Chapter XXXIV: Catherine’s Regency

But a trouble weighed upon her,
And perplexed her night and morn,
With the burden of a station
Unto which she was not born.—TENNYSON

Slowly, very slowly Catherine recovered from the shock of that bitter parting. And then she felt so lonely—so desolate; no mother—no sister—no bosom friend, to give her one comforting look of sympathy, or one sustaining word of affection. And she mourned afresh the loss of that dear, sympathising, maternal friend, always so ready in her loving wisdom, always so ready in any trial or affliction to give counsel and comfort. And, oh! Catherine needed these—for, like the black, scudding fragments of clouds left by the tempest, dark, despairing thoughts drifted through her mind. Yes, she had need, and profoundly felt that need, of counsel and comfort in this bewildering sorrow; but of whom could she seek it? Of none—of none must she seek it. The true wife’s instinct taught her that. For even when the retrospective image of his dead mother, her own beloved bosom friend, recurred in the shape of a once possible mediator between herself and husband, her mind intuitively recoiled from the idea, and she knew that were that dear mother now living, not even of her could she make a confidant—that the religious unity, the integral sanctity, the cherished exclusiveness of marriage would be invaded and broken, and the sweet charm lost by the introduction of a third party—beloved even as that dear, mutual mother—into its sacred counsels. No, unhappy and bewildered as she was, she felt that by all her hopes of a future happy union, this wretched division must be kept to herself—upon herself solely recoil the burden and the pain—she “must tread the wine press alone.” And even when she prayed for Divine inspiration to guide her, the response came from the depths of her spirit, “The Word of God is within you.”

And how empty the house seemed because one was away—how gloomy—how funereal—even the light footstep of a chamber-maid in the distance sounded hollowly,—sending a dreary echo through the many passages of the great, empty house—empty, for that he was gone.

It seemed not worth while to go on with daily life at all—to keep up the fire on the household hearth, or to light the evening lamp, or to order meals for herself alone.

But if Catherine were for once tempted in her sorrow to forget her duties,—her duties were not the least disposed to leave her long in peace—no, not for an hour.

Catherine was roused from her fit of deep thought by the entrance of a field woman, who, with the usual curtsey, and the customary greeting of—“Sarvunt, ma’am,” stood before her.

Kate raised her heavy eyelids abstractedly.

“Sarvunt, ma’am,” said the woman, again curtseying, “Aunt Field Mary is well over it, ma’am. It’s a boy-chile, ma’am; a likely little boy-chile as ever you see, ma’am. An’ Aunt Field Mary told me to tell you, ma’am, how, thank the Lord, an’ she’s fotch through safe, an’ how she wouldn’t let dem sturve you las’ night, caze you wur so tired, an’ caze it wur the lassest night Marse Archer had to stay home. An’ Aunt Field Mary say, would you please to come down der to her quarter an’ see her dis mornin’, and how she wants some green tea, an’ loaf sugar, an’—an’—_wine_, if you please, ma’am.”

“What—what did you say?” asked Catherine, passing her hand over her forehead, to dispel the concentration of sorrowful thought.

“Aunt Field Mary, ma’am, it’s a boy-chile, ma’am, a likely little boy-chile as ever you see, ma’am, an’ she’s fotch well through of it, thank Marster, ma’am, an’ she say, how will you come an’ see her, an’ send her some liquor, an’ things. Likewise, Uncle Jubilee, its daddy, ma’am, he say, can’t he have a holyday to-day, ma’am, an’ stay home out’n de field, seein’ how it’s his firstest son an’ hier out’n seven darters.”

Passing her hand across her forehead slowly, Catherine dispersed the last lingering fragments of her bitter reverie, and stood up to her simple, practical, household duties. And then her action was clear and decided. She took up her little basket of keys, bade the woman follow her, and went down stairs and into the pantry, where she filled a hamper with tea and sugar, crackers, jelly, and other little matters, and gave it to her attendant, saying—

“Take these to Field Mary, and say that I will be down to see her presently.”

“Yes, ma’am, sure ’nough. But ’bout de liquor, honey? likewise Uncle Jubilee’s holyday, seein’ how it’s his firstest son an’ hier out’n seven darters?”

“Tell Mary that I cannot send her wine, it is not good for her now; but tell her to mention any other want, and if it be a proper one, it shall be supplied. Tell Jubilee to return to the field—his labor cannot possibly be spared from it to-day. And stay—what is your name?”

“Nelly, ma’am. ’Deed it is, honey. That’s my name, Nelly.”

“I think I never saw you up at the house before, Nelly?”

“No, ma’am, likely not, chile, indeed. I lives quite distant off, down der on Cedar Creek, unnerneaf of Bushy Hill der on de outskeerts o’ de plantashum.”

“Well, Nelly, who is tending Field Mary?”

“_I_ is, ma’am. Hardbargain Henny, she long o’ her now. But _I_ tends her. I tends all de wimmin hands when dey’s sick, ’deed I does, chile. But poor creeturs, dey alluz wants der miste’ss, _alluz_. I never knew dem to fail o’ fretting arter _her_, dey don’t seem to feel kinder safe widout her, dough I alluz tells de poor ignoran’ creeturs, der mist’ess can’t do nuffin ’tall—dere in de han’s o’ de Lord—not in de mist’ss’s. An’ dar Fiel’Mary, ’ceitful thing, sendin’ you word how she didn’t want you sturved, arter keepin’ on arter us all night to send for you; but I telled her good I wan’t agoin’ to have the young madam wurritted long o’ her ‘fernal nonsense, bein’ as it was de lassest night Marster had to stay at home.”

“Yes, there, go now,” said Catherine, waving her hand wearily.

“Nyther wan’t it any sort o’ use, case I, myse’f, dough I should’n be de fuss to bray affen it, am as knowin’ a ‘oman as if I wur book edified, bein’ as I has had thirty years ’speriments, ten years practysin’ on ole Marse Roger Gower plantashum, down in ole Si’ Mary’s, ’fore I came here, nuss long o’ Miss Car’line Gower, wid her fuss baby, which was our Miss Car’line Clif’n. An’ dat war twenty odd year ago, an’ I’se had twenty years ’speriments here. Lord, mist’ess, ma’am, whenever you ’quires any ’vice and ’sistance, you ain’t no ’cassion to call in any dem derned, infunnelly, roguing doctors as makes you worse sick, purpose o’ gettin’ more credit and money for makin’ you well.”

“There—there—there—there, Nelly, return to your patient.”

“Yes, mist’ess, I’m gwine now, ma’am, only I wanted to tell you while I trought of it, how when eber you ’quire of de aid an’ comfort, you no call to send offen de plantashum, case—”

“Nelly, there is one thing that I must say to you now, and which I wish you to remember. It is that when I give a direction I intend it to be followed.”

The old woman looked mortified, and took up the hamper, settled it upon her head, and went out. It pained Catherine’s gentle heart to speak so peremptorily. But this was one among the abuses she felt it to be her imperative duty to reform, the habits of idleness and listlessness, and the propensity to stand and gossip among the domestics. Trifling as this little incident was, it served to arouse Catherine and place her on her feet, and she did not utterly sink again.

The evening fire was kindled on the household hearth, and the evening lamp lighted, though there was but one lonely woman to feel their cheering influence.

The next day was the Sabbath, and Catherine as usual attended church. She felt deeply the need of religious consolation. Her spirit hungered, thirsted, failed and fainted for the feeding, refreshing, strengthening ministrations of the gospel. The old, sad, unanswered problem of unmerited suffering perplexed her. She felt herself sinking into that sad and nearly hopeless state of mind, induced by great and singular trials to be borne perforce alone and in secret—when, wanting human sympathy and failing of divine comfort, the soul loses sight of the Merciful Father in the Omnipotent Creator, or in other words, of especial Providence in general Providence, and falls sadly, despairingly back upon its helpless self, and says that the Supreme Ruler of the Universe, the Governor of countless millions of suns and systems, never stoops to care for a poor, lost atom like itself. She needed to hear the gospel message of love and hope again. But when she entered her pew, and raised her eyes to the pulpit, she was disappointed in missing from his place the mild and venerable face and form of the parish clergyman, whose teachings every Sabbath morning sent her home with renewed love, and sustained her through the week, and she was pained to see in his stead a young man, a mere youth in seeming, some student newly ordained, she supposed, and she sank back in her seat, saddened with the thought that she would not get the greatly needed spiritual help from him; for what could a student in his youth know of life’s dread trials? of the heart’s mournful experiences, or the spirit’s deep needs? She felt sure he could not help her, and she sank back, resigning herself with a deep sigh. The opening hymn was given out—

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform,
He plants His footsteps on the sea.
And rides upon the storm.

Ye fearful souls, fresh courage take,
The cloud ye so much dread
Is big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

The first words of this hymn fell upon Catherine’s surprised ear, filling her soul with awe—for it seemed a direct answer to her thought. And all that hymn, every stanza, every line, was filled with meaning for her, and powerful in its effect upon her mind, in its peculiar state of experience. She listened in penitent, grateful, reverent silence, folding her hands meekly, and saying within her heart—

“Father, forgive my doubts and fears! I will believe it! Yes, I will believe that even this heavy cloud is laden with mercy, and will shower blessings! I will believe that even this bitter trial—this bitter, bitter separation and disunion, is in some way necessary to our moral growth and future welfare, and that I shall see it! I _do_ believe it, for I have had blessed answers before to doubts. ‘And we know that all things work together for good to them that love the Lord.’ I do believe it.”

God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain,

were the solemn last words of the Divine Song that awed her into stillness. This hymn was sung, Catherine’s beautiful voice joining the choir. And when it was ended, followed the prayer, so singularly coincident, that every word gave voice to the deep silent cry in her own suffering heart.

And then the young minister arose to give out the text: Matthew x. 29. “Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.” And here followed the sermon. The manner of the young preacher was modest, natural, calm and sweet, as befitted the gentle words of the text, and the consoling subject of the sermon—FAITH IN PROVIDENCE—the child-like faith that comes through the heart, and not through the head. Catherine had thought he could not help her. Never had she been more in error in her life. That pale young preacher had a divine message for her—for _her_; an answer to her unsolvable problem; a message, providentially, the most direct, pointed, strong, startling that ever fell from lips touched with fire, revivifying the soul of the receiver; a message that satisfied every doubt, and calmed every fear, and replied to every question as perfectly, as satisfyingly, as if Heaven had spoken; a message that aroused faith, revived hope, rekindled love, till all the soul glowed with divine fire. She was wrapped, entranced, carried away by the eloquence, power and pathos of this divinely-inspired discourse. She never saw the young preacher before or after, but he had dropped a celestial treasure deep into where she kept it safe—a talisman through all the trials of life.

She left the church loving, hopeful, strong in faith, strong to act and endure, patient to wait. So elevated and inspired was her soul, that it illumined her whole countenance. And when the county ladies crowded around her at the church door to condole with her on the departure of Major Clifton, and to press hospitalities upon her, and to urge her not to mope in widowhood at home, their benevolent purposes were forgotten in their surprise, and the first words were—

“Why, how brightly you look this morning, Mrs. Clifton!”

Catherine promised many visits, and extended many invitations, and finally was glad to escape and enter her carriage, to dwell in lonely, loving reverence upon the words she had heard. And she reached home. And the Word departed not from her, neither that day, nor the next, nor through life. And with the perfect faith in God, perfect trust in her future came. And again she whispered to herself the charming thoughts—

“I will wait patiently—I will work faithfully. The post of duty, as of hope, is my husband’s house and home. He trusts me, at least, even now, with the charge of this great plantation. Construe it as he may, it is a mark of great confidence. I will be true to the trust.”

And then, indeed, as she whispered these words to her heart, hope, sweet hope, inspired her more and more, and strengthened her more and more, and she felt that he still loved her—she felt it by that sure instinct that teaches a woman when she is beloved, though no word, look, or gesture reveals it to her. And she acted upon this feeling, although almost unconscious of its existence as a _motive_. And she knew that she would be useful to him, substantially useful to him where she was—for with her it was not enough to be devoted, soul and body, to his interests,—no, “wishing well” _must_ have a “body in it,” in order “to be felt.” She communed with her heart, asking—

“What, besides the service of God, do I really live for in this world? For his happiness. Yes, my profound heart, that is it! For his good, his interests, his welfare. I have not been an obstacle to his happiness. I have not been a stumbling block in the way of his marrying another. No! for I feel that he loves me as he never loved another; and I love him as he was never loved by another; and has any other the instinct, the inspiration, the strength and patience to bear with him, that God has placed in my heart? I will believe and trust in the Lord and His inspirations. And heart, and brain, and hands,—all that I am, and all that I have, will I devote to his service. And until he restores me, that alone shall make my occupation and my happiness.”

The next morning being Monday, she arose with the intention of taking seriously in hand the business of the estate. This was now the first of December, and there was a great deal to be done before the close of the year, in financial, as well as in domestic and agricultural matters. The overseer and the hired farm-laborers had all been paid in advance, up to the first of January. And Major Clifton had left Catherine twelve hundred dollars in cash, for her own current expenses. All this money she had at once determined to devote to another purpose—namely—to lifting some of those notes which would fall due on the first of the year. She determined, also, in order to help to clear off the incubus of debt for the coming year, to try to find a tenant for Hardbargain, and to devote the rent to the taking up of the remaining notes. She went into a patient and thorough examination of the overseer’s accounts, and discovered, with much pain, that he had embezzled the funds trusted to him for the payment of the hired hands; and a stricter review of his conduct, resulted in the detection of other malpractices, that decided Catherine to give him warning. A very little observation convinced her, also, that the “baker’s dozen of hired laborers, all his own kin folks,” were an unnecessary and expensive set of idle parasites, of whom she determined to rid the plantation at the end of the year. She finally concluded still further to lower the scale of expenditures, by parting with her housekeeper. She reconciled herself to this last step, when she heard of a place in the neighborhood to which Mrs. Mercer might go. Yet Catherine did not wish to make these important changes without again consulting Major Clifton. And, perhaps—let the whole truth be told—perhaps poor Kate was desirous to hear from him, and glad of a fair business excuse to write. And she wrote the following note. She had some trouble with it. It was the first (except the lines at the funeral,) she had ever written him, and, under all the circumstances, she hesitated how to begin, or how to end it. She disliked to address him as a mere acquaintance, and she shrunk from any warmer manner of greeting. Finally, she wrote, as she would have written to a friend—thus—

“WHITE CLIFFS, December 8th, 1812.

“DEAR MAJOR CLIFTON:—

“After a very careful investigation of the affairs of the plantation,
and much patient thought concerning them, I have concluded—if I have
your approbation and authority for doing so—that the establishment can
be cut down so as to reduce the annual expenditure to about one-half
its present amount—also, that the Hardbargain farm can be let for a
sum, double the annual amount of what we can save at White Cliffs.
And, finally, that the aggregate of these moneys, saved and acquired,
will be sufficient, in two years, to pay off the accumulated debts
oppressing the estate. (Here followed a more detailed account of her
plans.) Please write, and let me know if I have your authority for
proceeding.

Yours, faithfully,
“CATHERINE.”

In due time, Catherine received the answer. She seized it with an eager hand. She opened it with trembling fingers. She most unreasonably hoped—poor girl—for some kind, relenting word—some token of approbation or affection. Truly, she believed in miracles. This was the precious epistle—

“HAMPTON, December 16th, 1812.

“MADAM:—

“Your favor of the 8th instant lies before me. I beg leave to
reiterate now what I said at parting—viz: that I have not the
slightest hesitation in leaving the plantation to your own exclusive
charge and direction—having no doubt that self-interest will guide
your talent into the surest means of recruiting the resources of the
estate. Let Hardbargain, by all means, if it pleases you to do it,
remembering that I have nothing to do with that cunningly acquired
little piece of property of yours. Regarding the dismissal of the
housekeeper, the overseer, and the hired farm-laborers, whom you
consider as supernumeraries, send them off, by all means, if you think
it proper to do so. I, myself, perhaps, should have hesitated, ere I
sent them adrift upon the world. But money-saving is, I presume, a
plebeian instinct.

“Finally, pray govern in your own way, without ever again thinking it
to be necessary to consult,

“Your servant,
“ARCHER CLIFTON.”