And now Catherine enjoyed a very dear, but dangerous delight, in the perusal of Major Clifton’s letters of travel. These letters arrived about two in a month. And, ah! the evenings, when they came, were festivals indeed to the recluse lady and the maiden. Often when one was brought in, Mrs. Clifton reclining, through weakness, upon the sofa, shading her eyes with her hand, would say, “Break the seal and read it to me, dear Catherine.” And Kate would do so—drawing delicious draughts of perilous pleasure from the poetic and artistic spirit that pervaded every sentiment, narrative and description in the epistle. And on these long, quiet winter evenings, very often the conversation turned upon the absent son—the dear topic always introduced by his mother. It seemed as if Mrs. Clifton wished to make Catherine thoroughly acquainted with his character and disposition—with his faults and weaknesses, as well as with his virtues and powers.
“My son has his serious imperfections, like other men, of course—though your eyes contradict me, Catherine; if I, his partial mother, see them, they exist, you may depend Archer is no demigod, my dear, in the estimation of any one, but—well, no matter—don’t blush so—I am his mother, and I love him, too, and think highly of him, of course, but I acknowledge he is no angel, Kate, and I should be sorry you should take him for one—disappointment would come of it, my dear. He is proud, jealous, and suspicious as a Spaniard, and while under the influence of these feelings, he is reserved and sullen as an Indian—yet these faults of character have been so transfigured in my dear Kate’s affection, that they have actually seemed virtues—the pride, jealousy and suspicion have seemed high sense of honor and intellectual acumen—and the reserve and sullenness—dignity! Is it not so, my dear?”
Kate’s eyes lighted, and her cheeks flushed highly, but not with bashfulness—with an emotion that was swelling at her heart—and carried away from self-consciousness by enthusiasm, she answered—
“Oh, madam! I know what I would say to you, if I only knew how to say it. Heaven sends divine thoughts and feelings into my heart, and brain sometimes, but they cannot pass thence into words—they are choked up perhaps by sin or imperfection. Such a feeling I have now—heavenly light, if I could only refract it—” She paused an instant, unconscious that the lady was looking intently upon her. Then she spoke again, slowly, in a kind of calm fervor—“Real affection—I do not mean passion or imagination—but real love does never invest its object with unreal virtues!—never!—all faults are the excess or the deficiency of some virtue—well, real love sees its object not perhaps as he is at his worst—not even perhaps so evil as he is even at his best, but as he may become!—as he surely will become, if that real affection continues faithful to its trust. Ah! how strong that conviction is in my heart—how weak upon my lips!”
“I understand you, Catherine, and may your true affection be the divine alchemy that shall transmute all Archer Clifton’s faults into virtues.” At this personal reply, Catherine’s eyes fell and her cheeks burned with sudden self-recollection, and for weeks after this she could not recall the conversation without deep blushes.
More and more freely as the weeks passed by did Mrs. Clifton talk to Kate of her son and his peculiarities, and the best way to meet them.
“You know, my dear Catherine, the apostle, in order to win proselytes, made himself all things to all men. Archer is proud, and my dear girl must raise herself a little out of that humility of manner which is very distasteful to the haughty, except when exhibited towards themselves, when it naturally becomes very acceptable.” This style of conversation, addressed to her for weeks and months, was at once very pleasing and very painful to Kate. It was sweet, it was dear beyond measure, to be considered in this near relation to her beloved, to be addressed daily and hourly as if she possessed the power of rendering his future life better and happier, and so addressed by his own mother, too, but it was also humiliating to be supposed to presume on the future esteem and affection of one who had never addressed the language of love to her. Often she thought of begging Mrs. Clifton to desist from this style of conversation; but a certain bashfulness, a deep respect for the lady, a distrust of herself and of her own experience, and the childish thought that Major Clifton might have entrusted to his mother an intention that he never confided to herself its object, and the delight of living in this blessed illusion, and the fear of breaking the charm, kept her silent for a long time, during which Mrs. Clifton gradually fell into the manner of considering her and speaking to her as her son’s future wife. All at once one day it suddenly struck Kate that Mrs. Clifton might be the victim of a mistake, and under the impression that some understanding or engagement existed between herself and Major Clifton, and that her own silence and seeming acquiescence had served to confirm this error. And this very natural and rational thought fell upon the girl like a thunderbolt, utterly blasting and destroying all her beautiful hopes, and covering her face with the blushes of deep humiliation. She felt that she must undeceive Mrs. Clifton immediately. So when they sat together at the work-table, before the evening fire, and the lady spoke of her son saying, among other things—
“The most unhappy trait in his character is his tendency to suspicion, my love. Be straight-forward with him, Catherine, never have a secret from him, not even one touching a little pleasant surprise, be perfectly frank and openhearted with him, and, alas! even that course may not always save you from suffering by his besetting sin, and when it does not, Catherine, there is nothing left for you but patience and trust. You see, on Archer’s behalf, I expect a great deal of you, my love, like all mothers-in-law, I suppose.”
Catherine’s face was bent over her work; ashamed of her supposed mistake, ashamed of the weakness that now choked her voice, she remained silent for some time. At length, gathering a false impression from her long continued silence, Mrs. Clifton said—
“Do I hope too much from you, Kate, my love?”