“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.