“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.”