“I knew it would be so, Catherine—that was a secret reason I had for not meddling this last time in bringing about a reconciliation between Carolyn and Archer. I have known for two years past that she was following her mother. All those Gowers die early of consumption.”
“But, madam, let us hope better things. This sea voyage and residence in the South of France, may restore her.”
“Never, Catherine. And it was even cruel in the doctors to send her there, to die in a foreign land, among strangers. They had better have sent her home to the scenes of her childhood and youth, where we could have cheered and nursed her. Catherine, I feel very sad.”
The tears were rolling down Kate’s face. The fountain of consolation in her heart was almost dry—and again she had to lift her heart to the Divine source of all strength and light for new faith and hope. Little else but suffering and sorrow had the girl seen since she came into the world—and no part had she filled in life but that of servant, nurse, or comforter.
The summer passed with Mrs. Clifton and Catherine in almost uninterrupted retirement. They heard, at long intervals, from Major Clifton and his bride, and then the news was various and unsatisfactory. Sometimes Carolyn was better, and there would be a talk of speedy return, and, perhaps, the very next letter, after a long interval, would speak of a season of prostration by extreme illness. And about the middle of the autumn, Mrs. Clifton received a letter from her son announcing their intention of wintering in Lisbon. The irregular arrivals of these bulletins were the most interesting, and nearly the only interesting events of the summer and autumn, if we except a descent upon White Cliffs by Mrs. Georgia and her friends. The syren, after her return from a summer tour to the fashionable watering places, determined to fill up the dull interim before the commencement of the season in town, by a visit to her “seat in R——,” as she persisted in calling White Cliffs. Accordingly, she made up a party of idle ladies and sporting gentlemen, and came down to spend September.
Colonel Conyers was among the guests. He renewed his visits to Hardbargain, and his suit to Catherine—received a second rejection, and hurried off to town, under the sting of mortification as before. At the first of October, the “city riff raff,” as the old family servants of Clifton irreverently and indignantly called the moneyed aristocrats, returned to Richmond, whither they were shortly followed by their beautiful hostess, to prepare for her winter campaign. From this time to the middle of December, no event marked the even tenor of the life at Hardbargain. The inmates had not lately heard from Major Clifton. It was near Christmas. In her anxiety to hear from Lisbon, Mrs. Clifton was in the habit of sending to L—— twice a week, when the mail came in, and sitting up till a very late hour, waiting for the return of the messenger.
One evening after supper, Mrs. Clifton and Catherine sat each side their work-stand, before the fire, awaiting the arrival of the boy who had been dispatched to the post-office. So often had the lady thus sat and waited, and been disappointed, that hope waxed very faint. This time, however, she was destined to have her heart gladdened by the full fruition of hope. About nine o’clock the messenger returned and entered the parlor with a packet of letters and papers. The boy’s face was lighted up with sympathetic joy, and he exclaimed, as he handed the bundle—
“I almos’ rid myself to death, mist’ess, I was so glad I had de letters to bring yer.”
“You have made great haste indeed, Neddy. Go tell Henny to give you your supper,” said the lady.
“Good boy,” said Kate, pressing his little sooty hand as he passed her and went out.