CHAPTER XXXII.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 employTo satisfy thy nature’s want.—Browning.
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 employTo satisfy thy nature’s want.—Browning.
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 employTo satisfy thy nature’s want.—Browning.
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 asitis! 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 acompany 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 madeyouunhappy?”
“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!howcan I remedy my fault—whatever it is? What can I do to comfort you?”
“Nothingbut 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 hispaper 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 itwill, Major Clifton—itwill—itmust—there is no truth and reality in it, and itmustbe temporary. I have thought it all over, very sadly, but very calmly and clearly, and I know that itmustbe 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 wastrembling, 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 withyouit is otherwise. Living in the county,youneed, or will hereafter need an extensive neighborhood connection. And foryoursake, 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, Idolove 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, thatshe 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! howcanshe bear it? for I think, with all her falseness, she loves me very much. Howcanshe 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! WhileI, 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.