Chapter XIV: The Discipline of Affliction

When through the deep waters I call thee to go
The rivers of wo shall not thee overflow,
For I will be with thee thy troubles to bless,
And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.

When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,
My grace all-sufficient shall be thy supply;
The flame shall not hurt thee, I only design,
Thy dross to consume and thy gold to refine.
PARAPHRASE FROM SCRIPTURE.

The mansion-house at White Cliffs was all but deserted. The very house servants, pretty mulatto girls, more afraid of destroying their good looks than losing their lives, had retreated to their own dens, feigning illness as an excuse to keep out of the reach of contagion. Catherine was introduced at once into the sick room. That sick room! What mind can conceive, or what pen _should_ describe it. Only those who have nursed a patient through that worst form of the most loathsome pestilence, can realize its revolting horrors. To see any human being looking as the once beautiful Carolyn now looked. Her very features almost obliterated, while——fill up the pause, you who have seen the horrors of that pest. It was worse than any form of illness—it was worse than death and decay. Disgust almost overmastered pity, and Catherine turned away, shuddering with sickness of body and soul. Old Mr. Clifton cast one agonized look upon the ruin, and unable to bear the sight, rushed from the room. Catherine turned to her duty. The wretched patient was tossing about in high fever, and tearing her arms and bosom under the intolerable irritation. That work of destruction must be stopped first Catherine knew. Catherine caught her right hand, and it took all her strength to hold that hand, whose flesh seemed as if it would drop off, under the pressure, while she secured it to the bedstead. Then she captured the other dashing, tossing hand, and confined it in the same manner. And then she looked at the state of her own palms. Oh, offensive duty! No wonder, she thought, that the beautiful Georgia had fled to Richmond, and the two pretty house-maids were extremely ill in their attic! Had _she_ a wish to follow their example? No—for now all selfish fears were lost in deep compassion for the poor, forsaken wreck of beauty, that lay there at her mercy. She returned to her duty. She administered to her patient an opiate, to soothe her restlessness. Took a sponge and tepid water, and thoroughly cleansed the surface of the skin, and anointed face, bosom and arms with a fragrant emollient, to allay the intolerable itching. She then released her hands, and laid them easily upon the counterpane. Lastly, she ventilated and darkened the chamber, and took her seat by the bedside, to fan her patient while she slept. And deep was her satisfaction in watching that quiet, refreshing sleep. It is not my intention to lead my reader through the dismal days that followed in that sick room, until the “secondary fever,” the crisis of the disease, came and passed. Catherine nursed her patient tenderly, faithfully, night and day. Carolyn’s life was spared, but her peerless beauty was gone forever. Her luxuriant, fair hair was all lost, and her head was as bald and discolored as her face—and that!

In that darkened chamber, and in the midst of physical suffering and weakness, Carolyn had had no opportunity of ascertaining the extent of the ravages the disease had made in her beauty—if indeed she knew the nature of the former, or thought about the latter. But as she convalesced, and became able to sit up in bed and converse, she felt an invalid’s childish curiosity to look in the glass, and frequently requested her gentle nurse to hand her one. But Catherine, dreading the effect of the shock, steadily refused to comply with her wishes in that respect, and perseveringly kept the room darkened. And the sick girl, too weak to persist long in any controversy, yielded the point.

But one day, while Catherine was at her breakfast, and old Darkey supplying her place by the bedside of the patient, Carolyn said in a tone that admitted of no denial, or even delay—

“Darkey, hand me that hand-glass from my dressing-table.”

And the old woman impulsively, thoughtlessly obeyed her, and brought it. Carolyn was propped up in bed. She took the mirror, gave one interested look into it—plucked off her little cap—gave another hurried glance—and uttering a long, low cry of despair, sunk back insensible upon her pillow.

Old Darkey flew from the chair to the patient, and from the patient to the bell, in great trepidation—ringing peals that brought all the household hurrying in alarm to the room. Old Mr. Clifton, being nearest at hand, arrived first. And when he saw and understood what had happened, he seized the hand-glass, and threw it out of the window, and laid hold of the heavy toilet mirror, and sent it flying after. Then he drove old Darkey from the room, forbidding her, for a stupid and dangerous maniac, ever to show her face there again. And all this time, Catherine, who had entered so quietly that no one saw or heard her, was silently trying to restore the swooning girl. As Carolyn, with a deep sigh, opened her eyes, Kate motioned for every one to leave the chamber. And all noiselessly withdrew. Carolyn shivered and shuddered several times, as she raised her eyes appealingly, despairingly to Catherine, who was bending tenderly over her. Catherine thought it best to answer that silent appeal by speaking at once to the point.

“My dear Miss Clifton, you must not think that your face will continue to look anything like it does now, for it will not, indeed. For though it is very much discolored, it is not much pitted, and the discoloration will wear off in a few days. And as for your hair, Miss Clifton, that will grow out very soon, and be even more beautiful and luxuriant than before, on account of the renewal of the skin—so, dear lady, take comfort and do not look in the glass again until you are better.” And all this time that Catherine spoke in this gentle manner, she was bathing the girl’s face and hands with bay water, and her tender touch was even more soothing than the sedative liquid. Catherine was almost impelled to say—“Have patience—bow to the will of God, and try to learn the lesson He intends to teach in this.” But she felt the hour had not come for speaking such words. That she herself must have patience and wait for the time when she might minister to her spiritual need.

Up to this period, Miss Clifton did not know who her nurse was. She had heard her called “My dear child,” or “My good girl,” by the physician and by her father, and they were the only visitors to the room, except old Darkey, who came to relieve the nurse at meal times, and who simply called her “Miss.” And if once or twice she had heard her called Catherine—still she never imagined her to be Kate Kavanagh, but some hired attendant. And, indeed, in the languor of illness she thought nothing about it. A few days after this, however, when she had grown more composed and resigned, and while she lay watching Catherine’s quiet movements through the room, she said—

“My dear, good girl—my gentle nurse—tell me your name? I _do_ pray sometimes, and I wish to know your name that I may ask God to bless you for exposing life and health and beauty for one whom mother, and sister, and servants all deserted.” Just now, for the first time, it flashed like lightning through Kate’s mind that all the danger of infection was over, and that she might now thank God for preserving her from contagion. Yes! she had forgotten herself for some time past, but now her heart leaped for joy and gratitude, and she thanked God before she replied to Miss Clifton’s question, and said—

“My name is Catherine Kavanagh.”

“So!—you are Kate Kavanagh! Hoist up the blind. Come to me. Let me look at you,” said Miss Clifton, raising on her elbow. Smiling, because unconscious of the hidden meaning in her words, Catherine approached and sat down by her bed. And Carolyn took both her hands, and

“Fell to the perusing of her face,
As though she’d learn it off by heart.”

She pored over the broad, square forehead, looking strong, but not beautiful, for all the bright chestnut hair was pushed carelessly aside—she gazed upon those dark gray eyes under their long black fringes—such deep, transparent wells of darkness and light they were—she dwelt upon the beautiful lips, and then her glance roved over the symmetrical form. And she thought she had never seen so perfect a figure. And she sighed and raised her eyes again to the remarkable countenance, with its large features, pale and cadaverous now with a long season of confinement, fatigue and loss of sleep, and grave with thought, and earnest with deep feeling. And she could not settle it to her satisfaction whether Kate Kavanagh was a sublime beauty or a fright. Upon the whole, the girl interested and pained her. And she continued to hold her hands with a nervous grasp, and pore over her face and form as freely as though she had been only a dreadfully fascinating statue—while Kate blushed under the infliction, and finally drew her hands away and sat down.

But every day Miss Clifton’s confidence in, and esteem for Kate Kavanagh, increased. And every day Catherine sought to draw her patient’s soul to the only true source of light, strength and consolation; and to sanctify this terrible affliction to her spirit’s good. The obligation to do this pressed upon the girl’s conscience heavily, as if it were the hand of God. It was in vain that she said to herself, “I am nothing but a weak, erring girl. It would be presumption in me to speak. It might be received as impertinence, and do more harm than good.” Still the answer arose from the depths of her heart, saying—“Speak the fitting words at the fitting time, as they arise within your mind, for they are the inspiration of God’s spirit.” And wisely, lovingly, reverently she spoke them as occasion called them forth. The right thing was always said at the moment it was needed. “Words spoken in season are like apples of gold on plates of silver.” Many a willing but bungling Christian would have failed to do Carolyn any good, for Miss Clifton was a very difficult subject. There is nothing so hard of impression as pride and scorn and jealousy. It was the dominion of that infernal triumvirate that made Lucifer an impracticable subject among the angels. But Catherine was moved and guided by a higher power than herself. Of herself she dared say nothing on Divine subjects. She only spoke when strongly, irresistibly impelled to do so. And her words were blessed to her patient and sanctified to her own spirit.

Catherine had a powerful coadjutor in her good work. It was the sorrow in Carolyn’s heart. And ah, who could sound the depth of that sorrow? Loving as passionately as she had loved! Sinning against that love as cruelly as she had sinned! Punished for her sin as terribly as she was punished! And now ruined and hideous in person, and wrecked and despairing in mind, to whom could she cry in her sharp agony but to God?—her Creator and Father!—Whose arm was strong enough to lift her from that horrible pit but God’s—but God’s? And the All-Powerful, the All-Merciful, was helping her every day.

The great strength, the great vitality of her sorrow, was the thought of Archer Clifton. Could she have hoped for a reconciliation with him, however distant, all else might have been borne. But with that death’s head of hers, such joy might never be hoped—ought never to be wished. No, she was as the leper, set apart from human love—at least from conjugal and maternal love—forever and forever! This was hard—this was well nigh intolerable!

She would no more grace the saloon with her surpassing loveliness—the pride of her family—the ornament of their house. Her heart would no more swell with exultation, when, on entering the drawing-room, in the full glory of her peerless beauty, she would hear a murmur of admiration pass through the company. No. If she should ever enter a saloon again, she would make a tremendous sensation, truly—but it would be one of astonishment, pity, and perhaps disgust. And that thought was dreadful, dreadful to the proud young belle! But oh! it was as nothing to the feeling that her household gods were broken and ruined forever—that her hopes of domestic happiness were gone forever! For underneath all the pride and vanity and scorn of the young belle had been the woman’s thought, the woman’s hope of the coming long, calm days of wife and mother joy. Yea, as surely as under the burnished satin boddice had beat the heart of flesh! But all these were over now; the proud, vain aspirations of the belle, and the woman’s deeper, purer hopes! Both crushed by one fell blow! All was lost in the world! Nothing was left but Heaven!

“If God would take
A heart that earth had crushed.”

Many are driven by the storms of life to the Heavenly Father’s bosom. It is for this that the tempests of sorrow are sent, and the sooner that Divine sanctuary is sought, the better, for hard and harder will beat the storm until its end is answered. And too often all is lost, or seems lost, before we consent to save ourselves. With Carolyn, all the treasures of her youth were gone,—health and beauty, love and hope. Something like this she breathed to Catherine, in a weak, despairing mood,—for only in a miserably depressed state of mind and body would the proud girl deign to complain.

“Dear lady, do not say so sadly that ‘all is lost—forever lost.’ Dear lady, _nothing is ever lost_. It is impossible. The Lord, in His Divine Wisdom, may withdraw His gifts, but they are not lost—they have gone into His keeping.”

“I do not comprehend you! My poor good looks, such as they were, are surely gone forever. Nothing can restore them! And oh, Catherine! you do not know—you cannot understand all the blessings, the hope, and the joy of my life fled forever! You are a child—you do not understand it!”

“Perhaps I do not, lady, and perhaps I _do_! Seek all that you have lost in God! He has withdrawn His gifts, your treasures, that He may draw you to Himself! They are safe in His treasure house. If you have lost the beauty of the fair roseate complexion, He can endow you with a higher beauty, emanating from the soul. If you have lost human love, He can satisfy your soul with the richness and fullness of Divine love that never faileth! And for your broken earthly hopes, He can give you the Heavenly hope that never dieth.”

“Oh! but it is the lost earthly hope, personal beauty and human love, that were so dear to me! So dear to me!” exclaimed the poor girl, bursting into a passion of tears.

“And He can restore even those! ‘But seek ye _first_ the Kingdom of Heaven, and all these things shall be added to you.’”

“Ah, child! _Nothing_ but a miracle could give me back dead happiness. And the days of miracles are over!”

“No! no! There is nothing in the Scripture to warrant that saying. The days of miracles are _not_ passed. Until the days of human faith and Divine Omnipotence are past—the days of miracles are not passed. Anything that _seems_ to me right that I should have, I will pray God—that if it _be_ right, He will give it me—though it should appear to my ignorance utterly impossible!” Then Catherine abruptly stopped, fearing that she had said too much. And she silently prayed for a faith that should be as far removed from presumption, as from despair.

Carolyn convalesced very slowly. It was weeks before she left her bed. And then many more weeks before she left her room.

It was a glorious day in Autumn, when she first walked out upon the lawn, supported between Catherine and her father. And as soon as she set foot upon the green sward, some cattle that were browsing there—by some caprice to which cattle are subject—started off as if seized by sudden panic, and ran huddling together confusedly, and precipitating themselves towards the outer gate. And so weak were the poor invalid’s nerves, and so morbid her mind, that she burst into tears, and declared that the very brutes fled from before her face, as from one less human than themselves! Nor could any argument of Mr. Clifton’s or of Catherine’s, disabuse her mind of this absurd idea. She begged Catherine to take her back to her chamber. And for many weeks no entreaties could induce her to leave it.

Zuleime came freely to her sister now. She had her harp brought into her room. And she soothed the recluse with music every day. And at last Kate Kavanagh, who had gradually merged from nurse into companion, added her own rich, full-toned voice in accompaniment. The Misses Clifton were both very much surprised to see this “gift of gracious nature” thrown away upon a poor girl, with no hopes or prospects but manual labor for her living. And Zuleime, who could be thoughtful and benevolent in the midst of anxiety and sorrow, proposed to give Catherine lessons on the harp. But this was soon stopped. Both Zuleime and Catherine perceived that the music, far from soothing, seemed to irritate the invalid. And for this reason, Carolyn had lost her voice. She could never sing again. And even in speaking, her tones were harsh and rough. The harp was banished, and books were brought. And while Zuleime worked, and Carolyn fondled a little King Charles, that had been bought for the childish invalid, Kate read aloud to the sisters. And now it was that the world of _written_ poetry broke upon the maiden’s delighted view. Before this, she had never read a line of poetry in her life, except hymns—for Mrs. Clifton had judiciously suppressed all books of that nature. But now the treasures of Milton, Goldsmith, and Cowper, were opened to her ardent mind! Oh, those days that followed the convalescence of Miss Clifton—those evenings after Carolyn had gone to rest, when she and Zuleime would go into the summer saloon and spend the hours in music or poetry, or in talk as musical, and as poetic. Those evenings, spent with a refined, warm-hearted girl like Zuleime—they were unfitting her for her prospective hard life of coarse labor and coarser association. She felt that it was so. And she determined to leave. She only waited until Mr. Clifton went to Richmond and brought back his wife. And then she bade them all good-bye and returned home—not to the farm-house of Hardbargain, but to her brother Carl’s cabin.

She needed to commune with herself, and be still. She wished to descend into the unsounded abysses of her heart, and examine, though with awe, the mystery of iniquity that in some unguarded hour had germinated there—this growing passion for a man betrothed to another. No matter if the marriage was broken off for the present. They loved each other. And _that_ was the true betrothal. As for herself, she would, with the grace of God, turn out this dangerous bosom guest, so divinely fair as to seem like an angel of light rather than the tempting demon that it was! And to do this effectually, she must break every tie that held her to that fair illusive life she had lately led. She must forsake every association connected with her sin and folly. She loved Mrs. Clifton—loved her first for herself alone, and then as the mother of—one whose name she dared not now to breathe even to herself. She enjoyed the congenial society and occupations at White Cliffs and at Hardbargain. And now she was the most welcome visitor on the list of both families. But she must forego the privilege this gave her. More than all, she had enjoyed her pleasant life at Hardbargain. The cheerful housekeeping cares she had shared with its mistress—the conversations over the pleasant tea-table or the social work-stand—the books, the newspapers, and the evening music, and the society of the admirable Mrs. Clifton—these formed the externals, the body of her happiness; but the interior, the soul of her joy, was that _there_ was the home of Archer Clifton—the place pervaded by his spirit! redolent of him! But all these _must_ be abandoned! They might have affinity for her nature, but they did not belong to her lot in life. And see what they had brought her to! Even to an insane passion for her benefactor! And now it was high time she had come to her senses and self-recollection. She was a poor girl, of the humblest birth—born in poverty and destined to poverty. She must leave off spending evenings with refined and accomplished young ladies in elegant saloons, if she wished to do her duty in that station to which God had called her. And she must give up the society of Archer Clifton’s mother, if she wished to forget him. And she must betake herself to the coarse, hard, but dutiful life of her brother’s cabin.

Catherine went no more to White Cliffs or to Hardbargain. And when Mrs. Clifton sent for her to come and spend a day, she returned a gentle answer that she could not leave her grandfather.