“There is a tide in the affairs of ‘woman,’
Which, taken at the flood, leads—” God knows where.—Byron.
Captain Clifton had written to Carl Kavanagh, informing him of the situation he had procured for the sister of the latter, at Hardbargain. And within this letter he had inclosed a longer one, to Kate, filled with good counsels and urgent reasons why she should yield to the wishes of her brother, and accept the place offered to her. After having dispatched these letters by a boy, who left White Cliffs that afternoon, on horseback, he delivered himself up to the delights of Miss Clifton’s society, forgetting all about the mountain-girl, until the next day, when, being seated in the library, his messenger returned, entered his presence, and handed him a packet. It was a letter from Carl Kavanagh, enclosing one from Kate. He read Carl’s epistle first. It began by expressing much gratitude to his benefactor, for his kindness in having procured a situation for his sister, and went on by expressing much sorrow that he could not prevail upon Kate, either by entreaties or threats, to accept it, and unbounded indignation at what he called the girl’s wicked stubbornness. The letter closed by reiterating the thanks of the writer. Captain Clifton held the letter open in his hand, and lifting his head, fell into deep thought. It was strange how much this little matter depressed him. Account for it, any philosopher that can. Some proud people have a proclivity to patronage—Captain Clifton was very proud, and perhaps he was piqued at being prevented playing the patron. Perhaps it was really disappointed benevolence. Only it is certain that Archer Clifton did not possess that quality to an immoderate degree—and having once done his duty of charity, would be likely to content himself with any result. Perchance he felt a deeper interest in the rugged little mountaineer than he would have acknowledged, even to himself. Perhaps it was prescience—the shadow of coming events. Be that as it may, Archer Clifton walked up and down the floor in silent thought, occasionally broken by a slight sigh. It was wonderful how much the knowledge that he should not have this child at home in his mother’s house vexed his soul.
At length he recollected Kate’s own letter, yet unopened. But of what avail to read it! It would certainly be the counterpart of Carl’s. He opened it. It was not, however. In the first place, the paper was perfectly clean; and in the second, the writing, spelling, and style, were rather better. She acknowledged the goodness of Captain Clifton, in taking thought of her humble wants—expressed regret that she could not avail herself of his kindness—could not leave her grandfather, who needed her services, and subscribed herself Captain Clifton’s obliged and grateful servant. It was very much like Carl’s, after all. But here is a postscript. What more can she have to say, after what she has said, thought Clifton, as he turned to it. It read thus—
“P. S.—I hope Captain Clifton will pardon me, if he thinks that I am doing wrong—but it has come into my head, that as Captain Clifton is about to marry, and reside in future at White Cliffs—and as Mrs. Clifton of Hardbargain, will then be quite alone—and as she is not so young, or active, or able to ride about her plantation, overseeing her field hands as formerly—perhaps she will be thinking of getting a farm-manager—if so, will Captain Clifton kindly remember my brother Carl, and speak a favorable word for him to the lady of Hardbargain, who already knows and trusts him? If Carl gets a situation as overseer, I can keep house for him, and we can both take care of our grandfather. Indeed I am afraid Captain Clifton will be justly angry with me for this liberty.”
“What a letter!” exclaimed Archer Clifton, as his face alternately lighted up with satisfaction, or became clouded with thought. “What a letter for a rustic girl of fourteen! Yet characteristic of her and of her situation. Showing the germs of reflection, forethought, courage and promptitude, the gifts of nature, mingled with that frankness bordering upon presumption, which belongs to total ignorance of the world. To dare to speak familiarly of our domestic affairs! But yet how naïvely she deprecates my displeasure, at what she feels may be received as presumption.”
So deeply did Captain Clifton study Kate and her letter; Kate’s remarkable countenance, with its breadth of brow and gentleness of eyes, haunted him.
He was a man of prompt decision and action—so, having once admitted the idea that his mother needed an overseer, he exclaimed—
“Yes, my mother must be relieved from her arduous occupation—unbefitting a lady of her rank, and especially of her age. Why could I not think of that before? Why should I never have seen the necessity, until Catherine held it up before me? Yes—my mother must have a manager on her farm, and Carl Kavanagh shall be the man. I will pay his salary myself.” And he rung the bell, ordered his horse, and in less than fifteen minutes was on his way to Hardbargain.
As he rode up to the house, he met a girl with a pail on her head, going to the spring, and inquired of her where her mistress was to be found. He was told, “down in the wheat field.” So, turning his horse’s head a little to the left of the house, he rode down the slope of the hill, to a wide harvest field, where he found Mrs. Clifton, seated on her mule, superintending the operations of some fifteen or twenty laborers, who were employed in stacking wheat. He rode up to his mother’s side, alighted, and held out his hand, saying—