Chapter V: The Old Man and His Bride

There is a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we will.—SHAKSPEARE.

Carl Kavanagh and his sister were settled in the log cabin on the farm of Hardbargain. Carl, as an old acquaintance of the mistress, and a late laborer on the plantation, fell readily into his new business of overseeing it. Catherine began to busy herself in the management of her new and very comfortable home. Their cabin contained a sitting-room, kitchen, and two chambers. Mrs. Clifton had gratified her own kindly and benevolent disposition by adding several plain articles of furniture to the small stock possessed by the poor family. She had, besides, given Catherine a set of half-worn, white dimity curtains, and a pair of coarse, home-made, white counterpanes. These gave an air of neatness, approaching—I had almost said refinement to the sitting-room, and two little bed-rooms. Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, was not addicted to taking sudden likings—indeed, though a lady of perfect frankness, benevolence and liberality of judgment, she was cool and prudent—yet, notwithstanding this her kindest affections were at once attracted towards Kate. It is true she had been prepared to think well of the child from an intimate knowledge of her brother Carl’s honesty and intelligence, but at the first sight of Catherine, the noble countenance of the mountain-girl riveted her esteem. There are some faces which we know at a glance cannot belong to other than a fine, high-toned character. And such a countenance was that of Catherine. And it won upon the lady every day, as no merely beautiful face could ever have done. For hers was a brow—

“Where every god did seem to set his seal to give the world assurance
of—”

a peerless woman. Often Mrs. Clifton invited Catherine to bring her work and sit with her through the afternoon, and seldom did she let the girl return without placing in her hand some book just suitable to her very age, and the stage of progress of her mind. And oh! did not the heart of the maiden kindle and glow with love and admiration for the noble lady, who, without one particle of pride, or the least pretension to condescension—condescended so much. And so Catherine grew to understand and appreciate Mrs. Clifton, and to look upon her with a feeling amounting almost to worship. How happy were those afternoons spent with her in the cool and breezy parlor. How deeply grateful was Kate for all her benefits—how anxious to prove her gratitude—to do something for her benefactress. But Kate was very shy, and her love only spoke in the stealthy look of affection fixed upon the lady, and withdrawn with a deeply blushing cheek if discovered. But by these tokens sure did Mrs. Clifton know the sweetness and the tenderness, the modesty and the sincerity of the maiden’s hidden heart. And all this time was Catherine wishing for the ability to tell her friend how much she thanked and loved her. One afternoon she mustered up the courage to tell the lady that she should like to read to her any time that it would be agreeable; also, that she had some skill in doing up laces and such things and that she should be happy if she could assist Mrs. Clifton in such matters. Mrs. Clifton placed her hand affectionately on Catherine’s head, and declined all her offers of service except that which related to the reading—which she accepted—hoping thereby to improve her protégé in many ways—to direct her choice of books, to correct her elocution, and to awaken her understanding of what she read by questions and comments. So they began a course of historical reading with Rollin’s Ancient History. And that which this excellent lady commenced as a duty of kindness soon became a matter of daily recreation. It was indeed a rare intellectual pleasure to arouse, cultivate and hold communion with a fresh, vigorous, original enthusiastic mind like that of Catherine. And those afternoons were almost as happy for the lady as for her protégé—happier for Catherine they could not have been. Once, the shy girl was entirely carried out of herself and her reverie by the following circumstance: The lady had inadvertently let fall that she was a descendant of Oliver Cromwell, when Kate, hurried beyond her consciousness, clasped her hand and gazed fervently up in her face, exclaiming—

“Descended from Oliver Cromwell! Descended from Oliver Cromwell, that friend of man? that friend of freedom? Oh! it is no wonder, lady, that you are so noble, so superior to all the world!”

“My Catherine,” said the lady, calmly withdrawing her hand “You know too little—far too little of the world, to judge how I stand in comparison to others. And what know you of Oliver Cromwell? Our reading has scarcely reached the invasion of Britain by the Romans.”

“Oh, lady! lady! lady!” said Kate, warmly, being not yet recovered from her trance—“lady—Carl and I had not many books, so we read what we had over and over again! And one of the books we read the most was the life of Oliver Cromwell!”

“You are generally so shy, Catherine, that it is a blind work in me to direct your studies, not knowing what you have read and what you have not.”

Yes—very delightful to both were these seasons, and very strong was the affection beginning to cement between the lady and the maiden. There was only one thing that disturbed Catherine in the perfect enjoyment of these afternoons. When Archer Clifton would surprise them by suddenly entering the room, and throwing himself into an arm-chair or upon a sofa, her heart would stand still, and her whole frame tremble with an agitation as impossible to comprehend as to conquer. And yet much as his arrival disturbed her, his departure failed to make her happy. On the contrary, it left a strange sadness and yearning she could not shake off. But then these things were of rare occurrence. Captain Clifton very seldom found time to visit his mother—he was contented to know that she had a companion;—and as for Kate, he never thought of her at all—she was provided for and forgotten. Body, soul, and spirit were taken up—absorbed in the contemplation of his promised bride, and in the anticipation of her possession. Catherine knew he was soon to be married, but what of that? She was a child, with no knowledge at her tender years to understand her own heart, and no skill to define its first developments.

At White Cliffs “all went merry as a marriage bell.” The “Rockbridge” was at length telegraphed at Norfolk. A letter with an invoice was received by Mr. Clifton, who immediately dispatched a special messenger to receive his valuable portion of the cargo. The wedding-day was fixed for that day week, and great preparations were on foot. The gentry of the neighboring counties were invited. The mansion-house was “swept and garnished” from garret to cellar. Frank and Zuleime were daily rehearsing their parts as bridesmaid and groomsman, which Frank declared to be only an apprenticeship to the business of enacting bride and groom. Some city guests from Richmond had arrived by particular invitation, four or five days before the expected wedding. Last of all came the wagon with the boxes from Norfolk. They were opened in the hall—such treasure of splendid attire, and such sets of jewelry! And, above all, such a trousseau for the bride—conspicuous in which was the bridal dress and veil—the bridal dress and train of richest white brocade heavily embroidered with silver, after the gorgeous fashion of that time—the bridal veil of finest lace—the orange flower wreath of pearls and emeralds—the pearl embroidered gloves and slippers—the pearl and silver mounted fan, and all complete in correspondence. And richer still was a ball-dress of blue silver-embroidered brocade, with its elegant coiffure of ostrich feathers, the sight of which Zuleime declared was enough to precipitate _any_ girl into matrimony.

Every one was too happy, too busy and too self-important to notice the deathly hue of Georgia’s cheek, far less to detect the fitful glare of the well-guarded eye. Every one but her husband, who, leaving his daughters and their maids to unpack the boxes, followed her into her own chamber, saying, as he fondly laid his hand upon her shoulder—

“My darling doesn’t seem to be merry.”

She shrank—shuddered from his touch, exclaiming, almost shrilly—

“Leave me!”

“Leave you, my dear!—my child,—why leave you?” he asked, passing his hand gently around her shoulders.

“Leave me, leave me!” she cried, sharply, casting off the arm and springing back—her cheek blanched, her teeth snapping, her eyes sparkling fire, more like a terrified wolf than a woman, “have I not told you never, _never_ to come near me in my dark hour?”

“But why should my cherished pet have dark hours?” he persisted, approaching her.

“Keep off! keep off! old man, you know not what you do!”

“Yes, I’m old—I know I’m old—I wish I wasn’t, for I love you, my darling. Yes, I love you more tenderly and less selfishly than if I was younger. I love you entirely—altogether—your little dark face—your little fiery ways—your little outbursts of temper that no one sees but me, who look upon it with indulgent eyes. Would a young man love you so tenderly, Georgia?”

“Driveller! you make me loathe you! ‘My little fiery ways.’ ‘My little outbursts of temper,’ forsooth! How little do you understand me! You sting my soul to frenzy with your dotage, and then twaddle about liking my ‘_little outbursts of temper_,’ forsooth.”

“Dotage! Yes! I really do suppose you consider it dotage!”

“Yes! drivelling! idiotic! imbecile dotage!”

“Yes! I do suppose you think it is! I am too old for you, Georgia—I know it, alas! too well, now that it is too late—and yet you did not raise the least objection to becoming my wife, Georgia.”

“Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! _Objection!_ I was but fifteen years of age when you bribed me to your arms with a set of jewels, and a gold mounted work-box! I was a child, delighted with glittering toys! and fond, yes! _very_ fond of the grandfatherly old man that poured them into my lap! Did _that_ child-fondness deceive you?”

“It did, it did! You were very fond of me when you were a child! Would to God I could have spell-bound you to that age, so you never could have grown older! Oh! I could find it in heart to shame my manhood, to shame my gray hairs and weep! I should not have married you, Georgia, child! I should not have sacrificed you to my selfish love—yet, no! It was _not_ selfish love! I wished your greatest good. I wished to surround you for life with all the means and appliances of happiness. I wished to lavish wealth upon you—ay, wealth of gold, and wealth of affection, too! I wished to give you a sumptuous home, splendid apparel, costly jewels, carriages, servants—all those things which women value so much, and scheme, and plot, and endeavor for so perseveringly! I wished to give them all to my darling, before she should have time to feel the need of them!”

“Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!” bitterly laughed the girl. “Oh! do you know what women value more than gold and jewels, and dress, and carriages, and horses, and servants?—I’ll tell you—the ungalled, unfettered heart’s freedom!”

“I know it! Oh! I know it! My love has destroyed your happiness. Oh, Georgia! did you never see a beautiful bird, and long to have it for your own, only to caress and pamper and pet it? Oh, Georgia! my child, my pet, my bird! that was the reason I wanted you! I wanted to cherish, and fondle, and make you happy!”

“_Ah-h!_ And did _you_ never see such a bird as you spoke of, in spite of all the petting, and pampering, and fondlings, beat out its weary life against its prison bars and die?”

“Don’t die, Georgia! Don’t die! Hope! Alas! I wished only to make you happy—I have failed! I have made you miserable!”

“‘_Miserable_,’ ruined! despairing! desperate!” she cried, wildly wringing her hands.

“Nay, not despairing, Georgia! I am an old man, as you justly said—_quite_ an old man. I have not very long to live, and when I die, Georgia, you will still be a very young woman. Bethink you, you are scarce seventeen—in ten years more you will be but twenty-seven, and is it even likely that I shall live so long as that? No! And after my heart is cold, and my head is laid low, Georgia will be a beautiful young widow—ay, and with a rich jointure, too! I shall take care of that!”

“Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! _pathetic!_ I tell you, that if you were to die to-morrow, my life is not the less ruined—despairing!” bitterly exclaimed the young woman.

“Nay, but that cannot be, Georgia. Ruined? Despairing? What! at seventeen years of age? Nonsense, my love! _Nothing_ but crime can make the youthful despair! Nonsense, my child! You are hysterical!” he said, moving towards her with outstretched arms.

“Dotard! driveller!” she cried, turning fiercely upon him, with eyes blazing with scorn and malignity. “_Imbecile!_ Will you leave me to myself?”

The old gentleman turned away, walked several times slowly up and down the floor, and finally saying—

“Yes, I know I am a dotard! I know it, and I grow ashamed of dotage—” clapped his hat upon his head and walked out.

Bitterly did the old man rue his folly, yet, alas! he knew but half the cause of that ingrate and wretched woman’s fierce outbreaks of temper.

She followed his retreating form, with a glaring of mingled rage and fear, gnawing her white lips, while she muttered, in a low, fierce tone—

“I could tear my heart out! I could bite my tongue off, for thus betraying me! Shall I ever have power to chain and guide the tiger in me? But _he_ with his doting, and _they_ with their dalliance, goad me to extremity? _But_,” she exclaimed, clenching her fist, setting her teeth, and glaring, while all her countenance darkened with rage and anguish—“_But_, before they shall MARRY under my very eyes, and live here, maddening my soul and senses, day and night, by the view of their love and joy, I will pull down ruin on the heads of all! Yes, although myself should be the first to fall!” She paused in silent thought some time, then rising, said, “_Down_, tiger heart! _Down!_ crouch! Be smooth, brow! Be smiling, lip! Be tender, eyes! Be soft, voice! And now to go and pacify the old man, before his vexation betrays me to the others. Ah! it is well _they_ have never witnessed my excitement! Come! in time I shall learn to curb wild impulses, and only spring upon my prey when time and place is fit!”

Soft, smooth, fascinating, seductive, she glided from her chamber out into the upper piazza, where the old man’s slow and heavy footfall was heard—she glided after him, and with an air of sweet, familiar, childish freedom, she raised his arm, and putting her beautiful head under it, drew his hand around her neck and over her bosom, and looking up pleadingly, simply, into his benevolent face, murmured, merely—

“I am so sorry Mr. Clifton!”

“Never mind! never mind, my dear!” said the old gentleman, stooping and kissing her brow.

“Oh, but I _am_! _so sorry_!”

“You, child! Do you think I mind your little petulance?”

“Oh! you are good, you are good. Indeed, I’m quite unworthy of you!” she whispered softly, pressing her head against his bosom, and clinging close.

“You, darling!” cried the old man, stroking her curls in delight.

“I am such an irritable, petulant child! I am sure no one would have patience with me but you—that is the reason I love you so!”

“You do love me then?” gazing fondly in her witching face.

“Oh, dearly! dearly! look in my eyes and see if I don’t!”

“Yes! I know you do, my pet! And I love you entirely!”

“Ah! how can you then! I have so many faults!”

“I love your little faults, and all! Come! Brighten up! Never mind! I love to see my darling bright and cheerful.”

“Ah! how can I, when I remember my fit of ill temper!”

“Say no more about it, my love! That’s the reason why I love you! For those very little gusts of temper! They are followed by such a sweet reaction! and then my child is so frank, so ingenuous in her little penitence!”

“Ah! But then I am such a spoiled child! And always was! Father spoiled me. And now you spoil me worse than ever!”

“My sweet! you can’t be spoiled! you are so ingenuous! But now tell me, what vexed my little girl this evening? Come, let me hear?” asked the old man, caressing the syren.

“Well! now it was this! I thought you loved Carolyn and Zuleime better than me!” replied the artful woman, gazing half-reproachfully, half-pleadingly up into his smiling face.

“Love Carolyn and Zuleime better than you! Why you jealous little witch!” exclaimed the old man in rapture. “Love _them_ more than you! Why, I have to pray Heaven’s pardon daily, for not loving them a hundredth part as much!—kiss me!”

Georgia nerved her loathing heart to give the demanded kiss, and then went and joined the party in the parlor, as beautiful, smooth, seductive, dangerous as ever; while the old man walked up and down the piazza, smiling to himself and saying—

“She is a child—nothing but a child!—a sweet, willful, witching child!”

Alas! little recking of the household treachery, the household wreck that “child” was preparing!