Chapter XIII: Archer Clifton’s Sketches

The deepest sorrow that stern fate can bring
In all her catalogue of suffering,
An eating rust—the spirit’s direst pain—
To love, adore—nor be beloved again,
Or know between you lies a gulf that ever
Your forms, your hopes, your destinies must sever—MRS. LEWIS.

As soon as Mrs. Clifton reached home—leaning on the arm of her maid, she walked up stairs and entered her son’s deserted room, and when her attendant had relieved her of scarf and bonnet, she lay down upon his lounge, and sent Henny for Kate Kavanagh. In less than half an hour Kate entered. And the lady turned to her and said—

“Catherine, my dear, I must take you into my confidence—yes, and into other people’s, too, whether they approve it or not. Draw Archer’s writing-desk up here to the side of the lounge. I want you to write a letter to him.” Catherine’s brow crimsoned, and she trembled very much as she obeyed. “My dear Catherine, I am sure you will be discreet, and never speak of what I am about to entrust to you. I can rely on you?” said the lady, interrogatively, raising those fever-brightened dark eyes to the girl’s face. Catherine nodded quickly, in her usual way, when the words would not come. “You see, my dear child, this most unhappy quarrel between Carolyn and Archer, is causing a great deal of unnecessary suffering to both—and Carolyn, as the frailer of the two, is nearly dying under it. Her brain fever was caused by it. And it was as much as Dr. Barnes and myself could do, to bring her safely through it with life and reason. This estrangement between them must not continue, or she _will_ die. She is not so strong as she looks to be. Indeed, she is very delicate, like her mother. Archer is far on his Western march now, and cannot return of course; but he must write to her, and comfort her. I wish you to write and tell him so. Now, then, child, you know the object. Open the desk, and lay out the paper, while I try to think what I want said, and how I want you to say it.” Catherine’s hands quivered as she turned down the leaf of the desk, and mechanically laid the paper out on the top. “Just date it, dear child, and then I will tell you how to begin.” Catherine dipped her pen in ink, and was just about to put it to paper, when something there caught and held her eyes, and she gazed with dilating pupils, and trembled more than ever.

The paper before her was covered with a water-colored sketch of Marguerite, of France, at the siege of Damietta. And the ideal face of the royal heroine, was the real one of the humble Catherine herself. And in the corner of the paper were the initials A. C. He had taken _her_ homely features as his notion of those of the heroic Queen of St. Louis. And as she gazed, her heart shuddered with a strange, wild emotion of blended wonder, joy and remorse. The nature of the maiden was becoming vaguely intelligible to herself.

And Mrs. Clifton did not see her trance, but lay upon the sofa very weary, with her hands pressed upon her temples, trying to settle in what manner she should address her son upon this delicate subject. And Catherine forgot everything in the sketch before her, and the tumultuous, blissful, painful emotions it excited. An abyss was suddenly thrown open in the depths of her heart, whose existence was unsuspected till now. _Now_ was she sorry that the marriage between Archer Clifton and his cousin, was broken off—by mutual consent? She tried very earnestly to feel sorry, for she believed it her duty to be so. She forced herself to remember Carolyn’s illness, and Archer’s own suffering, in consequence of the estrangement between them. But, oh! there lay that picture before her eyes, with her own plain face idealized, glorified up to a high, pure, divine beauty, such as it had never, even in her highest, holiest, most inspired moods, possessed. And a voice from her profound heart whispered—“Oh, yes, and he could make me really beautiful and glorious as his ideal there—for he could make me good, and glad, and great beyond whatever I could make myself—if he chose!” She reproached her heart severely for its seductive whisper. She offered up a silent prayer to God to forgive her, and save her soul from secret sin. She called herself foolish, presumptuous, treacherous. But, oh! in spite of all these, would sparkle up from the depths of her spirit, sprays of gladness, as if there had suddenly sprung within an everlasting fountain of joy. Yet again she blamed herself most bitterly. She repeated that despairing complaint or confession of David—“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.” She almost realized its truth. She silently cried to God to enter her heart, and expel its secret sin.

“Well, child! are you ready!” inquired Mrs. Clifton, withdrawing her hands from her temples, and looking towards the entranced girl. Kate did not hear or see, her soul and senses were absorbed in the subject before her. Yet she did not think or hope about the future. It was the present, the present that absorbed her heart, despite of will, resistance and conscience.

“Kate! are you asleep or in a trance?” asked the lady, gazing at her.

The maiden started, and blushed deeply.

“Catherine! what are you thinking of?” she repeated, fixing her dark eyes upon the girl, until they seemed to burn into her soul.

Kate looked guilty and bewildered, recovering herself by an effort, and answered, almost at random—

“This is not letter paper, madam, it is Bristol board.”

“Oh, well! there is writing paper in the other department of the desk, my child, get it out.”

Kate examined the contents of the desk, and then replied—

“There is no letter paper here, whatever, Mrs. Clifton.”

“What are those?”

“Only card boards and sketches, madam.”

“Sketches. That is just like Archer, to keep his sketches in his writing desk. His writing material will no doubt be found in his portfolio. But let me see those sketches, Catherine; I have not seen them yet, and they will be something new to me—almost like a recent letter from Archer. I like to look over his drawings; they always mean something apart from their subject, as it seems to me. I often think his sketches form a running commentary, though an involuntary one, on his life and thoughts! Hand them to me, my child.”

“These are only old historical subjects,” said Kate, with visible reluctance to produce them.

“Pass them over to me, my dear. If their subjects are as old as the Chinese History of the Creation, they will nevertheless be eloquent to me of my son’s present mood—of the state of his heart, and the progress or the retrogression of his mind. You cannot imagine, Catherine, the anxious curiosity of a mother to catch furtive glimpses of the interior of that heart she cannot always enter, and which is often hidden, too, from its possessor! ‘We know not what manner of spirit we are of,’ Catherine. For instance, do you know your own heart or mind? In all hearts lie depths below depths, never known to the owner until some earthquake of sorrow, or of passion, throw them open to view! There are in all minds powers beyond powers of achievement or of endurance, unsuspected by their possessor until some emergency calls them into action! But give me the drawings, Kate, they will refresh me like a talk with Archer.”

Catherine lifted them, _en masse_, and handed them to Mrs. Clifton, who took and examined each separately and leisurely.

“Um-m-me,” she said, smiling gently, as she recognized their subjects:—“‘Marguerite of France, at the Siege of Damietta,’ ‘Joan of Arc, at Rheims,’ ‘Margaret of Anjou, at St. Albans,’ ‘Last interview of Lord and Lady Russel,’ and all these battle-axe heroines, wearing the likeness of my serious, domestic Catherine! In truth, Archer has put you through as many characters and costumes as though he designed you for a tragic actress, in the heaviest line.”

Kate Kavanagh did not like that.

“But two of these characters bear any affinity to you, my dear. I cannot fancy any similitude between the tender and fiery Marguerite—that ‘falcon-hearted dove,’ or her haughty and remorseless namesake of Anjou, and my grave, gentle Catherine. But the high and holy enthusiasm irradiating Joan’s face, and the noble resignation of Lady Russel’s countenance, suit your striking features very well. But I am talking like a mediocre stage critic. Captain Clifton has a very high opinion, of you, my Catherine. Pray try to merit it, my dear girl!” concluded the lady, with a little pardonable motherly pride.

Kate Kavanagh looked down, and fingered the pens and wafers, for she felt the lady’s eyes gazing through and through her—reading her very soul.

“By the way, Catherine, have you seen Captain Clifton’s last work of art?”

“No, madam.” (I wonder why she calls him “Captain Clifton” to _me_—she never did so before, thought Kate.)

“It is a highly finished miniature of Miss Clifton, painted on ivory. He had it set in a plain gold locket, and has taken it away with him. I saw him hang it around his neck, and lay it near his heart.”

Catherine honestly believed that she was glad to hear this, for it seemed one more stay to keep her thoughts right.

“And that, Catherine, is one reason among many others I have, for knowing his indestructible love for Carolyn. And that is why I feel no hesitation in having this letter written, to end this foolish quarrel, and to restore peace to these two unhappy young people,” said Mrs. Clifton, looking, Catherine thought, very strangely at her—_so_ strangely, that the maiden felt her cheeks burn with a vague sense of humiliation.

She asked herself—Could Mrs. Clifton have read what had been passing in her mind? Well! if so—that was another band to bind her thoughts to the right.

“Now, then, to your task, my child. You will find paper in Captain Clifton’s portfolio.” She spoke gently as ever to Kate, but still called her son “Captain Clifton,” as if to widen the distance between them.

Kate felt troubled at this, and then took herself to task for a state of mind so morbidly acute to impressions, that she noticed everything, even that trifle. She searched and found the writing materials in the portfolio, and went to work and wrote, from Mrs. Clifton’s dictation, a letter, full of gentle rebuke, and kind, motherly counsel, to Archer Clifton. And all to the end that he should write immediately, and reconcile himself to Carolyn, who was extremely ill, and whom his mother felt assured, she said, that he must be most anxious to propitiate. The letter was sealed and dispatched, and the lady, thoroughly worn out, and leaning upon the arm of Catherine, sought her own bed-chamber.

The next morning, Mrs. Clifton was so weary that she could only leave her bed-chamber to lie upon the sofa in the shady parlor, where she could be at hand to direct the operations of her house servants—now engaged in cutting out and making up the Fall clothing for the negroes. Catherine came early to assist in this onerous task. It was in the afternoon while the lady was still reclining on the sofa, and Catherine standing at a work-table basting a linsey-woolsey frock-body—when a horse was heard to gallop up into the yard, a man to jump off and hasten up the steps of the piazza, and the instant after, old Mr. Clifton entered the parlor, looking very much flurried and alarmed.

“What is the matter? I hope Carolyn is no worse?” asked the lady, anxious, yet calm.

“No! Yes! A great deal better of course since the turn last night! Most malignant form of the disease, and growing rapidly worse every hour. _I tell you it is!_ The doctor affirms it!”

Mrs. Clifton gazed at him in a sort of self-possessed perplexity.

“She has got the small-pox, madam.”

“The small-pox!”

“Yes, madam, the confluent small-pox, in its worst form.”

“You astonish me! I trust—I believe you are mistaken!”

“No—I wish to Heaven I was! No, madam! Doctor’s opinion!”

“Why, how on earth. Sit down, Mr. Clifton! Kate, my dear, wheel that arm-chair around.”

Catherine obeyed, and the old gentleman sank among its soft cushions, and took out his pocket-handkerchief and wiped his face.

“How on earth could she have got it?” asked Mrs. Clifton.

“Ah! Lord Almighty knows! Came spontaneously, I do suppose! You noticed those two pimples that appeared upon her forehead after the crisis of her fever passed?”

“Yes; but I thought nothing of them.”

“Nor did we at the time. But at any rate, that was the first appearance of the eruption—little as we guessed it at the time. You see, she naturally began to grow better when this other disease began to break out, I suppose. Indeed, I have no doubt it was the coming of the small-pox, that arrested the fatal termination of the brain fever. Well, you see, last night after you had left her so much better, we entrusted her to the care of Zuleime, who did not seem to be so much worn out with watching as the rest of us. So Zuleime sat up with her; and she tells me that before midnight her face was sprinkled all over with those pimples. And this morning, when I first saw her—” The old man’s voice broke down for a moment. “Oh! it was dreadful! Her beautiful, fair face, neck, bosom, arms, all covered over with that horrible eruption! It had all run together in one mass. We sent off to hasten the arrival of the doctor, who, when he came, pronounced the disease to be confluent small-pox. Oh, it is horrible! horrible, even, if her life be spared! Disfigured for life! What a fate for a woman! I drove Zuleime out of the room against her will—for she, dear, generous girl, wished to stay and tend her sister. Georgia told me at breakfast, that she had just got a letter from her father, who was ill—and that she must have the carriage to go to Richmond. She did not show me the letter, for she made haste and started almost immediately. Everything falls out disastrously at once. Now, what am I to do? I cannot procure a nurse to that disease, for love or money, in this neighborhood. Advise me what to do. The necessity is so urgent!”

Mrs. Clifton was now sitting up, supporting her head upon her hand, and essaying her strength.

“I must go back, and nurse Carolyn myself.”

“You! Now, never suppose, my dear sister, that I have been hinting for you to return and finish killing yourself for us! I would not permit it, if you wished it ever so much! I’ll lock and bar the doors and windows, to keep you out, first. But think and counsel me as to the best thing to be done. There is no one at home but Zuleime—and even if I were willing she should risk taking the dreadful disease, she is so very young and inexperienced that I should be afraid to trust her sister’s safety in her hands. But I am not willing that she should run any risk to _herself_—that’s flat. But what’s to be done?”

“There is not a servant on your plantation, or on this farm, fit to be trusted in such a case. I must go and take care of my daughter myself!”

“D—d if you shall, ma’am! I’ll bar my doors and windows against you, first, I tell you! Why, in your weak state, it would be suicide!”

The lady maintained her purpose against Mr. Clifton’s vehement opposition, and her calm persistence must have conquered, but Kate Kavanagh mildly interposed, by saying—

“Let me go.”

“You!” exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Clifton, in a breath.

“Yes; I am not a bad nurse. I have had considerable experience with sick people.”

“But—you’ve never had the small-pox—you’re not the least marked!” said Mr. Clifton.

“No, sir, I have never had that disease!”

“And you are willing to risk taking it?”

“Yes, sir!”

“What! and you a young girl! Ain’t you afraid of catching it, and having your face spoiled?”

“Yes, sir, I am afraid of contracting it.”

“Why that is a plain contradiction of yourself; you say you are willing to risk it, and afraid of catching it. I do not understand you at all.”

“Catherine is so simply truthful and straight-forward!” said the lady, smiling; “she means that she is perfectly conscious of the extent of the danger of contagion, but that she thinks it her duty to brave it, nevertheless! Is not that it, my dear? But, Catherine, much as we thank you for your generous self-devotion, we must not permit you to think of going. I must do that, for I have had the disease. If you were to persist in your purpose, my dear girl, you would almost certainly get the small-pox, and then your life, or at the very least, your beauty, would be sacrificed.”

“Beauty!—If I had it and were to lose it, dear lady, there is no one to care for it!”

“Yes, _I_ should care for it, my Kate,” said the lady, putting her arm around the girl’s waist, and drawing her closer.

“In fine, my good girl, you shall not go if you are afraid! That’s certain!” said Mr. Clifton.

“Oh, sir, that would not interfere with the faithful discharge of my duties as nurse. You had best let me go, and go at once, sir! There is no time to be lost, surely. Is any competent person with Miss Clifton now, sir?”

“No one but a colored woman, and I really _must_ hurry back. And, so if you really _do_ feel disposed to go, my dear girl,—is she a good nurse, Mrs. Clifton?”

“Excellent, sir! But indeed I do not like her exposing herself in my stead. I should not permit her to do it, indeed, if my power seconded my will,” added the lady, sinking back fatigued upon her sofa cushions.

Old Mr. Clifton was evidently inclined to accept Kate’s services. Mrs. Clifton was obliged to yield,—more to the weakness that overpowered her frame than to the arguments set forth by Catherine. It was settled, then, that Kate should go. And she quickly put on her little straw bonnet and black silk scarf, and entered the gig that the old gentleman borrowed from the lady to convey the girl to Clifton.