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.