“Well, dearest lady—yes!—down, pride!—if it will give you any pleasure to hear it, I must not withhold the confession—yes, I do love your son—so much—so much—that it will make me an old maid!”
Mrs. Clifton laughed, a little, low, jolly laugh. (The lady very seldom laughed, and when she did, it had a strange, exceedingly pleasant effect upon the hearer—it was a very agreeable surprise, revealing, as it were under that grave, stern surface, traces of a mine of wit, humor, fun and mischief, that must have existed, and frequently sparkled forth, ere the sorrow and the seriousness of life smothered and extinguished it.) She laughed her little, low, jolly laugh, and replied—
“That were a strange effect of love, Catherine; but trust me, it will not be so with Archer’s consent.”
“Dear Mrs. Clifton, forgive me for saying again, that you are very much mistaken—never, never in his life, has Major Clifton bestowed upon me one word, or look, that might be misconstrued by the vainest woman into a preference!”
“Well, Kate! I know that! I know that he has never addressed you on the subject. But I know that he will do so. For he loves you, Catherine, and has loved you from the first hour he ever saw you—even from the—the night he sat and studied you in your brother’s cabin. And it is just as certain that you will be his wife, as that you both will live to marry. So, dearest, let there be no more reserve between us—consider this marriage sure, as it really is—(so far as any future event is sure)—and let me talk freely, for my time and opportunity is short.”
Catherine raised her eyes to the sallow—almost cadaverous face of the lady, and a conviction of the truth and reality of what she predicted, forced itself upon her, with a sharp pang.
“Now, dear Catherine, I did not ask you for that troubled look! Will your heart ache because a dry leaf drops in the autumn, rather than hangs shivering on the tree through half the winter? But, dear child, I allude to this coming event, not to cast its ‘shadow’ over you, but to explain why I wish now to use these days in making you as conversant with the idiosyncracies of your future companion, as only years of married life could do, and to prevent years, perhaps, of misunderstanding and sorrow. There is something dreadful in the discovery of unsuspected faults, after marriage—and something very, very mournful in the disappointment of the trusting affection, and in the saddened efforts of the heart to adjust itself to the circumstances—efforts that in one case out of ten, perhaps, succeed. But if the worst is known before marriage, the man or the woman may consider well whether they have the strength of heart to conquer their own faults, and bear with those of their companion. That you would do all this for your husband, Kate, I am convinced. I only talk now to smooth your path of duty.” The lady here released Catherine from the embrace in which she had held her through this conversation, and desired her to ring for the servants to come in to prayers.
Catherine, as had been her custom for several weeks past—upon account of Mrs. Clifton’s weakness—conducted the evening devotions.
When prayers were over, and the servants dismissed, Catherine attended Mrs. Clifton to her chamber, and assisted her with affectionate care until she had retired to bed. Then, after receiving the lady’s parting kiss, she hastened into her own chamber, threw herself upon the bed, and gave way to a long-pent burst of sorrow. Within the last three years Catherine had seen much sickness, death, and bereavement—one after another of her associates or relations had faded and fallen, and she had mourned their loss; and her life had taken a sombre hue, and sunken into a depressed tone. But that this beloved friend, this kind benefactress, this dear, dear companion—this more than mother, sister, all to her heart—should pass away from the earth and be seen no more! Oh! it brought a sense of desolation that threw a shadow and a chill over all the future—over even the bright hopes shining in the distance. And then the identity of the love she bore mother and son together forced itself upon her heart. And she felt that a union with the son could not give her perfect content, unless the mother were there to share her love and service, and to participate in their happiness. Without that mother’s presence, their plan of life would be unfinished—their circle of love incomplete. And oh! came the sharp, agonizing question, how could she ever bear to lose the light, and warmth, and strength, imparted daily, hourly, from that dear face—that face which had never looked on her but in affection—that face, the very image of Clifton’s own, except that it was sweeter, holier, and never, never harsh—how could she ever bear to lose her sweet resting place on that more than maternal bosom—that bosom on which she could ever lay her aching head, or aching heart, in perfect peace and confidence, sure of being understood, sure of being sympathized with? Oh! life would be darkened indeed when she should pass away. The sense of sorrow was so sharp, so agonizing, that the girl could have thrown herself upon the floor—could have wrestled with Heaven, in wild prayer, that this life might be saved, and this sharp anguish spared her. But Catherine was habitually self-restrained, and she bore this mental anguish as she would have endured severe physical pain—in silence, in patience, until her soul was subdued to the meekness of resignation. And then prayer brought comfort.
And she met the lady in the morning with a cheerful countenance. And they spent the day as usual.