“This is Hardbargain,” said Captain Clifton, opening a rude farm gate, and holding it open, while his companion passed through.
“Hardbargain! a most appropriate name! I should think it the hardest of all bargains, to receive this farm as a precious gift,” replied Frank, looking around upon the stony field and stunted corn.
“Yes,” admitted Captain Clifton, “it is a well-merited title. It was once called Rocky Ridge. A poor man got a grant of it, and settled there first—spent all his health and strength in trying to bring the rugged soil under cultivation—failed—christened the place Hardscrabble, and sold it to my grandfather for thrice its value. My grandfather repented the purchase, re-christened the ill-starred farm Hardbargain, and, as the Clifton estate was entailed upon his eldest son, gave this farm as a portion to his younger son, my father. My father was then a subaltern officer in the Continental Army, and absent with Washington, at Valley Forge. My mother, with myself, then an infant, was a temporary sojourner at Clifton. No sooner had my grandfather made a gift to my father of this nearly barren farm, than my mother set all her faculties at work for its cultivation and improvement. My mother was nearly penniless, being the daughter of a family of decayed fortune. My father was unable to send her anything except the Continental notes, with which he himself was paid, but which would scarcely pass farther. But being determined not to eat the bread of dependence by remaining at Clifton after my grandfather’s death, my mother sold all her jewelry and plate, which had been left her by a deceased maiden aunt, and applied the proceeds of the sale to the improvement of Hardbargain. She hired laborers. There was a rude log hut, built by the first settler upon the land. She hired a woman, and placed her in that hut to keep house and cook for them. She read books on agriculture, and consulted my uncle’s overseer upon the same subject. And every morning she rode up and spent the day at Hardbargain, overlooking the laborers. She was her own overseer! Frank! you appreciate high worth when you see it. I may, besides, tell you anything—you are my only companion—I tell you that my dear mother was one in ten thousand. She was a true heroine, a heroine of domestic life. Abandoning all her habits of elegance and refinement, despising luxury, ease and comfort, disdaining the sneers of the world, and giving herself to toil and hardship, and weariness of body and mind, that she might win from the desert an independent home for her family! My dear mother had no reason to suppose, and never admitted the possibility that my uncle would not be blessed with a male heir, that I, her son, for whom she toiled to secure a rugged farm, would be the inheritor of entailed Clifton! And so she toiled, year after year, until at the end of the war, when the army was reduced, and my father came home, he found a comfortable house, and a productive farm.”
Clifton seemed to have fallen into one of his fits of reminiscence; scarcely conscious that he was talking to his true but volatile friend, scarcely conscious that he was talking at all, he went on—
“My first recollection of my dearest mother, is of a very noble looking lady, of dark complexion, black hair, and gray eyes. I recollect, when an infant of four years old, being brought out from the mansion-house of Clifton every morning, to the back road gate, where she sat upon her horse awaiting me, with a little basket, containing our dinner, hanging on the horn of the saddle. I used to be lifted to the saddle before her, and while her left arm encircled me, with her right hand she would guide her horse around the base of the cliff, and take the winding bridle-path that led up the Rocky Ridge, upon which lay her sterile farm of Hardbargain. Oh! I remember how she used to ride from field to field, making investigations, and giving directions to her rude workmen—and with what deference the rough men were used to address her—hat in hand. I remember, too, our cold dinners, taken under the shade of an elm tree, whose lowest branches sheltered a fine spring—the head waters of that very torrent, which, in course of time and space, swells into the mighty river I told you of. Oh! my noble mother! how few would have displayed her courage and fortitude!—not one in a million but would have rather sat down in the luxurious ease and abundance of Clifton, where she had a long welcome for as long as she should choose to stay—rather than have dared the toil and hardship that she endured. The land was at last cleared up, the farm laid off in order, and brought under the best possible cultivation. A comfortable house was built, and my mother moved into it to receive my father when he should come home, at the disbanding of his company. He came at last—it was a happy time—and well I remember how my mother’s young, but stern and weather-beaten face, bloomed and softened again into youth and beauty and womanhood, by her soldier’s side. But, ah! he had survived all the horrible perils and sufferings by cold, hunger, and the foe, endured by our army during that long and terrible struggle, and returned safe, to die in a time of peace—to die at home, where every care and comfort surrounded him. Yes, he came home in the winter of —82. Towards the spring, he took a slight cold—it was neglected as of little account—it settled upon his lungs—before winter came again, he died, and the first snow that fell, fell upon his grave. My honored mother was a strong-minded woman. After what I have told you, you know that she was! She loved him as only the strong can love. She suffered as only the strong can suffer. She rose above that death-blow to her happiness as only the strong can rise. But she has never been the same woman since. When a few years had passed, and her son’s welfare demanded her care, she aroused every faculty of her mind and body, for the ‘purpose of insuring’ his greatest good. Even at that epoch of time, there was no reason to suppose that I should inherit the Clifton estate. My uncle was then in the prime of manhood, had married his second wife, and by no means despaired of male issue. My dear mother taxed soul, body and estate to the utmost, to defray my expenses at college, during the seven years of my residence there. It was also to her persevering exertions, as well as to the late military services of my deceased father, that I owed my commission in the army. They say that misfortunes never come single. Good fortune certainly ne’er does, if I may judge of our own experience of both. When I had left college, the heaviest tax was raised from our income, and when I obtained a commission in the army, my year’s pay more than doubled the annual income from the proceeds of the farm. At this time also my mother received a legacy from an aged and distant relative, which enabled her to stock her farm well, and furnish her house comfortably. Furthermore, my uncle having lost his third wife, and at last given up all thoughts of a son of his own, began to take quite a paternal interest in me—insisting, when off duty, I should spend all my time with him—and finding neither myself nor my mother disposed to forego each other’s society, would have persuaded the latter to take up her abode under his roof. But that arrangement did not suit my mother. She, who in her young womanhood had too high a spirit for dependence—preferring to give herself to severest toil and privation, rather than live in easy luxury under another’s roof—could not in her stern maturity be bribed to give up her well-earned independence. Nor indeed, under any circumstances, should I have consented to the plan. We compromised the matter by my agreeing to spend half the time of furlough at Clifton. This was the more congenial to my feelings, as my cousin Carolyn had now left school permanently. As for my uncle, he consoled himself for his disappointment in not getting my mother’s society at Clifton, by marrying a fourth wife.”
“I am impressed with the idea that your mother is a very proud woman, Clifton!” said Frank, taking advantage of Captain Clifton’s first thoughtful pause.
“No, no,” he answered, slowly, as in half reverie, “no—she is not what the world calls proud—she is no conservator of rank, as I am. She is the only true republican I know in this whole Republic. Sprung, herself, from an ancient, noble, and haughty race, she yet honors talent and virtue, when met with in the lowest ranks, as much—nay, I verily believe, more, than when found in the highest circles, where it is natural they should be more frequently seen.
——“But here we are, and you shall judge for yourself,” concluded Captain Clifton, as he opened a gate admitting them into a shady yard, in the midst of which stood the house. They alighted at the gate and gave their horses into the charge of a negro boy, and walked on to the house. It was a plain oblong stone building, of two stories, with a deep, shady piazza, running the whole length of the front. It was divided through the centre by a wide passage way, the front and back doors of which were both open and drawing a fine draft of air, and from which opened four large airy rooms, two on a side. They stepped up on the piazza, and were met at the front door by a neatly clothed negro girl, who admitted them into the passage, and opening a door on the right hand next the front, showed them into a cool, breezy, but plainly furnished parlor; the walls and ceiling being simply white-washed, and the floor bare but highly polished with wax, as was the summer custom of the country at that day. The fire-place was open and filled with green bushes. The window-curtains, and the lounge, and easy-chair covers, were all of chintz. There was a reality of substantial and permanent comfort about the place, that Frank thought he had never seen elsewhere. And when Clifton invited him to be seated, and he rested himself in one of those cool arm-chairs in that shaded room, he declared that a feeling of at-home-ativeness came over him, such as he had never experienced since he left his own mother’s house, and never hoped to feel again until he should have a house of his own. The negro girl whom Clifton addressed as Hennie, then left the room to summon her mistress, and shortly after the lady of the house entered.
Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, was now about fifty years of age—tall, and inclining to en bon point, but not more so than well became her years. Her complexion was dark, and her hair and eyes black. Her features were strongly marked and commanding, indicative of great strength of will and indomitable firmness of purpose, all moderated, however, by the expression of her countenance, which was at once composed and gracious. Her manner was marked by unaffected dignity and courtesy—her dress was of very plain dark silk, made high to the throat, and with sleeves coming down to the wrists, a small ruff set closely around her neck, fastened with a mourning pin. Her only head-dress was her own black hair, which, though slightly mingled with gray, was worn uncovered. Indeed, cap or turban upon that noble head would have looked impertinent. She advanced into the room and greeted her son with affection, and welcomed Mr. Fairfax with courtesy, though her words were so few, and her manner was so calm, as to seem cool. Frank thought her a very noble looking woman, though somewhat stiff and cold. Indeed, all strangers, and superficial observers, thought her cold and proud. Never was a greater misapprehension of character—never did a larger or more generous heart live in the bosom of woman—albeit, its pulsations were of the calmest and most regular character. She sat down and entered into an easy conversation with her son and his friend, inquiring into the particulars of their journey, and making comments as they were related. Once during the recital her cheek almost imperceptibly changed. It was at the telling of the hair-breadth escape at the brink of the Devil’s Staircase, but upon that she made no observation whatever. She rang a little hand bell, which was answered by the entrance of Hennie. She took a bunch of keys from her pocket, and giving them to the girl, directed her to bring refreshments. Hennie left the room, but soon returned bearing a large waiter with home-made wine, cake, and a basket of fine peaches and pears. While they regaled themselves upon these luxuries, she inquired after the health and well-being of the family of White Cliffs, and having received satisfactory answers, turned to Mr. Fairfax and hoped that he was sufficiently well pleased with their neighborhood to favor it with a long sojourn. Frank assured her that he should never grow weary of the delights of his visit, and should conclude it only when compelled to do so, and then with great regret. The conversation then became of more general interest. The weather, the condition of the roads, the health of the neighborhood, &c., were discussed. And then the discourse took a higher tone, and the agricultural and political condition and prospects of the whole country, and the great probability of another speedy war with Great Britain, were debated. And Mr. Fairfax wondered at the extent of information, the strong grasp of mind, and the depth and justness of thought, displayed by this recluse lady upon subjects apparently so foreign to her daily experience.
They made quite a long morning visit, and before their departure, Captain Clifton took an opportunity—while Mr. Fairfax was walking around the room and staring at some old family pictures, among which hung a portrait by ——, of Oliver Cromwell, as Lord Protector of England—to draw his mother aside, and say to her—