdom, that never would have occurred to my simpler mind.
So, you wish to confirm your position, and extend your connection here
in the county! Well! the aristocrats of R——, have certainly taken you up
with a zeal and determination that is surprising. But when they have
once made up their haughty minds to patronize a new comer, it is
wonderful to what length they will go. But you may thank your own fine
diplomatic talents for that!”
“Diplomatic talents! What diplomatic talents? So many people have
‘thrust’ that questionable ‘greatness’ upon me, that it mortifies me.
No—I know the only value and currency I have among the county people, is
the value you have given me—the stamps of your name and rank. And I—I do
not wish to disparage it. I wish to appear worthy of it—that is all.”
“And you really believe what you say?”
“Truly, I do.”
Again she looked so lovely, in her truth and humility, that he was
almost tempted to relent. And again the impulse only made him more
unjust.
“In a word, madam, what do you wish me to do, for I begin to weary of
this discussion. Nor is it well to subject myself to the influence of
your fascinations, for I candidly admit to you that I am sensible of
them, as others have been.”
“I only wished to propose to you to take a day, and drive around the
neighborhood with me, to return the calls that have been made upon us.”
“Very well, madam, I am at your commands whenever you please to call
upon me for that service. When do you propose to go?”
“At your earliest convenience.”
“Will to-morrow do?”
“If you please.”
“To-morrow then let it be. And now, Mrs. Clifton, have you any further
commands for me?”
“Thank you—no,” she answered, very sadly, and turned to leave the
room—hesitated, came back, and resting her hand upon the study-table for
support, because she was trembling, said, “Forgive me—and let me speak
to you one more word, will you?”
“What is it?”
“It is so sorrowful to be misunderstood. Please, do not mistake me in
this matter. For myself, I do not care to follow up my acquaintance with
these county people. I have lived all my life without extensive social
intercourse. I have lived all my life in strict domestic retirement. I
am so used to it that it is natural and agreeable to me. Indeed, I
prefer it—but—”
“Well?”
She was suddenly silent. She wished to say, “But with _you_ it is
otherwise. Living in the county, _you_ need, or will hereafter need an
extensive neighborhood connection. And for _your_ sake, I would not
alienate these people by neglect.” But she could not say it. Her old
shyness, and a delicate fear of seeming to wish to place him under an
obligation, kept her mute.
“Well, Mrs. Clifton? If such seclusion is so agreeable to you, why do
you wish to change it?”
“I owe the ladies some acknowledgment of their civility to us.”
“Have you anything farther to say to me?”
“No,” said Catherine, and with an involuntary gesture of pain and
distress, she turned and left the room, with all her generous thoughts
unspoken. When the door had closed behind her, Archer Clifton started
up, struck his clenched hands to his forehead, and pacing up and down
the floor, distractedly exclaimed—
“I love her! I love her! It is no use, I _do_ love her! Every day more
deeply and desperately I love her! In her presence all her unworthiness
is forgotten or disbelieved! Yes! yes! her deep hypocrisy, her black
ingratitude, my mother’s wrongs, all, all are lost to memory! Just now I
could have snatched her to my bosom and wept over her falsehood, rather
than have cast her from me! Yes, more! I could have implored her
forgiveness for ever believing in that guilt which is but too well
proved! I love her! She is the pulse of my heart! the soul of my life!
She embodies all the meaning of existence to me! Heart and
brain—yes!—body, soul and spirit starve, perish for a full
reconciliation and a perfect union with her! She is lovely, she is
beautiful to me! She always was! Yet, oh! Apple of Sodom, that she is!
shall I take such falsehood and corruption to my heart. I must leave the
house! must leave the neighborhood! for here I wilt and wither! And she!
how _can_ she bear it? for I think, with all her falseness, she loves me
very much. How _can_ she bear life so? How can she rise each morning and
go through all the occupations of the day so regularly, quietly,
cheerfully, day after day?—omitting no duty, domestic or social, small
or great, from the stitching my ripped gloves, to the keeping up of the
county connection, in sooth! While _I_, I daily wilt, wither, in this
moral mildew—idle, despairing, forgetting all my obligations—forgetting
that my country needs my arm! This cannot last! This must not be! I must
get away from here! I must raise a volunteer company, and offer myself
to the government, and in the tumult of the campaign find forgetfulness
or a grave!”
Unable to compose himself again that morning, he rang the bell, ordered
his horse, seized his hat, went out, mounted, and rode away.
The next morning Catherine arose early, and among her orders for the day
directed that the carriage should be at the door by ten o’clock. At the
appointed hour she attired herself with care and taste, and went down
into the front hall, where she found Major Clifton in readiness to
attend her. They entered the carriage and set out, and in the course of
a drive of five or six hours’ duration, made the circuit of the
neighborhood, calling upon several families. And everywhere Catherine
was received with distinguished respect. They reached home again about
the middle of the afternoon.
The next few days passed on in the usual dreary routine—except that
Catherine knew Major Clifton was out riding every day and all day, and
that he was in his study writing half the night. She did not know what
this portended until one morning he said to her—
“Mrs. Clifton, you will oblige me by having my wardrobe prepared and
packed at your earliest convenience. I have orders to join the ——
regiment within a week.”
Catherine turned very pale and reeled as if she would have fallen, but
grasped the chair and steadied herself, till strength returned.
“All shall be ready for you,” she replied.
And he, with a cold bow of acknowledgment, went his way.